Читать книгу P.s. Love You Madly - Bethany Campbell - Страница 11

SLOAN AWOKE to a fragile, foreign perfume that he couldn’t identify. It was so delicate that he at first thought he was having some sort of rare hallucination of the nose.

It would go away, he thought; all he had to do was open his eyes.

A hard job, but he was the man for it.

Yet when he forced his heavy lids to raise, the scent did not fade, and his vision was filled by an unexpected kaleidoscope of color.

Flowers. He frowned. Someone had brought him flowers. But not from a florist. This was no formal and formulaic bouquet, its design picked from a catalog and its flowers arranged by rote.

No, the flowers were a wild profusion of untamed color—brilliant scarlets, vivid yellows, and blues as profoundly deep as the spring sky.

They spilled out of a strange clay vase painted with a bright design that wasn’t quite like anything he’d ever seen. It was not elaborate—just the opposite. But it was the perfect complement for its rich cache of blossoms.

A rainbow-striped ribbon had been tied around the vase. From the ribbon hung a card with a charming cartoon face. He groaned, raising himself on one elbow. Merrily colored letters spelled out Wishing You a Speedy Recovery. It was signed with the initials D.P.

The card was made by hand, but the hand had an expert and impish touch. D.P.—Darcy Parker. He thought of the tall woman with the offbeat beauty and the tousled dark hair.

He looked at the bureau. His overnighter rested there. She’d been in his room. She’d left this unlikely bouquet as if it were some sort of souvenir of a Midsummer Night’s Fever Dream.

He fell back to the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the blaze of color. He’d have to thank her. He’d have to apologize to her. How? He didn’t want to think about it, and he was momentarily saved from the task—his telephone rang.

He groaned and hoisted himself back up. His head still ached, and his joints still throbbed, but neither pain was as epic as before.

He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello, you stupid horse’s neck,” said a familiar male voice. “Who in hell told you to drive clear to Austin?”

Sloan sank back against the pillows with a harsh sigh. The voice, which had a permanently mocking edge, belonged to Tom Caspian. Tom, a former fraternity brother, was now his doctor in Tulsa.

“I felt fine,” Sloan said. “For the first three hundred miles.”

“Dammit, there shouldn’t have been a first three hundred miles,” Tom chided. “I told you to take it easy for at least another six weeks. Malay fever’s tricky. You take care of yourself, or the angels’ll be scattering posies on your grave.”

One already has, Sloan thought, opening an eye and regarding the bouquet of wildflowers.

“Where’d you get the bright idea of a trip?” Tom persisted. “I told you to stay put.”

“I was tired of staying put,” Sloan grumbled.

“Follow doctor’s orders, buddy. Or you’ll be staying put under a tombstone.”

“I’m sick of hearing about it,” Sloan said with distaste. And he was. He’d convalesced two endless months in Southeast Asia. When they’d finally let him come back to the States, he’d been given the impossible command to rest and mend for another three. He was a man built for action, not relaxing. Physical idleness was hellish.

“You been running?” Tom asked, his tone accusatory. “I told you to take it easy on the running. Jog a mile a day, at most. Have you been holding it down to that?”

Sloan thought of the five miles he had done the day before. His body had felt whole again, a strong, efficient machine, all pistons pumping and powerful as ever. “I did a little more,” he admitted.

“Hell, Sloan,” Tom said in disgust. “Have you got a death wish?”

“No. A life wish,” retorted Sloan. “I used to have a life, and I want it back, dammit.”

“It won’t happen overnight, Superman. Lord, Sloan, you’ve always pushed yourself harder than anybody I know. That’s not how you beat this fever. You’ve got to respect it. The Angel of Death passed you over once, buddy. Don’t give him the chance to make a U-turn.”

Sloan put his hand to his forehead, which was hot and sweaty and had started to bang again. “All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “How’d you find me, anyway? Did you implant a microchip in my ass last time you gave me a shot?”

“I ought to, you knothead. No. The hospital down there tracked you through your insurance card. I’ve talked to the admitting physician. He’s referred your case to a specialist in tropical diseases from the university.”

“I don’t want a specialist in tropical diseases from the university. I’ll stick with you. You play bad tennis and have good scotch. What more could a man want?”

“Listen, pal, you’ve already got a specialist. The name is Dr. Nightwine, and we’ve talked. You’ll get a visit by late this afternoon.”

“I want to be out of here this afternoon.”

“No way. You’re under observation.”

“Observation, hell. Come on, Tommy. Make them release me. I’ll come straight home. I’ll get in bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I’ll watch soap operas all day and take up knitting. Just get me out, will you?”

