Webster didn’t look up as the bathroom door opened. He didn’t even open his eyes, he just kept his forehead pressed to the floor tiles.
“I’m going to take your temperature” came her cool, familiar voice. Web felt her presence on the floor next to him. She lifted his head, then lowered it onto her soft lap, and he opened his eyes, staring up at her. Either she’d changed her clothes and her hair, or he was experiencing an alternate reality.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, smoothing back his hair with one hand as she adjusted the aural thermometer with the other. “Hold still,” she said. “This won’t take long.”
She placed the nozzle of the thermometer in his ear and watched the digital readout as she continued to stroke his head.
“Please,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I don’t know why,” she said, her face perfectly straight, one delicate eyebrow slightly raised. “Your outfit has a certain charm.”
“God almighty,” Webster said, wetting his parched lips with his tongue. “You’re teasing. You’re flirting with me. You must know something I don’t. I’m dying, right?”
She laughed, a soft, husky, sexy sound that penetrated his misery and made his chest feel suddenly tighter. With shock, he felt another part of his body respond. He was sicker than a dog—so sick that he could barely lift his head—yet he wanted her. And dressed as he was, or rather undressed, wearing only his shorts, there was no way to hide it. Webster closed his eyes in despair. Why should he settle for mere embarrassment when he could be utterly humiliated?
Juliana looked down at Webster, at her hand still soothingly brushing back his thick, dark hair. She was only touching him because he was sick, she told herself. The fact that she’d frequently imagined running her fingers through his curls had nothing to do with it, nothing at all.
The heat radiating from him was alarming, and his skin felt clammy.
The thermometer beeped. Thank goodness Alicia had insisted they get one of these, with a large digital readout. Juliana couldn’t have read the other kind if her life depended on it. She looked carefully at the numbers. One oh three point seven. That was much too high.
“I’m going to get some Tylenol,” she said, “but first let’s get you back into bed. Can you sit up?”
“I don’t know.” He looked up at her, vulnerability on his face. “Why are you helping me?”
Why was she helping him?
Juliana sat quietly, looking down into his feverish blue eyes. “Because I know what it’s like to be alone,” she said.
“I don’t know why,” he said, “I look at you and I wonder what the hell you’re doing all by yourself.”
She looked back at him steadily. “I could say the same about you.”
“I’m a jerk,” he said. “You said so yourself.”
“Well, right now, you’re a sick jerk, so come on, let’s get you into bed.”
He let her help him up, and he stumbled out into the bedroom, collapsing on the enormous bed. The sheet she pulled over him felt cool against his skin, and he closed his eyes and drifted.
Time had passed—he wasn’t sure how much—when he felt a cool hand on his face. Her hand.
“Come on, Webster.” Her voice seemed to come from far away. “Time for some Tylenol.”
He opened his mouth and tasted the bitter pills on his tongue. Then came the cool wetness of something—ginger ale, he thought.
The instant he swallowed, he knew it was a terrible mistake.
But she was there, holding something, some kind of basin for him. The ginger ale was forcefully returned, and he continued to retch long after his stomach should have been empty. Finally, he lay back, his eyes watering, his whole body shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over, his eyes tightly shut. “I’m sorry.”
He felt her wipe his face with a wet cloth. All along he’d been trying to impress her. He was so confident, so sophisticated, so brilliant, so sardonically bored with everything. But he really wasn’t any of those things. He was just a man, trying desperately to live up to someone else’s expectations.
Now he had been stripped of everything—his pride, his confidence, his sophistication, his strength. Hell, since he was lying on his back, he was even stripped of his height. He looked up at beautiful Miss Anderson, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. But she wasn’t looking at him with the revulsion he expected. Instead, her greenish eyes were soft and warm with concern.
“Thank you,” he said, unable to hold her steady gaze. When was the last time he’d said those words and actually meant them, the way he did right now?
“You’re welcome,” she said. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Juliana.”
“What?”
“My name,” she said. Her face was serious, but her lips twitched slightly, as if she were hiding a smile. “It’s Juliana. I think we probably know each other well enough now to be on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
Juliana. Her name was as beautiful as she was.
Webster stared up at her, knowing immediately why she had finally told him her name. He had let her help him, let her see him sick and weak. She was invading what was very private and personal. In return, she was infringing on her own privacy, making them, in some sense, even.
“Juliana,” he whispered, trying her name out.
This time she was the one who couldn’t meet his eyes, as if the sound of her name on his lips somehow embarrassed her.
“You have to promise to call me that only when we’re alone,” she said softly, “not when other guests are around.”
Only when we’re alone. Webster savored the sound of those words. He nodded.
She stood up then, and he closed his eyes, slipping into a feverish dream. Juliana was there, on her Harley, and she was laughing. The sound of her laughter sent chills of pleasure up and down his spine.
“Come on, Web,” she said. “We have to get you into the bathtub.”
“I don’t take baths,” Web said. “I take showers.”
“Well, today you’re going to take a bath.”
