"Whoa," Ben said, leaping back out of the way. "Uh, hey. Um."
Not sure what to do, he stood helplessly for a moment, watching her slender body heave before his brain kicked in. Returning to her side, he placed a hand on her back and gently brushed her hair, loosened from its clip, away from her face.
"God," she gasped between ragged breaths, "don't touch me."
"Shhh. It's okay, I've got you. Don't worry."
"Go away, Ben! I—"
Another bout of sickness cut her off, but he ignored her words regardless. He waited until there was a lull in the action, making sure she could stand on her own. Mind leaping ahead, he surveyed the scene. Her bag was on the ground by the door. He picked it up and pawed through it—why did women carry so much crap?—until he found her keys. Unlocking her door, he placed her bag inside, made sure there was no alarm to turn off, then went back to her. Head hanging, supported only by her hands on the wall, she shook with the after-effects of emptying her stomach.
"All finished?" he asked, keeping his voice low and gentle.
A moan was his only response. He grimaced, feeling for her. She coughed and gagged and spit the nastiness from her mouth.
Rubbing a hand lightly on her back, he said, "Can you walk?"
"Of course I can walk," she croaked. Her teeth were starting to chatter.
Pushing against the wall, she straightened a bit, still hunched protectively over what he imagined was a fiercely aching stomach. Her face awash with tears, she took one wobbly step. Her knees buckled, but he was there, lifting her off her feet and into his arms. She didn't even protest, which worried him more than the vomiting.
Instead, she hung limply, her head against his chest as he maneuvered them through her front door and kicked it shut with his foot. The heat coming off her baked through the layers of both their clothing.
Fever.
"Room?" he asked.
Allison lifted a hand that shook to point vaguely down the hallway. Her house, a small rambler, didn't have that many choices to pick from, so he found it on the second try.
Shouldering her door all the way open, he stepped inside and placed her carefully on the edge of her bed. Arms clasped around her middle, she swayed slightly, her head down and eyes closed. Her lush, mobile mouth pulled in a grimace at the corners.
"Ah, do you have a trashcan or a bucket somewhere? Just in case?"
"Garage," she whispered, but in the next moment she lurched shakily to her feet and tottered toward the bathroom in her high-heeled boots.
Ben followed her stumbling progress, his hands held out to catch her in case she fell. She collapsed at the side of the toilet, barely making it before the cycle started all over again. All he could do was hold her hair and wait.
Finished, for the moment at least, she rested her head against the bowl and rasped, "Please go away. I don't want you here."
"I know, baby," he said, keeping his voice as gentle as his touch as he stroked her forehead. "But I can't leave you like this. Just pretend I'm not here. I'll take care of you. It's okay. You don't have to worry about anything."
Her lips trembled and weak tears threaded down her cheeks, but she closed her eyes on a groan and didn't speak any more.
Kneeling beside her, he said, "Let me get your boots off."
Her shoes were spattered in muck and had tracked some of it across her bedroom floor in her hurry to get to the bathroom. He dealt with the boots first, carefully unzipping their length and pulling them off her legs. She half-dozed where she sat, so he took the chance to do some clean up, taking her boots out to the garage and finding her cleaning supplies so he could deal with her bedroom carpet. He found her bucket, as well, and placed it beside her bed for later.
Once those small chores were handled, he got snoopier, locating and digging through her medicine chest. He grabbed her thermometer, some aspirin, and filled a sport bottle with water, all the while taking note of her living space. Comfortable and clean without being psycho about it, that was his impression. A small clutch of fresh flowers, he assumed from her garden, sat in a vase on her kitchen table, and a pile of books huddled on the counter, waiting to be read. The colors in each room suited her—rich, deep, vibrant. No wimpy pastels for Allison.
Her bedroom particularly appealed to him. Dark wood furniture, sapphire and emerald fabrics on the bed, windows and rocking chair, hints of scarlet and canary yellow for contrast. It should have made the room seem dark and cave-like, but instead it felt both warm and soothing.
