Eileen Nauman - The Right Touch

The information was too much for him to assimilate. Twenty-four hours. What was she talking about? And sick? Why? The water sounded heavenly. “Yeah…water… please….” It hurt to talk. Croak would be a more appropriate word, he thought blearily. He watched through blurred vision as she rosé and went over to a table. What was she wearing? White knickers and socks and a red T-shirt? That didn’t make sense. He closed his eyes, dizziness making him nauseated. The moment the cool dryness of her arm slid beneath his sweaty neck and she supported him with her body, Cal reopened his eyes. He rested his head against the softness of her breast and shoulder as she pressed the glass to his lips. The coldness soothed his raw throat, cleansing his mouth of the bile taste. He sucked up the water thirstily, some of it dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

“There’s more,” Dev said, setting down the glass and then blotting Cal’s mouth and stubbled chin. She poured another glass; he stared at it like a man who had been in the desert and was about to die from lack of water. Finally though, his thirst was satisfied, and dizziness forced him to close his eyes once again. He heard the steady beat of her heart, nuzzled his bearded cheek into the hollow between her breasts and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Feel a bit better?” she asked, holding him.

“A little.”

Dev gently laid him back down, pulling the blankets up across his naked chest. “Go back to sleep, Cal. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Her voice was like thick, soothing honey pouring over him, somehow easing his spinning head and exhaustion. He looked up into her eyes, lost in their luminous softness, and felt safe from the storm’s remnants. Cal wanted to say “Thank you,” but total fatigue dragged him back into the healing realm of sleep.

* * *

SHE WAS SITTING BY HIM when he awoke the second time, her eyes filled with worry. She was chewing on that full lower lip that he sharply remembered kissing. Cal was dully aware that it was barely dawn, the sky lavender through the panels drawn across the windows. The low lighting from the hall shadowed her pale face, and he wondered why darkness lingered beneath her glorious blue eyes. “How do you feel?” she ventured softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Cal felt the dry warmth on his cool, damp flesh. It felt good. Stabilizing. “Like hell,” he answered, finding his voice a rasp.

“Do you remember where you are?”

Memory of the room and of Dev eventually congealed in his sluggish brain. Cal felt as if someone had taken a bottle brush to his mind and wiped it clean of everything other than Dev’s haunting voice. Cal moved his gaze back up to her. “I think I do. You look tired.”

Again that slight smile. Her hair curled around her head and shoulders. She looked like a winsome child. “It can’t be because I’ve been playing nursemaid to you for almost thirty-six hours. I have to hand it to you: when you want to get drunk, you really go all the way, Major.”

Cal frowned. “Thirty-six hours? What are you talking about?” He struggled into a sitting position, his head throbbing. The sheet and blankets fell away, revealing his powerful chest and hard, flat belly. He looked down at himself and then up at her, questions in his gray eyes.

Dev shrugged apologetically. “The first twenty-four hours you were sick. You sweated a lot. I had to take off your clothes because they were soaked. The next twelve hours you slept like a baby. No nightmares…”

His mouth tightened at her whispered words. “Nightmares?”

Dev’s expression grew soft. “Yes. You kept reliving the accident, Cal.” She couldn’t meet his narrowed gaze. “I’m sorry about Chief. My God, you almost died, too, trying to save him.” Dev shyly reached out, her hand sliding across his, her voice quavering. “How tragic….”

Cal groaned and pulled his hand away from hers, covering his face. He leaned back against the headboard, bringing up his knees beneath the covers. “Damn it,” he muttered thickly.

Dev rosé, sensing that he didn’t want her near him. That hurt her. In the past day and a half, she had grown close to Cal as he relived the raw grief. He had found release in her arms. “Listen, I’ve got to go jog three miles. Part of my daily exercise routine. I’ll be back in a little while.” Nervously, she slipped into her jogging shoes to complete her outfit—baggy pink sweatpants and shirt. Dev felt his eyes on her as she straightened up, a knot forming in her shrinking stomach. As Dev met his predatorlike gaze, she pulled on a red sweatband. “The hotel supplies razors and that sort of thing if you feel like getting cleaned up.” Grabbing her wristwatch and a key for the room, she quietly left the stilted silence, glad to escape Cal’s wariness.

Cal sat there in bed, feeling utterly embarrassed and angry with himself. Dawn was creeping over the horizon behind the island of Hong Kong, the golden rays reaching and stretching out in brilliant arms. Dawn. The time of their accident. Of Chief’s death. He rubbed his face, aware of the sharp stubble of his beard. Then he became aware that he needed a shower. Badly. His head ached but not so severely as to stop him from getting up. Throwing back the covers, he noted with chagrin that he wore only his briefs. As he slowly got to his feet, he looked around for his uniform. The room was neatly picked up with the exception of Dev’s épée still on the coffee table. Grumbling to himself, Cal stared at the clock on the bed table—5:30 A.M. What day was it? He found his aviator’s watch on the stand next to the clock. Wednesday morning? No. Impossible! He glared at his watch in his open palm. The party had been Monday night. Where—

“Damn it,” Cal muttered, stalking off toward the bathroom, ruthlessly combing his spotty memory for details. The scalding-hot shower washed away the sweat of fear from his body. It improved his mood about one degree. The bathroom was steamy and warm as he wrapped a thick white towel around his waist and then shaved. Borrowing Dev’s tortoiseshell comb, Cal tamed his wet hair into place, looking a hell of a lot better than he felt. His mood deteriorated even more when he couldn’t find his uniform anywhere. He searched each closet and found many white fencing uniforms, a few dresses and slacks but no uniform.

Disgruntled, Cal shrugged into one of the thick terry-cloth robes the hotel provided and padded into the room. He called down for coffee, then went over to the windows and stared stonily out. Several junks floated past the hotel. The cobblestoned shore nearby was lined with many of Hong Kong’s citizens going through their morning t’ai chi ch’uan exercises. Then he spotted Dev off in the distance, jogging back toward the hotel along the wharf. Some of his anger dissipated as Cal watched her stride with long-legged confidence, her auburn hair captured in a ponytail, drifting out behind her with each rhythmic step. As Dev drew closer, he could see the flush to her cheeks, thinking that she looked beautiful. Scowling, Cal turned when the houseboy announced himself. Coffee had arrived. Thank God.

Dev knocked before she opened the door to her room, just to make sure Cal had had time to dress. Her heart was pounding strongly in her breast, and that wasn’t from the workout. She closed the door and walked down the hall. At the end of the hall, Dev halted, her lips parting.

“Oh.” She stared stupidly across the room at Cal, who was sitting on the settee, coffee in hand, observing her. Instantly, she flushed and pulled the damp sweatband off her brow.

“It looked like you were having a good run.”

Dev walked over to the bed and sat down, unlacing her shoes. She was surprised at the quiet quality of Cal’s voice. Was he angry? He was a man of immense pride, she suspected. Yet he had spent the past day and a half in her room, helpless as a baby, having to rely totally on her for care. Dev didn’t imagine Cal leaned on anyone for anything. Especially a stranger who had witnessed him suffering a deep, personal tragedy. She licked her lips, tasting the salt of perspiration on them as she leaned over.