She had her arm around his waist, helping him walk into the bathroom. Her hands on his skin felt strong and cool, and his head felt as if he were floating. And sure enough, there in the bathroom, the big tub was filled with clean, clear water.
“Last time I took a bath I was about six,” Web said. “I had a bunch of little boats.”
“Come on, Webster.”
“You got any boats?”
More laughter. “You could probably use your shampoo bottle,” she said. “Just make sure the top’s closed tightly, or else you’ll have a bubble bath.”
She still had her arms around him. He looked down at her, wishing he could kiss her, unable to remember why he couldn’t. Oh, yeah, she didn’t want him to. Last time he tried, she ran away. He wasn’t going to risk that again. He closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness hit him. Oh, yeah, he was sick, too. “I don’t want to give you the flu,” he said worriedly.
She smiled. “I had a flu shot. I’ll be okay. Come on, I’ll help you into the tub.”
“With my underwear on?”
“You can take your shorts off if you want,” she said.
“But, you’re in the room.”
“Yes, I’m in the room. I’m not going to let you get into the tub by yourself,” she said firmly. “You’ll slip and fall on your head. Keep ’em on if it bothers you.”
Webster stared at the water. “Juliana,” he said, drawing each syllable out, rolling her name off his tongue.
He looked down at her and smiled. His eyes held none of the crystal hardness, none of the ulterior motive that had always lurked beneath his smiles in the past. “I guess it’s okay,” he said, “as long as we’re on a first-name basis.”
But as he hooked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his shorts, gravity interfered and he lost his balance. Juliana tried desperately to keep him upright, but he wa
s simply too large. They fell onto the bathroom floor in a tangled pile of arms and legs.
Juliana stared up into Webster’s face, only inches above her own. His dark blue eyes were slightly puzzled.
“This isn’t a dream, is it?” he asked.
She shook her head, no.
A vast array of emotions flitted across his handsome face as he looked down at her. “I hope you appreciate the amount of restraint I’m using here,” he said.
“I do,” Juliana whispered, realizing suddenly that one of his big, muscular thighs was pressed up tightly between her legs. The heat radiating from him was incredible. Thank heavens for that, she thought. At least it hid the fire his nearness had started in her. “Please get off me, Web.”
He rolled off her quickly, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe I should just leave my shorts on.”
She caught his eye and smiled, a touch self-consciously. “Good idea,” she said. “Let’s get you into that tub. Carefully this time.” Maybe if she sounded businesslike, he wouldn’t realize how rattled she was by his nearly naked body so close to hers. He was so tall, all hard muscles and tanned skin.
Webster sat down in the cool water with a groan. “You didn’t tell me it would be freezing,” he accused her.
“It’s not freezing, it just feels that way to you because you’re so hot.”
“Big difference,” Webster muttered.
“Slide down,” she said, folding a towel to put under his head. “Lean back—you can rest your head on this.”
He leaned his dark curls against the towel, looking up at her. “Thanks.” Again, it was heartfelt. “When did you get your bike?”
“My Harley?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I’ve had that one for about three years. I got my first motorcycle about twelve years ago—when I was sixteen.”
“That when you got that tattoo?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I was … wild then.”
“But you’re not anymore?”
Juliana shook her head. “No. Being wild had a price.”
“Like what?”
But she shook her head again, and didn’t answer. “How do you feel?”
“Bad.”
She sat on the edge of the tub and gently pushed his hair off his face. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Webster closed his eyes, lulled by the gentle magic of her fingers. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “Juliana.”
Chapter Seven
Webster woke up hungry. He hadn’t felt anything but nausea for so long that at first, he didn’t recognize the sensation. He opened his eyes slowly, but the headache was gone. His body still felt leaden, exhausted, and extremely weak. Even his fingers were weak; he couldn’t’ve made a convincing fist if he wanted to.
He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty A.M.
God, he was thirsty. There was an empty glass and a full bottle of cola on the bedside table. He pushed himself slowly up, dragging himself to the side of the bed so he could reach for the bottle.
“Web?” Juliana sat up, pushing her red-gold curls out of her face. “You okay?” she asked sleepily.
Webster stared at her in shock. She had been sleeping on the floor next to his bed.
She held up the basin. “You need this?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She pulled herself to her feet, sitting next to him on the bed, as she reached out to feel his forehead. Cool. She closed her eyes in relief. And opened them as she felt Webster’s warm fingers touch her face.
“You’re so tired,” he said, his voice gentle and full of wonder. “You shouldn’t have been sleeping on the floor.”
She smiled at him then. “I didn’t want to leave you alone. You were pretty sick for a while there.”
“You stayed with me,” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “For how long?”
“Today’s Friday,” she said.
He’d gotten sick … when? He couldn’t remember. “How many days?” he asked.
“It was only two nights.”
Two nights … She’d stayed with him two whole nights. And the day in between, he remembered. Flashes of the past few days came to him, as if they were scenes from a movie.
