by Donna Alam
‘I’m just going to step outside to speak to Rhett.’ I press a kiss to his forehead as he raises my hand to his lips.
‘Tell him to go home,’ he murmurs, exchanging my kiss for his. ‘I’ll speak to him in the morning.’
‘It is the morning,’ I answer, pulling away. But he doesn’t let go of my hand. ‘Okay, I’ll tell him, but I don’t know why you think he’ll listen to me.’
‘Remy says to tell you to go home,’ I say to Rhett as I close the door to room behind me. ‘He says he’ll see you in the morning. He also said thank you.’
‘That’s it. The bastard’s dying, then?’ From his position leaning against the opposite wall, Everett grins. The expression is absolutely disreputable thanks to the dark stubble on his chin. ‘Because if he said thank you, I’m fucked.’
‘Okay, so that was a little artistic license, but I read it in his expression, anyway.’ I shove my hands into my pockets and tip forward on my toes. This feels . . . strange. Between Rhett and me. Like we’ve called a truce. ‘Does stuff like this happen to him often?’
He frowns, his head angling. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, in March, I found him on my doorstep after a motorcycle accident.’ I slide my hands from my pockets, linking my fingers instead. ‘You know about that, right?’ He inclines his head briefly, though offers nothing more. ‘And now this. He fell off his yacht. Does that not seem weird to you?’
‘Why should it?’
‘Because it is weird,’ I retort, my tone firmer.
‘You’re all right, you,’ he states quite abruptly, pushing off from the wall.
‘Well, yeah. Because I’m not the one who’s been admitted to the hospital. Oh. I get it. Was that supposed to be some kind of praise?’
‘It’s the best you’re gonna get.’ He folds his arms across his chest, and I notice his biceps are the size of hams. Meat arms to go with his meathead, I think uncharitably. Whatever. One conversation does not make us friends. ‘I didn’t think you’d stick around.’
‘Oh, nice.’ I drag my gaze from his noticing a nurse exiting a nearby room with a tiny old lady hobbling behind her. ‘I get it. You thought I was just out for what I could get. A gold digger.’ I glower, my gaze moving back to him.
‘Nah.’ His mouth turns down in a show of distaste. ‘I just thought you’d have more sense. When you found out, I mean.’
‘About Amélie?’ My innards suddenly feel like they’ve been filled with wet cement. ‘So, still not a compliment. You think I’m stupid—stupid for staying with him?’
The man closest to him gives me this advice now? What the heck is that about?
‘No. He’s a good man, on the whole. And no one’s perfect.’ His wide shoulders ripple with a shrug. ‘I just thought, well, people like us. People who’ve known real poverty, we’re pretty good at protecting ourselves. In some ways, we’re like the rich, though it’s usually self-preservation and not greed that makes us put our needs first. That and maybe experience.’ His shoulders lift and drop, and he makes a show of stretching his back. ‘Anyway, I’m gonna go and get a few hours kip. Need me to bring you anything when I come back?’
‘Like what?’
‘A coffee? A rope?’
‘To escape or to strangle him?’
‘Maybe to tie up the bad guys. You know, in case they try to bum-rush his room.’
I lower my voice and incline my head, speaking under my breath. ‘Because you think someone did this to him?’
‘I don’t get paid enough to think.’
‘Bullshit.’ My answer is nothing more than an incredulous laugh. ‘You wear the same kind of suits as your boss.’
‘And I look better in them than he does.’
‘You really are a piece of work.’
‘It takes one to know one, Heidi,’ he retorts with a cheeky wink. ‘He’s all yours. Try to be nice to him.’
As I watch him saunter down the hallway, the door to Remy’s room opens as the two nurses slip out, pink-cheeked and giggling. One turns to follow Rhett’s direction, the other’s gaze collides with mine, causing the colour in her cheeks to deepen.
Girl, I know.
Gripping the doorhandle, I fix a smile on my face. If the ills of the world can be solved by salt, I’ll stick to sweat and seawater because I’ve cried enough tears.
