Читать книгу Courtney's Baby Plan - Allison Leigh - Страница 8

“No,” Mason Hyde said adamantly as he stared up at his boss. And he hoped to hell he showed none of the alarm he was feeling. “You can’t fire me.”

“You insist on checking yourself out against medical advice and I’ll have no choice.” Coleman Black’s voice was flat. Unmoved. “I don’t need stupid agents. What I do need is you recovered and healthy, Mase.” The gray-haired man frowned and moved across the hospital room, finally showing some emotion—even if Mason figured it was only irritation. “You just had surgery yesterday,” Cole pointed out. “And two days before that, you were still in the hospital in Barcelona.”

Mason grimaced and looked away. Maybe stupid was the perfect word to describe his desperation to get out of the hospital, but if anyone should understand why he needed to get out … get away … it should have been Cole.

Yeah, he was Mason’s boss. But he was also Mason’s friend. And Mason didn’t have many people in his life that he considered a friend. He had even fewer people in his life who knew his history like Cole did.

“I don’t want to end up like I did before,” he muttered, and hated that the admission made him feel weak.

Cole glanced at the open door to Mason’s room and shook his head. “Maybe if you told the hospital what your history is, why you keep refusing the—”

“No.” Mason cut the other man off. It had been ten years, for God’s sake. But right now, lying there in a hospital bed while pain racked every corner of his body, it felt as if it were just yesterday.

Yesterday, when he’d been in another hospital—only that trip had been courtesy of an explosion rather than a deadly aimed SUV. Then, he’d been shot full of endless painkillers. Painkillers that had become the only thing he’d been able to think about and just about the only thing he’d been able to care about. He’d ended up losing everything—except his job—that really had mattered to him.

He’d be damned if he’d head down that road again.

And he’d be damned if he’d admit to anyone now what a hole he’d had to climb out of before. Particularly his doctors. “It has nothing to do with anything now,” he muttered.

Cole raised his eyebrows and pointedly eyed the contraption that held Mason’s casted left leg at a strange angle above the bed. A triangular bar was also suspended above Mason’s chest, allowing the big man something to grab on to with his left hand, since his right was also in a long cast. “I believe the entire medical community would disagree,” he said drily. Then he sighed, knowing that there were some arguments that never would work with Mason. The man marched to his own drummer.

The phone inside his lapel pocket was vibrating. Had been ever since he’d walked into Mason’s hospital room ten minutes earlier. As the head of Hollins-Winword, he had at least fifty things that needed his immediate attention. Yet he was here, standing in a hospital room having a battle of wills with one of his most talented—and most stubborn—agents.

He stifled a sigh again. It was no coincidence, he supposed, that talent and stubborn seemed to generally go hand in hand. An agent had to have a strong will to work in the field. Cole didn’t want to have anyone under his watch who didn’t have a strong will.

But right now, that particular trait was causing him no small amount of consternation.

“Well, the doctors are up to you as long as you’re inside these walls. But once you go AWOL from this place, your recuperation is up to me. And I’m telling you that you don’t have a choice. Either you give up the notion of not needing any more medical care, or you won’t have a job to come back to.

At the best of times, Mason’s face was stoic. Cole had known the man since long before he’d acquired the thin scar that extended nearly the entire side of his face, so he knew that basic expression wasn’t owed to the scar. And now, given the situation, Mason’s face had all of the animation of the grim reaper.

“You can’t fire me.” Mason’s voice was low. Gruff.

Which meant he was actually worried that Cole would.

And much as it pained him, that’s what they both needed right now. “I can and I will,” he assured flatly. Though he wasn’t quite sure how. But Cole hadn’t gotten to where he was without mastering the art of a bluff. Not that he was bluffing, exactly. He truly did not want to lose Mason as an agent. Whether he was profiling maniacal nuts or invisibly protecting people who weren’t easy to protect, the guy had a talent that went miles beyond training. It was instinctive. As if he’d been bred into it.

But more importantly, Cole didn’t want to lose Mason, period. And the damn fool was likely to kill himself at the rate he was going.