Leaving the supplies on her night table, he went back to the bathroom to find her on the tail end of yet another episode of illness.
Crying in earnest now, pale as the white-painted ceremonial faces he'd seen on tribesmen during his travels, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and refused to look at him when he called her name softly. She was shivering violently, but when he put his hand to her forehead, her skin blazed with heat.
"Okay, honey, let's get you comfortable," he murmured.
With a wet wash cloth, he wiped her face as gently as he would a baby's, taking care around her lips, which already looked dry and cracked. He cleaned the tendrils of hair that had gotten in the way the best he could, not wanting to risk getting her entire head wet when she still shivered so hard.
Too weak to fight him, she stared dully at the opposite wall while he tended her. Her nightgown hung on the back of the bathroom door, a welcome surprise—he'd expected something silky and frothy from Victoria's Secret. Instead, he found heavy red flannel with reindeer frolicking all over it and the words 'I Don't Give A Buck' stitched across the front.
Getting her into it was another matter. He stood looking down at her, the gown in his hands, and schooled himself to see her naked without reacting. As ill as she was it shouldn't be hard, but. . .
Well. He cleared his throat. She needed help, and he was going to help her, so he took a deep breath and got down on the floor beside her. Her eyelids were half-closed, and she only moaned when he explained what he wanted to do.
Slowly, carefully, he reached around her to unzip the dress. It had some sort of complicated button thing at the top above a hole that left her skin bare, which took him a few extra moments to figure out, but finally it all came apart and he was able to peel the sleeves down her arms.
Now the hard part.
Lifting her against him, he dragged the dress the rest of the way off, leaving her in her bra and panties and sheer black stockings.
Her underthings framed her body like a work of art. Matching black lace scraps cupped her breasts, barely hiding her feminine secrets. She was so small. Fragile, for all she was a tall woman, her curves and long limbs a delicate delight.
If only she wasn't shuddering, wracked with fever.
The stockings tore when he tried to remove them, so he stripped them the rest of the way off, ignoring the silky expanse of her skin now covered in goose bumps, and tossed them in the trash. Unhooking her bra, he averted his gaze as he removed it, then carefully helped her into her nightgown.
Once she was covered again, he took another deep breath, congratulated himself on not being an utterly despicable pervert, and brought her a cup of water to help her rinse her mouth. He didn't think she was stable enough to stand and brush her teeth just yet. She was barely conscious.
Lifting her from the floor, he carried her back to her bed and tucked her under the covers, making sure the bucket was close. He got a fresh washcloth damp and placed it across her forehead, then took her temperature with the ear thermometer. One-hundred-point-five.
He frowned. That seemed pretty high. Sally had freaked out any time her girls' fevers had gotten over one hundred, but they'd been babies. Was it the same for adults? He'd have to Google it later. Hoping she was as comfortable as she could be, he went out to the family room and hauled back a recliner, muscling it through the door. He placed it as close to her bed as he could, so he could watch her through the night.
Allison had burrowed into the
covers, a heavy frown creasing her brow and feverish color on her pale cheeks. Her breathing was shallow but steady. She was asleep.
Hoping she'd stay that way until he got back, Ben grabbed her keys, locked her front door and ran down the street to Sally's.
"Ben?" Sally called when he burst through the front door. "What's going on?"
He explained as he went, hustling to his room to toss a small suitcase together. He grabbed his new laptop, kissed Sally on the cheek, and was back at Allison's side within twenty minutes, Sally's recommendations to keep her hydrated and call her doctor if she got worse ringing in his ears.
Dropping into the recliner, relieved to find her still sleeping, he kicked back and booted up the computer. After just a few minutes' searching, he had his answer as to the fever level to watch for, and a pretty good idea she was suffering from food poisoning. It made sense, given she'd been on a date that likely included dinner.
Ben closed the laptop and stared at Allison's sleeping face, wondering who she'd been out with and where they'd gone. He'd seen the guy drive off when he got home, but hadn't been able to see inside the dark car windows. He'd seen lots of guys drive off over the past week.
