Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  Wouldn’t she know that?

  He heard something, then. The call of a night bird, maybe. He held still and listened. A choked sound, then a faint moan.

  Not a bird.

  Oh, my God. He’d hurt her.

  He was out of bed on the thought, swinging his legs around, barely noticing the pain, grabbing for his crutches, and getting upright. He heard the noise again. A whimper.

  He was naked, but he couldn’t worry about that. He was down the hall, seeing the strip of yellow light from under a closed door.

  Bathroom. And not his.

  More noise from in there. A bang of porcelain on porcelain, and the unmistakable sound of full-on retching. It went on and on, with some faint whimpers in between spasms, and he was wincing, then knocking on the door when the noise finally ended.

  “Willow?”

  A pathetic moan like an injured animal, the toilet flushing, and nothing else. He knocked again. “Willow. Are you all right?”

  She said something, or maybe she just made some noise, but he couldn’t tell what it meant, and after another minute, he pushed down on the handle.

  Yep. That was misery.

  Now she knew why she hadn’t wanted any cake. She’d never want cake again, because she was dying.

  At least she wasn’t heaving her guts out all the way to her socks anymore. If she’d been wearing socks. She was drooling like a St. Bernard into the toilet bowl instead. And Brett was standing over her asking, “Willow? How bad is it?”

  She was going to have to die, because she didn’t want to live with this memory.

  The pain had started soon after he’d dropped off to sleep, when she’d still been debating whether to leave or not. Or, rather, when she’d been reminding herself why she needed to leave. First, because she had to be up at six to shop and cook for today’s wedding. Second, because she needed to get her equilibrium back after a night of sex that had been so much more than she’d expected. And third, because the man was now leaving in two weeks, and her heart and body had both gone over to the Brett Side. Which was something like the Dark Side, except more dangerous.

  None of that had mattered, though, when the pain had started. Low in her belly, cramping hard, like her intestines were seizing up. It came on like a freight train, and she’d barely made it to the toilet—she was not spewing her guts out in Brett’s pristine bathroom with its palatial marble shower stall, and him ten meters away—before she’d lost her dinner in an explosion so cataclysmic, it had probably registered on the Richter scale. After that had come ten minutes of drooling, some more retching, and some more gut cramping and further digestive indignities to put the cherry on top.

  Once everything had subsided, she’d wrenched the shutter-style windows open to the night air with the last of her strength, then lain down, curled on her side on a thin cotton bath rug in Brett’s white shirt, which he was going to have to burn, and thought, Five minutes, and I’ll go. Somehow. Right now, she couldn’t even have crawled into the other room, let alone driven anywhere. Her arms and legs were trembling, and she was so cold.

  Five minutes had become ten, and there was the freight train back again, blasting its way through the formerly peaceful countryside and laying waste to everything in sight. After that bout, and the dog-drooling, she hadn’t even made it to the bath rug. She’d knocked the toilet seat down with a shaking hand, laid her cheek against the cool porcelain, shivered, moaned, and prepared to die. Or for the third bout, whichever came first.

  What came first was the third bout, and then Brett. Now, she was definitely going to have to die. It was good he was leaving after all, since he was never going to want to have sex with her again. She didn’t even want to have sex with her again. She was repulsive.

  “Willow,” he said. He was naked. She could see that out of the corner of one eye. She closed it again. “Are you all right? No, of course you’re not all right. How bad is it?”

  “Bad.” One word. She managed that, then closed her mouth. Talking was making her sick. “Go away.” Three words, and she was slamming the lid up again and heaving up . . . nothing, because there was nothing left.

  He went away, and she thought dimly, Good, flushed the toilet, and laid her head down on the lid again. She’d just kneel here and die quietly.

  He came back and set something down in front of her face. She heard the sound of it, opened her eye again, and saw it. Glass of water. No. His hand, then. Nice hand. Big. Holding a pink tablet. “Anti-nausea medicine.” His voice bounced against the hard surfaces of the room and spun around, or maybe that was her head. “Take it.”