I’m just going to love him from here on in.
36
Rose
I spent the next thirty-six hours on a chair next to Remy’s bed. No way was I leaving him alone. I also figured it was the best use of company time. In order to lead the company, Remy needed to be well. In order to be well, he needed rest, and he was more inclined to rest while I was near. Though I will admit he wasn’t thrilled with my company when I told the next doctor who came into his room that this was his second concussion this year. The news created a flutter; there were questions, warnings of traumatic brain injuries, talk of keeping him in the hospital for a longer observation period, and mutterings about the odds of the occurrence of aspiration pneumonia, almost as though it were some kind of side order dish. They spoke in English, maybe garnering that they’d get the unvarnished truth from me, rather than an imperious mouthful and denunciations of charlatan and impostor from the grump in the bed.
‘You fuss too much,’ Remy complains, his eyes appealing to the ceiling for deliverance.
‘And you’re a very bad patient. Do you think this is my idea?’ I ask, my hand flying out to indicate the wheelchair by the side of the bed. The wheelchair Rhett’s currently sitting in.
‘My legs work perfectly.’
‘So does your mouth, unfortunately,’ I reply in an undertone.
‘Not even two days together and you two are already bickering.’ The wheelchair wheels squeak against the hospital floor as Rhett attempts a spin in the tight space. ‘Are you sure you’re cut out for spending more time together?’
‘I can’t wait to get her alone to kiss every inch of her skin. To taste her from her lips to the tips of her toes as I whisper my want of her at all the places in between. Does that answer your question?’
‘A little too graphically,’ he retorts with a twist to his mouth.
‘It must be the concussion speaking.’ Remy grins.
‘You don’t need a wheelchair. You need a muzzle.’ My cheeks sting, no doubt pink.
‘I don’t need a wheelchair, period.’
‘Well, according to the hospital’s insurance policy, you do. So get your cutie-patootie butt in that thing, and let’s get this show on the road.’
Rhett stands. ‘I think I was just a bit sick in my mouth.’
A nurse wheels Remy to the entrance of the hospital to where Everett has brought the Range Rover around. I try not to hover around him as he climbs into the car, but honestly, it’s hard.
‘Got everything?’ I ask, ready to close the passenger side door.
‘I think I left my dignity in there.’ With a sniff, his gaze lifts above my head to the hospital building.
‘Remy, I love you. You’re probably going to get sick of me saying this because the thought of you—’ I stop abruptly. He needs to hear this less than I need to say it. I think he’s pretty sick of being reminded of his own mortality. I take a deep breath. ‘So, I love you. I’ll thank the heavens every day.’ He reaches out to where I’m gripping the door, his fingers lightly brushing mine. ‘But I have to tell you, you are a pain in the ass.’ Eyes narrowed, he can’t seem to stop his reluctant grin. ‘Love you!’ I slam the door shut before he can say anything else.
‘Have you had any more thoughts?’ At the back of the car, I keep my voice purposely low as Everett loads Remy’s bag into the trunk.
‘About what?’
‘You know—the thing we were talking about. Remy’s so-called accident.’
‘Did we have a conversation about this?’ His expression is blank as he reaches up and presses a button, the tailgate gliding closed.
‘You know we did. Out in the
hallway.’
‘I think your imagination is playing tricks on you. Remy slipped from a passerelle with a defective rail. It’s been investigated and the cause determined as just that.’
‘And the huge wound he has on his head? The one that looked like he’d been hit with something, rather than the other way around? There was no blood on the gangplank thing—you told me that.’ He’d mentioned it in passing, then looked like he wished he hadn’t.
‘Gangplank?’
‘The thing he fell off.’
‘Why do pirates not visit strip clubs?’
‘What?’ The mention of strip clubs barely registers. A second later, my stomach fills with dread. ‘Pirates? Why are you talking about pirates?