“You don’t travel until Nightwine says you can.”

Sloan swore, but Tommy was adamant. “Nightwine’ll keep you around a couple of days at most, it’s for the best. Another thing—I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve put off saying it long enough. I don’t think you should keep taking these extreme assignments. You get in these dangerous environments and—”

“It’s what I do,” Sloan said, cutting him off. “Changing is not an option. Don’t even mention it.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Tom cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking—exactly what made you take off for Austin like a bat out of hell?” He laughed. “A woman?”

Sloan looked at the vivid wildflowers in their odd yet perfect vase. A woman, he thought. He said only, “Family matters. That’s all.”

He said goodbye; he hung up. But in his mind hovered the image of Darcy Parker, her pert face and her cloud of dark hair.

What, in the name of all that was holy, was he going to say to her?

SUBJECT: Notes on a Prodigal Son

From: BanditKing@USAserve.com

To: Olivia@USAserve.com

Olivia, Beloved—

It was so good to hear your dear voice.

But you must stop apologizing about your housekeeper. If a strange man invaded my premises, I might brandish a golf club myself. It is altogether understandable behavior.

As for my son’s actions, I can only repeat, my sister has always tried to manipulate him, and this time she obviously caught him with his resistance down—both physical and mental.

I’ve talked to him just now for a second time. He still regrets the whole, embarrassing incident (and he damn well should).

Physically, he’s on the upswing, thank God. He’s seen a specialist, a Dr. Nightwine. With luck, he’ll be out of the hospital tomorrow, but he’s not to travel for a few days. Dr. Nightwine wants to do some blood work and to monitor a new medication.

I offered to go and keep him company, but he’ll have none of it. He says he’ll be fine, and the situation’s embarrassing enough without having his old man flying in to hold his hand.

Ah, would that I were closer to you to hold yours, my love, to take you in my arms, to kiss your deliciously kissable lips (and every other part of you, for you are infinitely kissable and delicious). I recall the sweet taste of you and feel as if I have savored the wine of the gods.

My dear, my own incomparable Olivia, I love you endlessly.

Devotedly,

John

P.S.—You were really only joking about your housekeeper once shooting a man—right?

SUBJECT: Arrangements, Winchesters, Etcetera

From: Olivia@USAserve.com

To: BanditKing@USAserve.com

To the darling bandit of my heart—

So glad to hear your son is better. And don’t apologize for him—it’s not his fault. That wretched mosquito made him do it.

Hope he’s out of the hospital as soon as possible. I’ve been in that very one. There used to be the tiniest little nun there with the coldest hands—even the memory chills me—brrr. Wish you were here to warm me, my sweetheart. You do light my fires, you know. (Yes, you know, you sexy devil.)

Oh, dear, I must watch what I say. This is how I got us in trouble in the first place.

So—explain to me about Sloan. If he’s released but has to stay in Austin, where will he stay? Does he have friends there?

Kisses and Caresses from

Your Own Olivia

P.S. No, I was not joking about Rose Alice. She shot off a man’s ear with a Winchester rifle. She’s never told me why, exactly, but apparently he irritated the very hell out of her.

SUBJECT: Hotel Rooms are Wonderful Places

From: BanditKing@USAserve.com

To: Oliva@USAserve.com

Darling Girl—

Just a note before I’m off for the evening’s work.

Your housekeeper is beginning to sound rather fearsome. Don’t you think your household might be more peaceful if you hired someone a little more, well, mellow? And without a felony conviction? Just a thought, sweet girl. I don’t mean to interfere.

Sloan says he’ll check into a hotel near the university. Don’t worry about him. Hotel rooms can be wonderful places—as you have proved to me beyond the shadow of a doubt.

I can’t wait until we can be together again. I will gladly come to Maine. Shall I tell you in minutest detail, the tender and pleasurable things I want to do with you?

Missing you body and soul—

John

SUBJECT: The Most Marvelous Idea!

From: Olivia@USAserve.com

To: BanditKing@USAserve.com

Dearest, most marvelous man—

You in Maine—how wonderful! I’ve got a new four-poster bed with a mattress soft as clouds. Would you like to play in a cloud?

As for Rose Alice, she’s mellowed considerably since her gun-slinging days. I’m sorry that when she backslid, your son was the target. I’ve already spoken to her about that.

And darling, about your Sloan—I have the most marvelous idea. I’ll call Darcy right away…

DARCY CLUTCHED THE PHONE so tightly that her fingernails paled. “What?” she asked in alarm and dismay. “What did you say?”

