by Sandra Brown
Her breath caught when he started toward the bed, but after setting the bottle of analgesics and the can of Coke on the nightstand, he walked past and went into the bathroom, returning within seconds with the bottle of peroxide and an applicator formed of folded toilet paper squares.
“I don’t have any cotton or gauze,” he said as he poured the solution onto the toilet paper. He set down the bottle and leaned toward her.
“I’ll do that.”
“You can’t see it. If you start feeling around, you might reopen the cut.”
She knew that to be true, so she lowered her hands.
“Turn your head…” He nudged her chin with the back of his hand. She complied and sat there, strained and nervous, while he dabbed at the wound.
“Does that hurt?”
“A little.” It hurt a lot, but she couldn’t think of a proper way to complain without sounding critical of his technique. In fact it was hard to think of anything with him standing so close, bending over her. The proximity of her face to his middle was unsettling, and she didn’t breathe until he said “There” and stepped away.
“I hate to dirty another pillowcase.”
“Blood washes out. Most of the time.” He picked up the pill bottle and shook two into his palm, then extended his hand to her. “They’ll help with the headache.”
“I’ll wait to take them. See how I do.”
He looked prepared to argue but returned the tablets to the bottle and replaced it on the nightstand. “They’re there if you change your mind. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thank you. I will. But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe I should wake you up at intervals. Just to make sure you’re all right, to make sure that I can wake you up.”
“That’s a good idea. But rather than disturb you, I’ll set alarms on my wristwatch.”
Mouth set with disapproval, he said, “Suit yourself,” and turned away.
She lay down and pulled the covers to her chin. Although she closed her eyes, her ears were on high alert as she listened to him moving about the room, adding logs to the grate, scooting the fire screen back into place.
Blood washes out. Most of the time. Spoken like someone who had experience with that dilemma.
She shuddered to think how exposed she was. She couldn’t even stand alone for more than a couple of minutes. If she had to protect herself, what would she do?
While in college she’d taken a self-defense class, but that had been a long time ago. All she recalled of it now was not to think of the assailant as a whole, but to focus on individual parts of him that were vulnerable to counterattack. Eyes, nose, ears, testicles. She feared that rule wouldn’t apply to a man who appeared as solid as a redwood.
She wished she’d secreted one of those deadly looking bullets. The tip of one jammed into an eyeball would do serious damage. It would stop even a giant long enough to slip past him.
She heard what sounded like boots hitting the wood floor muffled by the carpet, then the squeak of leather as he settled on one of the pieces of furniture. She opened her eyes to slits and saw that he’d chosen the recliner over the sofa. He was leaned back in it, a quilt pulled over him to midtorso.
Disconcertingly, he was looking straight at her, his eyes reflecting the firelight like those of a predatory animal.
His voice rumbled across the distance between them. “Relax, Doc. If I was going to hurt you, I would have by now.”
Reason told her that was true. She’d been sleeping defenselessly all afternoon and he hadn’t harmed her. Nevertheless…
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Told you.”
“But I don’t believe it’s the truth. Not completely.”
“I can’t control what you believe. But you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
After a time, she asked, “Is Drakeland the nearest town?”
“No.”
“What is?”
“You’ve never heard of it.”
“How far is it?”
“As the crow flies? Twelve miles.”
“And by road?”
“Fifteen.”
“I could easily run that. Going downhill, that wouldn’t be a challenging distance for me.”
He didn’t say, Oh, for God’s sake, lady, you’ve got a concussion and can’t even walk a straight line, much less run one.
He didn’t say anything at all, which was more unnerving than if he’d cited how illogical that prospect was. His silence was also more menacing than if he’d told her flat out that she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, that he’d brought her here to be his sex slave, and that upon pain of death, she had better not be plotting an escape.
However, she did escape his opalescent gaze by closing her eyes. For five minutes, they shared nothing but a thick tension and the snapping of the logs in the fireplace.
In spite of her fear, her body was exhausted. On their own, her muscles began to relax. She sank deeper into the mattress. Her concussed brain dragged her toward oblivion. She was just this side of it when she jerked into full awareness. “You never told me your name.”
“That’s right,” he said. “And I won’t.”
* * *
Before going to sleep, Emory had set her alarm to go off two hours later, but the precaution proved to be unnecessary. Minutes before the alarm jingled on her wrist, he was at the bedside, his large hand lightly shaking her shoulder. “Doc?”
“I’m awake.”
“Have you slept?”
“Catnaps.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Want to take a couple of pills?”
“Not right now.”
He stood there for a moment without saying anything, then, “Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“Maybe.”
In this case, maybe meant yes, because nausea had awakened her a half hour ago. She’d been lying there, trying to talk herself out of it. At the risk of waking him, she didn’t want to get up and stagger into the bathroom. She didn’t want to ask for his assistance, but, worse, she didn’t want to throw up in his bed.