  Wait. How had he carried that? She turned her head a little more, instantly regretted it, and saw that he was on one crutch. Bad idea. He could fall. So could she. Right onto the floor. She closed her eyes again.

  “Take it,” he said. Bloody bossy. Like he’d sounded before, when he’d wanted this horrible body.

  “Can’t.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  She tried. But the minute the water hit the back of her throat, she was losing it again, and the tablet with it. And now, the chills started in earnest, racking her from head to foot. She did lie down then, because she couldn’t even kneel anymore. Not on the bath mat. She couldn’t get there. On the floor. It was cold.

  He said something very dirty. She hadn’t guessed he’d ever say those words. But then, she hadn’t guessed he’d say heaps of things. Not nearly as much of a gentleman as she’d imagined. She could hear his voice, but it wasn’t close. It was urgent, though. Reminded her of something. Of when he’d been lying at the base of that rock. She’d been the one saying the words then, though, hadn’t she?

  She wished he’d hold her hand. He couldn’t, though. He had a broken leg.

  Something fell on her, but it was soft. Felt good. Blanket. She clutched a corner and felt a tiny bit warmer, though she was still shaking.

  And then she heard the siren.

  “No,” she said. “No. I can’t. I have a . . . wedding. Let me . . . lie here.”

  “Nope. And too bad,” he said, with some more of that command. This time, she wasn’t loving it. “You’re going to the hospital anyway. This isn’t normal. This is wrong.”

  “Bug,” she said. “You’re going to . . . get it.”

  “I can’t hear you,” he said. “That’s because the ambulance is here.” The wail was louder outside. “I’m going to get the door.” At least he was wearing trousers now. She could see that when she opened one eye.

  She really, really didn’t want to do this. Any of it. She didn’t want to move. She’d just lie here and die. And then she’d get up and get ready for the Haier-McGill wedding. Meatballs again.

  Mistake to think about meatballs.

  Bad mistake.

  Half an hour later, she was under three heated blankets in a cubicle in the A&E department of the hospital, an IV in her arm and Brett, who had stubbornly refused to leave no matter what she’d said, in a chair by her side, when the doctor came back.

  “Can I go?” she asked him. “I’m feeling much better.” Yes, the world still swam when she turned her head, and there had been another bout of nausea in the ambulance, but at least that had been all. Some things were impossible to recover from, and soiling yourself in front of your sexy-as-hell new love interest, when you weren’t even wearing undies, was surely one of them. Bullet dodged there.

  Brett hadn’t ridden in the back with her to watch her latest spectacular episode of dry heaves, at least. Just before they’d bunged her, strapped to a gurney, into the ambulance, one of the ambos had said, “You’re never making it into the back with that leg, mate.”

  “You’re right,” Brett had said, sounding as calm and sure as ever. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but if she had, she knew he’d be looking exactly as firmly in charge of this situation as if he were wearing a suit and standing in some posh boardroom, sixty floors up. “That’s why I’m riding in front.”

  “Can’t do that, I’m afraid
,” the bloke had said. But when the ambulance had rolled down the drive, Brett had been riding in front.

  Now, she told the doctor, “I didn’t need to come here at all, surely. It’s a bug. Soon be better. Nearly there already.” As witnessed by the fact that she could speak again. She couldn’t turn her head, but she could say words.

  “In fact,” the doctor, said, “your potassium and sodium levels had dropped to a level that was more than uncomfortable, and you were showing definite signs of dehydration.” He was a young, fit bloke she recognized from the surf beach, and she wasn’t thrilled to have him see and smell her in her current condition. “That’s not what’s bothering me, though.”

  “It’s not?” She eyed him warily, then closed her eyes again, because moving them hurt. “Never tell me I’ve got something dread, because I won’t believe you. I don’t get tired, and I don’t get ill. I told you, I’m better already.” Oh. She’d better open her eyes again if she were going to make this point. She did it. Not easy.