The annoyance of his buzzing cell finally drove him to pull it out of his pocket and glance at the display. More crises that, at least, had nothing to do with his business with Mason. He pocketed the phone. “Be glad you have alternatives,” he continued. “I know Axel Clay has talked to you. Considering everything, getting out of Connecticut and lying low in Wyoming for a few months while you recover seems an excellent idea to me.”

Mason slid him a look. Trust Cole to hedge around until he got to the crux of the matter. The older man had obviously been a spy for too damn long. How else had he known that he and Ax had spoken?

He started to reach for the bar to shift in the bed, but just thinking about lifting his arm above his shoulder sent a shock wave down his spine. Instead, he curled his good hand into a fist and breathed through the pain, reminding himself that feeling that pain was a helluva lot better than ending up addicted to painkillers again, and feeling only the uncontrollable urge for another numbing pill. “Bugging the hospital telephone, Cole?”

His boss didn’t answer that. “His solution is pretty damn perfect, far as I’m concerned. Not only will you be under the watchful eye of a nurse without having to stay in the hospitals you detest, but you’ll get some peace from the media hounds here.”

“I’ve had enough of nurses, thanks.” At any other time, Mason might—might—have found the double entendre humorous, but right then, he couldn’t muster it. “I’ll be bored crazy in Wyoming,” he lied. Nothing had been boring the last time he’d been there over a year and a half ago.

The other man just shrugged. “Then you get yourself transferred to a twenty-four-hour care center whether you like it or not or you stay here, ‘cause you’re not going to your own place. I know you. You go to that box you call a home, and you’ll do too much before you should and end up back here again even worse off than you are now.”

If it weren’t for the heavy-duty antibiotics that were being intravenously pumped into him, Mason wouldn’t even have to be in the hospital. The collision between his body and the SUV he’d jumped in front of had happened a week ago. The most recent surgery that he’d had to finish putting Humpty Dumpty back together again was the last one he was supposed to need. And if he hadn’t gotten the infection that necessitated that surgery, his doctors and his nurses would have been glad to see the last of him the minute they’d finished wrapping half his body in plaster.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” he muttered. The longer he stayed in the hospital, the worse he felt. But if he left on his own, Cole would cut him off from the only thing that mattered to him.

“I’ll check on you tomorrow morning.” Obviously unmoved, Cole headed toward the doorway of Mason’s private room. “Either have a plan in place or give me your resignation.” His voice was hard, and without another glance his way, the man walked out of the room.

Mason leaned his head back and let out a long, colorful oath.

Agents who pushed Cole hard got pushed back hard. And more than a few good ones had ended up walking away from the agency that had been the center of Mason’s life for so many years.

He wasn’t going to be one of them.

He grimaced and threw his good arm over his eyes. He could feel panic nibbling at the edges of his sanity.

And Mason wasn’t a man who panicked.

Admitting it, even to himself, was damn hard.

But not as hard as it had been to kick an addiction that had ruled his life for eighteen months. And right now, ten years or not, he was craving a narcotic numbness as badly as he ever had.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hyde. How are we feeling today?” The young nurse who came into the room on her squeaking, rubber-soled shoes greeted him in a revoltingly cheerful voice. One corner of Mason’s brain had to give the kid credit for maintaining that unswerving cheer when dealing with him.

He knew he wasn’t an easy patient.

“When you have a dozen broken bones, we will talk about it,” he said wearily. He wasn’t interested in watching her as she fussed around him—even if she was about as cute as a fresh-faced cheerleader—and closed his eyes.

She didn’t reply, but he could still hear her moving around and feel her faint touch as she checked this and adjusted that. Which meant maybe the kid did have the ability to learn.

“You know, Mr. Hyde,” she said after a moment, proving that he’d overestimated, “I couldn’t help but hear a little bit of your conversation with your visitor.”

He opened his eyes and watched her.

She smiled tentatively, looking more than a little nervous. “I was out in the hall waiting to come in and change your IV bag. Anyway,” she rushed on, “I’m supposed to help convince you that it’s in your best interests to stay with us for a while longer, but I do know some really good nurses who provide home health care if you’d like some names.”

