Kathleen Creighton - Undercover Mistress

Something brushed his lips. “Here-open up.”

He opened his eyes as he took the pills she gave him and found that her face was so close to his he could have counted her lashes-if he could have focused his eyes, that is. He could smell that sweet fragrance, feel the swirl of her breath on his skin. His lips tingled where her fingers touched them. Then the smooth coolness of china was there instead, and he was swallowing pills and tepid, bitter tea, his eyes were closing again, weakness and weariness flowing through him along with a regret as acute as pain.

“Where’re you going?” Could that pitiful sound have come from him?

Her voice seemed to come from far away, so maybe he imagined the odd little catch in it. “I have to put the groceries away. But I’ll be right back. Is there, um, something else you need?”

Answers! That’s what I need…more answers. Against his better judgment, he lifted his head off the pillow so he could look at her. “One…thing…”

“Yes?” She took a step toward him, her image blurring and shimmery in his unreliable vision.

“Doc. What’s his story? You told me why you did what you did. Doesn’t explain him.”

She folded her arms across herself in a quick, defensive motion. Even with the shimmer he could see her shrug. “Doc’s my next-door neighbor. And my friend. I needed help-I couldn’t very well move you all alone.” She paused, and when he didn’t say anything, abruptly unwrapped herself and went on with an air of surrender, “I went to him because I knew he’d probably do what I asked. Because I knew he has an even better reason than I do for not wanting to involve the authorities. Okay?”

Roy felt a chill go down his spine; once again, he was wondering what the hell kind of people he’d fallen in with. There was a deadly stillness inside him as he calmly said, “Oh, yeah? What reasons are those?”

Again, and for a longer time, she hesitated. Then she said flatly, “He lost his license to practice medicine. How and why is his story to tell. Let’s just say that these days, like me, he likes to keep a low profile. Lucky for you-that’s why you’re here, instead of in a hospital trying to explain that gunshot wound to a bunch of police officers.”

A smile flickered like a faulty lightbulb. “Also, unfortunately for you, maybe, it’s why you only get ibuprofen for your pain instead of something stronger.” She turned to go, then checked and looked back. Her smile was softer now and maybe sadder, too. “He was a good doctor, once,” she said, and left him.

Alone, Roy slowly lowered his aching head to the pillows and closed his eyes. He was thinking, What have I gotten myself into? Wounded soap stars and defrocked-was that the word?-doctors… On the other hand, this was California, which everybody knew was the nut capital of the world. What did he expect?

I have to call Max, he thought. He’ll get me out of this crazy place. Probably get me some painkillers that work, too. I should have asked her for a phone.

Why hadn’t he, when he’d had the chance?

There’d been distractions, of course, other things going on, not the least of which was, he’d passed out cold on the bathroom floor. Lucky he hadn’t cracked his skull. Or maybe he had-from the size and tenderness of the mouse on his forehead and the way his head was pounding, it felt like a distinct possibility. But there was something else, too, something he hadn’t forgotten, but which had slipped to the back of his mind.

His name wouldn’t happen to be Max, would it?

How could she know about Max?

The question clamored in his brain like an alarm bell. He knew he needed to answer it, had to do something about it, but…he was too weak, too tired, and his head hurt too much. There was nothing he could do about Max right now-nothing he could do about anything, really.

Except…sleep.

“I’m worried about him,” Celia said. It was hard to tear her gaze away from the flushed face on the pillow in order to look at the man standing next to her, but she managed it. “I think he has a fever.”

“I think it’s safe to say he very likely does,” Doc agreed, frowning judiciously down at his patient. Together, they watched the man mutter and mumble, eyes glaring, fierce and unfocused, at nothing. After a moment, he lifted his eyebrows and drew a considering breath. “Although, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know. Fever is nature’s antibiotic, after all, and, under the circumstances, the only one we have at our disposal.” He glanced over at her, then quickly away, but not before she saw her own concern mirrored in his decidedly bloodshot eyes. “Keep a close watch on him, give him plenty of fluids, keep his head cool. If he’s still feverish in the morning, well…I guess we’ll have to think of something, won’t we.”

Celia listened to Doc’s footsteps cross the room and fade away. We both know what that “something” is, don’t we?