‘Pirates don’t go to strip clubs because they already have all the booty.’ There’s an air of resignation in the shake of his head. ‘A gangplank is for pirates, love. It’s a gang walk or a passerelle to those in the know.’ His eyebrows ride high, his attitude infuriating. ‘Also, Le Loup is in water. Water and blood are both liquids, and seeing as water was the larger source, it would’ve washed any blood away.’
‘Why are you being such a dick?’
‘Why are you playing Miss Marple?’
‘Because if it was what you think it was, that means someone tried to kill him.’ I throw my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of Remy sitting in the passenger seat. ‘And I want to know who it was.’ So I can replay the favour.
‘It feels like you’re shouting. You’re not shouting at me, are you?’
‘This is called whisper shouting. You must never have had a girlfriend.’
He laughs; I assume it’s some lame-ass inside joke. ‘I didn’t say it wasn’t an accident., but we can’t really know either way. Not unless Remy remembers something.’
‘Who was it, do you think?’ Because no way I’m buying that, even if he is folding his arms and doing that whole big boy swinging my dick thing. ‘Was it Amélie?’
His expression twists. ‘What would she stand to gain from murdering him? She’s not the one named in his will.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, and don’t say shit like that to me.’ Not unless you want me to have a coronary. ‘It totally could have been her. A woman scorned and all that.’
‘All right, Velma. Keep your hair on.’
‘Velma? Like as in jinkies?’ My incredulity, or maybe my anger, makes him smirk. ‘What in the Sam Hill is wrong with you?’
‘Look, she wasn’t in the country when this happened,’ he asserts, beginning to tap off the points using the fingers of one hand. ‘She hasn’t got the kind of upper body strength to inflict that kind of damage.’
‘Ah, so you do think his wound isn’t consistent with a fall.’
‘Like a rabid poodle with a bone,’ he mutters. ‘Look, she has nothing to gain from killing him.’
‘But she has motive. Jealousy. And she could’ve hired an accomplice.’
‘You know who else has motive, and means, and all the other shit? Ben.’
My shoulders slump. He could have a point. ‘Except Ben was the one who explained the whole Amélie situation to me.’
‘So?’
‘So, if he wanted to hurt Remy, he could’ve helped drive me away. Okay, so not physical pain, but the emotional stuff.’
‘Look, the fact of the matter is, Ben is at the end of a very long list of people who’d like nothing more than to see Remy at the bottom of the marina.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Shit above my pay grade,’ he snarks. ‘That’s business out here. It’s dog eat dog, and well, wolf eats everything.’
‘You’re saying Remy has enemies?’
‘I’m saying get in the car.’
‘Sure, dad,’ I snark folding my arms across my chest and not going anywhere. Ass.
‘Look, you leave the investigating to the big boys and just get him well.’
‘Do I look like a nurse to you?’
‘I’m not the one looking forward to a sponge bath. By the way,’ he adds, his eyes dropping to my feet. ‘Your knickers are showing.’
My gaze drops to my waist. Nothing. But then a flash of yellow at my feet causes panic to flare as I take in the cotton and lace of yesterday’s panties, which appear to be peeking from the ankle of my jeans. Jeans that were both taken off and shoved back on in a hurry.
Rhett’s chuckle follows him to the driver’s side of the car.
‘You think you’re so hardcore,’ I whisper-shout after him, whipping the offending panties out from my ankle before shoving them in my pocket. ‘You’re not even apple core.’
Urgh!
‘How about a bath?’
Rhett brought us to the house, my house, as Remy called it. The honeysuckle house. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time. Out of the city, the air is fresh and the pace less hectic. and more importantly, his office isn’t at the end of an elevator ride. I agreed it might be the best place for him to rest. But I guess it shows what I know as he barely looks up from his laptop. We’re camped out in the den—at least, that’s what I’m calling it when I pretend this house is really mine—for the fourth day since his discharge. He can’t seem to settle anywhere. The light is too bright in the kitchen and for some (stubborn) reason, he doesn’t want the drapes closed in any of the other rooms. He sniffed at my suggestion we sit in the shade of the pergola and snarled when I said Rhett might bring him his sunglasses and a hat next time he visited.