He shrugged and held back a curse at the pain the movement caused. “Yeah. Sure.” His voice was short. And even though he had no real intention of following up on her well-intentioned list, at least it took the nervousness out of her eyes. She could get on her way and leave him in peace.

She deftly slid the call button into the fingers that protruded below the edge of his cast. “I’ll get the names for you. Be sure to call if you change your mind and want something stronger than the OTC stuff for that pain.”

He’d chew off his tongue before he asked for anything stronger. He managed a relatively civil grunt in return, and her shoes carried her, squeaking, back out of the hospital room.

When he’d called Cole, he’d hoped to enlist the guy’s aid to get out of the hospital. His place wasn’t much, but at least he didn’t have an ongoing stream of medical professionals bugging him every hour on the hour, and he wouldn’t be a call button away from begging for a damn narcotic. His job kept him on the road about fifty weeks out of the year, and his apartment was more a repository for the mail that was shoved through the mail slot than it was a home.

Hell. He didn’t even have dishes in his kitchen cupboards. He barely had soap and a towel in his bathroom.

The only thing he’d end up finding at his apartment was more discomfort and a barrage of phone calls from eager reporters who’d regrettably discovered he was the so-called hero who’d saved the life of an internationally known businessman’s daughter.

Mason wasn’t the only one who was media shy. He didn’t want strangers looking into his life, poking and speculating. But he also worked for an agency that preferred operating under the radar. Their primary concern was security—personal and international—and it was beneficial for everyone concerned that their activities not be looked at too closely by an inquisitive public. Particularly since HW generally operated with the government’s tacit approval. They handled the stuff that the elected boys and girls couldn’t—or didn’t want to—get caught up in.

Unfortunately, Donovan McDougal—or someone from his sizable camp—had opened their mouth to the wrong person about Mason’s involvement in McDougal’s personal security, and even though Cole had done his best to get a lid on it, the newshounds were busy sniffing out the story behind the near-tragic “accident.”

He let the call button fall out of his grip and reached out for the hospital phone that was on a rolling stand beside the bed. His cell phone had been decimated by the vehicle that had hit him. He’d had no opportunity to replace it yet, but he had a good memory for numbers. He dragged the corded, heavy phone closer with his good arm so he could punch out the numbers.

Axel answered on the second ring.

“Set it up,” was all Mason said. Then he let the receiver clatter back in place.

Going along with Axel’s idea might keep Mason in Cole’s good graces, but that didn’t mean it was a good idea. Yeah, Ax’s cousin was a registered nurse. Yeah, she’d recently bought a house and wanted to pick up some extra money.

From the outside, it might seem like a win-win situation. Courtney Clay padded her bank account, and Mason got Cole off his back.

But none of them knew about the night that Mason had spent in Courtney’s bed over a year and a half ago. A memorable night. The kind of night that haunts a man.

But it had only been one night. He’d known that going in, he’d known it when he’d walked away the morning after and also when, during the days that followed, he’d had to fight the urge to contact her again.

Women like Courtney Clay were better off without guys like Mason Hyde in their lives.

Even she had agreed to that particular fact.

He was surprised that she’d gone along with her cousin’s suggestion to not only give Mason room and board now but to also provide him with whatever nursing care he needed until he could take care of himself.

But maybe she hadn’t been as haunted as he’d been by that night together. Maybe it made no difference to her one way or another who her temporary roommate was going to be. Maybe it was just about the money.

It didn’t seem to fit what he knew about her. But then, what he knew most about her was what her lips tasted like. What her smooth, honey-tinted skin felt like beneath his fingertips.

She’d been the one to invite him to her place that long-ago day. He’d been in Weaver for a few days helping Axel out on a case. And though Mason had made it plain he wanted to see her again, he’d had no expectation, no plan, that it would lead to her bed.

She was too young for him, but she was an incredibly beautiful woman. Turning down that particular opportunity had even occurred to him. Until she’d whispered for him not to worry. It was just one night. She’d said those words herself.

So when she’d stared up at him in the shadowy light of her living room and began unbuttoning her blouse, he’d helped her finish the job.

He’d made the mistake of forgetting who and what he was when he’d tried to have a normal life eleven years ago. He wasn’t going to do it again.

