Her hair flew to and fro as Libby adamantly shook her head. "No, Rachel's sleeping. Mama's in the living room. On the sofa."
"You mean she's actually sitting down?" Would won¬ders never cease?
Evan rose and retrieved his shoes, stepping into the loaf¬ers. He wanted to go downstairs and join Claire. If she was sitting down, so much the better.
Libby shook her head again. "No, she's kinda lying down."
Evan looked at Libby. "Lying down? Your mother?" An uneasiness began to nudge itself forward. "Are you sure?"
Libby's eyes narrowed as a frown took her face. "I know what lying down is," she protested, insulted. "And Mama's doing it. Right now."
Maybe Claire was just tired, he thought. But he had his doubts. "Let's go check her out, shall we?" He held out his hand to Libby.
Libby bounced off the bed, wrapping her fingers around his hand.
"What's the matter?" she asked as they went down the stairs.
Why was Mr. Q. all nervous? She could feel the butter¬flies getting stronger in her tummy again. She had come to him hoping he could make them go away, not make them bigger.
There was no need to alarm Libby. If she was frightened, she would just get in his way. Besides, this was probably all just nothing. Claire was undoubtedly just resting. Even the toughest batteries needed to be recharged once in a while.
"Nothing, I just thought of something I wanted to tell your mother."
The answer placated Libby. "That you're okay, huh? Mama took good care of you," she said with pride, puffing up her chest. "Mama takes good care of everybody."
"Not everybody," he contradicted. "I don't think Mama takes such good care of Mama." As a matter of fact, he knew it.
When he saw Claire slumped over on the sofa, the first thing Evan thought was that she had fainted. Dropping Lib¬by's hand, he hurried over to Claire. Kneeling beside her, Evan raised Claire's head. She was paler than he'd ever remembered seeing her. Perspiration plastered her hair to her forehead and cheeks.
Evan brushed it away from her face, struggling with con¬cern. He wasn't equipped to handle flesh-and-blood emer¬gencies, only the paper kind.
Claire's eyes fluttered open, and she bit back a groan. "Just taking a nap," she mumbled.
"Nap, my as—asphalt," he amended, glancing at Libby. The little girl was staring at both of them with huge eyes. "Claire, you're sick."
"I am not," she protested weakly. "I'm fine. I'm just a little tired—that's all. Just let me lie here and close my eyes for a minute."
Her face was flushed and shining with perspiration. She was miles past "a little tired." Gently shaking her shoulder, he forced Claire to look at him. Evan raised four fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
She squinted, trying to make them out through watery eyes.
"Three," she answered. "And I wish you'd stop wig¬gling them at me."
He dropped his hand, frowning. This time, her stubborn¬ness wasn't going to help her. If nothing else, he was stronger than she was. "That does it, you're going to bed."
Making a last-ditch attempt at dignity and strength, Claire grabbed on to the arm of the sofa, using it for le¬verage. She meant to vehemently protest his declaration.
Or tried to. But even her resolve dissolved in the heat of the fever that was spinning its web through her body.
"I am not." She drew herself up to her feet.
Her words would have carried more weight if her legs could have. But they buckled, both of them, and she pitched face forward into his arms, struggling against the darkness that threatened to consume her.
"Mama!" Libby screamed, alarmed.
"She's all right," Evan reassured the little girl in as calm a voice as he could muster. "She just needs some rest." Still holding her, he drew her closer to him. "Don't you, Claire?"
"Rest," she repeated as if it were the beginning of a healing mantra. And then she remembered what she had done when he had passed out. She gritted her teeth, fighting to stay conscious. "Just don't...get any ideas...about dressing me for bed."
He couldn't resist. "Turnabout is fair play." The alarm that momentarily flared in her eyes made him relent This wasn't the time to tease her, although he was surprised that he actually had that inclination. The last time he'd felt like teasing a girl, he had been in third grade.
"You're obviously a lot more lucid than I was in your place. I'll take out a pair of pajamas, and you can put them on yourself." And then he smiled at her. "Spoilsport."
"Eat your heart out" she mumbled weakly.
"I am."
With that, Evan scooped her up into his arms. She felt, he thought lighter than his briefcase usually did.
"No." Her protest sounded incredibly feeble, even to her. "You can't do that."
"I just did," he countered. Turning, Evan crossed to the stairs. He didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Libby was right behind him like a faithful shadow. "She's going to be fine, Libby." He hoped his voice car¬ried enough conviction to soothe the little girl's fears.
"You can't do this," Claire repeated. "You're sick, weak."
"No, I'm not" Evan tried not to think how good she felt against him like this. "You're a great nurse. I feel fine, really. Except, maybe a little guilty that I've repaid your kindness by infecting you."
"Wasn't your fault," she murmured against his throat, her breath sending ripples through him.
Evan's stomach tightened into a hard ball. It wasn't right, having these kinds of feelings about a woman too sick to know what she was doing to him.
"Is Mama gonna be all right?"
He could hear the tightness in Libby's throat, as if there were tears forming. "She's going to be just fine, Libby," he assured her again.