Basically, I’m living with a monosyllabic teenager. I guess I wouldn’t be fun to be around after what he’s just been through. But if I thought he was hard to understand before, right now, he’s downright baffling.
I put down the magazine I’m reading and flop to the opposite end of the grey sectional sofa to face him directly. Elbow bent, I rest my cheek on my hand. ‘You know you’re not supposed to use electronics for any length of time for the first week.’ So the doctor said, though I won’t invoke his name because we all know he’s just a charlatan . . .
He probably got his medical license in a Paris flea market, right?
‘I’m just dealing with emails. A business doesn’t run itself.’ He doesn’t once look my way. Not even a glance.
‘So, that was no to the bath then?’
This time, our eyes connect over his open laptop. ‘It depends where your motivation is coming from.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it a desire to get me naked, or a need to look after me?’
‘Do you care either way if I get a little handsy?’
‘I’m not sure I’d recognise the difference.’
‘Well, ouch.’ This isn’t a slight on my nursing skills but rather something else. Something we’ve probably been dancing around.
‘Remy.’ Since when have I begun to say his name so carefully? ‘You’re recovering from a second concussion—a second mild traumatic brain injury the doctor called it. You—we’ve—got to be careful.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ His mouth firms, his eyes almost burning a hole in his screen.
‘I can see you’re in pain.’ I find myself chewing on the inside of my lip, but I can’t keep myself from speaking. ‘And you’re taking the pills, so I know your head still aches. The doctor said it would take up to two weeks. You need to rest your brain and your body, avoid driving, strenuous mental activities’—I point at this laptop—‘and physical activities, too.’
‘I know. I read the leaflet, too. But I’m tired of being treated like porcelain.’
‘You’ve only been out of the hospital for four days!’
‘I’ve been out of your bed for much longer. I want to feel your love, Rose. Not just hear you utter it as you press a kiss to my forehead when you hand me a glass of water, or we turn in for the night.’
‘Is worrying about you, looking after you, not showing love, too?’
‘You confuse it with pity.’
‘That’s unfair, and you know it.’
/> ‘It took this accident for you to admit your feelings—’
‘You think I told you I love you because I felt sorry for you?’
I know I shouldn’t be raising my voice, I know all about neurological fatigue, pain, and the possibility of overstimulation because I’ve spent hours on the internet trying to prepare myself for what to expect. Yet, this is no whisper-shout.
‘I knew you loved me well before you told me,’ the arrogant ass retorts. ‘Are you glaring, or do you have something in your eye?’
‘Yes, it’s called murder.’
His gaze runs critically across my face, almost examining me. ‘It isn’t conceit. I knew it when I saw how much hurt my foolishness brought you. But now I’ve heard it from your own lips, I want nothing more than the evidence of it. I crave it like a physical thing. I’m not breakable, Rose. And I want you like I’ve wanted nothing else.’
I realise he’s right in that sickening instant. I’ve been treating him like an invalid, scared to touch him, maybe even afraid he wouldn’t be the same man. Frightened that he was almost taken from me. Fearful because I hadn’t told him what he meant to me.
‘Do you know, you even recoil from my touch in your sleep?’
I find myself on my knees in front of him. Why? Because sitting next to him on the chair, I’m frightened I might somehow hurt him. Jostle him? I don’t know. He’s not the only one who’s scarred from the incident.
As he lifts his laptop over his head to put it on the chair, I slide my arms around his waist. We don’t speak for some minutes—I don’t know what to say. Not as his fingers sift through my hair. Not as they move to loosen the knots in my back. I just stay there listening to the sounds of his breathing and feeling his touch.
He’s alive, and he is well. I’m not going to break him with the strength of my love.
‘The lengths a man will go to get your face in his lap,’ he murmurs almost carelessly.
‘Not even funny. And also not even a little bit subtle.’
His deep chuckle echoes under my ear. As do the signs of his discomfort, the way his body goes taut, and the tiny stifled groan I’m not supposed to notice.