Halfway to the kitchen she turned. “Why don’t you go change out of your suit? Put on something comfortable?”
Now she was talking. “Yes, Miss Wayne,” he said, but couldn’t quite muster the energy to stand.
“Need help?”
Tempting. But since her expression held more hospice administrator than sexy nursemaid, he figured he could handle a change of clothes on his own. “No.” Forcing himself to his feet, he added, “I’ll be right back.”
Once in his bedroom, however, he noticed his bed looked damn comfortable. Giving in to the impulse to lie down for just a second, he settled his pounding head on the pillow and closed his eyes. Five minutes…
Chapter Twenty
Chelsea sat on the bed, and gently shook Rafe’s shoulder. No response, but she could feel the heat of his skin through his dress shirt. “Rafe?” she called softly.
“Huh?” Glassy eyes focused on her.
She moved her hand to his forehead. If anything, he felt hotter than when she’d arrived ten minutes ago. She abandoned the idea of bringing him a bowl of the soup she’d heated. She should bring him ice. “Let’s get rid of some of these clothes.”
“Good idea.” Cocky as ever, but the way he pressed his face against her cool hand told her he felt miserable. Still, he caught the hem of her dress and started lifting it.
She slapped his hand away. “Your clothes. Come on, sit up.” She got to work on his shirt buttons. “Help me out here.”
He scooted into a more upright position and leaned back against the pillows. She glanced at his face, because she found the sight of his smooth, sculpted chest and abdomen a little too tempting. His eyelids drooped, and his thick, dark lashes cast shadows across his cheeks.
“Lean forward,” she instructed softly, sliding the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. Was that low, breathless voice really hers?
When she tugged the shirt off his wrists, he linked his hands behind his head and leaned back against the pillows again. A hint of a smile flirted across his lips as she reached for his belt buckle, but before she touched him, he choked out, “Damn—” and covered his mouth with his arm as a spasm of coughs rattled him.
Chelsea rubbed his shoulder until the coughing abated, and then offered him the glass of water she’d placed on the nightstand. “Here.”
He drank like he’d spent a week roaming the desert, and returned the empty glass to his night table. His exhausted “thank you” squeezed her heart. Sighing, he settled lower in the bed. His eyelids drifted all the way down this time.
Heat radiated from him. “No worries. Let’s get those pants off and then I’ll go hunt up something for your cough.”
“Whiskey.”
“Not whiskey,” she shot back as she unhooked his belt, unfastened his trousers and carefully lowered his fly. The sound of the zipper filled the otherwise silent room. Holding on to her authoritative tone, she added, “Lift up a little for me.”
“Are you giving the orders tonight, Miss Wayne?” he tossed back, but his eyes remained closed and his voice held none of its normal power. She stripped his trousers off. After draping his clothes over a chair, she returned to her spot beside him on the bed and looked down. He opened his eyes a fraction to stare back at her, but his eyelids weren’t the only thing at half-mast, she quickly noticed. As she watched, half-mast became full-mast.
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a weary grin. “I missed you.”
“Me, too,” she admitted, because for whatever reason, this seemed like safe ground. Physical reactions were just that—reactions. They didn’t involve the heart or conscious mind. What healthy human wouldn’t miss earth-shattering sex? And they’d enjoyed plenty of it, right here in this very bed. Still, physical reactions aside, he was in no shape to shatter the earth. She rested her palm lightly against the erection straining the front of his boxer briefs, because she just couldn’t keep her hands off him. Over his low sound of appreciation, she said, “Let’s see how much you missed me when you’re back to full strength, all right?”
“I’m good.” But another coughing fit indicated otherwise, and she sat there, helplessly, while he fought his way through. The helpless feeling only intensified when he finally stopped coughing, groaned, and curled onto his side.
She kissed the back of his neck—which felt hot. “Let me see if I can find something to help you. I’ll be right back.”
“Cyanide capsule.”