So when he asked if she needed the bathroom, although she committed only as far as maybe, she was grateful to him for taking it as a definite, emergency-level yes. He pulled back the covers. She slid her legs to the side of the bed and set her feet on the floor. He cupped her underarms and helped her to stand.
Knees wobbly, she took a tentative first step. “Steady.” He placed one arm around her waist and secured her against his side.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“No bother.”
The distance to the bathroom was a matter of steps, but it seemed longer than the Great Wall of China. When they got to the door, he reached around her and flipped on the light, then pulled the door closed, saying, “Take your time.”
But she didn’t have time to do anything except drop to her knees in front of the toilet bowl. There wasn’t much to throw up, but the spasms were intense, wracking her whole body, and she continued retching even after her stomach was empty. When at last it stopped, she flushed and, using the sink as a handhold, weakly pulled herself up.
He spoke from just the other side of the door. “Okay?”
“Better.”
She’d never felt water as cold as that which came out of the faucet, but it felt good when splashed against her face. She washed her mouth out several times. Her vision was still a bit blurred, which was just as well. She was glad she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror above the sink with 20/20 clarity. Even fuzzy it was dreadful.
She was sallow. Her lips all but colorless. She had bedhead of the worst sort. The blood in her hair had dried to an unsightly black crust. But she was too wrung out to care how frightful she looked.
She was more concerned about the headache. The pain was no longer like the nail gun. It was blunter than that. More like a baton being beaten against her cranium fro
m the inside. The light made it worse. She turned it off and then shuffled to the door and opened it.
He was right there. She was eye level with his sternum. “After that, I think I’ll feel better.”
“Good.” He reached out to help support her, but when he touched her shoulder, his hand moved around to the back of her neck under her hair. “You’re sopping wet.”
During the bout of vomiting, she’d broken a cold sweat that had left her skin drenched, her clothes damp. “I’ll be fine.” She barely got the words out. Her teeth had begun to chatter.
He guided her back to the bed and eased her down onto the side of it. “I’ll get you something to change into.”
“No, really, I—”
“You can’t spend the rest of the night in wet clothes.”
He left her, went to a bureau tucked under the sloped ceiling, and pulled a flannel shirt much like the one he was wearing from a drawer. When he handed it down to her, she met him eye to eye.
“I’m not going to undress,” she said, meaning it.
He watched for her a moment, then went back into the bathroom and came out with a fresh towel, still folded. Although the gesture was kind, his expression wasn’t. His lips had thinned into a cynical line. “Your virtue is safe, Doc. I meant to set up the screen to give you some privacy.”
He dragged it away from the wall and unfolded the panels. When it was balanced, he stepped around it, leaving her feeling like an ungrateful idiot.
Whatever modesty she’d ever possessed had been abandoned in med school. She and fellow interns had practiced procedures on one another, usually amid ribald joking, but in any case it had been impossible to remain maidenly skittish about nudity and bodily functions.
As she unzipped her running shirt, she told herself she hadn’t protested undressing because of modesty, but rather self-preservation. He’d been caring and considerate, a gentleman. But how trustworthy was a man who wouldn’t even share his name?
She undressed as quickly as her uncontrollable shivering allowed. Rid of everything on top, she hastily dried her torso with the towel, then pulled on the shirt he’d loaned her. The flannel was old, soft, and it felt wonderful to be free of the binding, clammy jogging bra.
Last to go were her running tights. In the morning, she’d put them back on, but for now, it felt good to slide her bare legs between the sheets.
He couldn’t see her, but he must have been listening to the rustle of clothing and bed covers. Once she was settled beneath them, he said, “Is the coast clear?”
“You can leave the screen.”
He began folding up the panels.
“I prefer having it,” she said.
Apparently what she preferred was immaterial. He returned the screen to its place against the wall. “I need to be able to see you.”
“I’ll tell you if I need anything.”
“You didn’t tell me that you had to throw up, and we almost had a big mess on our hands.” He bent at the waist and pulled a small metal wastebasket from beneath the table beside the bed. “If I don’t get here in time.” He placed the trash can where she couldn’t miss it if she hung her head over the side of the bed.
“I think I’m over the nausea.”
“If not, don’t be prissy about it, okay?”
She gave one terse bob of her head.
“Anything else you need now?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Looking doubtful, his eyes scanned down her form beneath the covers, making her extremely self-aware. To avoid looking at him, she closed her eyes. Eventually he took her at her word and moved away.
His stocking feet were mere whispers against the floor, but something as large as he couldn’t pass through air without creating a disturbance. She mentally followed his movements, heard the thunks as he added two logs to the low-burning fire, then the squeak of leather as he again settled into the recliner.
A few minutes elapsed. The new logs made popping sounds as they caught. She watched the flickering patterns of firelight and shadow cast onto the ceiling. She noticed something she hadn’t before. A metal rod about two inches in diameter extended horizontally between two of the exposed rafters, each end fitting into a borehole. She couldn’t imagine what the rod was for. As for the rafters, they looked as roughly hewn as he.
