Читать книгу Scrooge and the Single Girl - Christine Rimmer - Страница 10

That cat of Jillian’s got up and stretched. It had started purring again. Loudly. It sat and licked its right front paw for a minute or two, then swiped the paw twice over its tattered ear. And then it just sat there, >looking up at him. Adoringly.

Will found the situation nothing short of unnerving. “Get lost,” he growled.

The cat didn’t move. The purring, if anything, seemed to grow louder. Mentally, Will drew the line. If that animal started rubbing itself against his leg, he was going to kick it. Firmly.

He didn’t like cats. Or dogs. Pets in general left him cold. Strangely, most animals seemed to like him. He didn’t get it. He just wished they would leave him alone.

The cat rose up on all fours and took a step toward him.

“Don’t,” he said loudly.

The cat dropped to its haunches again and went back to staring and purring with low, dreamy eyes. Will stared back for another two or three seconds, a hard stare, a stare meant to impart how unwelcome he found the attention of animals in general and raggedy-eared calico cats in particular. The cat stayed where it was. He began to feel it would be safe to get back to his book.

He had just lowered his gaze to the open volume in his lap when a particularly hard gust of wind wailed outside. Faintly, he heard that popping crack—like a distant pistol shot. He recognized the sound. A nearby tree had lost a good-sized branch.

He glanced up in time to see the cat blink and perk up its one good ear. Reluctantly, he thought of Jillian. Was it possible that she—?

Ridiculous. No way she could have managed to walk under the wrong tree at exactly the wrong moment. He was just edgy because it was Christmastime, and in his experience, at Christmastime, if something bad could happen, it would.

He shook his head and looked down at his book again. These interruptions were damned irritating. As if he didn’t have enough trouble keeping all those Russian names straight even under the most ideal of circumstances.

He read on. One page. Two.

How long had she been out there, anyway? Five minutes? More?

He looked up again. This time he found himself staring at the door, waiting for her to come bursting through it, that mouth of hers going a mile a minute, her arms full of whatever it was she just couldn’t last a whole night without.

But it didn’t happen. The door stayed closed.

So what? he tried to tell himself. She was Jillian, after all. Who knew what went on with a woman like that? She was probably only dithering as usual, fiddling with all those grocery bags, deciding she needed this or that, then changing her mind.

He tried to go back to his book one more time.

But it was no good. She’d been out there too long.

He swore and slammed the book shut.

Jilly blinked. For some strange reason, she was lying down, looking up through the bare branches of a tree at the stormy night sky. The wind was blowing hard and the snow was coming down and it was very cold. Also, she had a doozy of a headache.

She moaned and put a hand to her head, felt something warm and sticky. “Eeuu,” she said. “Ugh.”

Really, it was too cold to be lying around in the snow.

With effort, she turned over and got up on her hands and knees. From that position, though she found she swayed a little, she could see the tree branch that had hit her. It was directly in front of her. The memory of that split second before impact came back to her. She supposed it was a good thing she’d looked up when she did. As a result, it hadn’t landed right on top of her but had only kind of grazed her forehead. She touched the tender, bloody spot again. A goose egg was rising there. Now, that was going to be really attractive.

And wait a minute. Her hair was blowing into her mouth, plastered against her cheeks. Which meant her hat was gone. Now, where could it have—?

“Whoa,” she said as she realized she was listing to the right. She put her hand back down on the freezing snow. It sank in about five inches, all the way to the hard, rocky ground below.

Better, she thought—if, in this situation, there was such a thing. At least on all fours, she could keep her balance.

She turned her head—slowly, since it did ache a lot—to the right. Through the blowing tendrils of her hair, she saw a bag of Cheez Doodles and a tree trunk. She looked the other way, saw her boom box and CD folder and beyond that a ways, an old house.

Ah. She remembered everything now. That was Mad Mavis’s house. She was staying there. Just for the night, as it had turned out. Will Bravo was in there, reading Crime and Punishment, listening to National Public Radio, and, she hoped, beginning to wonder why she hadn’t come back in yet.

But no. Forget Will. He didn’t like her. He didn’t want her here. It would be a big mistake just to lie here, waiting for him to put down his book and come out and rescue her.

And besides, she was an independent, self-reliant woman and that meant she could take care of herself. She’d got herself into this jam and, by golly, she’d get herself out.

Could she stand?

Carefully, she lifted one hand again—and almost pitched sideways. She put the hand down.

“Ho-kay,” she muttered to herself. “Standing up goes in the Doubtful column.”

