All the Queen's Men (34 page)

Someone else was shooting, she thought. There was a deeper roar . . . wasn't there? John. Yes, John was shooting. Good. He was still alive. . . .

The lights seemed to go out, though maybe not. She wasn't certain. There was a lot of formless noise that gradually reshaped itself into words. Something was tugging at her, and it hurt worse than anything she'd ever felt in her life, pain so sharp and all-consuming she almost couldn't breathe.

"-damn you, don't you die on me," John was raging as he tore at her clothes. "Do you hear? Don't you god damn die on me."

John rarely swore, she thought, fighting through the pain; he must be really upset. What on earth had happened?

She was hurt. She remembered now, remembered that crushing blow that knocked her down. Something had hit her.

Shot. She'd been shot. So this was what it felt like. It was worse than she had ever imagined.

"Don't die," John was snarling as he pressed down hard on her side.

She wet her lips, and managed to say, "I might not, if you'll hurry and get help."

His head jerked around and he stared at her. His pupils were pinpoints of shock, his face white and strained. "Just hold on," he said roughly. "I'll stop the bleeding." He looked beyond her, and his expression was savage. "You'd better use all the influence you have and get the best doctors in Europe, Ronsard," he said in a low, guttural tone, "because if she dies, I'll fillet you into fish bait."

Washington, D.C., three weeks later

Niema carefully got out of bed and made her way over to the lone chair in the hospital room. Her legs were steadier, she was walking more every day now, though "more" in this case meant a few minutes longer, not any great distance. She had come to hate that bed, though, and was spending as much time as she could in the chair. Sitting in a chair made her feel less like an invalid.

The last IV drip had come out that morning. She was scheduled to be dismissed from the hospital the next day. She would complete her recovery at home; Frank Vinay had visited and said it had been arranged for her to have help at home until she was strong enough to manage by herself again.

Being home again would be nice, she thought. Excitement was one thing, but a woman needed peace and quiet when she was recovering from a gunshot wound. Too much of the past three weeks was a blur, at best, or a huge blank forever lost from her memory. She vaguely remembered being in intensive care in some hospital in France. Louis Ronsard might have been there. He had held her hand once, she thought.

Then she had been flown from France to the States, back to D.C., and brought here. She didn't remember the flight at all, but the nurses told her that was what had happened. She had gone to sleep in France and woke up in D.C. That was enough to disorient anyone.

Every time she surfaced it had been to incredible pain, but she had stopped taking any painkiller a week ago, when she was moved out of intensive care into a regular room. The first couple of days had been rough, but after that every day had been easier.

The last time she'd seen John was when she'd been lying in that narrow, dead-end street in Nice. He'd had to disappear, of course. He couldn't hang around, either as Joseph Temple or John Medina. She hadn't asked Mr. Vinay about him, either. John would either show up, or he wouldn't.

Only a small lamp was on in the room; after the bright lights of intensive care shining on her day and night, she wanted only dim lights now. She turned on the radio to an instrumental station and turned the volume low. Easing back in the chair, she closed her eyes and let her mind drift with the music.

She didn't hear any strange noise or feel a draft from the door opening, but slowly she became aware of John's presence. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, not at all surprised to find him standing in the shadows across the room.

"Finally," she said, holding out her hand to him.

He came to her so silently he might have been drifting on smoke, his gaze moving hungrily over her, darkening with pain as he catalogued each pound she had lost. He cupped her face, rubbing his thumb over her bloodless cheek as he bent down and lightly pressed his mouth to hers. She put her hand on the back of his neck, something in her easing as she felt him warm and vital under her touch.

"I couldn't stay away any longer," he said in a low, rough' tone. "Frank kept me informed, but I-it wasn't the same as being here."

"I understood." She tried to stroke away the new lines that bracketed his mouth.

"When you go home tomorrow, I'll be there."

"Someone is staying with me-"

"I know. I'm the someone." He crouched down in front of her and folded her hand in his.

"Good. You can help me get back on my feet. The physical therapists here won't let me do as much as I need to be doing."

"If you think
I'm
going to do anything more than let you sleep and eat, you're way off base."

"Really? I thought you'd have incentive to get me up to my fighting weight again."

"Why's that?"

"So you can show me the rest of your tricks." She grinned at him. "I can't wait. I've been lying here for the past week wondering what they are."

The tension in his face relaxed as a smile touched his mouth. "It'll be a while before you're in shape for any of that."

"Depends on how fast you
get
me into shape, doesn't it?"

"We're going to take it nice and easy. A ruptured liver isn't something you get over in a day or two."

She was also missing part of her spleen, and the bullet had shattered two ribs. On the other hand, John was still alive, and that was the most important thing. He'd have been shot down in front of her if she hadn't drawn their attention.

"What were you
doing?"
she asked, drawing back and frowning at him as she was finally able to ask the question that had been nagging at her since she'd regained consciousness. "Why were you going for Ronsard like that?"

"The bastard held a gun to your head," he said simply. "And I lost control. I do that a lot where you're concerned."

"This can't keep happening."

"I'll try to do better." The tone was dry now-very dry.

"The deal I made with Ronsard-I haven't talked to Mr. Vinay about it. Will it hold?"

"Hold? They're ecstatic."

"The whole thing seemed like a good idea at the time. All he wants is money to take care of Laure; he doesn't care where it comes from or how he gets it." She paused.
"Can
you find her a heart?"

"We're trying. The odds are against it, but we're trying." He sighed. "And if we find her a heart, that means a healthier child somewhere won't have that chance."

"With the information Ronsard can provide, a lot of other lives will be saved, though."

They were both silent, the ethical considerations weighing heavy on each side of the argument. Where one stood, she suspected, depended on whether or not one's child was involved. She understood Ronsard's single-minded devotion to his daughter; someone else whose child was waiting on a heart wouldn't be at all understanding.

She put her hands on the arms of the chair and slowly pushed herself to a standing position. John stood also, his face anxious, his hands outstretched to catch her as if she were a toddler taking her first steps. She grinned up at him. "I'm not that fragile."

"You are to me," he said, and remembered terror swept over his face. "Damn you, no more heroics, do you hear me?"

"Leave them to you, is that it?" He took a deep breath.

"Yeah. Leave them to me."

"I can't." She put her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. "Heroes are few and far between. When you find one, you gotta take care of him." How fortunate she had been, she thought, to have loved and been loved by two such men as Dallas and John-extraordinary men by any standard.

Slowly his hands stroked up her back, his touch light so he wouldn't accidentally hurt her. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

Niema turned her lips against his chest, breathing in the hot male scent of his skin. She had lost the thread of conversation as soon as he touched her. "What's that?"

"When you find a hero, you gotta take care of her." He tilted her chin up with his hand. "Partners?"

A slow, delighted grin spread over her face, dispelling the aura of fragility. "Partners," she said, and they shook hands on the deal.

THE END

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