he saw her big tawny eyes staring at him in surprise, he pushed it right open.
She was wearing an old white tee shirt over panties and nothing else. At least he hoped she wore panties; the shirt hung down to mid-thigh and he couldn’t quite tell. All the blood in his body headed south—fast. He forced his eyes back up.
A sheen of sweat bathed her face and her eyes looked huge in her pale face. Huge and slightly glazed. She’d twisted her hair back into a loose, low pony-tail but large sections were escaping. He thought she looked beautiful, but while his gut twisted with desire he could see she was in no way up to a marathon session of love-making. She looked about ready to collapse on the spot. The protective male bit in him reared its head.
‘What?’ She looked stunned to see him.
‘I wanted to make sure you were OK.’ Well, he wanted that and a few other things, but they’d have to wait right now.
‘I’m fine.’ She leant back against the wall for support.
‘No, you’re not,’ he said softly, stepping into the tiny hall and closing the door behind him.
She pulled upright with visible effort and walked through into the main room. Rory followed, looking about him with growing concern. The place was tiny. A studio apartment and freezing to boot. His concern leapt into worry and then manifested as irritation. He couldn’t help but notice the big bed in the corner with the sheets in disarray. He looked away hurriedly. She obviously wasn’t sleeping too good, judging by the way the covers were tossed about. Either that or she never made her bed.
‘Have you eaten?’ He tried to focus back to the basics.
She shook her head weakly.
‘Drunk anything?’
Again she shook her head.
His voice rose in irritation. ‘Taken any medication?’
She put up a hand. ‘Don’t start lecturing me. I’m fine; it’s just a wee bug.’
He stood back watching as she tottered back to the bed, obviously trying to control the shivering. ‘Like hell it’s a wee bug. You look half dead.’ He swung around the room. ‘Where’s the kitchen in this place?’
She gestured to the bi-folding cupboard doors in the far corner. He wrenched them open and stared in disbelief. The kitchen, or kitchenette he supposed it would be called, consisted of a bar fridge, a shelf for groceries, about three plates and assorted mismatched cutlery, a microwave, twin hotplate and sink. He looked at the few packets on the shelf. Cereal, cereal and more cereal. All quarter to half full. He opened the fridge, already knowing what he’d find.
Just as he’d thought; skimmed milk and a couple of tubs of yoghurt. The bottle of chocolate sauce standing alone on the middle shelf diverted him momentarily. Wrenching his mind away from the extremely exciting vision of licking chocolate off her breasts, he slammed the door shut with force. ‘This is ridiculous. What do you eat?’
‘There’s a supermarket just around the corner,’ she replied defensively. ‘I haven’t been for a couple of days.’
‘Obviously. No wonder you’re so trim. You’re half starved.’
‘I eat at the office,’ she said resentfully.
‘You eat cereal at the office. Don’t you eat anything else?’
‘I really like soup,’ she replied, tilting her chin up, daring him to criticise her.
Resisting the urge to plant a kiss on those upturned lips as he wanted, he rolled his eyes instead. ‘When did you last have a decent home-cooked meal?’
‘This is my home. I do cook. And it’s none of your business.’ She flung herself down on the bed and ruined the defiant effect completely by doubling over and coughing. He moved across to her and rubbed her back in gentle wide circles as she hacked away. He could feel her warmth through the thin tee shirt and he tried not to notice that there was no bra strap under it.
A few minutes later she looked up at him with watery eyes and mumbled, ‘Rory, I feel awful.’
He sat down next to her and put his arms around her in the age-old gesture of comfort. He felt no resistance as she leaned into his embrace and he continued to rub gently up and down her back. ‘I know, beautiful.’ He gently pushed her back onto the bed so she was lying down and hastily pulled a rug up to cover her long legs. Her eyes closed and she shivered spasmodically. He watched her closely. She really looked sick. He could feel the frequent bouts of shivering, and her skin was burning up. The cough was nasty. He guessed she had the flu with a chest infection on top of it. Looking around him, he felt frustrated. She couldn’t stay here alone like this. In this condition she wasn’t capable of looking after herself and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be making any trips to the supermarket for supplies in a hurry. He stroked her arms gently. She appeared to have gone to sleep.
Quietly he stood and surveyed the scene critically. She hadn’t a lot of possessions, hadn’t bothered to make much of a personal mark on the place. Clean and clutter-free, it looked as if what she had could be thrown together reasonably quickly. An assortment of candles sat arranged on a shelf; he could smell their vanilla fragrance even unlit. Next to them leaned a framed photo of a woman who looked as if she could be Lissa’s sister. There were no other photos. New Zealand, eh? Beautiful mountains there, good for snowboarding. He smiled.
A huge pile of books stood stacked in two towers by the bed and he glanced at a few titles with interest. Novels, biographies and a few travel guides. A map of London was taped to the wall. A toiletries bag stood neatly on the chest of drawers. The suit she’d worn yesterday lay in a crumpled heap on the floor by the wall, which surprised him. That didn’t seem to fit with the way she wore it so creaselessly. He’d thought she’d be fastidious about hanging her clothes up. She must have been feeling terrible when she got in. Frowning, he picked up the skirt and jacket, shook them out a bit and draped them over the back of a chair. He didn’t poke into the wardrobe, feeling as if he was intruding enough.
He spun about quickly; he needed to do something about her. She couldn’t stay here alone. He didn’t know if she had other friends to call on and in any case she was in no condition to get to them. Besides, if he knew her at all, she wouldn’t even if she could. Miss Cool Independence. He did know one thing for sure; she hated admitting a weakness. Well, undoubtedly she’d hate him for what he was about to do, but tough. Sometimes, he figured, you’ve just got to lie back and let others help you. He grabbed the keys lying on the table and, flipping open his cell phone, strode out of the flat.
She never wanted to wake up. The dream seemed so real and lovely. She floated in a state of bliss. Soft, comfortable, secure. But it hadn’t started that way. Someone had been shining a light in her eyes and from a distance she’d heard an unfamiliar voice asking questions, annoying questions that tried to rouse her, made her feel as if she’d been taken hostage by the Spanish Inquisition and she just wanted whoever it was to go away. Then she’d been hot, so hot and dreadfully thirsty. Her mouth had been too dry to be able to swallow and her lips were cracking. Then he’d appeared. He’d cradled her and helped her drink something cool and refreshing. Then he’d moved away and she’d felt so bereft and so alone. She’d called to him. Asked him not to go.
‘Not going anywhere, beautiful.’
She’d rested back against him, smiling, her irritated skin feeling soothed against something smooth and soft.