"Yes, she is." Libby said the words loudly, as if to con¬vince herself, as well. "And I'm gonna take care of her."
"We both will," Evan said before he even stopped to think about it. He realized that he meant it.
Very gently, he laid her down on his bed. His concern grew. She looked as pale as the case on his pillow.
Claire arched, her back aching. She should be getting up, she thought. Her body remained where it was, unwilling and unable to obey any command she might have given it.
But she could still protest. "You have work," Claire mumbled in his general direction. Her eyes shut again. The light was beginning to hurt.
He shrugged, keeping his voice light more for Libby's benefit than Claire's. "Like you said, I have a computer. And Donovan said not to come back until I was well. Maybe I'll have a relapse for a few days."
With luck, she would be better by then. At least, he could hope so.
Claire sighed, not really hearing him. "That's nice."
She barely had enough strength to climb into the pajamas that Evan had laid out for her and then drag herself into his bed.
Logically, she knew she should have gone to her own. But her house and her bed seemed a million miles from here right now, and all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep.
Or die, whichever came first.
It was sleep.
And when she woke up again, there were a hundred little men in steel-pointed shoes line-dancing through her head. It was all Claire could do to pry open her eyes.
The room was dark. Was it raining again? Or was it night? She couldn't tell.
What she did know was that she didn't have time for this. She had things to do, a child to care for. A presentation to deliver. At least she'd had the presence of mind to print it all out when she'd finished it last night.
But it did her little good, sitting on Evan's desk down¬stairs while she was lying up here, in his bed.
She had to get up.
Shaking, she reached out to snap on the light. She missed the lamp and knocked over something that was in her way. Whatever it was hit the floor with a thud that registered with the hundred little men and sent them into another round of frenzied dancing across her skull and forehead.
Cla
ire groaned and held her head as she sat up. She knew if she didn't hold it, it would fall off and roll away.
Light came in from the hallway, assaulting her, slicing through the wounds in her head that the pointy shoes had left in their wake.
"Get back into bed," Evan ordered.
Her hand wrapped around one post, she was still trying to get out. She had more of a chance of turning into a frog.
"But this is your bed." He belonged in it, not her. What if he wanted to share it? She must be really sick, she re¬alized, because the thought of him lying beside her didn't make her nervous. It would have made her smile if she felt able to. Which she didn't.
Was she afraid he was going to take advantage of the situation? Not that he hadn't thought of it, but he'd quickly dismissed it. Then he'd thought of it again with a longing that no longer surprised him.
But there was no way he was going to do anything she didn't want.
"Don't worry." He pried her hand off the bedpost with the greatest of ease and placed it back on top of the covers, the way Libby might have arranged one of her dolls' limbs. "I'm staying in one of the guest rooms until you get well."
This wasn't right. She should be sitting up, not lying back. Why wasn't her body obeying?
"I wasn't worried about that. I was..." She felt ex¬hausted. "I've got things to do." She exhaled the words breathlessly.
Yeah, right, he thought. It looked as if Claire Walker had finally met her match. And it was something so tiny, it wasn't even visible to the naked eye.
A little like love, he caught himself thinking,
"Like what?" he asked brusquely, attempting to clear his mind.
He sounded angry with her, she thought. Why shouldn't he be? He didn't want to take care of Rachel, and here he was, stuck with a sick woman in his bed and two children outside it.
"I've got to—got to take care of Libby. And Rachel."
Even sick, she thought of them first, he marveled. Who¬ever Rachel's mother was had tossed her away like a used tissue, and Claire was worrying about caring for a child who wasn't hers. The word remarkable occurred to him.
"Done and done," he said matter-of-factly. "They're fed, one of them is changed and both of them are happy. Next?"
She flicked her tongue over her lips, but they remained stubbornly dry. "My work..."
Now, that really surprised him. "You were the one who preached to me that work wasn't going to run away if I missed it for a few days."
"Yours won't," she corrected. She tried to prop herself up on her elbows again, but this time he pulled them out from under her, forcing her down. As if she needed help to fall flat. "Mine's on Rollerblades," she insisted. "If I don't get that presentation in, someone else'll get the job."
She caught his attention. He understood things like that. "When's your deadline?"
"Tomorrow." She said it as if it were a death sentence.
She didn't have a prayer of being well by then. He thought a moment. When she had told him about the proj¬ect, she'd mentioned the corporate home office was located in San Francisco. It was an easy matter to look the address up.
"Is it finished?"
She knew what he was getting at. Or thought she knew. Right now, she wasn't really sure of anything.
"Yes. I printed it out but I can't mail it in. It has to be brought in in person." And she was the person to bring it. Except that she was as weak as a flea.
"I wasn't going to suggest mailing it." He knew he could hire a courier to deliver it, but presentations such as Claire's needed the personal touch. "I'll take it in for you. It's the least I can do." He owed her that. And more.
Claire blinked. The fever was affecting her hearing. "You?"
He laughed at the incredulous expression on her face. "Me. I feel like myself again, thanks to you." Actually, that wasn't true. He felt better than himself, thanks to her.
