Susan Mallery: The Bodyguard & Ms Jones

“Earthquake,” he mumbled.

That damn earthquake a couple years back had destroyed his apartment building. He’d meant to find another place, but he’d been too busy working. The memories were coming back faster now. Grace had come to see him in the hospital and had offered her place. She was going to be gone for the summer, anyway. He could recover in peace.

“So who are you?” he asked.

“I told you. I’m Cindy Jones. Your neighbor. Grace asked me to look after you until you were on your feet.”

“I don’t need any help.” He would be fine. As soon as the pounding in his head subsided to a tolerable level and the bullet wound in his leg stopped throbbing in time with his heartbeat. So much for his recovery. “I feel like I was run over by a train.”

“Actually, I believe you fell off of a building.”

He must have glared at her because she quickly added, “According to Grace, it was a very small building. Some bushes broke the fall.”

“They should have done a better job.” He concentrated all his strength on getting upright. If he could just swallow a handful of pills that his doctor had prescribed, he would be fine. But first he had to sit up.

He braced his left hand on the sofa cushion and pushed with all his strength. He got about halfway toward sitting before the room started spinning and the shaking in his arm got so bad he collapsed.

“What are you trying to do, Mr. Blackburne?”

“Sit up.” He could feel the sweat on his face and back. He hoped it was from the exertion and not a fever. That was the last thing he needed right now.

“Why?”

“Pills.” He motioned to the floor, knowing he would have dropped his duffel bags on his way in. His eyelids were getting heavier.

She stood up. He heard her faint footsteps as she crossed the room. There was barely any sound on the hardwood floor, so she must be wearing soft-soled shoes, he thought. A useless piece of information provided by a brain trained to keep him alive. Sometimes, knowing the kind of shoes someone was wearing could save a life. Good to know he still had it, even though he didn’t have the strength to use it.

“Is this all your luggage, Mr. Blackburne?” Cindy asked.

“Mike,” he mumbled. Everything he owned in the world fit into two duffel bags. If the flight wasn’t full, he didn’t bother to check them. That way, he could carry them off the plane and not have to wait.

He heard the rattle of pills and knew she’d found the bottles. But instead of handing them to him, she crossed the room toward what he supposed was the kitchen. “Jonathan, keep an eye on Mr. Blackburne. I want to call his doctor.”

Mike opened his mouth to tell her not to bother, but no sound came out. Seconds later something poked his injured side. He groaned.

“You really shot?” a voice asked. “Did somebody fill you with lead?”

He forced his eyes open and glanced at the boy staring down at him. He had blond hair, long on top, but trimmed short around his ears. Bright brown eyes peered at him curiously. “Go ’way,” he said.

“Can I see the bullet hole? Did you bleed a lot?” The boy looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then bent toward Mike’s face. “Are you packing a gun?”

Too much TV, Mike thought.

Cindy returned to the living room. From the look on her face, she wasn’t happy.

“I spoke to your doctor,” she said, holding out a bottle of pills. “He said you were supposed to stay in the hospital another four days. You could spike a fever or worse.”

“Uh-uh. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look like—”

“Garbage?” Jonathan offered helpfully.

“Jonathan.”

The boy’s shoulders dropped. “Sorry, Mom.”

She shoved the pills into her shorts pocket. “Go check on your sister. I’ll be home in a few minutes, as soon as I figure out what to do with Mr. Blackburne.”

He was having trouble concentrating on what she was saying. “Mike,” he told her again. “Call me Mike.” At least that’s what he thought he said. He had a feeling the words that passed his lips bordered on unintelligible.

“Mike,” she repeated. “You shouldn’t have left the hospital. I’m not sure what to do with you. We’ve got a great facility here. I could take you there.”

He shook his head. Instantly, black spots appeared. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, but the spots didn’t go away. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly, more for his benefit than hers. “I’ll be fine. Just get me a glass of water, and I’ll take my pills.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I promised your sister I would take care of you while she was gone. I can’t just give you pills and leave you here. You need medical attention. At the very least, you need to be watched. The nurse on the phone said you’d hit your head.”

“Listen, lady, I don’t need anything but a damn glass of water.” He got the whole sentence out clearly.

“Uh-huh. Sorry, but I’m not impressed by your temper.”

“Why not?”

She smiled. As smiles went, it was a nice one, he thought, then knew for sure that a fever had kicked in. When did he bother noticing a woman’s smile?

“I’ve got two kids, Mike. I’m used to crankiness in the sickroom.”

“I’m not cranky.”

“You’re doing a fair imitation. I’ll make you a deal. If you’re strong enough to walk to the bedroom so you can lie down properly, I won’t make you go to the hospital.”

“Fair enough.” He thought about sitting up and wondered if he could do it. “Where’s the bedroom?”

“Lucky for you, it’s downstairs.”

“No problem. Give me a minute.”

He concentrated all his attention on his arms, willing them to be strong. After taking three deep breaths, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The room tilted and spun, but he didn’t dare close his eyes. Focusing on Cindy, who seemed to be moving slightly less than everything else, he began to rise. His thighs trembled, his knees refused to lock and he felt himself start to go down. At the last moment, he ducked left. The last thing he needed was to be impaled on that damn ceramic dragon.

* * *

Cindy thought Mike might actually make it to his feet. He was almost there, when he started to topple like a half-assembled tower from one of Jonathan’s games. She lunged forward, catching him before he fell. She grabbed him around the waist. His left arm encircled her shoulder.

It didn’t do any good. He outweighed her by about sixty pounds, and he was unconscious. It was like trying to hold up a large, male sack of flour. Her legs buckled, and she found herself pinned under him on the sofa.

His head rested on her chest, his right hand slipped between her thighs. His torso settled across her hips. She couldn’t move. The intimacy was almost as unsettling as the heat she felt from him. He had a fever.

“Mike?” she said.

He didn’t budge.

“Mike?” She shook him. Nothing. Not even a hint that he could hear her.

A strand of hair settled on her face. She blew it away and studied the situation. Her left foot barely touched the ground. If she could push off with that leg, she might be able to roll him a little and slide out from under him. Her right arm was caught between him and the sofa; her right leg bent awkwardly and was likewise captured.

She glanced at the dragon resting on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa. “You could help,” she said.

The dragon didn’t answer.

Cindy pushed and wiggled and only succeeded in pulling her shirt out of her waistband and bunching her shorts up around her rear.

“I’m not making progress here,” she said, then giggled. Who exactly was she talking to?