Before she could consider the consequences, she lifted her chin, and said, “If that’s honestly what you think, I should probably go.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he shrugged again and stepped back. “Don’t stick around on my account.” He turned away slightly and coughed into his arm.
The hurt turned into cold, slippery panic, and she tried to backtrack. “You’re sick. You have a fever. What if you need—?”
“It’s the flu, Chelsea, not malaria. I don’t need a nurse.”
She opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it closed because something perilously close to a sob threatened to burst out. How had the evening gone so wrong? She’d been excited to see him tonight—more than she’d cared to admit—probably more than fun, mutual attraction and entertaining sex warranted. Instead she’d gotten a well-timed lesson in guarding her heart. Not only did Rafe think she had the morals of a…well…of Cindy, he’d just told her in so many words to get out.
“Good-bye,” she managed, as she snagged her purse from the coffee table. She turned on her heel and strode to the door before any tears could fall.
Chapter Twenty-One
A clock ticked relentlessly in Rafe’s brain—a disturbing soundtrack to a disturbing dream. He sprinted after Chelsea, but as hard as he ran, he couldn’t seem to close the distance. Fast-moving clouds obscured the moon and he kept losing sight of her. Every time the clouds parted for a moment, he glimpsed her white bikini, but then she’d disappear again.
Tick…she sat in the lounge chair by the pool.
Tick…she stood in the gleaming lobby of the resort.
Tick…she walked the pathway leading to the beach.
He caught up with her there, and swung her around to face him. Rain started, but the canopy of trees sheltered them.
He wanted to talk to her. To tell her…something…he couldn’t remember because she leaned against a palm, looped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He inhaled her scent, and smoothed his hands over her bare skin. He was just about to taste her parted lips when she whispered, “Good-bye.”
Everything faded. Her. The trees. The dream. He blinked his eyes open and found himself squinting at his own reflection in the mirrored canopy, disorientated from spending too many hours in bed, caught in a blurry cycle of sleeping, waking, getting water, taking a pill, and then crawling into bed again. But this time around, he felt less foggy. He scrubbed his palm over his rough jaw and took a quick physical inventory. Headache? Gone. Body aches? Gone. Cough? He breathed deep and waited. His throat still felt scratchy, but…better. Agonizing hard-on from the cock-torturing dream? All too present.
Murky light filtered into the bedroom through the gap between the curtains. A steady patter against the roof of the villa told him the rain hadn’t been a figment of his overactive imagination.
The dream included another true-to-life detail. He was alone. Why the hell wasn’t Chelsea there?
You told her to leave.
He closed his eyes as memories of that night filtered into his mind…him feeling like death warmed over, irritated as hell because the doctor had hit on Chelsea right outside his goddamn bedroom door, and she’d told the guy they were “just friends.” Then he’d dragged his sorry ass out of bed to find her, only to overhear her on the phone with Barrington, begging him not to hang up because they needed to talk.
He still couldn’t believe what he’d heard, but trying to bully an explanation out of her had only succeeded in turning him into an asshole. And running her off.
Nicely done. He could practically hear his father scolding him for creating the situation, and urging him to clear the air with Chelsea before the meeting, because an undercurrent of tension between him and his deal liaison would distract from their primary objective—the negotiation with MILC.
A sound strategy, except for one complication. The only satisfactory resolution involved her assuring him she wanted nothing to do with Barrington, or Nick Bancroft for that matter, or anyone but him. The unfamiliar jealousy superseded any business concerns. If Luc ever heard him say so, he could kiss the chairmanship good-bye, but at the moment, he really didn’t give a shit. He wasn’t his father, damn it, and funneling all his passion into the business while settling for some undemanding, flexible arrangement in his personal life suddenly sounded like the worst kind of prison.
What he wanted from Chelsea was neither undemanding nor flexible.
The sound of his phone signaling an incoming message interrupted his thoughts. He grabbed it from the night table, glanced at the screen, and surged to his feet fast enough to send a bolt of pain straight through his skull. Jesus Christ. He’d lost an entire day?
The call went ignored. He strode to the glass doors, opened the curtains, and stared out at the gray sky and churning surf.
He’d missed the meeting, not to mention several calls, and about a thousand texts and emails. He dialed his voicemail first, hoping to hear Chelsea’s voice, and watched the rain as he skipped through a series of messages—his father, a weak-ass excuse from Barrington about a late status report, Arden with the straightforward question, “Dead or alive?”
A new message started.
Hello.
Chelsea. The background echo told him she’d called from her car. The lack of preamble told him she was holding a grudge. Her voice sounded a little huskier than normal, which brought his dream back in full force.
I trust you’re feeling better.
Pissed, but ever polite. Her faultless manners almost made him smile.
The meeting went well. They agreed to transfer the easement in exchange for…
She drove through a dead zone, he didn’t catch what she said.
…subject to St. Sebastian’s approval, of course. I’ve already spoken to the Templetons and the attorneys, and new documents are in the works.
I’ll send you a draft as soon as I have one. Good-bye.
He called her back, but the call immediately went to voicemail. After five minutes, he tried again, but got the same result. Was this her passive-aggressive way of barricading him from her personal life? Fine. They had business to discuss. He called her office. Lynette picked up after three rings and informed him Chelsea had gone home sick and “sounded terrible.”
Shit. He’d given her his flu. Everything else instantly shifted to the back-burner—complications, negotiations, the entire deal. He dropped the phone on the bed and headed to the shower.
An hour later he stood under the stingy overhang above the door to Chelsea’s apartment. It took some time, but she finally answered his knock, and guilt tore into him at the sight of her. Bleary-eyed, flushed, wrapped in a cloud of a robe that covered her to mid-calf, and shivering despite the bulk of the garment. She definitely had his flu, except while the bug had hit him like a two-by-four it had flattened her like a freight train.
He stepped inside, picked her up, and kicked the door shut.
“What are you doing here?” The sexy, husky phone voice had devolved into a hoarse whisper.
“Returning the favor,” he muttered, and carried her down a short hall to the only logical place for her bedroom. He got a blurred impression of wood floors, blank white walls, and box-store rattan furniture as he strode into the little bedroom and deposited her on her already rumpled sheets. Three guesses as to where she’d spent the afternoon. She shivered like he’d dropped her onto a frozen lake in Siberia.