Читать книгу Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed - Джанис Мейнард, Janice Maynard - Страница 9

Three

Emma moved her shoulders and moaned. “My head hurts,” she whispered. When she tried to focus her eyes, rectangular ceiling tiles above her bed marched from one side of the room to the other. For some reason, that drunken motion made her think of the intricately plastered frieze in her childhood bedroom. She remembered trying to count the individual roses on days when she was ill in bed and stuck at home.

Sadly, this generic space was not nearly as beautiful.

At some point, an unknown set of hands had replaced her clothing with a standard issue hospital gown. The warm blanket tucked up around her shoulders should have felt comforting, but instead, she found it claustrophobic.

Despite her discomfort, she shifted until both arms were free.

An older nurse with kind eyes patted her hand. “You have a concussion. Try not to upset yourself. The pain meds will be kicking in any moment now.”

“How long was I out?” She could swear she had only closed her eyes for a moment.

“Not terribly long. But enough for us to get a couple of X rays. They were concerned about your leg, but nothing is broken. You’ll have to have a few stitches on your cheek and shin, but that’s not too bad considering what might have happened.”

“Oh...good...” Someone must have pumped wonderful drugs into her IV, because even with the pain, she was floating on a cloud of worry-free lassitude. Something important nagged at the corners of her mind, but she didn’t have the clarity to summon it.

Time passed. Perhaps minutes or hours. She had no clue. She was aware of drifting in and out. Surely it must be dinnertime by now, but she had no appetite.

At one point she was startled by a loud crash in the hallway. Turning her head toward the window, she noted that it was dark. How odd. She remembered heading toward the supermarket for milk. And though the details were fuzzy, she recalled the accident.

But after that things blurred.

When she awoke the next time, her body rebelled. Turning her head, she gagged and reached for the button to summon help. The woman came instantly, offered a basin and spoke soothingly as Emma emptied the contents of her stomach.

The nurse’s scrubs were covered in Christmas trees and snowmen. “It’s normal, I’m afraid,” she said. “The medicine helps the pain, but some people don’t tolerate it very well. Try to sleep.”

She lowered the lights again and the door swished shut. Feeling dreadfully alone and miserable, Emma was no longer able to stem the flow of tears. She sobbed quietly.

A warm hand stroked her hair. “Hush, Emma. Don’t cry. Go back to sleep.”

Her eyelids felt weighted down. But she forced them open for long enough to make out the shape of a man seated in a chair beside her bed. “Aidan? I thought I dreamed you.”

His laugh sounded rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “I’m afraid not.”

“Why are you here?” The syllables slurred together. She was so very tired.

Still he stroked her hair. “It doesn’t matter. You’re going to be okay. Go to sleep.”

* * *

When she awoke toward morning, her brain was clearer, but her body felt as if she had gone three rounds with a professional boxer. Maybe the medicine was worth it after all.

In one surreptitious glance, she ascertained that the room was empty. The taste of disappointment filled her mouth. Perhaps Aidan had been a dream after all.

An aide came in with breakfast. Emma’s stomach flopped sickeningly at the scent of scrambled eggs, but the tea bag on the tray caught her attention. When the woman arranged the rolling table across Emma’s lap and raised the head of the bed, Emma thought she might be sick again.

Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and remained perfectly still until the feeling passed. At last, she summoned the energy to brew a life-saving cup of Earl Grey. With a dash of sugar, a squirt of lemon and a dollop of artificial creamer, the result was not entirely acceptable, but it was better than nothing.

She was poking at a lumpy biscuit when a female physician entered the room. “Ms. Braithwaite. How are you feeling?”

Emma shrugged. “Like I was hit by something big and hard?”

The doctor grinned. “Aptly put. We’ve patched you up, and all your stats are good. Don’t get me wrong. You’re going to be in bad shape for a few days. But you were very lucky. It could have been a lot worse. I’m thinking of releasing you later today once I see how you do with your meals. Is there anyone at home who can look after you? So you don’t have to be on your feet too much?”

Emma opened her mouth to speak, but before she could answer, a man stepped from the hallway into the room. “I’ll get her settled and make sure she has help.”

Aidan. She couldn’t have been any more surprised if the Loch Ness Monster had paraded down the hall. Apparently the sexy phantom in her dreams was entirely real.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said firmly. Even as she spoke, she scrambled mentally for other alternatives.

Mia would be willing to lend a hand, but she had a baby to care for and a wedding to plan. And Emma definitely was not going to ask Aidan’s mother for help. Which left Mrs. Correll, the retired lady who worked part-time at the antique store. But the older woman battled arthritis and couldn’t climb stairs.