Not even when the temptation came in the form of a shapely, blonde nurse whose touch still hung in his memory.

He was in a wheelchair.

Even though Courtney had expected it, the sight of Mason sitting in the chair made her wince inside.

“Remember what you’re doing this for,” she whispered to herself. She needed to keep her long-term plan in the forefront of her mind. It would be the only way she could get through the short-term … awkwardness.

She gave a mental nod and drew in a quick, hard breath as she brushed her hands down the front of her pale pink scrubs. Then she pulled the door wide and stepped out onto her porch to watch her cousin push Mason’s wheelchair up the long ramp that her brother had finished building just that morning over the front and back steps so that once her boarder did arrive, they’d be more easily able to get him in and out of the house.

She realized she couldn’t quite look Mason in the face and focused instead on her cousin. “Everything go okay with the flight out from Connecticut?”

“How would he know?” Mason answered before Axel could. His pale green gaze drew hers. “He wasn’t the one cooped up on the plane.”

A frown pulled his slashing eyebrows together over his aquiline nose. Combined with the dark shadow of beard on his jaw—evidence that he hadn’t shaved in at least a few days—he looked thoroughly put out.

She lifted an eyebrow and managed a calm smile. “Feeling a little cranky, are we?”

“What is it with you nurses and the eternal we?”

“Ignore him,” Axel advised as he pushed the wheelchair past her into the house. He pulled a fat, oversized envelope from beneath his arm and handed it to her. “He’s been bitching since I picked him up in Cheyenne. Here’re his meds.”

Courtney took the envelope and looked inside at the various prescription bottles it contained. She’d already reviewed a copy of her new patient’s medical chart. It had been faxed to her yesterday after Axel had called her out of the blue to ask if she was interested in taking on a home health care patient.

She’d done similar work before. Just not when the patient in question was living under her roof. But the money he’d said the patient would pay had been enough to get her interest, and in a hurry.

It was only after she’d agreed and had asked how he knew the patient that she’d learned who her new roomie was going to be.

There was no earthly way, at that point, that Courtney would have been able to back out without explaining to her cousin why. And she had no intention of sharing those particular details.

So, she’d squelched her reservations and reviewed the file when it arrived. Even though she was trained for objectivity, she’d been horrified at the injuries that Mason had sustained. She also hadn’t been able to help wondering how on earth he’d been hurt, but that particular information had not been in his chart.

Which meant it was probably work related.

She was ridiculously familiar with the hush-hush aura surrounding the company that Mason worked for, because it was the same company that many of her relatives had worked for. Or still did.

Of course she wasn’t supposed to know much about Hollins-Winword. But she wasn’t an idiot. She had ears that worked perfectly well. The first time she’d heard the name, she’d been a schoolgirl. As she’d gotten older, she’d discerned more.

And then when Ryan went missing …

She broke off the thought. It was pointless reliving the misery of believing her big brother was dead, because he was home now. Safe and sound, miraculously enough a newlywed with a family of his own.

She followed Axel and Mason into the house and nudged the door closed behind her as she studied the labels on the prescription bottles. Various industrial-strength antibiotics and vitamins and minerals. When she got to the last bottle, though, she frowned a little.

She’d read in Mason’s file that he refused to take prescription-strength pain medication, yet that’s exactly what she was looking at.

There was nothing in his file about drug allergies, so—if he was anything like the men in her family—it was probably more likely some macho belief that real men didn’t need anything to take the edge off their pain, even if it was only for a few days.

She dropped the narcotic back in the envelope and stepped around Mason’s protruding leg cast. She set the envelope on the square dining room table near the arch separating the great room from the kitchen and turned toward the men. “Your room is at the end of the hall.” Meeting Mason’s gaze only made her skin want to flush, so she focused on the few stray, silver strands glimmering among the dark brown hair that sprang back thick and straight from his forehead. “The bathroom is next to it. You are able to manage with crutches, aren’t you?”

“It’s not pretty, but yeah.” He sounded marginally less cranky than before, and Courtney couldn’t help but feel a rush of sympathy for the man.

