water tasted like the nectar of the gods and Daisy couldn’t remember tasting anything so heavenly before, but then she had never felt so thirsty before either, she reflected dazedly.
‘You had a little accident; do you remember?’ The nurse was talking as though Daisy were five years old.
‘Yes—yes, I do. It was my fault.’ Daisy winced as she tried to settle herself more comfortably; besides every muscle and bone in her body aching like mad, there seemed to be an army of little men inside her head using her brain as a drum.
‘You were very lucky,’ the nurse said brightly as she busied herself tucking in the bedclothes at the foot of the bed. ‘It could have been a lot worse. As it was you got away with grazed arms and legs, a couple of fractured ribs and concussion. And, of course, cuts and bruises,’ she added as an afterthought.
Funny, but she didn’t feel very lucky. ‘How long have I been here?’ Daisy asked weakly. And where was here?
‘You were brought in yesterday morning, so that’s over twenty-four hours now.’ The nurse had finished with the covers and moved back to stand at the head of the bed, looking down at her with a sympathetic smile for a moment before she said, her tone enquiring, ‘We’ve been trying to trace your family, Daisy.’
‘They live abroad.’ And then, before anything more could be said, Daisy continued quietly, ‘I’ve only just moved to London, actually, so I don’t know anyone here yet. I…I was on my way to a job interview yesterday morning.’
‘Oh, dear.’ The sympathy became tangible. ‘Well, I’m afraid you won’t be able to think of working for two or three weeks, but don’t worry about that for now. You’ve got to concentrate on getting well. And Mr Eastwood is covering any expenses whilst you’re here, incidentally,’ she added briskly.
‘Expenses?’ Daisy wrinkled her brow and then stopped when it hurt too much.
‘This is a private hospital, dear.’
Of course, she should have known. Daisy’s bewildered glance took in the large room, the matching covers and curtains, the television in one corner and the easy chairs and small coffee table in another at the side of an internal door which obviously led to the en suite bathroom. She gulped audibly, and then managed to ask, her voice very small, ‘And Mr Eastwood is…?’
‘The poor guy you gave the fright of his life to when you decided to fling yourself under the wheels of his car.’ The deep, dark voice from the doorway brought the nurse jerking round and Daisy stiffening in the bed. Neither of them had heard the door to the corridor outside open.
‘Falling at my feet is one thing.’ A pair of black glittering eyes held Daisy’s wide, honey-brown gaze with a power that was formidable. ‘I might even have enjoyed that, but as it was…’
‘I…I’m sorry.’ Daisy stared at him, her head swimming, but whether it was weakness due to her condition or the result of being pinned by that piercing gaze she wasn’t sure.
The man in the doorway was tall, very tall, with hair like a raven’s wing and the sort of arrogantly handsome looks that were as disturbing as they were attractive. He radiated power and vitality, but not in a comforting or reassuring way—or at least Daisy didn’t find it such. The chiselled cheekbones in the cruel, aesthetic face, the dark straight brows and finely moulded mouth were quite devastating but altogether overwhelming.
Daisy watched him as he crossed the room and she wasn’t aware she had shrunk back against the pillows, but the night-black eyes holding hers missed nothing, and the lazy smile which had been hovering at the corners of the firm mouth straightened.
‘Slade Eastwood.’
He held out a large hand and in the brief few seconds that his warm, strong fingers enclosed Daisy’s small paw she felt the impact right down to her toes.
‘Daisy Summers,’ she returned shakily.
‘Daisy…’ His lips lingered on her name, and the ebony gaze stroked over the delicate young woman in front of him, her beautiful golden-brown eyes set in a face that was hauntingly lovely and surrounded by a soft cloud of silky silver-blonde hair. ‘An unusual name but most apt,’ he drawled slowly.
‘Apt?’ The dizziness had gone but she was so tired she couldn’t put any strength in her voice, much as she wanted to.
‘Your eyes are the gold at the heart of a daisy and your hair its petals.’ The dark, husky voice caused a shiver to pass over her skin, and then, as she continued to stare at him with huge eyes, his tone changed as he turned to the nurse and said, ‘When did she regain consciousness?’
‘Just a short while ago, Mr Eastwood.’
He nodded, turning back to Daisy. ‘Then I’ll let you get some rest,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s still early days.’
‘Oh, please?’ He was already halfway to the door when her voice stopped him, and as he turned to face her again Daisy summoned up all her courage and said tremblingly, ‘I…I can’t stay here any longer, Mr Eastwood; I understand you are paying for me? I…I can’t reimburse you immediately, but of course I will do so when—’
‘Reimburse me? There is no question of that.’
‘Oh, yes, I must, but I can’t afford to stay— I mean I must leave today—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ There wasn’t the slightest touch of a bedside manner as he rapped out the words, and then, as she flinched back against the covers, he said more quietly, ‘It was my car which put you in here so it is only right I take the responsibility for your recovery. Please don’t give the matter another thought. And the name is Slade.’
‘But the accident was my fault; you didn’t have a chance of missing me,’ she stated weakly. And then, as the thought occurred to her, she asked, ‘Did I damage your car?’
He stared at her as though she were mad for a long moment and his voice reflected the expression on his face when he murmured, ‘Did you…? What the hell does the car matter?’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ she whispered miserably.
He wasn’t about to tell her that his severe braking, added to a wild swerve to avoid hitting her head-on, had resulted in the rear of his Aston Martin Volante coming into unfortunate contact with a lamppost, and now he shrugged easily. ‘The car is fine but you are not—end of story. And you will stay in here until the doctors are satisfied you are well enough to leave.’
It was authoritative and cool and acted like a shot of adrenalin straight into Daisy’s wilting frame. She sat up straighter, ignoring the jabs of red-hot pain the mild movement caused, and now her voice was much stronger when she said firmly, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t do that, Mr Eastwood.’
For crying out loud, what was the matter with the woman? Slade Eastwood called on his meagre store of patience and willed the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Yes, you can, Daisy,’ he said with measured stoicism. ‘You gave me the fright of my life yesterday morning—’ his stomach muscles tensed at the memory ‘—followed by a very anxious twenty-four hours. The financial side of things is nothing, nothing, okay? At the risk of sounding crass I can afford for you to live here for ever if necessary, so please, indulge me? You owe me that at least.’
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