“Samantha?” She didn’t answer, and he pulled to the curb. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said roughly, as he reached for her. “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer. He put his hand under her chin, made her look at him. Light from a car coming towards them played across her and he cursed sharply. Of course she was hurt! Her eyes were enormous. Her face was colorless, except for a bruise on her cheek and another on her temple.
No, he thought, no…
“Panagia mou,” he whispered, and enfolded her in his arms. “What have I done to you, gataki?”
“It was my fault.”
“No, sweetheart.” He stroked her wet hair. “I shouldn’t have been driving so fast, but when I stepped out of the office and Andreas told me you had run off…”
“Exactly. It was stupid. And then I—I stepped off the curb without looking…”
Worse and worse. She was bruised, probably in pain, and she was contrite. That was almost more frightening than anything else. He cupped her shoulders, drew back so he could look into her eyes, then gently touched her temple.
“Does this hurt?”
“No.” A shudder went through her; the sound of her breathing grew ragged. “It’s my ankle. When I jumped back…I must have landed wrong. My ankle made this—this funny sort of pop.”
Demetrios’s stomach tightened. He twisted in his seat, tried to see her feet, but there wasn’t enough space.
“Can you move your foot, gataki?”
Sam nodded. “Yes. But it hurts.”
Quickly, he got out of the car, went around to her door and opened it. He took a flashlight from the glove compartment, squatted down and tried to see her ankle.
“Dammit,” he muttered. “I can’t…”
What was he doing? She said her ankle hurt. What good would it do him to look at it? What she needed was a doctor. And fast, he thought helplessly, because now she was trembling. From the cold? From shock? God, what had he done to her?
Demetrios peeled off his jacket and carefully folded it around Sam’s shoulders, waiting for her to object, to argue, to tell him what he could do with his jacket and his concern…but she burrowed deep into its warmth.
“Better?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good.”
But it wasn’t good. She should have been sniping at him, accusing him of being an idiot; she should have batted away his hands when he buttoned her inside the jacket. Her quiet passivity terrified him.
“You’ll be fine,” he told her.
She nodded.
“Fine,” he said again, in a voice that would brook no disagreement. Then he clasped her shoulders gently in his hands, bent to her, pressed the softest of kisses on her trembling mouth and told himself that ankles were, after all, only ankles…
But this was Sam and the realization that she was in pain, that he had caused it, was almost more than he could handle.
* * *
There was a hospital only blocks away.
Was it best to drive fast, and get her there quickly, or to drive slowly to be sure he didn’t jar her by hitting bumps or potholes in the road? Compromise seemed the best solution. He drove at a speed that was half what he normally did and twice the crawl he’d considered.
Sam’s teeth chattered; in between, she made muffled sounds of distress. She was hurting, his invulnerable, unshakeable tigress. Please, he thought, please, let her be all right.
Time slowed, seemed to stop, but finally he reached the hospital. He parked in front, ignoring the signs that warned against it. Carefully, so carefully, he lifted her into his arms. She made a little sound and he crooned soft words of comfort as he carried her into the building, words he had not heard since the earliest, almost forgotten years of childhood—words he had never used before.
There was no one in the waiting area. Demetrios strode to the reception desk. “We need a physician,” he said.
The woman behind the desk looked up. He saw boredom in her eyes as she looked at him, then at Samantha.
“What is the problem?”
“This woman is hurt.”
“That’s what I asked you. What is the problem?”
Demetrios told himself to stay calm. It would help nothing to explode.
“She fell.”
“Fell where?”
“On the street.”
“What street?”
He felt his jaw tighten. “It was dark. I did not look for street signs. What does it matter? I tell you, she is hurt.”
The woman took a form from a drawer. “I will need her name and address.”
“Her name is Samantha Brewster. She lives with me.”
The woman looked up. “And where is that?”
He told her. He told her whatever she asked while time, and his patience, waned. Sam shifted in his arms, gave a soft hiss of pain. He thought about putting her in a chair, then vaulting the counter, grabbing the clerk and shaking her.
“And how did this fall take place?”
“Miss Brewster stepped in front of my car. I blew my horn, tried to stop. She was startled and she jumped back.”
“A vehicular accident. I see. Have the police been notified?”
“It was not a vehicular accident!”
“But you just said—”
“I didn’t hit her with the car.”
“I distinctly understood you to say—”
“Demetrios,” Sam said faintly, “make sure she understands it wasn’t your fault.”
“She speaks English?”
“She is an American.”
“Ah. In that case, there are two other forms that—”
“The forms can wait.” Again, Demetrios told himself to stay calm. Anger would not help; he had dealt with enough officious clerks in enough countries to know that. “She needs a doctor immediately. She is hurt. Something is wrong with her ankle. And she is shaking. For all I know, she is in shock.”
“The forms—”
“To hell with the forms,” he roared. “Send for a doctor!”
“Sir. You cannot give orders to me. I must have this information. Some of these papers require the lady’s signature. After that, you will wait until you hear your name called. Do you understand?”
“Perhaps you should understand what your superiors will do when they learn that a man who sits on the board of directors of this hospital was kept waiting.”