Juliana reached for the glass, poured only an inch or so of cola into the bottom and handed it to him. He looked at the small ration of flat soda skeptically.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “I feel much better. And I’m really thirsty.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Juliana replied dryly.
In a flash, Webster remembered being thirsty, so thirsty, and drinking ginger ale. His stomach rejected it so quickly and absolutely that there wasn’t any time for him to react. He’d gotten sick all over the bed. He groaned inwardly, remembering how patient Juliana had been, how she hadn’t complained. She just changed the sheets and tucked him back in.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, closing his eyes, letting the humiliation wash over him.
Juliana watched him for a moment. When he’d been so terribly sick, his fever had been so high he’d spent much of the time delirious or at least … silly. There had only been a few brief moments of lucidity when he seemed to realize his utter helplessness, when he knew just how intimately she was caring for him. At those times he was stricken with humility, the way he was right now.
This humble, subdued Webster Donovan was a far cry from the rude, arrogant man she’d met nearly an entire week ago. And she liked him much better. She hoped he’d stick around.
She leaned forward, kissing him lightly on the forehead. “It’s okay,” she said.
Web opened his eyes, shocked. She’d kissed him. She’d actually kissed him. True, it was the kind of kiss she might give to a puppy or an elderly great-uncle, but it was a kiss.
She stood up, moving toward the door. “I have guests arriving this evening,” she said. “I have to do laundry and get the rooms ready.”
She was wearing an old pair of gray sweat pants and a faded maroon Harvard sweat shirt. Her eyes still looked sleepy, and her hair was rumpled, but she smiled at him, and Webster thought he’d never seen her look better.
“I’ll be back to check on you in about twenty minutes, okay?”
Webster nodded. “Did you go to Harvard?” he asked.
She looked at him blankly, until he motioned to her sweat shirt. She saw what she was wearing, and shook her head. “No,” she said, and laughed.
Webster didn’t get the joke, and she didn’t explain.
Over the course of the day, Juliana came into his room often, bringing him minuscule amounts of saltine crackers and flat cola and ginger ale. She made sure he was covered up when he was asleep, and she brought him books and magazines when he was awake.
He really wanted her to sit and talk, but she didn’t have time.
In the late afternoon, Juliana brought in a steaming bowl of chicken-and-rice soup, balanced on a bed tray.
“Zowie,” Webster said, putting down the book he’d been reading. “Real food.”
Juliana smiled, putting the tray down across his lap, trying to ignore the fact that the flannel shirt he wore was unbuttoned, exposing the hard muscles of his chest.
He hadn’t shaved in days, and with the stubble on his face and his hair a nest of curls, he looked roguish and dangerous. But his smile softened the effect.
Webster watched as Juliana sat tiredly in the chair next to his bed. Her ratty sweats had disappeared, replaced by a quaint green-patterned Victorian dress. Gone were the loose curls around her face. Once again, she wore her hair primly back and up.
“I’ve got about an hour before the first guests are due to arrive,” she said. “Heavens, I think this is the first time I’ve sat down all day.”
He stirred the hot soup, letting some of the heat escape. “Maybe you should use the time to take a nap,” he said.
Juliana sat up straight. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re probably working, readin
g at least. I should go, let you—”
“No!” The force of that one word startled even Webster. “I mean, please. I just thought you might want to rest. I guess I feel guilty for keeping you up two nights in a row.”
“Don’t worry,” Juliana said, her lips twitching up into a bewitching smile. “I’ve figured out a way for you to repay me.”
She could see the flash of interest in his dark-blue eyes. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. Maybe I’ll tell you later this week.”
“Not another secret?”
She smiled. “Eat your soup.”
Webster took a spoonful of the fragrant broth, blowing gently on it before putting it in his mouth. “This tastes great,” he murmured. “Thanks.”
Juliana smiled her welcome, letting her eyes drift shut as he focused all of his attention and energy on eating the soup. After a while, the sound of the spoon hitting the bowl stopped, and she opened her eyes to find Webster watching her.
“You know,” he said, “you can lie down over here.” He motioned toward the other side of his big bed. “I don’t bite.”
“At least not too hard,” Juliana said, repeating his own words. It seemed as if he’d said that to her years ago, but it had only been a few short days …
Webster saw wariness come into her eyes, as if she’d suddenly remembered who she was dealing with. She stood up tiredly, stretching her arms and back. “I better start baking for tomorrow’s breakfast,” she said, trying to sound casual, but really searching for a way to leave.
As he watched her walk toward the door, Webster was filled with sudden, gut-wrenching despair, far worse than any stomachache the flu had given him. Now that he was better, everything was going to go back to the way it had been. The easy familiarity between them would vanish, and Juliana would turn back into the cool, polite stranger.
Webster wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted in his life, but he was dead certain that he didn’t want that to happen.
“Juliana.”
She turned and looked at him, her beautiful eyes guarded.
“Please …” he said. “Stay with me for a while.”
He held his breath then, waiting for her response.
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