“I don’t want Sloan stuck in some impersonal hotel room,” Olivia said firmly. “I want him to stay at the lake house.”

Darcy was appalled. “But I live here,” she said.

“No, you don’t,” Olivia corrected. “You live in the guest house. Nobody’s in the big house. It’s just sitting there, going to waste. He’d be so much more comfortable there—he could spread out, read, listen to music, use the hot tub, the pool.”

Darcy pictured Sloan English’s nearly bare body sweating in the hot tub, glistening in the pool. Her nerves skittered to a higher level of anxiety.

“He’ll have a nice view,” Olivia went on. “He can take the boat on the lake if he wants, walk in the garden, get some nice, fresh, healthy air…”

Emerald came into the room from the kitchen. She had taken off her chain mail and sword and boots. She had a peanut butter sandwich in her hand and a curious look on her face. “Who’s on the phone?”

Darcy didn’t answer her. “You can’t just give a stranger the run of your house,” she told Olivia.

“He might not be a stranger long,” Olivia said. “He might be your stepbrother.”

“Stepbrother?” Darcy asked, stunned. “Mother, surely you’re not thinking of getting married—you hardly know this man.”

Emerald’s face went white and her mouth dropped open, forming an O. The peanut butter sandwich fell to the floor. She clutched the edge of Darcy’s worktable as if she needed support.

“I know John intimately,” Olivia said. “I know him better than I’ve ever known any other human being. And yes, we’ve talked about getting married. It’s like that ‘September Song.’ Our days are dwindling down to a precious few, and we want to spend them together.”

“Mother,” Darcy said desperately, “don’t do anything rash—please. If you’re going to get engaged, at least make it a long engagement. Be sure that he’s right for you—”

“He’s perfect for me,” said Olivia. “And I want his son to stay at the lake. It’s a sort of peace offering from our family to his.”

“The lake house,” Darcy said tonelessly. “Our future stepbrother in the lake house.”

Emerald looked even more stunned. She reeled away from the table and flung herself into the easy chair. She bent her head and covered her face with her hands to hide the tears glinting in her eyes.

“Why should our family make a peace offering?” Darcy demanded. “He owes us an apology, not the other way around.”

“Darcy, he’s deeply sorry. I’m going to tell him I insist. I won’t have it any other way. If he really wants my forgiveness, then he can prove it by accepting my offer.”

Oh, Lord, Darcy thought, her stomach twisting sickly. She knew that tone in Olivia’s voice. Her mother had made up her mind, and nothing, nothing, nothing on earth could change it.

Darcy felt overwhelmed. Olivia was about to rush into a foolish marriage, Emerald was distraught and Sloan English was moving in practically on top of her. The thought of having him so near was unsettling, even somehow menacing.

“I’m e-mailing you a list,” Olivia said with her same blithe air of certainty. “I want you to stock the refrigerator for him. He needs nice, healthy foods to build his strength back.”

Emerald hunched in the chair, eyes still covered, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs.

Darcy shook her head in frustration. “Mother, I’m not going to play nursemaid to this man. I’m not going to get all chummy with him just because you’re—you’re under the delusion that you’re in love—”

“Darcy, it’s my house, and he’s my guest. As are you, I might point out. When you lost the lease on your studio, I was glad to let you use the guest house.”

Darcy ground her teeth. It was true. Olivia was generous to a fault. She would accept no rent from Darcy, not a cent.

“Now,” Olivia said, “I’m asking you a simple favor, that’s all. He’s a sick young man in a strange town. How can it be wrong to offer him food and shelter?”

Damn! Now Olivia was making her feel guilty. Darcy raked her hand through her hair in exasperation.

“I’m asking you,” Olivia said, “for very little. Create a hospitable setting for him. Be polite. Get to know him as well or as little as you like. But remember, he’s going to be my stepson. In all probability, that is.”

Darcy winced. She had a horrid premonition that there was no “probability” involved. That Olivia would become Sloan English’s stepmother.

“Can I count on you?” Olivia asked.

Darcy pressed her hand against her midsection, which was suddenly queasy. She looked at her weeping sister. “Yes,” she said unhappily. “You can count on me.”

“Give him a chance, darling,” Olivia said. “You might actually like him.”

Right, Darcy thought bleakly. I’ll love him like a brother.

She hung up and turned to her sister. “Emerald,” she said as kindly as she could, “don’t cry—please.”