The clerk blanched. “What did you say your name was?”
“I am Demetrios Karas. And I wish to see a physician—an orthopedist—at once.”
“Of course, sir. If you would be so kind as to take a seat, I’ll call for the doctor immediately.”
He took a seat, held Sam close in his arms, warmed her with his body. She said something too softly for him to hear and he bent his head towards her.
“What, gataki?”
“I said, that was quite a…” Her teeth chattered. “…a p-p-performance. Are you r-r-really one of the hospital’s directors?”
“Who knows?” He smiled. “It is possible. I donate to many charities and sit on many boards. It is difficult to keep track.”
“Almost as difficult as it is to k-k-keep track of your ac-accent.”
“What accent? I have no accent.”
Sam almost laughed. “You sound different, when you’re upset.”
“Different?”
“Yes. Very old world. Very Greek.”
“I had not noticed,” he said, and winced because he knew she was right. “We will add that to your job description,” he said gently. “From now on, you will not only translate for me, you will tell me when I begin to sound too old world.”
“You never sound—” Sam caught her breath. “You never s-sound too old world. And I’m quitting my j-job.”
“You cannot quit,” he said calmly. “We have a contract.”
“We d-don’t. We nev-never signed anything.”
&nbs
p; “We have a verbal agreement. Such agreements are contracts. Would you try and break a contract with a man powerful enough to intimidate a civil service tyrant?”
Their eyes met. Hers were still dark with pain; her face was still pale. Was that a grimace on her lips or was she trying to smile?
“Sir?”
Demetrios looked up. “Yes?”
“The doctor will see you now.”
“An orthopedist,” he said as he rose to his feet with Sam in his arms.
“The head of orthopedics,” the clerk said, and as Samantha buried her face in Demetrios’s neck, he definitely felt her lips turn up in a smile.
* * *
The bruises on Sam’s face were nothing.
Bruises would not have shown up so quickly, the doctor explained. These were simply smudges of dirt and the nurse who attended the orthopedist and anticipated his every need carefully sponged them away with cotton dipped in alcohol.
The doctor checked Sam’s pupils and assured Demetrios they were fine. So was her coordination. She wasn’t in shock, either. She was cold from the night and the rain.
The nurse shooed him out of the examining room long enough to take off Sam’s soaked clothing and wrap her in a hospital nightgown, a hospital robe, and a blanket.
When he stepped back into the cubicle, his heart ached at the sight of her. His fierce kitten looked more like something the cat had dragged in. He kissed her forehead, sat in the chair beside her and clasped her hand while the doctor examined her ankle. He was very gentle but Sam clenched her teeth, then cried out with pain.
Demetrios almost went wild. “You are hurting her!”
“I am trying my best not to do so, Mr. Karas.”
Sam let out a strangled gasp. Her nails dug into his palm.
“Dammit,” Demetrios said, “you must be more careful.”
The doctor looked at him. “You have a choice, Mr. Karas,” he said softly. “You may stay here and be quiet or you may go out to the waiting room until I am done. Which will it be?”
Demetrios wanted to argue. He wanted to tell the man who had wrenched that cry from Samantha that he took orders from no one, that if he dared hurt the woman clutching his hand like a lifeline he would—he would…
“Please, Demetrios,” Sam whispered. “Don’t make a fuss.”
The pleading words took the fight out of him. “I won’t let them send me away.” He brought her uninjured hand to his mouth. “I will behave,” he said humbly. “I promise.”
Somehow, he managed to keep his word, even when it took a moment longer to get her to the X-ray lab than he thought it should, even when they wouldn’t let him go inside with her no matter how he argued. By the time the doctor reappeared, Demetrios was pacing the corridor.
“Well?” he said impatiently, “how is she?”
“Would you like to join me for some coffee, Mr. Karas? It has been a long day and a longer evening, and—”
Demetrios grabbed the orthopedist’s arm. “Just tell me what happened to her, dammit!”
The doctor sighed. “Miss Brewster sprained her ankle. It’s somewhere between a grade one and a grade two sprain.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s probably torn a ligament. It’s painful and it will take a bit of time to heal.”
“It isn’t a fracture?”
“No, no, the ankle’s not broken. Actually, she’s fortunate. Even a severe sprain can sometimes require surgery.”
Demetrios closed his eyes. He remembered his anger at knowing Samantha had set off alone in the dark, rain-washed streets, anger that had changed to panic when she’d suddenly stepped into the path of his car.
“It’s all my fault,” he said, swallowing hard. “She stepped off the curb. It was raining, and I was driving too fast…”
The doctor nodded. “She will be fine,” he said gently.
“I want the best surgeons,” Demetrios said. “And a second opinion. No offense, Doctor, but before you operate—”
“No one will operate,” the doctor said, even more gently. “As I said, Miss Brewster was fortunate. Her injury is painful, not dangerous. She’ll need to keep the ankle strapped for a few days and I’ve given her something for the sprain. She will be fine.”
Demetrios stared at him. “Is that all?”