Emma hadn’t lived in Silver Glen all that long. Certainly not long enough to have an extensive list of friends on hand to provide casseroles and sympathy soup.

Aidan ignored Emma’s protest. He gave the white-coated physician a high-wattage smile that made her blink twice. “I’ll make sure she follows your orders exactly, Doctor. You can count on me.”

The doctor departed. Emma stared at the man who once upon a time had been her knight in shining armor. “I can explain,” she said, eager to clear the air.

Aidan held up a hand, his gaze wintry. “I don’t want to hear anything about the past or why you’re here. I’m not interested, Emma. I’m going to take you home and sleep on your couch overnight. But that’s it. I have no desire to hear anything you have to say. Are we clear?”

Her heart sank. She had hoped his animosity might have dwindled after all this time. But, no. She was an unwelcome obligation to him. Nothing more. Not even worth the effort of polite conversation.

Her throat tight, she nodded. Though it pained her to admit it, she didn’t have the luxury of arguing with him. If Aidan’s assurances of aid were enough to get her dismissed from the hospital, then she would swallow the words that wanted to tumble forth in a plea for understanding.

She watched him focus his gaze on the muted television as he feigned great interest in an infomercial for egg separators. His profile was dear and familiar, but the boy she had once known was gone, replaced by a man with even broader shoulders and a physique that was honed and strong.

His dark brown hair with a hint of red was expertly cut, his clothing masculine and expensive. The young university student she remembered had flaunted shaggy locks and a succession of rock-and-roll T-shirts that showcased his flat abdomen. Close-fitting denims had outlined long legs and a tight butt. His grin and American accent won over every girl in a ten-mile radius. But at the end of the day, he went home to Emma’s off-campus apartment.

Shaking off the poignant memories, she stared at him. He’d said no explanations, so what else was there to talk about?

Abruptly, he turned to face her. “I’ll ask the nurses’ station to call me when they’re ready to dismiss you. In the meantime, I have errands to run.”

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Emma ate and drank and did everything that was asked of her. For one panicked hour she contemplated faking a relapse to avoid being alone with the painfully distant man who looked so much like the Aidan Kavanagh she had once known. But as much as she dreaded being beholden to the glacial-eyed Aidan, she also wanted to get out of this noisy hospital and back into her own bed.

After a long afternoon of additional tests and X rays and blood work, a physician’s assistant showed up and announced that Emma was free to go. Aidan appeared just as she tried standing beside the bed to dress in her sadly damaged street clothes.

He cursed quietly. “For God’s sake. You’re going to fall over.” Her tights were badly torn. Aidan took one look at them and tossed them in the trash. “You’ll have to go bare-legged on the way home,” he said, “but I assume you live close?”

She nodded, humiliated by the way he tucked and pulled and fastened her bits and pieces as if she were a helpless child. Tension radiated from his large frame. Her head pounded, but she was damned if she would show weakness in front of this brusque stranger.

When her few belongings were gathered and in her lap, an orderly eased her into a wheelchair and gave Aidan a nod. “If you’ll bring your car around to the front entrance, sir, I’ll meet you there with Ms. Braithwaite.”

Aidan nodded and vanished.

Emma wouldn’t have minded a tour of the hospital, or a quick peek at the maternity ward with all the brand-new babies. Anything to postpone the moment of truth.

If she hadn’t been in so much pain, physical and mental, the pun might have made her smile. Aidan didn’t want to hear the truth. He’d already judged her and found her guilty. He believed that she had betrayed his trust. In his defense, the evidence had been pretty damning.

Outside, the wind was no less biting than it had been the day before. Only now it was dark as well. By the time she sank into the passenger seat of Aidan’s fancy sports car with the heated leather seats, she was shivering. He grabbed a jacket from the backseat and handed it to her.

“Wrap that around your legs.” He paused, staring out the windshield. His granite jaw flexed. “I need your address.”

She sensed that having to ask for that one small piece of information pissed him off. Muttering the street and number, she leaned back and closed her eyes. The car smelled like him. Maybe he would let her sleep here. The prospect of making it all the way to her bed was daunting to say the least.

He parked at the curb in front of her business, his hands clenched on the wheel. “Here?” he asked, incredulity in his voice.

“I have an apartment upstairs. You don’t need to stay. Really.”