No matter what had transpired between them that Valentine’s night, the man was recovering from several serious injuries. He had matching long, blue casts on his right arm and his left leg. She also knew that he’d suffered several bruised ribs. He was in pain and, for now, was having to depend on someone else to help him with basic functions from bathing to eating. Of course he was cranky.

Anyone would be.

She looked at her cousin. “Why don’t you bring in the rest of his things, and I’ll get Mason settled in bed.” She could feel heat climbing her neck at that. She didn’t bother waiting for Axel to respond but moved next to him and nudged his hands away from the wheelchair so she could push it herself.

Last night, before she’d gone on duty at the hospital, she’d rearranged some of the furniture in her living area to accommodate Mason. Her experience with him told her that he wasn’t the least bit clumsy. But Mason was a big man and, clumsy or not, he had a cast covering one leg from foot to thigh. That, combined with the cast on his opposing arm, meant he’d need all the space he could maneuver in, whether by wheelchair or by crutches.

The wheels on the chair squeaked slightly against the reclaimed-wood, planked floor as she pushed him down the hall, hesitating only briefly when they passed the bathroom. “Tub with a shower,” she told him in the most neutral nurse’s voice she could muster.

“Don’t tease me. Only thing I get these days is a wet washcloth.”

She felt heat in her throat again as she turned his chair slightly and carefully pushed him into the spare bedroom. “Sorry. I imagine a real shower is something you’re looking forward to.”

He made a grunting sound in reply.

After angling the chair alongside the bed, she moved around it. She’d already pulled the covers back, and the pillows were stacked up against the wrought-iron headboard. There was also an old recliner from her parents that Ryan had muscled into one corner of the room.

She stopped in front of Mason. He was wearing a white T-shirt that strained at his shoulders and a pair of gray sweatpants with one leg split up the side to accommodate the cast. His toes below the cast were bare, and he had on a scuffed tennis shoe on his other foot.

And he still managed to make her mouth water. Which was not what a nurse should be thinking about her patient, she reminded herself. “Ready to get out of the chair?”

He looked no more enthusiastic than she felt. “You’re not strong enough to lift me.”

“Not if you were dead weight,” she allowed. “But you’re not. So which do you prefer? Bed or chair?”

He didn’t look at her. “Bed.”

Which he probably took as some admission of weakness. Coming from a family of strong individuals, that, too, was something with which she had plenty of familiarity. “All right.” Before she could let her misgivings get in the way, she locked the wheels and removed the arm of the wheelchair. Then she bent her knees close to his and grasped him loosely around the waist, leaving room for him to brace his good leg beneath him as she lifted. “Ready?”

He gave another grunt, putting out his uninjured hand against the mattress, so he could add his own leverage. “Just do it.”

She tightened her arms, lifting with her legs, and held back her own grunt as she took his weight for the brief moment before he got his leg beneath him. Then he was out of the chair, pivoting more or less smoothly until he landed on the bed, sitting.

She held on to him only long enough to be certain that he wasn’t going to tip over, before she straightened. Her stomach was quivering nervously, but the sight of his pale face and tight lips took precedence. “I know,” she murmured. “Not very pleasant. But it’ll get better.”

His expression shifted from pain to pained. “I don’t need coddling.”

She gave him the kind of stern look she’d learned from her grandmother. Gloria was retired now, but she’d been a nurse, and it was in that capacity that she’d met Courtney’s grandfather, Squire Clay. And she’d had plenty of years since then to refine that stern look and pass it on to her granddaughters. “Believe me,” she assured him, “you won’t get coddling from me. Now, do you want to sit there on the side of the bed or lean back?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she reached down for his casted leg.

But his hands brushed against hers as he did the same, and she had to suck down another shock of tingles that ripped through her. She moved her hand from beneath his. Feeling shaky again, she deftly tucked a wedge of foam, which she’d gotten from the hospital, beneath his leg and stepped away, while he swore and jabbed at the pillows propped behind him.

Sweat had broken out on his brow.

She curled her fingers, fighting the urge to help him as he awkwardly shifted, lest he mistake her assistance for the banned coddling. “What can I get you to make you more comfortable?”

He finally settled, his head leaning against the headboard behind him. He shoved his hand through his hair and looked up at her. “I don’t suppose sex is one of the options, is it?”