“Absolutely. My assistant is putting an elastic bandage on the ankle.” He clapped Demetrios on the back. “Your lady is fine, Mr. Karas.”
“She works for me,” Demetrios said quickly, “that is all. And I am much relieved at what you’ve told me, Doctor.”
“I’m happy to hear it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going home before my wife no longer recognizes my face.”
“Yes. Of course.” Demetrios smiled and held out his hand. “How can I thank you?”
“You might see to it that the board considers another residency program so that we’re not so overworked here.”
“Consider it done.”
“Just do yourself and the patient a favor, will you? Calm down before you drive her home.”
“I can take her home tonight?”
“Unless you’d rather she spent the night in the hospital.”
“I will take her home,” Demetrios said firmly. The shiver of pleasure that went through him at those words was something he preferred not to dwell on.
* * *
They gave him a vial of little tablets and instructions to give Sam one every four hours if she was in pain.
She wasn’t in pain now. Whatever they’d already given her was working. Demetrios could see it in the loopy smile she gave him. She was still wrapped in the hospital gown, robe and blanket. The nurse handed him a plastic bag that contained Sam’s soaked clothes and assured him that there was no hurry to return the borrowed things.
“Up we go,” Demetrios said softly, and lifted her into his arms again.
Sam curled her arms around his neck, sighed and lay her head against his shoulder.
“Wher’re we going?”
Her words were slurred. Her breath was warm. She was warm, and he thought how amazing it was that she should feel so right, in his embrace.
“Home, gataki,” he said softly, as he carried her to his car.
“Mmm,” she said thickly. “Home.”
“Yes, mátya mou. Home.”
He strapped her into the seat beside him, drove to the helipad as carefully as if his precious cargo were made of glass. She was sound asleep when he carried her onto his helicopter and she was still asleep when he carried her into his house—a house she had never seen, except for the kitchen.
His usually unflappable housekeeper looked shocked when she saw him. “Oh, my goodness,” she said. “What happened, sir?”
“Miss Brewster hurt her ankle,” he said softly, even though he suspected it would take a herd of stampeding Cape buffalo to rouse the woman nestled in his arms. “She will need care for the next few days.”
“Certainly, sir. Perhaps you want to put her in the Blue suite. If you wish, I can put a cot near the bed and sleep there so that I’ll be nearby if she needs me.”
“Yes, thank you, Cosimia. That might be…” He stopped in midsentence. “On second thought, it won’t be necessary. Miss Brewster will stay with me.”
His housekeeper’s mouth dropped open. “With you, sir?”
“Yes,” he said calmly, as if the idea were the logical outgrowth of a careful thought process, “with me. It will be simpler that way,” he added briskly. “I can use the sofa in my dressing room, if you would be good enough to make it up.”
He sat in an armchair near the window in his bedroom, the warm burden that was Sam in his arms, while Cosimia did as he’d asked.
Sam, he thought, smiling a little as he looked at the pale, perfect face, the slightly parted lips, the mass of autumn hair that had come loose of its clasp and dried in a frill of wild curls. Such an incongruous name for a woman so feminine, so beautiful—and yet, the name suited her spirit. Her tenacit
y.
She had claws, his kitten, and she was never afraid to use them.
“All done, sir,” Cosimia said softly.
“If you would just turn down the blankets on my bed…”
“I’ve already done that, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The door snicked shut. Demetrios didn’t move for a long time. At last he rose and carried Sam to his bed. She opened her eyes as he eased her down gently against the pillows.
“D’metrios?”
He smiled. “Hello.”
“What’re we doin’?”
“Getting you to bed, gataki,” he said softly. He put his arm around her, held her against him as he slid the bulky hospital robe from her shoulders. “Does your ankle bother you?”
Sam frowned and peered at her leg. “Whatsat?”
“What…? Ah. It’s an elastic bandage.”
“Waffo?”
It took a few seconds to decode. “What for?”
“Mmm.”
“You hurt your ankle. You had an accident.”
“Uh-huh. I’member. Dark street. Rainy. Stepped in front of car.” Sam blinked. “Yourcar,” she said, making the two words one.
“My car,” he said tightly. “Yes.” He laid her back against the pillows, still wearing the hospital gown. Sam’s eyes closed.
“Stilldress.”
Stilldress? He shook his head. “I don’t understand, sweetheart. What is ‘stilldress’?”
“Me,” she murmured, and tugged at the gown. “Stilldress.”
Of course. She was still dressed, still in her underthings. Could he let her sleep in them? Or—or…
His throat constricted. He knew what to do. Ring for Cosimia. Ask her to come to his room, to undress Sam and slip her into something cool and silken. But even as he thought it, he was undoing the ties of the hospital gown, sliding the gown off her shoulders, letting it fall to her waist, fumbling at the closure of her bra.
Demetrios caught his breath at her beauty, at the small, rounded lushness of her breasts and the elegant contrast of colors: the pale gold of her skin, the deep apricot of her nipples. How smooth her shoulders were, under his hands…
He dropped the robe to the carpet, tortured himself with a quick glance at the strip of lace between her thighs, then laid her down against the pillows.
The Pregnant Mistress Page 9
