Teresa Southwick - Midnight, Moonlight & Miracles

Pain roared through his head like an Amtrak train. But still he lifted his arm to touch his forehead, and winced when he found a good-sized lump that confirmed her words. He noticed thin, clear tubing connected to his arm. An IV?

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Megan Brightwell. Do you know who you are?”

“Simon Reynolds.”

“Good. Do you know what day this is?”

He thought for a moment. When he remembered the date, consuming pain roared through him again, but this time it wasn’t physical.

“Yeah. I know.” He looked at her, wishing the protective haze hadn’t cleared so fast. “You’re a nurse? Then I guess goose egg is the correct medical terminology?”

“Actually, that would be contusion, but I didn’t want to get too technical with a man who just scrambled his brains.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Nothing except riding the bike.” He shook his head, wincing as he instantly regretted the motion.

“I guess I don’t have to tell you to lie still.” In spite of her teasing words and tone, there was a sympathetic expression in her eyes.

The last thing he wanted, needed or deserved was her pity.

Metal scraped on metal as she dragged a privacy curtain halfway around the space where he was lying. Beyond it, he heard a phone ring and muted voices. Pretty quiet. The last time he’d been here all hell had broken loose. Must be a slow night. Good. Someone would look at him before his injuries had time to heal. He wanted the hell out of here.

“According to the paramedics who brought you in, one minute you were riding that motorcycle. The next you were playing slip and slide on the street—without the plastic mat.”

“The roads were slick.”

“Yeah,” she allowed. “Rain does that. And you just proved what everyone says—Southern Californians don’t know how to drive on wet roads.”

“You’re not going to cut me any slack, are you?”

“That’s not my plan. Do the words ‘slow down’ mean anything to you?”

“And miss slip and slide?”

“Silly me. What was I thinking?” she asked, her tone rife with sarcasm.

In spite of the stinging, throbbing and aching that encompassed every single cell and nerve ending of his body, he registered a flicker of respect for this woman’s shoot-from-the-hip, call-a-spade-a-spade style.

He shifted on the hard gurney, then wished he hadn’t. “I think I took a solid bounce or two.”

“You have some nasty yet colorful lacerations and abrasions,” she confirmed.

“Anything life threatening?”

“You almost sound like you’re hoping.” A frown puckered her smooth brow.

He shrugged and caught his breath at the pain that zinged him. “I just want to know when I can get out of here.”

Except for that spot of worry between her brows, her skin was smooth and creamy. She was pretty. He couldn’t be hurt too bad if he noticed.

“Is there someone we can call to let them know you’re here? Your wife maybe?”

His chest tightened. “No.”

“What about friends? Family?”

“My brother lives in Phoenix. Since I’m not dead, there’s no reason to call him—or anyone else. Except maybe the doc so I can split.”

“I’ll let him know you’re awake. He’ll be in to talk to you as soon as he can.”

“Can’t you tell me what’s up?”

“No. That’s the doctor’s job.”

“Where is he? Playing golf?”

“After evaluating your vital signs, he ordered labs and X rays. While waiting for those, he went to see the other patient.”

He remembered going through the tests. Then her words sank in.

“Other patient?” He frowned. “I didn’t hit—I mean when I went down—was it just me?”

“As far as I know,” she said, “that patient is medical as opposed to accident trauma. When we triaged the two of you, he drew the short straw. Doctor’s been working on him for a while.”

“If I came in second, I guess that means I’m going to live.”

“You sound disappointed.”

Maybe he was. She might look like an angel, but she didn’t act like one. But then, how would he know? No self-respecting angel would or should give him the time of day. Even if he believed in them, which he didn’t. Not anymore. Not since Marcus—

Suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes.

“Stay with me, sleeping beauty.” Her voice was sharp. “Mr. Reynolds? Can you hear me?”

Megan gently patted her patient’s face and squeezed his hand, because it was one of the few places without abrasions. Probably because he’d worn leather gloves. What kind of idiot would protect his hands and not his head?

“An idiot with a death wish,” she whispered to no one in particular. She gently patted his face again. “Oh, no you don’t. Not on my watch.”

“I’m not asleep. Who’s an idiot?” he asked, opening his eyes.

She let out a relieved breath, grateful she’d easily roused him and he hadn’t slipped into unconsciousness. “So you were playing possum.”

“I don’t play anything—”

Anymore.

The word hung in the air between them as clearly as if he’d said it out loud. She studied him. He wasn’t hard on the eyes. In spite of the fact that he looked like the loser in a close encounter of the pavement kind, he was incredibly good-looking. But she couldn’t help thinking he was in pain.

Duh. Of course he was. The man probably had a concussion. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she couldn’t see where he was hurting the most. And since when did psychoanalyzing become part of emergency room protocol?

“No more pretending to be asleep, Mr. Reynolds.”

“I wasn’t pretending. And the name’s Simon.”

“It’s going to be mud if you scare me like that again.”

He grinned unexpectedly, chasing the shadows from his face, making him even more attractive. Her heart skipped, and she thought it was a good thing she wasn’t hooked up to a monitor. With no evidence to the contrary, she could pretend she’d had no reaction to his smile.

Megan checked the machine and noted that his vital signs were all good. But the shadows in his eyes and the tension in his square jaw told her he was pretty uncomfortable. Unfortunately, because of the head injury, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Until the doctor assessed his tests and the extent of the damage, she couldn’t give him pain meds.

But he was stoic. She couldn’t help admiring that. And he was edgy. The cc or two of humor he’d injected into their short conversation gave her hope that his tests would come back negative, proving what she’d already observed. Simon Reynolds was strong and healthy. And handsome in a rough-and-tumble, rugged sort of way.

That was not a professional observation. It was purely personal, and she couldn’t help it. She was a woman; she was breathing.

Short, wavy dark hair framed his face. His eyes were a vivid blue, a shade more intense than she’d ever seen before on anyone—man or woman. The thick, dark lashes were sinfully long and totally wasted on a man.

He looked like a fighter—lean and muscular. Now that he’d passed the golden hour, that precious sixty minutes when medical intervention made the difference between life and death, she could observe more details about him. Her haphazard surgery on his clothes had revealed a pretty impressive chest and strong legs dusted with a masculine covering of hair.

“So you think I’m an idiot, Nurse Nancy?”

She met his gaze, which, surprisingly, held humor. “I told you—my name is Megan. And while you weren’t supposed to hear what I said, yes, I think you’re an idiot. Kids know better than to ride a bike without a helmet. Unless you’re a superhero I have to conclude that you don’t have the common sense of a gnat.”