“He's strong,” Ana managed, groping for Gates's hand. It was going to get worse, she could tell.
“He's going to need to be. We had to remove the little finger on his left hand. He had a compound fracture and the wound had gone septic. We couldn't save it, I'm afraid.”
“But he'll live?” Ana insisted, feeling hope rise. Was that the worst? What was a finger, among friends? “He'll be okay?”
“I hope so, if the infection and fever can be brought under control. We've got him on IV antibiotics, fluids, you name it. The conditions”âthe doctor shruggedâ“were terrible and these injuries would have been bad even if he'd gotten medical help right away. As it is, he's had two to three days with the infection gaining a foothold in his body. He's responding to the treatment so far, but that's right now. We'll be monitoring him around the clock and we're going to all pray the infection isn't a resistant strain, that there are no other injuries internally or externally, and that he's still strong enough to fight.”
Gates looked determined on Dav's behalf. “Oh, he'll fight. When can we see him?”
“Couple hours,” the doctor said, looking at his watch. “Get some sleep. I'll have somebody wake you.”
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The hours passed, and finally an orderly came for them. The ship's sickroom was empty now, except for Dav and Carrie. Both lay still, with monitors beeping around them, and nurses and corpsmen hovering nearby.
They went to Dav first.
“Hey, buddy,” Gates said. “It's Gates. We got you out,” he said. “You and Carrie both. You're safe, okay?”
Ana squeezed Dav's unbandaged hand, and as she had with Declan, she gently stroked Dav's arm. “Hey, dude,” she drawled. “You've been loafing long enough. Time to wake up and say hello. We've come a long way to see you, you know. Least you could do is open your eyes and give us a word.
“I will give you a word,” came the faint, raspy reply.
Delighted, Ana gasped and leaned closer. “Hey, you. Welcome back. I'll read you the riot act later. What's the word?”
“Carrie?” The whisper was stronger, but he didn't open his eyes.
“Alive. Concussed, but alive.”
“Ahhhhhhh.” The sound was a pleased sigh, and a smile bowed his lips. “Good. Love her. Going to marrrrrrry herrrrr,” he slurred, and slipped back into sleep.
“Did he say what I think he said?” Gates was leaning close as well, from the other side of the bed.
“That he loves her and is going to marry her?”
“Yep,” Gates agreed, grinning now, as well.
“Excellent,” Ana crowed softly. “Now, he'll get well.”
The nurse peered around the curtain. “You should let him rest.”
“We will,” Ana said, straightening. “We'll just look in on Ms. McCray, then let them both rest.”
“Good,” the nurse approved, obviously protective of her patients.
“Hey, Carrie,” Ana said, as they entered the curtained space. Carrie's cuts and bruises stood in stark contrast to her fair skin, and her dark hair hadn't yet been washed. It lay in lank strands on the pillow, striking still, in spite of everything. Ana could see why Dav had fallen for this interesting, gorgeous and obviously strong woman.
“Who is it?” she managed blearily, struggling and failing to open her eyes.
“It's Ana and Gates. We won't stay long, but we wanted to tell you that you're safe. We're on a hospital ship.”
“Dav?”
The question made Ana smile and Gates reached out a hand to his wife. She took it as she answered Carrie's question, tears in her voice. “He's alive. It's going to be tough for him, but he said to tell you he loves you.”
Carrie's eyes flew open at that, focused on Ana for a moment, then unfocused again. She groaned. “Hurts to open my eyes.”
“You've got a concussion.”
There was a throat-clearing noise from the nurse.
“We have to go,” Ana whispered, “but it's real, Carrie. He loves you.” She flicked a glance at Gates before she continued. Her inner sense told her there was something amiss between the two of them, so she added, “He's never said it to anyone else, Carrie. He's never asked anyone to marry him before. He wants to ask you, when you'll let him.”
Gates frowned at her words, and she could tell he was puzzled, but it was a woman's intuition thing. He wouldn't understand even if she could find the words to explain it to him.
“Give him a chance, Carrie. Give him a chance.”
Another “Ahem” had them standing, moving away from the bed. “We'll be here, Carrie, if you need us,” Gates added as a parting shot, before they left the room.
In the bed, Carrie heard them leave, felt the nurse's presence at the bedside.
“It hurts when I open my eyes,” she complained, hating the whine in her voice even as she seemed to be powerless to stop it.
“Concussion, ma'am.” The woman hesitated. “And you've thrown up twice.”
“I did it before, in the jungle,” Carrie managed to tell her, worried now that she had some dread jungle disease that would take her away from Dav, just when she might have found the courage to love him.
The last thing she'd seen before her chair was knocked down and her head connected with the leg of the table was Dav shoving forward, chair and all, to deflect the shot aimed at her. He had been willing to give his life for hers.
How could she not believe in that? How could she not believe that there was a chance he could love her, if he was willing to do that?
“Get some rest, ma'am,” the nurse advised, and she felt the woman pat her arm. “We'll do some more tests in the morning, see what else needs to be done.”
“Okay,” Carrie whispered, and the words seemed loud in her ears. She was fading into sleep, but the warm knowledge of Ana's words followed her in, and sang in her dreams.