She glanced with regret at her Cheez Doodles. But there was no hope for getting them—or the boom box or the CDs—inside. Not this trip. She needed both hands in order to crawl.

So she started moving, slowly, with difficulty, more dragging herself, really, than crawling. She was thinking that if she could just make it to the porch, she could pound on the wall and Will would come out and help her the rest of the way. He might be a jerk, but he wasn’t a total monster. Maybe she could even convince him to go get her Cheez Doodles and her tunes—not that she was counting on that. Oh, no. Just hoping.

She was perhaps a quarter of the way to the porch when she started thinking that maybe she could force herself upright, stagger forward for a while and then go ahead and continue crawling when she fell down again. Yes. That would probably work. She really was feeling less dizzy by the second, which was a very good thing, as the less dizzy she was, the faster she could get herself back inside and out of this bone-chilling cold. She levered up onto her knees.

Miracle of miracles, she stayed there. Her teeth were chattering harder than ever, but she didn’t think she was going to fall over just then. She shoved at her unruly, wet hair, pushing it out of her eyes. Next step, bring one foot forward and—

But she didn’t get to that, because right then, she noticed that Will was striding toward her through the snow.

In no time at all, he was looming above her. “Damn it, Jilly.” The wind was making a lot of noise, and he spoke softly, for once. But still, she made out what he said.

Hey, she thought. Jilly. For the first time, he’d called her Jilly. Was this progress—or just a wild hallucination brought on by a blow to the head?

She didn’t much care. “You know, I have to admit it. I’m really glad to see you.”

He didn’t reply to that. She wondered if she’d even managed to say it aloud. And then she forgot to wonder as he knelt down and scooped her up into his strong arms, pulling her close to his hard, warm chest. She hooked an arm around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder with a sigh, all the reasons she disliked him for that moment forgotten.

Her head throbbed as he rose to his feet again, but the pain hardly registered. She was just so grateful he had come out and found her. She snuggled closer as he carried her into the house, stopping to stomp the snow off his boots before he went in, kicking the door closed with great authority once they’d crossed the threshold into the warmth and the light.

He took her to the narrow iron bed that served as a sofa and gently laid her down. He tucked pillows tenderly beneath her head. With care, he smoothed her snow-wet hair away from her face, frowning, looking at the goose egg swelling at her temple.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“I’ve seen worse.” He patted her arm in doctorly fashion. He’d been such a complete crab since she’d knocked on his door that evening, it came as a pleasant surprise to learn that he could drum up a very respectable bedside manner when he had to.

Her booted feet, still encrusted with snow, hung over the side of the couch. He dropped down there and undid the laces and slid them off. She went ahead and straightened herself out on the couch as he stood.

“Right back,” he said, and left her. She watched him set her boots by the door and then, still wearing his jacket, he disappeared behind the half-wall that marked off the living area from the kitchen.

She groaned and felt the bump at her temple. Her fingers came away smeared with blood. But it wasn’t too bad. She strained to look down at herself. Everything in the right place, it seemed to her. And there wasn’t that much blood. She could see a few drops on her coat, but nothing to get too worried about.

He returned with an ice pack and a damp cloth, sat down beside her and oh-so-gently began dabbing at her temple.

She winced. “Let me…”

He gave her the cloth. She cleaned herself up. Then he passed her the ice pack. She set the soiled cloth on the table beside her and pressed the ice pack over the bump. It felt good. Soothing.

He peered more closely at her, his brow furrowed. “Do you know who I am?”

That made her smile. “As if I could ever forget.”

He actually smiled back—well, almost. There was a definite lift at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me.”

“Your name is Will Bravo—and thanks. For coming out and checking on me.”

“No problem. Are you hurt anywhere else, except for that bump on your head?”

She considered a moment. “No. Nowhere. Everything’s fine.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“For a minute or two, I think.”

He got up again and went through the curtain at the end of the makeshift sofa. He came out with a cell phone, punched a button on it. But when he put it to his ear, he shook his head.

“Not working, huh?”

He turned the phone off and set it down. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

“I tried mine earlier. It didn’t work either.”

“The storm, probably—not that cell phones ever work all that well up here.”

“How comforting.”

“I was going to call 911.” His mouth twisted ruefully.

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine. Though I could use an aspirin or two.”

He frowned. “Better not.”

She dragged herself to a sitting position. “Because?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You are feeling better.”

