Page 35 of Hotter than Wildfire

“And I didn’t want it either because you can be sure Gerald Montez is watching hospitals and monitoring police stations.” He pulled his chair closer to the bedside, the chair’s legs scraping along the hardwood floor. He tightened his hand over hers. “He has no idea where you are. And it’s going to stay that way.”

“Um, to tell you the truth, I don’t know where I am, either.”

“I told you. My place.”

“Which is?”

“Coronado Shores.” His eyes widened at her blank look. “You don’t know San Diego, do you?”

Ellen shook her head, amazed that it didn’t hurt. “No, I’ve never been here before. I’m assuming it’s along the beach because it sounds like the ocean out there. So, you patched me up.” She moved her right shoulder, lifted her right arm, moving with ease. Above all, that horrible feeling of weakness was gone.

She looked down at herself. She had a vague memory of wearing a huge tee shirt but now she had on a pale peach nightgown. Pure silk. Absolutely gorgeous. Possibly La Perla. “More than patched me up. You seem to be pretty prepared for caring for women who’ve been shot. You’ve got a hospital bed, an IV line, presumably surgical instruments.” She brushed her hands along the soft peach material. “Silk nightgowns. Do you have a habit of rescuing women?”

It was the wrong thing to say. His face froze, something, some strong emotion—grief?—crossed his features.

Harry stood up suddenly. “No, I don’t often rescue women. The hospital cot and IV line come from my partner’s house. His wife, Nicole, cared for her father at their house until his death.”

“I sort of remember a beautiful woman coming into the room. I thought she was a dream. Was that your partner’s wife?”

“Yeah. They were going to throw the hospital stuff out after her father passed away but they ended up storing it. I have a medical kit for—for emergencies. Nicole lent you one of her gowns. There are several other clean ones in a drawer for you. So as you see, I was equipped to help you. Luckily, you weren’t shot directly. The bullet was a ricochet and it wasn’t even that deep. I dug it out, debrided the wound and closed it up again. You have 8 stitches. I used self-absorbing thread, they’ll be gone in a day or two. They’re not perfect, you might need some plastic surgery later⁠—“

Ellen never wanted near a needle again in her life. “No, I’m good.”

“You were out of it for a long time, but from what I could tell it was more exhaustion than the effects of the wound. Am I right?”

She nodded. A year on the run, and then almost 72 hours straight without sleep. There’d been bone deep fatigue. Ellen drew in a deep breath, sending out feelers to the far extremities of her body. She still felt a little weak, but completely rested. Another thing⁠—

“You were there, weren’t you?” Ellen pointed to the chair by the bed. “All the time.”

He hesitated a moment before answering, eyes watching hers. To see how she’d react? “Yeah. Except for bathroom and shower breaks. Nicole brought me some food from time to time. But mostly, yeah, I was here.”

Wow. Four days and four nights, on a chair. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t necessary. I don’t think that I was in danger of dying or anything. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did.” His eyes bored into hers, that fierce light brown reflecting the light from the windows. “At times you were…restless. You had nightmares. You’d wake up terrified, panting. I couldn’t leave you alone to wake up in the dark in a place you didn’t know.”

Now, now she remembered. The dreams that turned so quickly into nightmares, waking up terrified in the dark, a strong steady hand holding hers.

Warmth and strength, in the night. Not alone, in the night.

It was the reason she was feeling…refreshed. When she’d slept, when the nightmares weren’t chasing her, it had been deep.

She hadn’t slept one night through to morning this whole past year. She put herself into a shallow sleep, alert in some part of her brain to the noises of the night. A barking dog, a car’s exhaust, a fighting couple, a slamming door—they’d all been enough to wake her, gasping for breath, grasping for the knife she kept under her pillow. The knife that was still under her pillow in her miserable little studio apartment which she’d never see again.

These past nights, there had been stretches of real sleep. At some deep level, the animal part of her had known she was safe.

For now, there was no danger to her at all, unless you counted starvation. She opened her mouth to ask for some food, but he beat her to it.

“Okay. I’m going to get you some breakfast now.” One last, intense glance, as if to make sure that she was okay, and he stood, hand still on hers.

She remembered he’d had on a dress shirt in his office, then he’d had a gray tee shirt, then a polo shirt, and now he was wearing a black tee that hugged his huge chest, the sleeves almost too small for those bulging biceps. He had an unusual figure—absurdly broad through the shoulders with big arms, very lean and narrow through the waist.

He lifted his hand and she immediately felt the chill, which was ridiculous. Warm wind was blowing in through the open French doors.

Ellen watched him walk away, tall, enormously broad-shouldered, tee shirt and jeans rumpled, and she felt bereft. Which was crazy. Her body might be sending frantic it’s all okay, don’t worry signals, but she didn’t know this man at all. Granted he might not be Satan’s spawn, a spy for Gerald, but he could be anything. Mean, violent, even crazy.

Though as she was telling herself this, even she didn’t take herself seriously. A violent crazy man didn’t spend four days and four nights on a chair in case a woman he didn’t know woke up alone and afraid.

There were clattering noises and more good smells. Of bread and cinnamon, the dark chocolaty notes of coffee underlying them.