If the man didn’t get better soon…if infection set in…they’d have to take him to a hospital. There really would be no choice. But how would they ever explain the gunshot wound? Her whole body grew cold when she thought about the questions…the cops…the publicity…the reporters…the photographers…the rumors, the speculation. Not to mention that she and Doc were probably going to be facing criminal charges.

The man in the bed muttered something she couldn’t understand. His eyes were closed, now, and his skin had the unmistakable ruddy, velvety look of fever. Drawing a catching breath, Celia reached for the dish towel that was soaking in a panful of cold water on the floor near her feet. She squeezed out most of the water, folded the towel and laid it gently across her patient’s forehead. Nurse Suzanne couldn’t do it better, she thought, the irony of that almost making her smile.

Except, following a script, playing at being a nurse in a television daytime drama had never made her feel like this-the squeezing sensation in her chest…the tap-tapping pulse in her stomach. And she was quite sure real nurses would never allow themselves to feel this fierce protectiveness…this fervent sense that the man she was tending in some way belonged to her.

That she was responsible for him.

“I’m not going to let you die,” she whispered, as emotion filled her throat and speaking aloud became impossible. “No matter what it takes, I won’t let you die.”

The only response was more incoherent muttering. And then, suddenly and distinctly, “Don’…go…’way.”

“Don’t worry,” Celia said, her voice brusque and blurred. She brushed at her nose with the back of her hand and reached once more for the towel. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Roy woke with the sense of having escaped from the clutches of a nightmare, except he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it had been about. He knew he was lying on his side, and that he felt empty and damp. And chilly-he shivered in small pitiful fits.

But at the same time, he felt light. Almost…happy. Reluctant to open his eyes, for a time he drifted, battered but relieved, like the survivor of a raging flood washed up in quiet shallows, glad to have come safely through it, whatever it was.

Gradually, though, it came to him that he was going to have to do something about the various discomforts intruding on that strange, contradictory sense of well-being. Clammy sheets, for one thing. For another, the fact that he was so damn thirsty. Obviously, if he was going to do something about those things, he was going to have to open his eyes.

It took more effort than he thought he remembered from all the other times he’d done it, but he got the job done. Then for a minute or two, he thought he must still be dreaming-either that, or there was something seriously wrong with his vision. He blinked a couple of times and tried to focus, and when that didn’t make things clearer, closed one eye. Nope-still there.

It was a face-no doubt about it. About four inches from his. Probably the most beautiful face he’d ever seen in his life, and one he’d seen before. But not like this. No, not at all like this-eyes closed…lips apart, but only slightly…skin wearing the soft pink flush of sleep. One hand, loosely curled, pillowed her cheek, in the way of very small children.

He must have moved…or maybe she felt, somehow, the intensity of his gaze. Whatever the reason, her eyes opened so suddenly he gave a small involuntary jerk, and for a long moment she stared in silence at the center of his face-at his nose, to be precise-before her gaze flicked up and connected with his.

He found he was holding his breath, his mind flashing back to a time in his past too distant to register as real memories…fragmented impressions of himself trudging through knee-deep cool-moist leaves while holding tightly to a large warm hand…a gruff voice softly warning…and then-a vision in dappled sunlight so miraculous it had remained intact and pristine in the attic of his mind for all these years-a doe and her twin fawns…new-born, damp and spindle-legged still. His heart pounded now as it had then, and he didn’t breathe, lest even that stirring of air frighten her away.

The moment passed-they could hardly have stayed that way forever. Tiny muscles around her eyes and mouth…across her forehead and the bridge of her nose…quivered and stirred in a waking-up way. He began to breathe again…carefully…wondering whether she was about to smile at him or do what she’d done last time she’d awakened to find herself eyeball-to-eyeball with him.

Figuring he’d just as well get the suspense over with, he cleared his throat and gruffly murmured, “We’re gonna have to quit meeting like this.”

He could have counted to four…maybe five…while she stared at him without moving, as if he hadn’t spoken a word. Then her eyes widened, and he felt her breath swirl across his skin. The hand that had pillowed her cheek uncurled, her fingertips extended slowly and touched his lips, as if, he thought, she expected him to turn out to be a mirage after all. Evidently assured by her senses that he wasn’t, she lifted her head, then her shoulders, propping herself on one elbow while she brought her other hand to his face.