Perfect Touch (22 page)

S
ARA AWOKE IN
a hospital room under a paper gown. The room was mint green, too bright. One look and she felt like she'd been there for a week.

“Jay?” Her voice came out as a dry croak.

“Easy, sweetheart. I'm right here.”

She felt his hand press against her right shoulder. Her neck hurt, and there was a nagging tug from an IV setup in her left hand.

“Thirsty,” she said, trying to sit up.

“Juice or water?” As he spoke, he raised the bed to a more upright position. “Doctor said for you to drink as much as you want and then drink some more. You were a pint or two low by the time we got here.”

Suddenly it all came back to her, the relentless helicopter and shots and hideous noise, Jay pulling her out from beneath a rock overhang she'd thought would be her grave.

“Are you all right?” she asked as her dark eyes searched him for signs of injury.

“Not a scratch. Wish I could say the same for you.”

She took the juice he handed her and drank every drop. “Why am I in the hospital? Other than being thirsty and wanting to rip out that IV, I feel fine.”

“You were wounded.”

“Where?”

“Left side of your neck. Ricochet. You had bled a lot by the time the chopper got you out.”

“The same bastards who shot at us rescued me?”

“No,” he said, urging water on her. “Medevac. We're in Jackson now.”

“What happened to the first helicopter?” she asked before she drank.

“It preferred targets that didn't shoot back.” He smiled thinly as he remembered the helo's ragged retreat. “More water?”

“No. I have to pee.”

“That's good,” Jay said. “Means that you're rehydrating.”

The curtain surrounding her bed opened and a man about her own age appeared. His skin was a chocolate almost as beautiful as his smile.

“I'm Dr. Burnham,” he said. “How do you feel? Besides wanting to pee.”

“Hungry.”

“Excellent. I'll have food sent in.”

“I'd rather eat out,” she said. “Not that I'm not grateful, but—”

“You want to leave,” Burnham said. “Are you sure? You weren't in great shape when you came in. A bullet fragment ripped into your neck and nicked the occipital vein, not your carotid or jugular. But still lots of blood, big mess, easy to panic. Fortunately Mr. Vermilion knew what to do to slow the bleeding until you got here.”

“He's a very good man to have around,” Sara said, touching Jay's hand on her shoulder. “But however messy I was when I arrived, I feel fine now, except that you've pumped so much fluid into me that I really have to pee.”

“Bedpan?” Burnham offered, watching her bedside monitors.

“Toilet.” A statement, not a question.

Burnham looked at her expression, eyed the depleted IV bag, and removed the needle from the back of her hand, talking as he worked. “Other than blood loss, you're very healthy. Wish we saw more like you. Now, let's see if you feel as good as you think you do.” He took off the blood pressure cuff. “Move slowly.”

“I'll help her,” Jay said.

“Only as far as the door,” she said.

“We'll discuss it when we get there.”

Burnham hid a smile. “Let her do as much as she can alone.”

“That would be all of it,” she said firmly.

She put her legs over the side of the bed and sat fully upright. There was a moment of light-headedness, but it passed quickly.

Jay watched her intently. “Easy, sweetheart. You have four stitches along the side of your neck.”

“I know. It feels like they left the needle in.”

“Let me see,” Burnham said.

He lifted the dressing and ran his finger very gently just outside the wound, but Sara still flinched. The whole area was tender.

“No needle,” Burnham said. “It's just raw. Ricochets make the worst wounds, but we cleaned you up real nice.”

“You have a lot of experience with bullet wounds?” Jay asked.

“I worked ER in Chicago for four years. Discovered I like Jackson better.” Burnham pressed the dressing into place. “If you still feel up to it, the bathroom is about twelve feet away.”

She eased down onto her feet and walked with increasing steadiness toward the bathroom. Though Jay didn't touch her, he was never more than inches away.

The door shut firmly in his face.

“That's a determined lady,” Burnham said. “Don't let her overdo once she's out.”