  “But you do get food-borne illness,” he said. “And so have at least six other people so far. That’s just the ones who’ve shown up here. For once, it’s not alcohol poisoning that’s filling up the beds on Saturday night.”

  Beside her, Brett had taken her hand. “Food-borne illness,” she echoed. “From what? I had eggs yesterday morning. I cooked them through, though.” Produce, maybe. She’d had melon at breakfast. She bought as much as she could from organic suppliers whose methods she trusted, and Brett hadn’t fallen ill, but problems happened. Salmonella happened, anyway. Nothing else happened, not with the right vendors and the right storage, preparation, and cooking methods, and she always used those. She didn’t buy anything precut, and she washed everything, then washed it again.

  “Everybody who’s come in so far attended the same event last night,” the doctor said. “An anniversary dinner. How about you?”

  The blood drained from her head, and the bloke’s face swam in her vision. Her stomach heaved, and this time, Brett was the one grabbing the blue bag and holding it for her. Her mind flashed for a second onto how embarrassing this same experience must have been for him, but no matter how she tried to keep it there, it wouldn’t stay. It was on those three words instead. Food-borne illness.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not possible.

  “Yes,” she said when she could. “I was there.”

  “I’m going to ask you what you ate,” the doctor said. “I’ve already rung the Food Authority hotline, but it’s barely Sunday morning. Unless somebody dies, they aren’t likely to take it up straight away. May as well start getting it on record.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Unless somebody dies? Is somebody really ill, then?”

  “Four rehydrated and on their way home, besides you. Two admitted. A woman in her nineties, and another who’s pregnant. That’s so far. Can you tell me what you ate at the event?”

  “How are they?” she asked. The pregnant woman. The anniversary couple’s youngest? She’d had an enormous belly, had joked about the excitement bringing on the baby. And a woman in her nineties. The onetime groom’s mum? A sweet lady with a walker, in a pink suit that was so clearly her best, wearing an orchid that had been pinned to her lapel by her son, accompanied by a kiss on the cheek. She’d patted his shoulder and had embraced his wife, beaming, leaving a trace of powder and lipstick behind, because she’d pulled out all the stops.

  They couldn’t die. Please, no. And the baby. No.

  “The pregnant woman is a precaution,” the doctor said, looking surprised at her intensity. “She’s been uncomfortable, but baby’s going all right. The older lady’s a bit dicier. The lab’s testing samples now to see what the trouble is, but I’ll get the list of what you ate while you can recall it.”

  “I ate three of the mini-pizzas,” she said, shutting her mind to everything else and focusing on the food. “A couple tastes of the veggies, same of the salad, a bite of the meat, and more of the salad dressing. A few spoonfuls of that. A bit of icing from the cake.”

  He’d pulled out a note pad to write it down, but looked up with surprise. “You didn’t eat more of the dinner, or any of the sweets? Were you feeling ill that soon?”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t eat it, because I was there to cook it. I’m the caterer.”

  His expression changed, and then it changed back, became professional again as he put his notebook back into his pocket. “The Food Authority will be in touch, then, I’m sure. If you have any of the food left, even if you think that dish couldn’t possibly be the culprit, it would be best to save it so they can match it to what they find from the stomach contents.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I cooked at the venue, and what the staff didn’t eat after the event, which wasn’t much, we discarded, as always.” She wanted to exclaim, to protest. I’m classically trained, and I don’t make those kinds of mistakes. He wasn’t the one who needed to hear it, though. Her skin was clammy, and she was shivering again, even under the heated blanket.

  The doctor nodded, said, “The nurse will be back in shortly to check how you’re doing, and if your vitals are good, we’ll send you on home,” and left.

  Which was when Amanda and Tom walked into the cubicle.

  Oh, no.

  Willow’s face was chalk-white, the freckles standing out in sharp relief, and the hand in Brett’s trembled like she was standing in a hurricane. He could see movement under the blanket, too. Her legs were shaking.