The twinge of jealousy made him frown. What had he expected? She was an attractive, social woman. They hadn't made any plans, any promises. Of course she was still dating other people. He should have called her, but he'd had some stupid ideas about not appearing too eager and wanting her to come to him. He'd also had a full slate of things to handle.
Chief among them, he'd found his new home. It was an older house, but maintained in immaculate condition, in a great neighborhood—as in, there were neighbors, but also plenty of space between houses. It stood directly above the water, just steps from the beach in Corona Del Mar. He could hardly wait to move in. It was spacious without being too grand, and the view of the Pacific was spectacular. Best of all, with its extra-high ceilings and taller-than-average doors, he wouldn't have to duck his head every time he entered or exited a room.
Since he was paying cash, he'd move in within just a few weeks.
Then there would be furnishing it and settling in, making it into a genuine home, but finalizing the deal was first. He'd wanted that detail handled before he turned his attentions to Allison, because he suspected once he did, he wouldn't have much of a mind for anything else.
In the few short days since he'd seen her, he'd also taken the initial steps to developing his business plans. There was so much he wanted to accomplish, improving the lives of the people he'd met along his travels. He didn't want to just throw money at the problems they faced, he wanted to make a real difference. That would take time, though he'd implement as much as he could as fast as possible. But he'd contacted the people best suited to helping him achieve that dream, and they'd had some preliminary meetings. Most had signed on immediately, which had both pleased and humbled him. They were trusting him with their time and money. He vowed not to let them down, nor the people he wanted to serve.
Now, though. . . Now there was a desperately ill Allison to care for. He brushed his hand against her forehead again, frowning when he registered the heat. He turned the washcloth so the cool side was against her skin. Sleep was the best thing for her at the moment, but he knew he also needed to get some fluids into her. Setting an internal alarm clock, he made himself comfortable in the chair and, using a trick he'd developed in the army, dropped immediately into sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next twenty-four hours were a nightmare for Allison. Sick in every way a person could be sick, she couldn't seem to keep anything down. Chills rocked her body like earthquakes, but the fever burned away any drop of moisture. Her lips cracked and bled, and still she was sick, over and over. Her stomach hurt so much she wanted to scream, but her throat hurt too much for that. All she could do was cry, the tears sliding down her face in helpless rivers. Her head ached abominably and even the dimmest light sent an ice pick of pain stabbing into her skull.
Through it all, Ben was there, comforting her, washing her face and hands, emptying the bucket, bringing her water and crackers and medicine, all of which she promptly tossed back up. When she was restless, he read to her, though she listened to his gentle cadence more than the words. His voice was an inner-tube ride down a warm, lazy river in high summer, soothing her to sleep, into the calm before the white-capped waters of the poison in her system tumbled her closer once more to the deadly falls and jagged rocks of illness.
When she could stand to be touched, he stroked her forehead, and when that was agony, he simply sat beside her, a silent presence reassuring her she wasn't alone, even when she wished he'd leave her to die in peace.
Sometimes she dreamed, but they were fever dreams, scary and nonsensical, and Ben would wake her gently, then coax her to sip more water. Always the water. Water she wanted with every fiber in her being, but only ice chips and tiny drips of water at a time would stay down. The taste in her mouth was vile.
He took her temperature regularly, frowning every time. She knew he worried, but she couldn't stir herself to care, even when he threatened to take her to the hospital.
Finally, on the second day, she woke, rubbing her bleary eyes with a weak fist, to find the light less painful. Every inch of her body ached like she'd been beaten with a club, but for the first time since getting sick, she didn't feel chilled or as if she were burning from the inside out.
Beside her bed, Ben slept in the recliner he'd moved into the room, his huge, hard body making the chair look like a toy, his mouth slightly parted. Dark circles ringed his eyes, making guilt crawl up her spine.
The past hours were a blur. She couldn't think about all the things he'd done for her or she'd never be able to look him in the eyes again. She built a concrete wall around the memories and locked them and the rampant humiliation away. Thankfully, she couldn't remember all of it, but the bits and pieces were bad enough.