It would have been an answer to a prayer, but there were complications. Two of them.
"The girls—" She wasn't all that sure she could take care of them, and he couldn't very well take them with him. He'd never make it there. He wouldn't last five minutes with both of them once he was outside the house.
Evan shrugged, the height of nonchalance. "I'll take them with me."
Now she knew she was hearing things. He couldn't have possibly said what she thought he said. The Evan Quarter- main she knew would have sooner stuck his head into a lion's mouth than ventured outside with two children under the age of five.
"You?"
He vaguely wondered if he should be taking affront to her lack of faith, then chalked it up to the state her mind was in right now.
"I can handle it," he assured her. If his own words rang a little hollow, well, that was for him to worry about, not her. The only thing she had to worry about was getting well.
Claire would have argued with him if she had the strength, but just talking had evaporated what little she had managed to collect.
"All right, thank you." She tried to moisten her lips again with the same lack of success. Claire looked at him uncertainly. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure." I hope. "Now," he continued with more authority, "in the words of a very bossy woman I know, get some rest."
He didn't have to tell her twice. Mercifully, she slipped away from the center of the fire before he had a chance to say anything further.
Evan shook his head as he placed the comforter over Claire's shoulders. Then he squared his own and hoped that he was equal to the task he'd just set up for himself.
He did the only logical thing—he got help. He enlisted Libby in his cause.
Libby loved being treated like a big girl, and there was nothing she loved better than being told what a help she was. It made her strive to live up to the praise. Evan had picked that much up by listening to Claire talk to the girl. He figured that between the two of them, they could handle Rachel and he could handle venturing out into the world with both of them, even if he felt himself outnumbered.
Claire's body ached when she woke up the next morning. She thought of calling for Evan, then tried to summon the strength to get up to look for him. It still just wasn't there.
Today, Claire knew, was not going to be a good day.
The day got worse when she saw the note on the comforter.
Evan had left her a note. Was he gone? Had Libby and Rachel proved to be too much for him to handle sanely? A queasiness overtook her as she blinked, clearing her eyes, and read.
Took your presentation to Aesthetic Athletics. The
kids are with me. Be back soon.
Evan
The queasiness grew to full-fledged proportions. Claire had absolutely no idea when "soon" was. Only that it couldn't possibly be soon enough.
Chapter Ten
It wasn't very often that Claire allowed optimism to slip through her fingers. At times, it was only her tenacious hold on the sentiment that saw her through. Like when Jack had abandoned her.
She went through her pregnancy without the support of a husband or lover, or even a family. If it wasn't for Dr. Richmond and the kindness of some of her father's friends, enormous hospital costs would have been added to the bur¬dens that she already had. Libby was born premature and needed extra care. As she did for the first few days after the delivery. Dr. Richmond convinced her father's hospital to underwrite the costs and called it a gift.
She accepted gratefully. Claire overcame every obstacle thrown her way, taking them in stride and keeping her chin up, convinced that things would be better eventually.
With her baby at the college day care, which she paid for with her own volunteer services, Claire went on to get her degree, using up the last of the money her father had left her in the process.
There hadn't been much to begin with, despite his lofty standing in the medical community. Besides having a lousy bedside manner, her father also had a lousy sense of busi¬ness. He invested in the wrong companies, and trusted the wrong people. What should have been a thriving
estate for him to will to his daughter just barely managed to see her through school.
The sale of her parents' house provided for the down payment on her own. It didn't, however, provide for the subsequent monthly payments. What remained of the pro¬ceeds from their house was eaten up by unexpected out¬standing debts that came to light, as well as by a letter demanding payment for back taxes that had been over¬looked. Claire settled everything and was left with nothing.
Nothing but Libby, her house and her determination. It was enough.
But being sick had temporarily depleted her supply of hope and with it, her optimism. Claire could feel the Aes¬thetics account slipping through her fingers. There was no way she could land it now. The company wasn't going to smile upon a neighbor coming by with two children in tow to drop off her presentation on the receptionist's desk.
If Evan even made it.
Which led her to her more major concern. Where was he? Where were the children? She knew if Libby was back, she'd hear the sound of running feet echoing somewhere in the house. Libby could never be accused of being a quiet child, even when she slept.
Where was she?
Claire slid down farther in the bed, pulling the covers over herself, wishing she could at least fall into the mind- numbing abyss of unconsciousness.
She must have fallen asleep eventually, because the very next thing she knew, Libby was in the room, bouncing on the bed. Even in her present state, Claire welcomed the jarring motion. It took all the restraint she had not to hug her daughter.
"You did it, Mama, you did it." Libby leaned forward, peering into Claire's face. "Do you feel better now?"
"Did what, honey?" It disturbed her greatly that she could barely pick up her head. Instead of better, she was feeling worse.
And then Evan was in the room, taking Libby's hand. Taking Libby. "C'mon, Libby, you know you're not sup¬posed to be in here."
His voice was gentle, kind. Or maybe that was just her delirium growing.
Libby was on the verge of tears. She didn't want to be separated from her mother again. "But she's my mama."
The Baby Came C.O.D. Page 12
