Easy answer. Chelsea had agreed to bring her MILC notes by tonight. She’d offered to email the information, but he’d wanted to see her, so he’d told her his laptop crashed, fabricating a reason to bring her to his doorstep. His gritty eyes traveled to the computer bag sitting under the table in the entryway, containing his perfectly functional laptop. Whatever plague he’d contracted courtesy of one of his fellow passengers constituted karmic payback for the lie. Another round of rib-cracking coughs validated the notion.
“Want to reconsider the doctor, or should I just call the coroner?”
He smiled, despite his misery. “I would never make it that easy on you—” A knock at the door cut him off. “I’ve got to go. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Get some rest.”
Not likely. He fought back another cough and hauled himself up to answer the door.
And there she stood, glowing with vitality, and even more beautiful than he remembered. Her sleeveless white dress highlighted her figure, set off her golden skin and the warm tones in her long, sable waves. Her cheeks flushed pink, either from the walk to the villa or the pleasure of seeing him. He chose to think pleasure. Her deep brown eyes conducted their own slow survey, finally arriving at his face.
“Miss Wayne,” he said, and then turned away and fell victim to another coughing fit.
Her eyes filled with concern, not exactly the sentiment he wanted to see reflected there.
“Sorry,” he finally managed. “Somewhere between L.A. and Maui, I caught a cold.” As much as he wanted to see her, talk with her, ideally talk her into bed, he forced himself to do the honorable thing. “I don’t want to get you sick. Why don’t you give me the notes and I’ll call you if I have any suggestions?”
She ignored him and stepped closer, the look of concern deepening as her eyes moved over his face. Before he could stop her, she placed her palm on his forehead. “I knew you were coming down with something when we talked. Why didn’t you cancel your trip? You can’t blame the flight, but dry airplane air sure as heck didn’t do you any favors.”
So much for the honorable thing. Belatedly, he pulled away. “I’m fine.”
“You’re burning up. Have you seen a doctor?” Brushing past him, she took his hand and pulled him into the living room. Once there, she dropped her notes on the coffee table and sat him down on the sofa.
He reached for his glass and downed the rest of his drink. “I’m self-medicating.” The heat from the liquor burned a trail down his sore throat and spread across his chest. “Care to join me?” Could be he was starting to feel it a little.
She took the glass and sniffed, raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think even one out of five doctors recommends whiskey for treating a fever. Have you taken any actual medication?”
“I took a couple Advil right before you arrived.” Slightly dizzy, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and stared up at her.
She frowned. “Okay, we’ll give them time to work. Did you have dinner?”
He gestured to the empty glass.
Her look spoke volumes, but another bout of coughs prevented her from commenting. When his coughing subsided, she said, “I’m going to make you something to eat.” She started toward the kitchen and he silently appreciated the rear view of her in the dress.
Halfway to the kitchen she turned. “Why don’t you go change out of your suit? Put on something comfortable?”
Now she was talking. “Yes, Miss Wayne,” he said, but couldn’t quite muster the energy to stand.
“Need help?”
Tempting. But since her expression held more hospice administrator than sexy nursemaid, he figured he could handle a change of clothes on his own. “No.” Forcing himself to his feet, he added, “I’ll be right back.”
Once in his bedroom, however, he noticed his bed looked damn comfortable. Giving in to the impulse to lie down for just a second, he settled his pounding head on the pillow and closed his eyes. Five minutes…
Chapter Twenty
Chelsea sat on the bed, and gently shook Rafe’s shoulder. No response, but she could feel the heat of his skin through his dress shirt. “Rafe?” she called softly.
“Huh?” Glassy eyes focused on her.
She moved her hand to his forehead. If anything, he felt hotter than when she’d arrived ten minutes ago. She abandoned the idea of bringing him a bowl of the soup she’d heated. She should bring him ice. “Let’s get rid of some of these clothes.”
“Good idea.” Cocky as ever, but the way he pressed his face against her cool hand told her he felt miserable. Still, he caught the hem of her dress and started lifting it.
She slapped his hand away. “Your clothes. Come on, sit up.” She got to work on his shirt buttons. “Help me out here.”
He scooted into a more upright position and leaned back against the pillows. She glanced at his face, because she found the sight of his smooth, sculpted chest and abdomen a little too tempting. His eyelids drooped, and his thick, dark lashes cast shadows across his cheeks.
“Lean forward,” she instructed softly, sliding the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. Was that low, breathless voice really hers?
When she tugged the shirt off his wrists, he linked his hands behind his head and leaned back against the pillows again. A hint of a smile flirted across his lips as she reached for his belt buckle, but before she touched him, he choked out, “Damn—” and covered his mouth with his arm as a spasm of coughs rattled him.
Chelsea rubbed his shoulder until the coughing abated, and then offered him the glass of water she’d placed on the nightstand. “Here.”
He drank like he’d spent a week roaming the desert, and returned the empty glass to his night table. His exhausted “thank you” squeezed her heart. Sighing, he settled lower in the bed. His eyelids drifted all the way down this time.
Heat radiated from him. “No worries. Let’s get those pants off and then I’ll go hunt up something for your cough.”
“Whiskey.”
“Not whiskey,” she shot back as she unhooked his belt, unfastened his trousers and carefully lowered his fly. The sound of the zipper filled the otherwise silent room. Holding on to her authoritative tone, she added, “Lift up a little for me.”
“Are you giving the orders tonight, Miss Wayne?” he tossed back, but his eyes remained closed and his voice held none of its normal power. She stripped his trousers off. After draping his clothes over a chair, she returned to her spot beside him on the bed and looked down. He opened his eyes a fraction to stare back at her, but his eyelids weren’t the only thing at half-mast, she quickly noticed. As she watched, half-mast became full-mast.
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a weary grin. “I missed you.”
“Me, too,” she admitted, because for whatever reason, this seemed like safe ground. Physical reactions were just that—reactions. They didn’t involve the heart or conscious mind. What healthy human wouldn’t miss earth-shattering sex? And they’d enjoyed plenty of it, right here in this very bed. Still, physical reactions aside, he was in no shape to shatter the earth. She rested her palm lightly against the erection straining the front of his boxer briefs, because she just couldn’t keep her hands off him. Over his low sound of appreciation, she said, “Let’s see how much you missed me when you’re back to full strength, all right?”
“I’m good.” But another coughing fit indicated otherwise, and she sat there, helplessly, while he fought his way through. The helpless feeling only intensified when he finally stopped coughing, groaned, and curled onto his side.
She kissed the back of his neck—which felt hot. “Let me see if I can find something to help you. I’ll be right back.”
“Cyanide capsule.”
She had a better idea. Retracing her steps, she returned to the living area, called Evelyn, and explained the situation. Minutes later Evelyn called back and told Chelsea to expect her nephew within a half hour. Dr. Nick Bancroft had agreed to stop by and examine Rafe.