Ignoring her statement completely, he half turned in his seat and fixed her with a steady gaze that left her feeling naked...and not in a good way. The hazel eyes that had once twinkled with good humor were flat. It was difficult to believe that anything about this older, tougher Aidan twinkled.

His jaw worked. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that Lady Emma Braithwaite was an heiress. To the tune of several million pounds. I can’t fathom why she would be here in the mountains of North Carolina running an antiques shop when she grew up in a damned castle.” He was practically shouting at the end.

“It wasn’t a castle.” His sarcasm cut deep, but it also made her angry. “You said you didn’t want any explanations,” she reminded him. “If you don’t mind, I’m very tired and I need to take some medicine. If you’ll help me up the stairs, you can go.” She managed an even-toned, reasonable response until her voice broke on the last word. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she swallowed and inhaled the moment of weakness.

After several long, pregnant seconds, Aidan muttered something inaudible and got out, slamming his door hard enough to rattle the window beside her. Before she could brace herself for what came next, he opened her side of the car and leaned in to scoop her into his arms.

She shrank back instinctively, unwilling to get any closer. He stumbled when her quick movement threw him off balance. “Put your arm around my neck, Emma. Before I drop you.” Irritation accented every syllable.

“Are you always so grumpy?” she asked. If anyone had cause to be out of sorts, it was she.

He locked the car with the key fob and settled her more firmly into his embrace. “Don’t push it.”

To the left of her storefront, a single narrow door gave entrance to a steep flight of steps. The building dated back to the early days of Silver Glen. When Aidan took the key from her and let himself in, she wondered if his big frame would make it up the stairwell, especially carrying her.

But he was a natural athlete. She never even felt a jostle or a bump as he ascended to the second floor and her quaint apartment. His chest and his arms were hard, though he carried her carefully. If it were possible, she thought she might get drunk on the scent of his skin and the faint starchy smell of his crisp cotton shirt.

A second door at the top required a key as well. By now, Aidan should have been breathing heavily. Emma was five-eight and not a slip of a woman. But he managed the final hurdle and kicked open the door, reaching with one hand to turn on the light.

She knew the exact moment he spotted her sofa. The red, velvet-covered Victorian settee was designed more for looks than for comfort. It was definitely not meant for sleeping. Fortunately, she owned a more traditional chair and ottoman that were tucked up close to her gas-log fireplace. If Aidan were determined to spend the night, he would be under no illusions as to his accommodations.

The apartment was fairly warm. When she’d left the day before, she had only been nipping out to grab the milk, intending to return in little more than a half hour. That was a blessing. If the rooms had been ice-cold as they sometimes were, her misery would have been complete.

He set her on her feet in the bedroom, not even glancing at her large brass bed with its intensely feminine white lace sheets and comforter. “Can you get ready for the night on your own?” His hands remained on her shoulders, though it was clear he was lending physical support, nothing more.

“Of course.” Her right leg felt as if someone had delved into it with an ax, and her head was a heartbeat away from a painful explosion, but she’d die before she would admit it. She had been brought up not to make a fuss. Her father hadn’t liked female histrionics, as he called them.

Aidan stared down at her. For the first time, she saw something in his eyes that told her the past might be gone, but it was not forgotten. For the space of one brief, heart-stopping breath, she was sure she witnessed tenderness. But it vanished in an instant...perhaps never there to begin with. He unbuttoned her bedraggled coat and eased it from her shoulders.

“Where are your pajamas?” he asked.

She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I’ll get them. Go fix yourself a cup of coffee.”

One eyebrow lifted. “You have coffee?”

In England, she had done her best to wean him from the uncivilized beverage. “For guests,” she said stiffly.

He nodded once and walked away. Sinking down onto the bed, she told herself she could manage to wash up and change clothes. It was a matter of pride and self-preservation. Having Aidan help was unthinkable. She was far too aware of him as it was. His physical presence dwarfed her cozy apartment.

In the bathroom she dared to glance in the mirror and groaned. Why had no one seen fit to give her a hairbrush? Moving as carefully as an old lady, she removed her rumpled and stained blouse and skirt and stripped off her undies and bra. Bruises already marked her skin in a dozen places. She had been given strict instructions not to get her stitches wet, so a shower was out. With a soft washcloth and a bar of her favorite lavender soap, she managed a quick cleanup.

When she was done, she realized that she had forgotten to get a nightgown from the bureau. Wrapping a towel around herself sarong-style, she opened the bathroom door and walked into the bedroom.

As she did so, she caught Aidan leaning down to put a cup of steaming hot tea on her bedside table.