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Amazing, that it would be busy in the middle of a storm.
Or maybe not so amazing. A quick look told him that the customers patiently waiting to be waited on were probably on the road because they had to be. Truckers, mostly, plus some guys with the weary look of traveling salesmen.
They were heading to work or heading home, traveling because they had no choice.
Like Ariel and him.
He had to get her someplace where she could be helped.
The line shuffled forward.
Not one of those facilities the doctor had talked about. Imagining her in a place like that made him shudder.
Where, then? There had to be small, private residences where a woman with amnesia could be cared for.
Not that she’d need much care.
The line inched forward.
She was, as Stafford had said, a woman who couldn’t remember things, but there was nothing wrong with her intellect. As for her cuts and bruises—they’d heal, as would her wrist.
The line moved again.
All she really needed was somebody to prepare her meals. See to it she took her meds. Help her dress and undress and bathe, and, goddammit, the thought of her undressing sent a river of heat from the top of his head straight down to his toes.
“Mister?”
What kind of SOB was he to get hot, thinking about a woman in trouble? Ariel needed his protection, not what was happening behind his fly.
“Hey. Hey, pal.”
A finger poked into his shoulder. He jerked around, heart slamming in his chest when he found himself face-to-face with a State Trooper.
If there was a quicker way to stop an erection, he couldn’t come up with it.
“The line,” the trooper said. “It’s moving, dude. You wanna move with it?”
“Yes. Sure. Sorry.”
The trooper shrugged. “No problem.”
The sight of the trooper had caught him by surprise, but it shouldn’t have worried him. Pastore would sure as hell be searching for Ariel. For him, too, by now, but the odds were zero to none that he’d have alerted the police. He’d want to keep this private.
Very private.
He began to worry that he’d left Ariel alone. Yeah, but he’d told her not to open the door. What was she doing as she waited for his return? Sleeping, he hoped. She was obviously exhausted. In the best of all worlds, he’d unlock the door to their room and find her in bed, curled on her side, her eyes closed.
The line moved up again.
She had beautiful eyes, even ringed in black and blue.
Everything about her was beautiful.
He’d seen her twice now, once wearing some kind of silky-looking dress, her hair carefully arranged, makeup on her face, and then tonight, wearing scrubs, her hair disheveled, her eyes blackened, her face bruised.
“Good evening, and welcome to McDonald’s.”
Seeing her that way hurt, not because it marred her beauty—nothing could do that—but because it meant she’d been hurt.
Deliberately hurt? That seemed more and more possible.
“Sir? Welcome to McDonald’s.”
And she needed him. Nobody else. Only him…
“Mister? You wanna place an order or not?”
Matteo blinked. The kid behind the counter was looking at him as if he were nuts.
Maybe he was. Maybe Ariel wasn’t the only one who needed to have her head examined. How else to explain what he was doing out here in the middle of a snowstorm, in the middle of nowhere, on the run with a woman he didn’t know.
Wrong.
He knew her. In his bones. In his heart. In his soul.
“Hey, pal, you getting something or not?”
“Sorry,” Matteo said, and looked at the kid. It occurred to him that he had no idea what Ariel would eat. Chicken? Fish? A Big Mac? Maybe none of the above. For all he knew, she was a vegetarian. Only one way to deal with the problem. He ordered everything: hamburgers, fish, chicken. Plus two large fries, two large coffees, and two containers of milk.
If she was a vegetarian, he’d work something out.
And if he needed to have his head examined, well, he’d work that out, too.
* * *
It wasn’t easy, getting back to the motel.
When he and Luca were kids, their mother had tried to make up for one of the many birthdays their father had missed by buying them what was, even then, an antiquated computer loaded with equally antiquated games.
One of the games had been a thing called Frogger. He thought of it now as he played a real-life version, dodging trucks and cars, trying to see through wind-driven gusts of snow, slipping and sliding as he made it across the road, loaded down with bags from the drugstore and McDonald’s.
Getting the key to the motel room out of his pocket took some fancy acrobatics, too, but once he had it in his hand, he realized unlocking the door without giving Ariel fair warning that he was coming in might not be the best idea.
So he put the bags down on the snowy porch and rapped his knuckles lightly against the door.
Nothing.
He rapped again.
Still nothing.
Either she was asleep or in the bathroom. Or she wasn’t there at all.
Anything was possible.
Matteo cursed, stabbed the key into the lock, turned it…and saw her.
She was on the bed, asleep, her knees drawn up almost to her chin. Her unbroken arm clutched the pillow; her hair streamed over it like waves of shining gold.
Her vulnerability, her fragility, her beauty made his throat constrict.
How could he ever have doubted he’d done the right thing tonight? He had, no question about it, and there was no way he’d abandon her to a so-called facility, no matter how good it was.
She needed him. Knowing that gave him a feeling he couldn’t put a name to. He only knew he’d never had a feeling like it before.
The wind brushed icy fingers against the back of his neck. He picked up the bags, stepped inside the room and elbowed the door shut. He dumped the bags next to the old armchair and sat down in it.
Ariel hadn’t stirred. Wasn’t she cold? The ancient heater was clanking and clinking, but it was cranking out only a pathetic amount of heat.
He’d drawn back the blankets.
She should have gotten under them.
Should he wake her? She needed nourishment. She needed to take the meds he’d picked up for her. He thought once again of how fragile she looked.
And he needed to hear the sound of her voice.
“Ariel?”
“Mmm.”
“Honey? It’s time for supper.”
“Matteo?”
He rose quickly and went to her.
“Yes, cara. How do you feel?”
She rolled onto her back and looked up at him through those lovely, wounded eyes.
“Have I slept very long?”
“No. An hour. Less than that.”
Yawning, she struggled up against the headboard, wincing when she accidentally brushed her injured wrist against it.
“Here,” he said. “Let me help you.”
“I can do it.”
There was determination in her words. He thought back to those moments in the hospital when she’d all but breathed fire. Did he have to revise his thinking? She was vulnerable, yes. Who wouldn’t be, in her situation, but fragile?
Maybe not.
“I’m sure you can,” he said, “but it’ll be easier if you let me help.”
He cupped her shoulders, eased her upright and steadied her while he arranged the pillows behind her back. It meant he had to lean forward a little, just enough so her hair brushed against his cheek.
It felt like silk. He wanted to turn his head and bury his face in that sweet softness.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said briskly. “Okay. Supper. But first…” He reached for the bag from the pharmacy. “These white pills are for pain. The brown an
d white jobs are an antibiotic.”
“No pain pills.”
She spoke the words in a way that told him she meant business. He decided not to argue. Instead, he went into the bathroom, took a paper cup from the small stack on the sink and filled it with water.
“Here we go,” he said, handing it to her.
“No pain pills,” she said again.
“Honey…”
She shrank back against the pillow. “I told you, I don’t like pills.”
The words were as filled with fear as with defiance.
“Okay. No pain pills.” He unscrewed the bottle of antibiotic capsules and shook one into his palm She looked at them with suspicion. “Ariel, this is Amoxicillin. It’s an antibiotic. See? The name’s right on the label. They won’t hurt you, honey. I’ll take one first, if that’ll make you feel better.”
She looked from his face to the capsule. Then she plucked it from his hand, popped it into her mouth, reached for the cup of water and swallowed.
“Good girl. Now, about this other stuff…”