Hours later, she awoke in the semidark. The room had been dimmed so that both she and Dav could sleep. When she stirred, the nurse padded over on quiet feet.
“Hey,” the woman whispered, “how're you feeling?”
“Better,” Carrie admitted, after a brief internal assessment. “But I have toâ” She hesitated.
“Use the facilities,” the nurse supplied with a smile. “Perfectly normal after two bags of fluids. Do you think you can walk, or should I get a bedpan?”
“Walk,” Carrie said, determined to at least see Dav on the way to or from the bathroom.
They made it to the small ship's lavatory and back without incident.
“Could I sit with him?” Carrie asked, motioning toward Dav's still, sleeping form in the next bed.
The nurse frowned, but nodded. “Not for long, though. You need to sleep more yourself. Sleep heals,” she murmured.
“I'll sleep, but I need to sit with him, just for a bit.”
The nurse fussed over the chair and over Carrie until she wanted to scream at the woman to go away, let her have some space and peace. She didn't do it, but she let out a sigh of relief when the woman finally moved back to her nearby desk with the parting shot that she'd be back in a few minutes.
Carrie waited until she could hear the woman shuffling papers and tapping keys before she turned to Dav. He looked strange, lying so still. He was so vital and brilliantly alive, but this was shocking in a way, this unnatural stillness.
“Dav?” she whispered. “Dav-mou?”
For some reason that seemed to get through to him, the endearment.
“Carrie?” The faintest breath of a word, although he didn't open his eyes at all.
“Right here,” she said, pressing his large hand between her own smaller palms.
“It's dark. Are we still in the cave? I can't move.” He stirred restlessly on the bed. “Why can't I move? Carrie?”
“Shhhhhh,” she soothed hastily, shooting a worried glance toward the nurse's station. “We're on the hospital ship, Dav. We're safe.”
He was quiet so long, she thought he'd gone back to sleep, but finally, when she'd made the reluctant decision to call the nurse, get up, and let him rest, he spoke again. She had to lean in to hear him.
“You were right, you know. To turn me down,” he rasped, still not opening his eyes.
“No, no, Dav, I wasn't,” she protested, her voice urgent. He had to understand....
It was his turn to shush her. “No, you were. I didn't understand,” he whispered softly, his voice fading out for a moment. “But I do now,” he hurried on, as if the words must come out immediately with no interruption. “I understand.”
He managed to turn his head toward her and she saw the gleam of his glorious dark eyes as he managed to fight off the drugs, his injuries and even the sleep that he so desperately needed to open his eyes and look at her. His dark gaze thrilled her and he smiled. “You're so beautiful,” he said, and a smile curved his beautiful lips. He drew a deep breath, still smiling though his eyes were drifting shut again. “I love you, Carrie-mou.”
“Oh, Dav.” The words she'd longed to hear, real, heartfelt words of love, shook her to the depths of her soul.
His strength was visibly fading, but he smiled again and squeezed the hands she'd wrapped around his. He tried to raise them to his lips, but didn't have the strength. “Marry me, Carrie-mou,” he said, his voice dropping back to a whisper. “Do not turn me down again. I could not bear to live without you now.”
“I won't,” she breathed. “I won't turn you down,” she corrected, seeing the beginnings of his frown, realizing how she'd phrased her reply.
“Ahhh.” He smiled again and his eyes drifted all the way closed. “Good. Eh-la, this is good. I love you.” He squeezed her hand, and his eyelids fluttered, trying to open. Trying to communicate more. “It is good to say it,” was all he managed.
“It is,” she whispered, rising to press a kiss to his forehead, and his lips, which parted softly under hers. “It is good to say it. I love you too, Dav.”
“Ahh,” he said, on a sigh as he drifted back to sleep. “Tha's gooooood.”
Carrie let the nurse chivvy her back to bed a few minutes later, but she went to sleep with a smile on her face. Content.
Epilogue
The reporter stood on the sidewalk outside the gallery, twisting the earpiece into a more comfortable place in her ear. Her cameraman was flicking his fingers in the countdown so she stopped fiddling and gave her neat, pressed shirt a last quick adjustment and deliberately widened her smile.
“Three, two, one, live feed.” The camera's light blinked green on her indrawn breath.
“We're here outside the Prometheus Gallery tonight, which is hosting the cream of San Francisco's elite. This is the first major showing since the gallery's owner, Carrie McCray, and her new husband, renowned billionaire shipping magnate Davros Gianikopolis returned from Central America where they were held hostage.
“Shortly after their heroic rescue and their return to the United States, Ms. McCray and Mr. Gianikopolis were married in a private ceremony attended only by their closest friends.”
The light blinked red, and she continued the voice-over, knowing they would be showing pictures, released selectively to the media, of the happy couple on their wedding day. The bride had been married in a glorious confection of cream-colored silk created by a local designer. The groom, resplendent and handsome in a tuxedo, despite the grievous injuries suffered during his captivity, had beamed with barely suppressed joy.
“Seen here in a photo released after they left for their honeymoon in an undisclosed location, the couple appears to be fully recovered from their ordeal.”