“I am. Better by the minute.” She slipped off her coat, one arm and then the other, switching hands to keep the ice pack over her injury. “If I could just have that aspirin. Or Tylenol. Or—”

“No. You should wait, I think. See if you develop any symptoms.” He took the coat from her and went to hang it by the door.

She asked, “Symptoms of…?”

“Serious brain injury.”

She pulled the ice pack away from her forehead and gingerly poked at the goose egg. “My brain is fine.” He turned toward her again, clearing his throat in such a way that she knew just what he was thinking. “Don’t go there,” she muttered.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—and keep that ice pack on that bump.”

“Right. Tell me more about these possible symptoms.”

“Things like nausea, disorientation, seizures, vomiting…”

It wasn’t going to happen. As she kept trying to tell him, she was just fine. “And if I do develop those symptoms, then what?” He was back to his old self again, glaring at her. She told him what. “Nothing. Because there’s nothing we can do. We can’t call 911. The phones don’t work. We can’t get out of here because of the storm. We’re not going anywhere until tomorrow, at least.”

“And your point is?”

“There’s nothing to wait for, no medical professionals to consult. What happens, happens—though, as I keep telling you, I’m going to be fine. So could I please have a couple of Tylenol?”

He disappeared into the depths of the kitchen. He was back maybe two minutes later, with a glass of water and the pills she’d asked for. She took them. “Thank you.”

He waited until she’d set the empty glass on the little table beside the sofa bed and then he asked, “Where are the things you went outside to get?”

She confessed, “I left them where they fell, under that tree out there. I couldn’t carry them and crawl at the same time.”

“And what, exactly, are they?”

Reluctantly, she told him.

He grunted. “Absolute necessities, huh?”

“So I exaggerated—and don’t worry, I don’t expect you to—”

But he was already turning for the door again. She let him go. It wasn’t really dangerous out there, between the house and the vehicles—as long as you didn’t have the misfortune to be under a tree when it lost a big branch. And what were the odds of that happening again?

No worries. He’d be fine.

And he was. He came back in the door a few minutes later. He had her boom box and her CDs and even her hat. “Your Cheez Doodles must have blown away.”

It could have been worse. She thanked him again.

He set her things on the kitchen table and then turned to find her starting to stand. “Stay there.”

She made a face at him—but she did sit back down.

He shrugged out of his jacket. “Just lie back and relax for a while.”

“I told you, I feel—”

“Jillian. Humor me.” He hung the jacket on its peg. “For an hour or so, just stay there on the couch where I can keep an eye on you.”

She didn’t like the way he said that. As if she were some spoiled, undependable child who might get into all kinds of trouble if left to her own devices.

Not that she could completely blame him for seeing her that way. After all, she had gotten herself into trouble and she was very lucky he’d been around to help out. She had no doubt she would have made it back inside on her own, but it would not have been fun crawling the rest of the way, and her boom box and CDs would still be out in the snow.

So okay. She owed him. She’d do what he told her to do—for an hour. She glanced at her watch—8:05—and then slanted him a look from beneath the shadow of the ice pack. “I’ll lie here till five after nine, and that’s it.”

He said nothing, just went back to his chair, picked up his book, sat down and started reading again.

Jilly plumped up the two skimpy throw pillows and stretched out once more on the creaky old sofa bed. She readjusted the ice pack so it would stay in place by itself, which meant her right eye was covered. She folded her hands over her stomach and stared, one-eyed, at the ceiling.

Like the walls, the ceiling was paneled in wood. What kind of wood, she had no idea. It had all been painted in high-gloss white enamel long, long ago. The enamel was yellowed now and cracked in places.

For a while, as she studied the ceiling, she strained her ears to hear the radio. But he had it turned down so low, all she could make out were two voices speaking with English accents—maybe about world hunger, though there was no way she could be absolutely sure. What in the world, she wanted to ask him, is the point of listening to the radio if you have it down so low, you can’t hear what they’re saying?

But she didn’t ask him. Who cared? She didn’t. Let him read his big, fat, pretentious book.

He turned a page. The propane-burning wall heater not far from the kitchen door came on—a click, followed by a rushing sound as the gas was released and set alight by the pilot. Outside, the wind went on howling away.

Jilly sighed. She glanced at her watch—8:17. At this rate, she’d be an old woman by the time the hour was up.

Yes, she knew it. A total inability to lie still and do nothing unless she happened to be asleep was another of her faults. But she would do it. She would keep her agreement with him. Forty-eight more minutes of staring at the ceiling coming right up.

