AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Were you able to get any sleep at all?” she asked Bowie, feeling both guilty and yet touched at the same time.
Bowie shrugged off her concern. “I dozed off and on,” he told her.
“Mostly off,” she guessed.
He smiled at her. “I never needed much sleep, not even as a kid.” Peering more closely at her face, he asked, “How do you feel?”
That caused her to stop and think. The first thing Marlowe became aware of was her arm. She realized that it ached and felt as if it were on fire. That was thanks to her stalker, who had twisted her arm behind her back as he tried to drag her into the stairwell.
“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” she said honestly.
Bowie sat up instantly. That was when she’d realized that he was still dressed, as was she. Nothing had happened between them. Bowie had been serious about guarding her, she thought.
The man had been a total gentleman.
Bowie looked guilty about being remiss. “I knew I should have made you stay at the hospital just in case,” he told her, berating himself for failing to do that. “Let’s go—I’ll take you back now.”
Marlowe grabbed hold of his arm, making him stay where he was. “Take it easy,” she told him. “My shoulder hurts because that crazy man yanked it. He didn’t break it. Besides, we already went to the hospital to make sure the baby was all right. Everything is fine.” She took a breath, centering herself as she tried to think. “If you want to take me some place, take me to the police station so I can give my statement and hopefully get that sick SOB locked up until the turn of the next century.”
Bowie laughed shortly. “Amen to that. But first,” he qualified, “since you seem to be able to keep food down now, you need to have something to eat.”
Marlowe rolled her eyes. “You’re being a mother hen again,” she complained, trying to redirect his attention. She didn’t want to eat; she wanted to go down to the station and give her statement now that she was no longer shaking.
“Mother hen?” Bowie repeated, pretending to be insulted. “I’m just making sure you keep your strength up, that’s all,” he insisted. “Now get ready, and I’ll see about making you some breakfast.”
She looked at him, puzzled. Something wasn’t jibing. “I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”
Bowie frowned. “Beating two eggs with a fork and then pouring the results on a hot frying pan isn’t cooking,” he told her. “It’s called survival.”
Marlowe laughed to herself as she shook her head. “You have a very unique way of looking at things, Robertson.”
In response, Bowie just grinned at her. It was a grin that was really beginning to get to her, Marlowe thought. Rather than becoming immune to it, she found that each time she saw the corners of his mouth curving, the defensive walls that she had spent so many years building up to protect herself from feeling anything just became thinner and weaker.
At this point, they had turned into tissue paper and were close to shredding away.
If she wasn’t careful...
Marlowe shut the thought away before it solidified and became reality.
* * *
“So?” Bowie asked.
Having changed her clothes, Marlowe had returned less than twenty minutes later, ready to go out and face the day. Bowie had placed a plate in front of her, making her sample his efforts.
Marlowe didn’t answer him at first, thinking it prudent to take a second forkful before she said anything. As the second mouthful made its way down her throat and into her stomach, she found her opinion didn’t change. She had to give Bowie his due.
“It’s good,” she pronounced. “Surprisingly good.” Marlowe looked up at him as he watched her. “Are you sure you don’t cook?”
“On the rare occasions when I don’t send out for food or stop off at a local restaurant—wherever I happen to be—I dabble with whatever I have on hand.” When she looked at him uncertainly, he explained, “I don’t like being helpless in any given situation.”
“So you learned how to cook,” she concluded. In her opinion, that put him in a class by himself.
“I learned how to wing it,” Bowie corrected. “I’ve seen enough people frying an egg to know what to do with said egg on my own.”
Nodding, Marlowe took in another couple of forkfuls. “Well, whatever you did with it,” she told him, “this is very good.”
She hadn’t said it, but he sensed that she was about to say “but.” He decided to coax it along. “So, what’s wrong?”