Emerald, who hated to be seen crying, stared at Darcy with swollen, brimming eyes. “She’s going to do it, isn’t she?” she said bitterly. “She’s going to marry that man—isn’t she?”

Darcy tried to keep her expression composed. She nodded. “It sounds like it.”

“It’ll be terrible,” Emerald said, and burst into a new freshet of tears. “It’ll be a disaster. He’s probably just after her money, and he’ll spend it all and make a fool of her—” Emerald gave a strangled little wail and hid her face in her hands again.

Stay calm, Darcy cautioned herself. Somebody around here has to. She went to Emerald and knelt beside her. She put her hand on her sister’s slender arm. “It may not happen. This thing may end as quickly as it started. These intense romances are like that. I’ve seen it happen before.”

Emerald straightened, dug a tissue from her waistband and wiped it across her nose with an angry gesture. “And that man—that churl who passed out on the floor—Mama wants him to come live in the lake house?”

Darcy shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “For just a few days. You don’t even have to see him. It’s all right.”

Emerald rolled her teary eyes heavenward. “I can’t believe it. His family’s already moving in and mooching off her. He’ll probably go through all her closets and drawers and steal the silverware—”

Darcy took Emerald’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Em, look at me. Calm down.”

“I don’t want to calm down,” Emerald shot back. “I don’t want a stepbrother. I don’t want a stepfather. I don’t want a step anything. Why can’t we just have Mama to ourselves? Why does she have to get mixed up with him? She can’t really know him. He could be a gigolo. Or a bigamist. Or one of those lonely hearts killers. Or—”

“Shh,” Darcy said, and laid her finger across her sister’s lips. “Listen. We don’t know anything about him—good or bad. But if the son comes here, we can find out. This is an opportunity.”

“Some opportunity,” Emerald said disdainfully.

“No. I mean it. I can find out things, feel him out.”

“He’ll probably feel you up,” Emerald retorted. “He’s probably a wolf like his father.”

“Whatever he is, I can handle him.”

“Ha! You don’t know that,” Emerald scoffed. “You don’t know a thing about him.”

“He may be just as suspicious of us as we are of him,” Darcy reasoned. “But I’ll gain his trust, win his confidence. Bit by bit, I’ll draw him out, and then we’ll know—”

“We won’t know anything,” Emerald argued. “He could lie his head off. I’ve got a better idea. Let’s not be nice to him. Let’s make him hate us. That’ll stop them.”

Darcy squeezed her sister’s arm. “No. Mama’d be appalled. We can’t—”

“We can’t let her go through with it, that’s what we can’t do,” Emerald said passionately. “I say that we break it up. Whatever it takes, we do.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Darcy warned. “My way’s best.”

Emerald narrowed her eyes. With a fierce gesture, she scrubbed away the last of her tears. “We’ll see whose way is best.”

Then she stood and walked to the fallen peanut butter sandwich. She picked it up, dropped it into the wastebasket, turned and left the room. She came back, almost immediately, wearing her boots. She carried her armor, her sword in its scabbard. Her back straight, she walked out the front door.

Darcy followed her as far as the porch. She put one hand on her hip and watched her sister stalk to her car.

“Emerald, where are you going?” she demanded. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going home,” Emerald said sulkily. “I’ve got to think.”

Once again, foreboding filled Darcy. “Then think over what I said. We have a great deal to gain from being nice to this Sloan person, and nothing to lose—”

“Except the silverware,” Emerald said sarcastically. “And, of course, Mama.”

SLOAN HAD STUDIED Darcy’s business card as diligently as a fortune-teller studying a tarot card for the answer to an impenetrable mystery.

The mystery, of course, was what he would say to her.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I behaved like a jackass—

Now what do I do?

Three times he had picked up the receiver to call her. Three times, he had set it down again, suddenly convinced the words he’d rehearsed were inadequate, utter tripe.

The clay pot of wildflowers sat on his bedside tray like a perfectly constructed rebuke to his foolishness. He had burst in on her rudely, full of suspicion and self-righteousness. In return, she had given him courtesy and a gift of beauty he did not deserve.

He stared at her card and eyed the flowers. He wondered how she had put such simple elements together in a way that was so striking and original—just as she seemed to be.

He was usually an articulate man, but he found himself tongue-tied. He was normally confident, but now he brimmed with indecision. He hated it, and, irrationally, he resented Darcy Parker for reducing him to this state.

A pretty Hispanic nurse looked in on him. She had raven black hair, which made him remember Darcy even more keenly. She had dark, bright eyes that had the same effect. She tilted her head and gave him a smile.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

An eraser that rubs out the whole day, he thought.