Missy, who’d apparently taken it upon herself to wander into Will’s bedroom, came sliding through the split in the curtain—this one printed with palm trees—that served as his bedroom door. She strutted across the black-and-red spotted linoleum, tail held high.

Jilly couldn’t resist. She lowered her left hand close to the floor and gestured to Missy to come over and see her.

Will looked up. “Problem?”

“No, not at all.” Jilly folded her hands on her stomach again and made herself stare ceiling-ward. But a minute later, she couldn’t resist a glance in Missy’s direction.

The traitor. She’d found a seat near Will’s feet and was looking up at him as if she understood the true meaning of love at last.

Jilly lifted the ice pack briefly in order to check out the bump on her head. It didn’t feel all that bad. And her headache really was better. There was no reason at all for her to lie here one minute longer.

Except that she had said she would, and that she owed Will and this was what he wanted from her, so that if she went into convulsions or started imagining that she was Napoleon, he would be right there to…what?

To nothing. As she’d kept trying to tell him, if brain damage was in the offing, there wasn’t a thing he’d be able to do.

He must have felt her exasperated stare, because he looked up again. “What?”

“Nothing.” She carefully set the ice pack back in place, stifled a sigh and took up staring at the ceiling once more.

Decades later, it was 9:05. Jilly set the ice pack on the side table, and swung her feet to the floor.

Will glanced up from his book. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Fine. Incredible.”

“Maybe you ought to—”

She put up a hand. “Don’t. I did what you wanted. I’m feeling great. May I please be excused?”

He grunted. “All right, Jillian. Go.”

I am dismissed, she thought. At last.

She stood. There was a slight throbbing in her temple, but nothing to worry about. Very manageable.

She headed straight for her coat.

She was just reaching to lift it from the peg when he demanded from behind her, “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

Lord, give me strength, she thought. Let me get through this night without murdering this man. She calmly took her coat off the peg.

“Jillian. Are you completely insane? You almost got yourself killed once tonight. You’re not giving it another try.”

The pure disgust in his voice really got to her. She had a powerful urge to start shouting rude things. But somehow, she managed to keep her cool as she faced him, holding out the coat. “See that? Bloodstains. Once they’re set, they’re almost impossible to get out. I’m taking this coat in the bathroom and I’m getting to work on these spots.”

He blinked. “You’re not going outside.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You’re going to spot-clean your coat.”

“That’s what I said.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

There was something about the way he said ridiculous. She knew what he meant by it. Oh, yes. She did. He meant that she was ridiculous.

“Will Bravo. You are pushing me. You are pushing me too far.”

“Just put the damn coat back on the peg. Go upstairs and lie down.”

“You are so hateful. So bitter. So mean.”

“Jillian—”

“It’s not my fault a tree branch fell on me. I’m very sorry you had to come out and rescue me.”

“I didn’t say—”

She waved a hand. “I don’t care what you said. I’m saying that I wish you’d just stayed in here by the fire with that damn book of yours. I would have made it in on my own.”

“You were barely—”

“I was getting there. All right, it wasn’t pretty, but I was managing.”

He dared to open his mouth again.

She didn’t even let him get a word out. “I want you to listen. I want you to hear me. I am sorry to be here, sorry to disturb you. I was tricked into being here. I swear if I’d had even a suspicion, even a scintilla of a notion that you might be here, I never, ever would have come within a hundred miles of this place.”

“I don’t care what—”

“I’m not finished. I’m not even close to finished.”

He raked a hand back through his hair, and he glared at her good and hard.

As if she cared how hard he glared. He had pushed her too far and he was going to get it.

She hit him with the one thing she would have sworn, until that moment, that she would never, ever have revealed to him. “I heard what you said about me two weeks ago at that party at Jane’s.”

He actually flinched. Good. He should flinch.

“I was right around the corner in the front hall when your mother suggested you ought to go and say hi to that ‘sweet little Jillian.’ Tell me, Will. Do you happen to remember what you said then?”

“Jillian, I—”

“Oh, no. Please. Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me tell you. You said that if you were looking for a woman—which you were not—the last woman in the world you’d go after would be me. Because you find me flighty. That’s right. Flighty. Flighty and…how did you put it? Ah. I remember. I’m ‘A silly woman with a silly job. A woman of absolutely no depth, a slave to fashion, the kind of woman who would jump over a dying man on the street in order to be at the head of the line when they unlock the doors for Nordstrom’s after-Christmas sale.”’