Roughly hewn perhaps, but thoughtful.
She cleared her throat. “I didn’t thank you before.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’m thanking you now.”
“Okay.”
Another while passed, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. “I’d like to know your name.”
The fire crackled. One of the rafters groaned under the weight of the roof.
He didn’t make a sound.
Chapter 4
You’re not worried?”
Jeff Surrey stretched and yawned and then turned onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “Not in the slightest. This is a ploy to get attention. Emory wants me to be worried about her.”
“It’s not like her not to call.”
He frowned. “And at the most inopportune times. Like last night.”
His cell phone had vibrated across the bathroom vanity just as he and Alice were climbing into the shower after a round of strenuous sexual activity. Talking to his wife had actually added a bit more excitement to the soapy afterplay. Even so, he’d resented Emory’s interruption, which had almost seemed deliberately timed.
Lately, she’d been calling him often throughout the day, more likely than not for something mundane. Did he want to eat in or out? Was she supposed to pick up the dry cleaning, or had he volunteered to run that errand? Had he called the gutter company to schedule a cleanout, or should she?
The ruses were laughably transparent. She thought she was being oh-so-subtle, when it was clear that she was keeping track of his schedule. For the past few months he’d had to account for everywhere he went and how long he’d been there. Her constant monitoring had become increasingly tedious, and he was running low on plausible excuses for the time he spent with Alice.
“Hasn’t it been terrific? Two days, virtually undisturbed.”
“You’re spoiling me. Breakfast in bed this morning.”
“More like lunch,” he said, nuzzling her neck.
She groaned. “I can’t believe we slept so late. How much did we drink last night?”
“I don’t think it was the wine, I think it was the weed. Very high grade.”
She covered her face with her hands and laughed. “It had been years since I’d indulged. My tolerance had lapsed.”
“It was naughty fun.” He trailed a finger between her breasts. “It made you very sexy. Not that you need help in that department.”
Alice wasn’t a head-turner. Her dark hair and eyes complimented her olive complexion, which some might consider striking. She could be called a handsome woman. But even the most forgiving critics would rate her no higher than a five.
However, there were advantages to being involved with a plainer woman. Fear of rejection made her grateful; gratitude made her easily pleased and effortlessly malleable.
A vertical line of concern formed between her eyebrows. “Do you think Emory knows about us?”
“No.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly, no. She doesn’t.”
His firm denouncement was basically truthful. He could truthfully say that Emory hadn’t accused him of having an affair, which wasn’t to say that she didn’t suspect it. But to alleviate his lover’s concern, he rubbed the space between her eyebrows with his index finger, smoothing out the worry line. “She’s pouting, that’s all.”
“Did she say anything to you before she left?”
Mildly irritated by her persistence, he sighed. “Yes. She said good-bye.”
“You know what I mean. Did she say anything to indicate that she was on to you?”
“I went home to see
her off, and put up token resistance to her going. But frankly I didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The sooner she was out of town, the sooner I could get you into bed.” He placed his hand on her breast and began reshaping it with gentle squeezes.
“Nothing else was said?”
“I asked her to call me when she arrived at the motel, and she did.” Near her ear, he growled, “And delayed the fulfillment of my shower fantasy. For which I’ll never forgive her.” He bent down and gave the tip of her breast a love bite.
But she wasn’t so easily distracted. “That was over twenty-four hours ago, Jeff, which is a long time without hearing from her.”
“She said she might spend another night up there, depending on how tired she was after her run. Apparently that’s what she’s doing.”
“How do you know she hasn’t come home while you’ve been here?”
“Because if the house alarm goes off, it beeps my phone. Thank God for apps.”
“Wouldn’t she let you know if she was staying over?”
He sighed with resignation. “Not that I enjoy discussing this, especially during foreplay, but, if you must know, we were angry with each other when she left. She’s miffed and is punishing me by not calling tonight.”
“What were you angry about?”
“That damn marathon she’s running.”
“What do you have to do with her running a marathon?”
“Exactly!” he said with heat. “That’s what I asked her. It’s not my thing, so why should I always have to tag along?”
“To cheer her on?”
“I’ve done that. Every frigging marathon. For hours I jostle for space at the finish line, waiting for the ten seconds it takes her to run past me and receive my applause for her outstanding achievement. I refused to do it again. But this is a special race for her, so she got her feelings hurt, and… Why the hell am I talking to you about my marital woes, when I’d rather be doing this?” He slid his hand between her thighs. “Isn’t this a better plan?”
She sighed and squirmed against his hand. “A much better plan.”
He rolled on a condom and settled between her thighs, which felt entirely different from Emory’s. That was, from how he remembered Emory’s open thighs feeling. It had been so long since they’d had sex, his memory of it had grown dim.