“I'll brush up on my calf-roping skills,” Jay said drily.

“I'd like to see that. Change the dressing every couple of days and come back in a week and a half to have the stitches taken out. I'm going to put her on a course of antibiotics as a precaution. If she's using oral birth control, you'll need to take other precautions as well. You'll get the antibiotics along with the discharge instructions. Make sure she takes it easy. Bed rest or some sitting at a desk. No more for the next twenty-four hours. After that, take it day to day.”

“Thank you, Doc. We owe you.”

“If you hadn't stemmed the bleeding, I doubt she'd have made it. She's very determined, but that only goes so far. Then gravity takes over and down you go.”

The bathroom door opened and closed.

“I've buzzed for the nurse,” Burnham said. “Hospital rules require that you be wheeled to your transportation.”

“I can go?” Sara asked eagerly. “And here I was expecting a week in a private room complete with cabana boys.”

Burnham laughed softly. “These days a transfusion is treated like an oil change. An outpatient procedure.” His surgical gloves snapped as he pulled them off. “If you change your mind in the next few minutes, we're having meatloaf tonight.”

“Pass,” she said. “But thank you, Doctor.”

“You can thank me by not showing up again.”

He was out the door before she could say any more.

“Busy man,” Jay said. “Good, too. Your stitches could have been done by a plastic surgeon.”

“I hope you know where my clothes are. And why are your sleeves torn off?”

“Instant bandages.” As she turned toward the bed, he tried not to look at all the places the paper gown didn't cover.

She had really sweet cheeks.

“Henry sent one of the hands down here with some clothes for both of us, and that rucksack you call a purse,” Jay said. “We'll stay here.”

“Here?” She looked at the hospital room in dismay.

“Town. We'll spend a few days in civilization while you recover.”

“What about the Norwegian reunion?” she asked.

“They left yesterday.”

“Oh.” Still a little light-headed, Sara decided to sit on the bed.

Her stomach growled. Loudly.

Jay stuck a straw in another box of juice and handed it to her. “Drink this while I get the clothes.”

She all but inhaled the juice. “Who would have thought that being shot makes you hungry.”

“Your body is handing out marching orders. Eat, eat, and eat until you've replaced all your blood. Drink, too. A lot.”

“I thought the transfusion took care of that.”

“It kept you alive. Staying that way is up to you.”

“Lovely bedside manner,” she muttered.

“You're welcome.”

She glanced up at him. For the first time she noticed that he looked tired and grim. Grim most of all.

“I'm sorry,” she said, pulling his face down to hers. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“For nearly getting you killed, you mean.”

“That's on the shooter, not you.” She kissed him gently, then less gently.

It was Jay who broke the kiss. “Any more and I'll be inside you when the checkout nurse comes calling. I nearly lost you, sweetheart. And now I want you like hell burning.”

“Same goes,” she said, reaching for him.

He held her back. “Do you need help dressing?”

She looked at the bloodstained fatigues he still wore. They did nothing to disguise his blunt hunger. “I think I can handle it.” Then she realized where she was looking and added hastily, “Getting dressed, I mean.”

He gave a crack of laughter and dumped her clothes on the bed. “You're going to be the death of me, Sara.”
Or the saving.

She reached for the clothes on the bed. A woman's ranch clothes—jeans, a shirt, a pullover sweater, a jacket, and a scarf she wanted nowhere near her neck at the moment.

“Everything is out of fashion, but a lot warmer than paper.” He turned his back on the temptation of her undressing.

“As long as these weren't Liza's,” Sara said.

“Dad burned hers. These were my mother's.”

“Thank God for that,” Sara muttered. She shivered as the cotton shirt hit her bare, hardened nipples. A bra hadn't been included in the pile of clothes, but panties were. She pulled them on and quickly began to button her shirt.

“How are we getting out of here?” she asked. “I didn't notice a lot of taxis when I landed here.”

“I rented a truck.”