It occurred to him that he had a small electric notebook in his suitcase. It was powered by batteries and had Internet capability.

He could write Darcy, not phone her. It would be far less complicated. He could send her an e-mail—short, succinct and highly polished. He wouldn’t have to take the chance of bumbling and stuttering on the phone like an awkward schoolboy.

“Yeah,” he said with a feigned easiness. “In my overnighter, there’s a little computer in a leather case. One of the super-compact ones. Could I use it to send some e-mail?”

“Sure,” she said without hesitation. “At least I think so. They wouldn’t allow one in Intensive Care—it could interfere with the machines. But here? I don’t see why not.”

He started to rise, gripping the IV stand so he could roll it with him. Gently she pushed him back. “I’ll get it for you. Relax.”

She brought it to him. “I never saw one like that,” she said with delight. “It’s so little, so cute—like a toy.”

He nodded, but the thing was no toy; it was a five-thousand-dollar PowerBook, upgraded to the max.

“I hope you’re not going to work,” she joked. “You’re here to rest, you know.” She adjusted the IV dripping chemicals into his bloodstream.

“I’d rest better if they’d unhook this thing. It’s like being caught in a spiderweb.”

“Soon,” she said soothingly. “Another couple hours or so. Then we’ll have you up in no time.”

He nodded grimly, but thanked her. She left, and he switched on the computer. He typed in his password and pulled up his e-mail service. He hit the command to write, then stared at the blank screen. He drew a long breath from between clenched teeth. He began to type.

He tried to choose his words with such precision that it made his head ache again. He discovered his forehead was damp with sweat and his body taut with tension. He rearranged sentences, changed words, added phrases, deleted them, put them back.

He wrote and rewrote until the words danced like drunken elves in his brain. They chittered, idiot-like, and made no sense. Finally, in despair and fatigue, he gave in. Imperfect as the message was, he sent it. He switched off the computer and put it in the drawer beneath the bedside tray.

He lay back and closed his eyes. His head banged a doleful cadence like a funereal drum. He saw a silent fireworks show on the backs of his eyelids. For the thousandth time, he cursed Malay fever and every mosquito that had ever sipped blood.

His phone rang, and the noise was like a nail being driven into his skull. He winced and opened one eye. He picked up the receiver.

A perfectly charming voice spoke in his ear. “Hello, Sloan. My name is Olivia Ferrar. Your father’s friend. I’m so sorry to hear you’re ill.”

Oh, my God, thought Sloan. “Ms. Ferrar,” he said miserably, “I’m sorry I interfered in your personal business. I wasn’t myself, but that’s no excuse. Please accept my deepest apolo—”

“My dear, are you truly sorry?” she asked. The question took him aback.

“Absolutely,” he said with conviction. “If there were anything I could do to—”

She interrupted, but her voice was so warm and honeyed, he hardly noticed. “If there were anything you could do to make up for it, you’d do it?”

“Absolutely,” he repeated. “I’d do anything that—”

“Anything at all?” she cooed.

“Yes. Certainly. Anything,” he babbled. “Your wish is my—”

“Command?” She laughed. It was a bewitching laugh, low and genuine. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“Precisely.” He stifled a groan, closed his eyes and watched the fever fireworks. A particularly lovely cascade of dots exploded across the darkness. He watched them fall and die away.

“Your father says you have to stay in town a few days,” she said in her nectar-like voice. “My wish is that you stay at my house by the lake. As my guest. If you grant that wish, then I’ll know your apology is sincere.”

Sloan’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up in bed so fast it dizzied him. “Ms. Ferrar, I can’t—”

“Olivia,” she corrected. “And you must. If you won’t accept my invitation, you’ll simply break my heart, that’s what—”

“I can’t—” he tried again to say it. She wouldn’t let it be said.

“It wouldn’t be—” he tried to explain. She wouldn’t let it be explained.

She reasoned and teased, she begged and beguiled, she turned logic on its head and argued so sweetly and relentlessly, he ended up saying, “Yes,” in spite of himself.

“You’re a darling man,” she crooned in his ringing ear. “You sound just like your father.”

When she at last said goodbye, he fell back against the pillow, exhausted. She’d rolled right over him like a freight train full of charm.

His father, he realized, had never had any chance of resisting this woman.

Neither had he. A man could fight Malay fever and he could fight Olivia Ferrar—but he couldn’t fight both at once.

He closed his eyes and wearily thought, Let the fireworks begin.

They did, a whole rainbow of them, colorful as Texas wildflowers.