She had a better idea. Retracing her steps, she returned to the living area, called Evelyn, and explained the situation. Minutes later Evelyn called back and told Chelsea to expect her nephew within a half hour. Dr. Nick Bancroft had agreed to stop by and examine Rafe.
She took another moment to call the lobby and ensure he would be directed to the villa, and then checked on Rafe, who dozed. After putting a cool cloth on his forehead, she returned to the living room to wait for the doctor.
A relatively short wait, as it turned out. She opened the door to a tall, tanned man with sun-burnished brown hair and a five-o’clock shadow covering the lower half of a handsome, confidence-inspiring face.
She quickly introduced herself, and reviewed Rafe’s symptoms with him while she showed him to the patient.
“Rafe?”
“No panties on the bed this time. Very disappointing,” he mumbled into the pillow.
Her cheeks heated. She risked a glance at her boss’ nephew, who didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow, and then cleared her throat. “Wake up and say hello to Dr. Bancroft.”
“Nick,” the doctor corrected.
Chelsea managed a stiff smile. “Nick.” Turning back to Rafe, who was now struggling into a sitting position and giving them an irritated look, she continued. “Nick, this is Rafe St. Sebastian.”
“Appreciate you coming out,” Rafe began, “but it’s unnecessary. I’m perfectly fi—” A barrage of coughs prevented him from finishing his dismissal.
Nick rested his medical bag on the night table, and, over the noise, said, “Obviously. But as long as I’m here, might as well make myself useful, right?”
Chelsea took that as her cue to leave. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Nick tapped his bag. “I come prepared. Pay no mind to the screams.”
She occupied herself putting things away in the kitchen. With that task complete, she sat and leafed through the latest issue of a travel magazine.
Within moments, restlessness took over. She tossed the magazine aside and wandered around the room, straightening a painting that didn’t need straightening, fluffing the pillows on the sofa and remembering how she’d buried her face in one to muffle the sounds Rafe had wrung out of her with every devastating thrust. Finally, she meandered into the hall. She was standing there waiting—not hovering, not lurking—just waiting like any concerned friend would, when the bedroom door opened and Nick stepped out.
“How’s he doing?”
Nick left the door ajar, but she couldn’t see in because his frame blocked her view.
“Resting comfortably. He’s got the flu. We’ve seen a lot of it this winter, and I more or less expected it based on the symptoms Aunt Evelyn described. I started him on this”—he handed her a pill bottle—“which should knock the virus out in no time. Just follow the dosage instructions on the label. He needs to stay out of circulation for the next twenty-four hours, take things easy, and get plenty of rest and fluids, by which I mean water or juice. Let’s lay off the whiskey for now.”
Chelsea wrinkled her nose. “That wasn’t my idea, just so you know.”
He smiled. A nice smile. Charming. “I figured as much. I don’t suppose you’ve had a flu shot recently?”
“No, but I never get sick.”
Nick’s nice, charming smile turned fatalistic and he nodded his head toward Rafe’s room. “That’s what he said. One thing about the flu, it’s very easily transmitted, so beware.” He handed her his card. “The number on the back is my personal cell. Call me if you need me.�
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She took the card and looked up into quietly observant amber eyes. “Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Happy to help.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then went on. “You know, my aunt mentioned you a while back. She told me you were new to the island and she might hook us up for some sightseeing if you were interested. But then I never heard anything more.”
“She did offer. I just…got so busy, I’m afraid. I never followed up with her.”
“My loss. I wish you had. Now, I guess you’re involved.” He gestured toward the bedroom behind him.
“Oh, no. Mr. St. Sebastian’s and my relationship isn’t …” What could she say? “We’re friends.”
His brow furrowed for a moment, and he glanced back at the bedroom. “That’s interesting.” He turned to her and smiled. “If you ever find yourself not quite so busy, give me a call.”
The sound of her cell phone chiming from the living room interrupted her reply. Nick smiled. “Obviously now is not that time. I know my way out.”
