The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12. Кейт Хьюит
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over and was viciously ill.
“Go away,” she gasped. “I don’t want you to—”
Another spasm shook her. He could feel the violence of it and his hands clasped her more tightly. When she was done, she stood straight, her back still to him, her body racked with tremors.
“Maria,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. Her voice was thready and the trembling had increased. Alex cursed and turned her toward him. She stood with her head down.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Flu, I think. Everyone has it.”
God, she looked so fragile. Not silly, lost in that enormous and ugly jacket, but terribly, heartbreakingly delicate.
He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and held it toward her. She shook her head.
“Not your handkerchief. I’ll soil it.”
“Damn it, Maria,” he said, and put his hand under her chin, lifted her face and dabbed her lips carefully with the snowy-white linen.
She was still shaking.
Alex lifted her in his arms. “No,” she said, but he ignored her, ducked his head, carried her inside the car, settled her close against him and pressed the intercom button.
Hans answered immediately. “Sir?”
“Turn up the heat,” Alex said crisply. “And take us to the nearest hospital.
“No,” Maria said, even more emphatically. “I don’t want to go to a hospital.”
“You need a doctor.”
“For heaven’s sake, I was sick. Sick, that’s all. Flu. Or maybe something I ate.”
“You look like you don’t eat enough,” Alex said, more sharply than he’d intended but it was true. Holding her in his arms, he’d realized she was as light as the proverbial feather.
“I am fine. I don’t need to be coddled.”
Yes, he thought, she did—but he knew that edge in her voice by now, just as he knew the proud angle of her head.
“Okay. Great. No coddling. Hans?”
“Sir?”
“The airport.”
The intercom light blinked off. Maria stared straight ahead, wrapped in mortification. Of all things to happen. To get sick in front of this man. To have him insist on staying with her. To have him wipe her face and now to be sitting within the circle of his arm…
“I am perfectly capable of sitting on my own,” she said coolly.
He let her move away. From the corner of her eye, she could see him opening a mahogany compartment built into the side of the car. Taking something from it. A bottle of water. A big white linen napkin.
“Look at me,” he said as he poured the water on the napkin.
She looked. Their eyes met. What was in his? Pity? Damn it, she didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want anything from him.
Carefully, he began to wash her face. She jerked back. He sighed, cupped the back of her head and went right on washing.
It felt wonderful.
When he was done, she gave him a jerky nod. “Thank you,” she said stiffly and turned away but, once again, she could see what he was doing from the corner of her eye. Putting the water and napkin back in the compartment. Taking out another bottle, this one filled with an amber liquid. Taking out a crystal tumbler. Opening the bottle, pouring the liquid into the glass…
“Drink this.”
She swung toward him. Bad idea. Everything began to spin. The interior of the car, Alex’s face. The glass he was holding toward her.
“Damn it,” he said, reaching for her, “you’re as white as a sheet.”
“I’m—I’m okay. I’m not going to be sick again. I’m just a little woozy …”
Alex’s arms swept around her. “Don’t,” she said, but she was speaking into the hard wall of his chest as he lifted her into his lap.
He was warm. Strong. He smelled of snow and cold and of the clean male scent she remembered, had never forgotten.
“Let go of me,” she said, and hated how her voice shook but the truth was, she felt awful. Not sick to her stomach anymore, just cold and shaky and awful.
“Stop arguing with everything I say and drink this.”
His tone was gruff but he held her with care. Well, of course. He certainly didn’t want to risk having her throw up all over his magnificent automobile.
The glass was at her mouth.
“What is it?”
“Poison,” he said, but when she looked up at him, he was smiling. “It’s brandy.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes. I know. You don’t need brandy. Well, I do.” He took a drink from the glass, then brought it to her lips again. “For once, just do as I ask without giving me a tough time, okay?”
The brandy smelled wonderful. She thought of how it would feel, warm and soothing, and of how his mouth had touched the rim of the glass…
It was safer to think about doing as he’d commanded.
She did, and knew she’d been right. The brandy was warm and comforting. So was the man who held her. The thought, unbidden, unexpected, set her heart racing and she pushed the glass away.
“That’s enough. And you can let go of me. I’m perfectly fine.”
He answered by gathering her closer. “It’s late,” he said brusquely. “And I’ve had a long day. I think you have, too. So stop fighting me, Maria. You’re cold and shaky and I’m not at all convinced you don’t need a doctor.”
“I already said I didn’t.”
“Then do as you’re told. Finish the brandy, put your head against my shoulder and maybe, just maybe, I’ll believe you.”
“You’re a—a martinet,” she said bitterly. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”
It was such an old-fashioned word that it made him laugh.
“I’ve been called a lot of things by a lot of women, glyka mou, but that is a first.” He sank back in the seat; she had no choice but to sink back with him. “Now close your eyes and rest. We’ll be at the airport soon.”
Rest? She’d won a competition that had been the goal of the world’s best jewelry designers—and handed her life over to one of the world’s most gorgeous, sexiest men. How could she possibly rest? Surely, the man holding her had his choice of women, a different one every night if he wished, and yet he wanted her…
Her lashes drooped.
She couldn’t rest. Or sleep. Or…
Maria sighed, burrowed closer against him, and tumbled into sleep.
Alex felt the tension leave her. He looked down, saw the dark shadow of her lashes against the sculpted curve of her cheek.
The woman was impossible. Argumentative. Prickly. Sharp-tongued.
She was also beautiful and fragile and…
And, he reminded himself, she was a manipulative liar. The sooner he had her in his bed, the better. She would not spin lies to him there; he would not permit it. He would make love to her until she sobbed his name, until her need for him was real, and that would happen as soon as he had her, alone, on his plane.
But