“Pull over.”
“I didn’t mean now.”
“Pull over, or I’m puking all over your pretty truck. Right now.” She swallowed again, and he saw the sheen of sweat on her forehead. He swerved to the far right, ignoring the horns, skidding onto the gravel. Olympia pushed open the door before the truck came to a full stop and vomited into the dust at the side of the road.
He got out and raced to her. It might not be a real marriage, but she was a human being. She dry heaved for a moment and moaned in misery. He pulled open the door to the king cab and rooted for a bottle of water.
“Drink this.”
“I’ll just throw up again.”
“Rinse out your mouth.” He didn’t let her refuse. She took a long swig and handed him the bottle. He went back into the cab for paper towels, wet one and put it on her neck. “Do you think it’s the flu or something?”
She shook her head and leaned over, eyes squeezed shut. “It must have been something I ate.”
“You didn’t eat anything this morning.”
“That’s probably it.” She sucked in a breath. “I’m so dizzy. This is the fourth day in a row.”
“Fourth day?” Spence asked, his quick lawyer’s mind putting together the facts into a new pattern.
“Yeah,” she said, pursing her lips as a breath gusted out.
“Oh, Christ.” He sagged a little against the door. No. No way. “When was your last period?”
“None of your damned business,” she said and then leaned over again, although there was nothing left in her stomach.
He had to be wrong. It was the flu. It was the dreaded Hantavirus. It was... Dear Lord, three months ago in a Phoenix motel room, there’d been that broken condom.
“Olympia,” he started, cleared his throat and tried again before all his words dried up. “Could you be pregnant?”