“Of course,” she said. “Next stupid question. Has the sheriff tracked the helicopter? And is it safe to turn around now?”

He turned and was treated to a vision of long, long legs, sleek and warm and vibrant against the stark white sheets.

Safe? God, woman, you're killing me.

“Nothing yet on the helo,” he said, his voice unusually deep.

She had buttoned her shirt wrong. When she noticed it, her fingers fumbled and she gave up in disgust.

“You want me to button it again?” he asked.

“I sh-should be able to do it myself.”

She was crying.

He crouched down so they were at eye level. “Sweetheart?”

“I d-don't know why I'm c-crying.” Her voice broke and her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“Last of the adrenaline,” he said, gathering her close, savoring the hot, living feel of her breath against his neck. “Don't ever scare me like that again. I don't think I could take it.”

She heard the strain in his voice, and realization hit her like an avalanche. His strong arms around her were hard and yet trembling. He was getting strength from her just as much as she was getting it from him. They were linked beyond skin, deeper than their own flesh, deeper than anything she had ever felt.

Tears kept coming, washing away the fear that had lurked beneath her determination. What was left behind was stronger for it.

For both of them.

The café was small, the kind that tourists overlooked and locals loved. It was late for a weekday dinner in a working town, so there were few patrons. Despite that, Jay had chosen a table at the back and watched every person as if he or she was a potential attacker.

“Tell me you aren't armed,” Sara said.

“Okay, I'm not armed.”

“Is it legal?”

“To be unarmed?” he asked blandly.

She gave him a lopsided smile and put her hand on his thigh underneath the table. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You could move your hand up and to the right and then—”

“Evening, Jay. What brings you to town?” the server asked.

“Hello, John. How are Millie and the kids?”

“Right now, Millie's screaming at the sous chef”—John winked at Sara—“who is also our oldest son.”

Jay shook his head. “Same as always. But she's a hell of a chef.”

“That she is. The special tonight is scallops with vanilla bean sauce or ono with a vodka reduction on a bed of lemon grass. The seafood was flown in today.”

Sara felt like she had been whipsawed into an alternate reality. Except for the decor, the café and its specials could have been in San Francisco.

Yet I almost died in a wilderness where the most terrifying animal was human.

“Would you care for something to drink while you decide on your choice?” John asked.

“Sara?” Jay asked.

She shook her head. “I'm muzzy enough already, thanks. Iced tea with lemon will do for me.”

“I'll have the same,” Jay said. “I'm ready to order if Sara is.”

She grabbed the menu and saw that it was brief. “Lamb chops, medium rare. No salad. I'm too hungry for rabbit food.”

Jay smiled. “Porterhouse for me. Rare. Nobody seasons it like Millie.”

“Salad?” John asked.

“No thanks. I'm not going to stand between a hungry woman and her dinner.”

John nodded and headed for the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Jay asked. “You look a little . . . stunned.”

“Like Alice, I just discovered that every looking glass has two sides and both are unexpected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hawaiian fish in Jackson? Fresh scallops?” She shook her head. “I should have dressed up for dinner.”

“This is the kind of place where the food dresses for you, not vice versa.” He brushed the back of his hand down her cheekbone. “Beautiful woman.”

She kissed his fingertips. “Sweet liar.”

A few tables away, sleet rattled loudly against the window.

“Are you warm enough? Would you like my jacket?” he asked. “Blood loss makes you cold.”

“I'm fine. Stop worrying.”

“Not likely. It will take a while for the picture of your blood soaking through my shirtsleeves to fade.”

Her breath came in sharply, then went out in a sigh. “I'll be having a few memories, too. You standing in the open, firing at that damned helicopter. Talk about David and Goliath . . .”

Jay's phone buzzed with an incoming text. He pulled out the phone, looked, and put the phone away.

“News?” Sara asked.

“Liza. Said she wasn't giving us one minute of extra time because we had a ‘problem.'”

“What a bitch.”

“You're too nice. The word I'm thinking of has more bite.”