  He’d never met the woman who came through the door like she was somebody, and he’d never met the man behind her, either. She woman was put together well even at this hour, with sleek, shoulder-length blond hair and a simple outfit of cream-colored shirt and pants. Her face was taut with emotion, though, her gold hoop earrings swinging. The man, in jeans and a T-shirt that Willow’s ex Gordy would’ve worn, stood just inside the door and watched. The shirt said One Fifty Lashes and featured a whip, which wasn’t something you saw a middle-aged guy wearing every day. Brett looked closer. Oh. It said Pale Ale below. It was some kind of beer. A frat-boy T-shirt all the way, meant to shock the parents. Interesting.

  “Willow,” the woman said, her voice sharp. “What the bloody hell is going on? And why haven’t you been answering your phone?” She glanced at Brett and said, “Excuse us.”

  “Hello,” he said, keeping his voice level and not letting go of Willow’s hand. “Brett Hunter.”

  “Amanda Oldmarsh,” she said. “Senior partner in Nourish. My husband Tom. I need to talk to Willow alone. We have a crisis here. Or call it what it is. Disaster.”

  Brett didn’t let go of Willow’s hand. He asked her, “Do you want me to leave?”

  A long, long moment, and finally she said, “No. Please stay. You already know anyway.”

  Amanda said, “Fine, then, if you want him to hear. I wouldn’t. I got the call an hour ago from Calvin Attenborough.”

  “Groom,” Willow muttered, and Brett nodded.

  “He wasn’t ill,” Amanda said, “but his mum was, and so was his daughter. Then somebody else rang him, he said, and they’re dropping like ninepins now. I need to know what you missed, Willow, before the Food Authority gets onto it. We need to put a story together. I thought you knew better. I took you on because you knew better, and now this? I only hope word doesn’t get around before the wedding today. By next week, though, they’ll know. If the Food Authority doesn’t shut us down, that is.”

  “How do you know she missed anything?” Brett asked, keeping it mild with an effort. “They don’t even know what happened yet. Sounds like a supplier problem to me.”

  Amanda eyed him and asked coldly, “And you would know this how?”

  He kept his cool. It was his job. It was his life. “As a survivor of disasters large and small. Always unwise to jump to conclusions.”

  He could nearly see her hackles rising. “I’ll jump to this conclusion,” she said. “That I’ve never had this happen in nearly twenty-five years
in this business. I take a partner, and six months later, here we are, dragging my hard-earned reputation, my twenty-year company, into the dirt.” She switched her gaze to Willow. “I’ll expect you in the kitchen at eight. This time, wash your hands.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, love.” The first thing the husband had said.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “How do you expect me to feel?”

  “Darling,” he said. That was all, but at least she pressed her mouth shut. It looked like she was holding it there, but at least she’d stopped talking.

  Brett was, somehow, standing up. On a crutch, but standing. “Willow’s not going anywhere today. Look at her. She’s in a hospital bed.”

  “No, she’s not,” Amanda said. “She’s in A&E as a precaution, or an overreaction. Everybody’s being treated and released, except two people who were weak already. I took her on because she told me she was strong. Well, it’s time to be strong. She’s a chef, and chefs cook. No matter how they’re feeling. No matter what’s crashing and burning around them. I need her to cook now. We’ve got over two hundred people coming this afternoon, and they all need to eat.”

  “I don’t care what you need,” Brett said. “You’re not getting it. I’m sure the health department would have something to say about that. Stupidest idea I’ve heard in a lifetime of listening. You think you’ll convince them of your commitment to food safety if you let a sick woman prepare a meal for two hundred people?” He wasn’t doing so well on his cool and calm. Too bad. “Willow’s going home with me, and then she’s going to bed. Find somebody else to fill in.” A pregnant woman was weak? He’d also be willing to bet that since Willow had bought in, Amanda hadn’t been starting work at seven in the morning and going home at eight in the evening, because she’d had somebody else to do that. He knew that type, too. They thought that being senior meant coasting, when in reality, the captain needed to be out there working the hardest, showing the way. That was how you inspired loyalty. That was how you built a team.