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.
She took another moment to call the lobby and ensure he would be directed to the villa, and then checked on Rafe, who dozed. After putting a cool cloth on his forehead, she returned to the living room to wait for the doctor.
A relatively short wait, as it turned out. She opened the door to a tall, tanned man with sun-burnished brown hair and a five-o’clock shadow covering the lower half of a handsome, confidence-inspiring face.
She quickly introduced herself, and reviewed Rafe’s symptoms with him while she showed him to the patient.