Chelsea nodded her thanks and hurried to the living room to answer her phone. The caller ID read Paul. Her stomach clenched, and for a cowardly second she considered letting it go to voicemail, but the messages from Cindy were getting out of hand. Laurie’s words of wisdom echoed in her ears. She needed to inform him she had no intention of returning to her job, or him, and instruct him to pass the message on to Cindy. His bride-to-be, former bride-to-be, whatever the hell she was, needed to stop harassing her or she’d have no choice but to file a complaint with the police. She took a seat on the sofa, inhaled a fortifying breath, and answered.
“Hello, Paul.”
“Chelsea, I’ve made a mistake.”
“You’ve made several. In fact, you’re making one right now. Cindy will skin you alive if she finds out you called me.”
“Oh my God. She’s a nightmare. Demanding, unreasonable, paranoid—”
“The mother of your child.”
“I’m not sure of that.”
“Paul!” This conversation needed a good, hard pull back onto the right track. Her agenda didn’t include a paternity debate.
“I don’t know,” he backtracked, “but I know I can’t marry her. I’m miserable. I miss you. I love you, Chelsea. I realize that now. I’m meant to be with you.”
He sounded desperate. But the words her pride had craved mere weeks ago did absolutely nothing now except leave a sour taste in the back of her mouth. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Oh shit, she’s coming. I’ve got to go.”
“Paul, no! Do not hang up. We need to talk. There are things I need to say…to…you…” Crap. Pleading with a dial tone accomplished nothing. She tossed the phone into her handbag and rested her head in her hands. Way to own the conversation, Chelsea.
“You should reconsider your priorities.”
She turned to find Rafe leaning against the wall, a pair of navy sweats riding low on his hips and an empty glass in his hand. His dark brows formed the temperamental “v” she usually found so appealing, but tonight the expression put a knot in her stomach. Something glittered in his eyes. Maybe fever, but it turned his gaze edgy.
“My priorities?”
He shrugged, pushed off the wall and closed in on the couch. A vision shivered through her mind, of herself as prey about to be menaced. “Let’s examine them.” He stopped and coughed. She held her hand out for his glass, intending to get him more water, but he brushed her off. “Here you are wasting time and energy on furtive phone calls with a man who has other commitments, whether he cares to acknowledge them or not, when a perfectly nice doctor just asked you out.”
No point denying either statement. A perfectly nice doctor had asked her out, and the caller had been Paul. He’d obviously overheard enough to know, but his unflattering assumptions about the situation fired up all her defensive instincts. She stood and crossed her arms. “It’s impolite to eavesdrop.”
Not a trace of repentance flickered in his face. “It’s careless to conduct a long-distance affair with your now-engaged ex from my villa while I’m just a few feet away, even if I am just a friend.” Another bout of coughs punctuated the insults, but he got them under control and continued. “As a friend, I feel obligated to point out you’re making a big mistake. A smart woman would set her sights on the doctor.”
A nauseating mix of hurt and anger churned inside her. She didn’t give a damn what he’d overheard. How could he believe she’d do something as deceitful and immoral as rekindle a relationship with Paul? That she’d even be tempted? Hell, Rafe and Cindy had so much in common. They both shared the same low opinion of her. She searched his face for some sign of uncertainty, but he had an impassive mask firmly in place.
Before she could consider the consequences, she lifted her chin, and said, “If that’s honestly what you think, I should probably go.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he shrugged again and stepped back. “Don’t stick around on my account.” He turned away slightly and coughed into his arm.
The hurt turned into cold, slippery panic, and she tried to backtrack. “You’re sick. You have a fever. What if you need—?”
“It’s the flu, Chelsea, not malaria. I don’t need a nurse.”
She opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it closed because something perilously close to a sob threatened to burst out. How had the evening gone so wrong? She’d been excited to see him tonight—more than she’d cared to admit—probably more than fun, mutual attraction and entertaining sex warranted. Instead she’d gotten a well-timed lesson in guarding her heart. Not only did Rafe think she had the morals of a…well…of Cindy, he’d just told her in so many words to get out.
“Good-bye,” she managed, as she snagged her purse from the coffee table. She turned on her heel and strode to the door before any tears could fall.
Chapter Twenty-One
A clock ticked relentlessly in Rafe’s brain—a disturbing soundtrack to a disturbing dream. He sprinted after Chelsea, but as hard as he ran, he couldn’t seem to close the distance. Fast-moving clouds obscured the moon and he kept losing sight of her. Every time the clouds parted for a moment, he glimpsed her white bikini, but then she’d disappear again.
Tick…she sat in the lounge chair by the pool.
Tick…she stood in the gleaming lobby of the resort.
Tick…she walked the pathway leading to the beach.
He caught up with her there, and swung her around to face him. Rain started, but the canopy of trees sheltered them.
He wanted to talk to her. To tell her…something…he couldn’t remember because she leaned against a palm, looped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He inhaled her scent, and smoothed his hands over her bare skin. He was just about to taste her parted lips when she whispered, “Good-bye.”
Everything faded. Her. The trees. The dream. He blinked his eyes open and found himself squinting at his own reflection in the mirrored canopy, disorientated from spending too many hours in bed, caught in a blurry cycle of sleeping, waking, getting water, taking a pill, and then crawling into bed again. But this time around, he felt less foggy. He scrubbed his palm over his rough jaw and took a quick physical inventory. Headache? Gone. Body aches? Gone. Cough? He breathed deep and waited. His throat still felt scratchy, but…better. Agonizing hard-on from the cock-torturing dream? All too present.
Murky light filtered into the bedroom through the gap between the curtains. A steady patter against the roof of the villa told him the rain hadn’t been a figment of his overactive imagination.
The dream included another true-to-life detail. He was alone. Why the hell wasn’t Chelsea there?
You told her to leave.
He closed his eyes as memories of that night filtered into his mind…him feeling like death warmed over, irritated as hell because the doctor had hit on Chelsea right outside his goddamn bedroom door, and she’d told the guy they were “just friends.” Then he’
d dragged his sorry ass out of bed to find her, only to overhear her on the phone with Barrington, begging him not to hang up because they needed to talk.
He still couldn’t believe what he’d heard, but trying to bully an explanation out of her had only succeeded in turning him into an asshole. And running her off.
Nicely done. He could practically hear his father scolding him for creating the situation, and urging him to clear the air with Chelsea before the meeting, because an undercurrent of tension between him and his deal liaison would distract from their primary objective—the negotiation with MILC.
A sound strategy, except for one complication. The only satisfactory resolution involved her assuring him she wanted nothing to do with Barrington, or Nick Bancroft for that matter, or anyone but him. The unfamiliar jealousy superseded any business concerns. If Luc ever heard him say so, he could kiss the chairmanship good-bye, but at the moment, he really didn’t give a shit. He wasn’t his father, damn it, and funneling all his passion into the business while settling for some undemanding, flexible arrangement in his personal life suddenly sounded like the worst kind of prison.
What he wanted from Chelsea was neither undemanding nor flexible.
The sound of his phone signaling an incoming message interrupted his thoughts. He grabbed it from the night table, glanced at the screen, and surged to his feet fast enough to send a bolt of pain straight through his skull. Jesus Christ. He’d lost an entire day?
The call went ignored. He strode to the glass doors, opened the curtains, and stared out at the gray sky and churning surf.
He’d missed the meeting, not to mention several calls, and about a thousand texts and emails. He dialed his voicemail first, hoping to hear Chelsea’s voice, and watched the rain as he skipped through a series of messages—his father, a weak-ass excuse from Barrington about a late status report, Arden with the straightforward question, “Dead or alive?”
Compromising Her Position Page 15