The light blinked back to green and she turned slightly to her right, letting her best side show to the camera. She knew the cameraman would be panning wide to get the crowd, and the elegant sign outside Prometheus.
Her busy intern had prepped the area, and was just out of camera range, drawing arriving celebrities and couples over to speak to her on camera as they arrived.
The feed in her ear gave her details to prompt the approaching grouping. “Mrs. Bellweather, I understand you've been a longtime supporter of the Prometheus Gallery.”
The society matron did her bit, preening into the camera and giving her an excellent sound bite. Her assistant hustled another couple over, but their comments were gushing and far too lengthy. She moved out of the camera's ideal range as she spotted another local couple. The woman had been in the news about the same time as Carrie McCray, involved somehow in the scandal of the previous year.
Yet, here she was, attending the reopening of the gallery.
“Good evening.” The reporter smiled brightly, praying they would talk to her as the cameraman refocused on her and the patrons. “Would you like to say a few words about this evening's event?”
The man avoided her gaze, dropping just slightly behind his wife. The reporter gritted her teeth. The man was gorgeous in a good-camera way with lots of angles and planes to his face, but he wasn't going to talk to her, she could tell. The wife, on the other hand, beamed. This would work, since the woman was succinct and positive about the gallery and the reopening event. Her producer kept urging her to keep them talking, that it was a good clip.
“This is going to be a lovely evening, I can feel it,” the woman said, her smile dazzling. It helped that she was visibly pregnant. The delighted glow she exuded would show up well on camera.
“We're so happy to be here. My husband, Gunther, and I”âshe smiled over her shoulder at her reluctant husbandâ“enjoy Prometheus, and are delighted to celebrate this special event.”
“It's a lovely event, yes,” the reporter prompted. “Have you and Mrs. Gianikopolis compared baby names?” she asked, referencing the society tidbit that Carrie McCray was already obviously pregnant, and probably had been before the wedding.
“Ohâ” The woman blushed. “We're not that well acquainted, but of course, I wish her all the best.”
“Thank you, Mrs....” The reporter let her fill in the blank space.
The woman smiled into the camera and said, “I'm Mrs. Gunther Kraff,” she offered, then smiled. “Caroline Kraff.”
“Well, Caroline, thank you for speaking to me. Any words of wisdom for the newly married couple?”
Caroline smiled again, and the reporter hoped the camera was catching the gleam in her eye, and the twinkle of humor. It would make fabulous television.
“Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, but...” She glanced once more at her bashful husband, whose head was now ducked a bit.
“But?”
“Well, I'm sure they already know far more than I would about wisdom, but as to advice, they've already followed the advice I'd give.”
“And what would that be?”
Caroline Kraff looked at the reporter with a shrewd, knowing gaze, but the face she turned to the camera was once again that look of innocent, glowing happiness. “Why, when you've got a chance at love, take the shot.”
“There you have it,” the reporter said, obeying the signal in her ear to wrap it up. “Thank you, Mrs. Kraff, Mr. Kraff. Enjoy your evening. This is Melanie Stuart, live at the Prometheus Gallery in downtown San Francisco.”
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From the balcony, Gates and Ana watched as the attractive pregnant lady and her husband were snagged by the reporter. Gates frowned at the man's behavior, his avoidance of the camera, but the woman's obvious pleasure belied any real suspicion.
Until they left the reporter and entered the gallery, that is. He saw the man straighten and sweep the crowd with an assessing gaze.
“Did you see that?” Ana whispered in his ear.
“Yeah,” he muttered, focusing in on the man, watching as Geddey's menâno longer his teamâcaught Geddey's reaction to the sweeping glance, and suggested that someone should get him the guest list and determine just who this was.
“Just like old times,” she said, snickering, remembering how he had told her he knew she wasn't what she seemed when she too had entered the gallery and given that exact, measured assessment of the teeming crowd.
He laughed as well, never taking his eyes off the couple in question.
A booming laugh distracted him from his quarry and he turned to see Dav and a brilliantly beautiful Carrie coming his way. They looked happier than he'd ever seen either of them.
Ana slid her hand through the crook of his arm and leaned into him. “They look happy, don't they?”
“They do.”
Dav strolled up, snagging two additional champagne flutes as he came. “You must have champagne, and we must have a toast.”
“Absolutely,” Gates said. “But first, do you recognize that couple?”
Carrie stepped to the balcony rail as well and looked down. “That's Caroline Yountz Kraff. She married a German software entrepreneur she met through her late husband.”
“May he never rest in peace,” Ana muttered, having been the target of Yountz's ire prior to his death.
“She looks happy,” Dav offered.
“And he looks familiar,” Gates replied.
Carrie tapped Gates's shoulder. “No business tonight.”
She smiled, and Dav kissed her, and they all agreed. Raising her glass filled with what looked like champagne, she said, “To what should we toast?”
She saw Ana eyeing the glass and said, “Sparkling cider.”
“Excellent vintage,” was Ana's sly comment.
Dav tucked Carrie against his side and raised his glass as well, facing his best and dearest friends. “To love,” he offered.
They each echoed him, “To love.”
And drank.