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Travis looked at Alex. "What can I do to make you feel better, darlin' ?"
"You can take me home," she whispered. "As nice as this place is, I'd really rather be sick in familiar surroundings."
Travis looked at the doctor. "We live in Malibu, but we came by plane. Can I fly her home?"
"I don't live in Malibu," Alex said wearily, "I live in—"
"Sure," the doctor said. "I'll give her something to control the nausea, you get that fever down with the aspirin, wrap her up in blankets, and you can take her to Malibu."
"But I don't live in—"
"Shut up," Travis said gently, and then he smiled and shook the doctor's hand. "Thanks, Doc."
"No problem." The doctor grinned. "Just be sure and take a bucket with you, just in case."
Alex said she felt like a Red Cross package.
Travis said she looked like a disaster area.
But he said it tenderly, as he strapped her into the seat beside him in the Comanche. She did, too. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and dark. Her hair was lank, after two days without shampooing, and the bucket she held clutched in her lap didn't do much to improve the picture.
She looked tired and ill and fragile, and in that moment, he knew that he felt something for this woman he had never felt before.
It scared the hell out of him.
"What?" she said, as a furrow appeared between his eyes.
"Nothing," he said briskly, and turned his attention to the plane.
She was sick for five days.
She threw up. She sweated. She moaned. She shivered. And Travis took care of her.
He held her head when she was sick, bathed her when she was hot. He soothed her when she moaned and warmed her with his body when she shivered. And then, on the morning of the sixth day, Alex woke up, stretched, yawned—and announced that she could eat a horse.
Travis sat up, too. "Does that mean you're feeling better?" he said, with a hopeful smile.
She grinned. "I feel wonderful." Her grin faded. "Were you here, all the time? Or did I dream it?"
"Well," he said modestly, "not all the time. I took five minutes off, every now and then, for things like showering and making coffee."
"Yes, but you were with me all the rest of the time." Her eyes met his. "You didn't have to do it, you know. You could have taken me home. I have a housekeeper."
His smile tilted. He cupped her face, smoothed her hair back from her temples and kissed the tip of her nose.
"Yes," he said softly. "I know."
The look on his face was gentle, as was the touch of his hands, and the warmth of his smile made her want to lean into his arms and cling to him—cling to him, forever—proof, surely, that she was still under the weather. Otherwise, she'd never have wanted such a thing.
"I wanted to take care of you, Princess. It's as simple as that."
Alex nodded gravely. "Thank you."
Their eyes met, their glances held. Travis wanted to gather her into his arms, hold her, tell her—tell her...
Instead, he cleared his throat. "There's nothing to thank me for," he said lightly. "Just be sure and put me in for the Nobel Prize and we'll call it an even trade."
She laughed—until she looked past him and glimpsed herself in the mirror. "Oh my goodness! Is that me?"
"Is what you?"
"That—that creature I see in the mirror. Whoa. What a mess!"
Travis leaped for her as she flung back the covers. "Hey. Not so fast, darlin'. You're liable to fall on your face."
"We'll all fall on our faces, if I don't get hold of some soap and water." She rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around herself. She knew it was silly to be so modest now but this had nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with the sudden realization that something had changed between them. "Travis? If you could just lend me something to wear, until I get home...?"
A funny look came and went on his face, so quickly that she thought she'd imagined it.
"Sure." He rose from the bed and came toward her. "After we shower, I'll lay out something for you to put on."
"No. I mean—I mean, I think I'd better shower alone." She managed a quick smile. "I've got lots of secret little feminine things to do, after all. Wash my hair. Shave my legs..."
Travis eyed her warily, and then he nodded. "Okay. But if you feel the least bit woozy—"
"I'll yell, I promise."
The shower felt wonderful. Alex stood under the stream, eyes closed, soaping, shampooing, scrubbing and rinsing until she felt clean. Images came and went: Travis, holding her. Helping her. Urging her to drink cool juices.