God.
No one, aside from her parents, had ever cared for her the way he had. Maybe not even her parents. She couldn't remember ever being so sick.
Trying not to disturb him, she pushed herself to a sitting position, then had to drop back against the headboard, panting from exertion. Head spinning, muscles whimpering, she waited for the room to settle back into place around her. She'd never been this weak, either.
Allison gathered herself and swung her legs slowly off the side of the bed, then sat still again, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Next to her, Ben stirred.
"Hey, there," he said, keeping his voice low and smooth. He placed a hand to her forehead, as he'd done every time she woke. "How're you feeling?"
"Better, I think," she said, shocked by the gravelly sound of her voice. "Could I have some water?"
"Of course."
Leaping up, Ben held the water bottle to her lips and cupped the back of her head, helping her drink. The liquid was room temperature, but possibly the sweetest thing she'd ever tasted.
"Not too much, now," Ben said. "Let's make sure you keep it down."
Nodding, she allowed him to set the bottle down.
"Do you know where my cell phone is?" she asked. "I should check in with a few people."
"Your mom called this morning," he said, retaking his seat, reaching out and rubbing a hand over her knee. "She sounded pretty worried on your machine, so I talked to her. Everyone else can wait until you get your strength back."
But Allison's eyes had flown wide. "What? My mother?" Dropping her forehead into her hands, she groaned. "Oh, no."
"She was worried," Ben said, "I didn't think you'd mind me talking to her."
"No, it's not that, it's—"
At that moment, her front door burst open and rebounded against the entryway wall, the sound echoing down the hallway.
Jeff Denton's voice hollering, "Where the hell is she?" made her groan again.
She said, "Brace yourself," to Ben, just before her bedroom door flew wide, and Jeff barreled inside.
; Green eyes wild, Jeff flung out a manicured hand to point like a laser at Ben, and his voice, when he spoke, was feral. "Who the fuck are you, and what the devil are you doing here?"
Allison said, "Jeff, please," in her raspy voice, but Ben had already risen from his chair.
The two of them stood, sizing each other up like a couple of massive bucks about to lock horns over a doe. Which, given Jeff's sexual orientation, was ridiculous, but he'd always been protective.
Before either of them could move, three more people shoved into her small room. Greg latched onto Jeff's arm, while Mia dashed around the men to sit beside Allison and pull her into a careful hug.
"How are you, sweetie?" Mia asked, while in the doorway, Derrick surveyed the scene, a heavy frown on his brow.
With a frown of his own, Ben crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Who are you people?"
"'You people,'" Jeff mocked in his highest diva voice. "I'm the one asking questions here, boyo, so—"
"Jeff," Mia hissed.
He stabbed a finger beneath Mia's nose and said, "Hush, you," to which Derrick said, "Hey."
Rubbing her temples with both hands, Allison gritted her teeth. Bracing herself, she put her fingers between her lips and whistled shrilly.
All eyes on her, she said, "Now that I have your attention," in her sick-froggy voice. "Ben, these are my friends, Mia, Derrick, Jeff and Greg. Guys, this is Ben. My—uh. . ." Looking to Ben, she broke off. What was he to her? At this point, she didn't know. She settled for, "Neighbor."
"Boyfriend," Ben corrected with a frown for her this time, the word making her heart skip. Boyfriend. She didn't know if enforced intimacy of a medical nature qualified as a relationship, but. . .
They'd come back to that when she was stronger. For now she looked to Jeff—the one most likely to cause trouble—and ignored the wide-eyed looks passing between Mia, Derrick and Greg. "You saw him at the party on New Year's."
Drawing himself up, Jeff scanned Ben from the top of his disheveled hair to the bottom of his big bare feet. "Huh," he said. "I most certainly did not." Then, taking in Ben's size and shape, recognition dawned in his eyes. "Wait. The Hagrid wannabe?"
Cupid's Mistake Page 8
