His lids closed for a second and then reopened. She could see that he was straining to move his lips.
“It’s all right. Don’t talk,” she reassured him. “You’re safe now.”
Devine knelt on the other side of the man they’d literally snatched from the grave. She followed his hands as they made a quick assessment of injury, checking for broken bones or wounds.
“He’s in one piece. Nothing broken,” the officer reported. “My guess is he’s been drugged. It looks as though they’ve given him a paralytic.”
Michael’s lips formed the word
phenodryl
but neither one of them knew what he was trying to say.
Devine took off his jacket and laid it across Michael’s chest.
Jessica pushed back his matted hair and uncovered an abrasion. Her fingers stroked tenderly down his cheek. His gaze was focused on her face, and she smiled reassuringly.
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” Gillespie questioned.
“Please.” She threaded her fingers through Michael’s, pressing them tightly, trying to give him her warmth and comfort. Was it her imagination, or did he return the pressure?
It was a joy to be able to touch him and know that he was alive. Thank God they’d been in time! Tears glistened in her eyes. She’d been through some terrifying experiences, but she’d never been more afraid than when she’d thought she wasn’t going to find Michael Rome.
Chapter Twelve
“H
ow are we feeling this evening, Mr. Prentiss?” the solicitous voice asked.
So it hadn’t been a nightmare. The man was real. Cautiously Jed opened his eyes. It was still an effort. The lids felt as if they’d been glued down. He found himself staring at a tall white-haired man dressed in a linen suit. His face was carefully neutral, yet Jed detected an edgy look around the eyes that made him wary.
“Do you remember meeting me when you were first brought here? I’m Dr. Talifero.”
When Jed tried to answer, his voice came out in a harsh growl.
“It may be a bit rusty at first, but that’s to be expected in these cases,” the doctor reassured.
“What...am...I...doing here?” Jed managed.
“I explained all that before, but a section of your memory has apparently been distorted. In addition to your bruised ribs, you’ve had a stroke. But I won’t be able to tell how much brain damage you’ve suffered until we can do an evaluation.”
Brain damage? The man in the bed struggled to sit up and fell back. The IV tube connected to his arm swayed dangerously. Glucose, or something more potent?
Talifero came to his side, steadying the plastic line. “Just take it easy. I’ll get the nurse to come in and crank up your bed in a few moments. But since you’re awake, I’d like to talk now.”
Jed nodded cautiously. He tried to shift his position but every move made his chest ache more.
“I’ve found with cases like yours that the last forty-eight hours preceding the cerebral accident are sometimes wiped out or even replaced with false memories. What I’d like you to do is tell me what you recollect from that period. If it will help, you can even start with what you remember before you came to Royale Verde.”
The patient licked his lips. His recent memories were very clear now. If they were accurate, telling them to Talifero would be suicidal. But suppose the man was speaking the truth? Then what? The effort to puzzle it out made his head throb. Brain damage? Or the effect of a drug?
“Mr. Prentiss, I can’t help you if you’re not willing to help yourself,” Talifero said encouragingly, yet there was an element in his voice that suggested this interview held considerable importance to him.
It would certainly be a novel interrogation technique to convince an agent that he’d had a stroke and get him to spill his guts in the name of therapy, Jed thought. But was he an agent? Or was that some fantasy his injured mind had glommed on to as a way to stave off reality? He’d just have to try and play for time until he could sort the truth from the fiction. “I was on vacation—fishing—when I got lost in the dark.”
Talifero’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid that may not be entirely accurate. My contacts in town report that you were asking rather probing questions for a casual tourist.”
“I’m thinking about buying beach property down here,” Jed clarified.
“Let’s try another approach. Can you remember any of your friends or relatives? Is there anyone we should notify about your accident?”
The question was probably a trap, but was there some way he could use it to contact the Falcon? There was the dead-drop post-office box that Peregrine used. But until he knew the situation better here, he didn’t even dare try that. “No one,” he answered.
The doctor gave him a thoughtful look. “Mr. Prentiss, I’m glad you were planning on a long stay in the area. However, I’m not sure you realize it, but this is a psychiatric sanitarium, and I have the absolute power to keep patients here as long as I feel it necessary. If you can’t provide us any clues to your real purpose on Royale Verde, you’re not going to get any better, and I’ll have no option but to transfer you to the disturbed wing where the care is, of necessity, a little less gentle. Why don’t you see if that prospect will jog your memory? We’ll talk again later.”
Before the patient could answer, he turned on his Italian leather heels and left the room.
* * *
I
T WAS FOUR
in the morning before the resident who had examined Michael was willing to release him. The doctor wanted to keep him in the hospital for twenty-four hours for observation, but Michael flatly refused.
“With phenodryl there might be some aftereffects, like muscle spasms, headache, or dizziness,” the intern argued. “And I can’t take responsibility for letting you leave unless someone else will agree to stay with you for at least the next twelve hours.”
Jessica, who had been waiting outside the curtained-off cubicle, heard Michael swear.
“You can sign him out to me,” she volunteered.
The doctor parted the curtains, and she noted that Michael was back in his somewhat-the-worse-for-wear street clothes. He looked up as she entered. “I want to be alone.” God, he’d been buried alive. That was bad enough, but he’d been stupid enough to walk into a trap and then lose the man who was the key to solving this damn case.
“Staying by yourself is completely unacceptable,” the resident insisted.
Michael sighed. “All right then, just let me out of here. And don’t order a wheelchair to take me to the door. I can walk.”
After hours of lying in the tomb and then on this damn examining table, he wanted to move around. But an orderly had to help him off the table and he could only lift his legs enough to shuffle as he made his way down the deserted corridor.
As Jessica slowed her pace to match his, she ached to take his arm and steady him. But she understood he was too independent to accept any help. She’d been elated at his quick physical recovery, yet the physician’s efforts to get him to talk about the ordeal had been rebuffed. He was like a clam whose shell snapped closed every time its vulnerable interior was probed. She suspected that meant the experience had been traumatic even for someone as calloused as Michael Rome.
In the cab, he moved to the corner near the window and turned his head away from her. When they drew up in front of the hotel, he opened the door and got out as quickly as possible. “Okay, you’ve done your duty. Go home.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be kidding.” After stuffing some bills into the driver’s hand, she hopped out and slammed the door behind her.
His look was thunderous as he started off toward the dimly lit lobby. Even in the last twenty minutes he could feel that his physical strength had increased. But mentally he’d been barely holding himself together for hours, and he didn’t know how much longer he could do it. He certainly didn’t want an audience if he came unglued.
However, Jessica was right beside him as he inserted the key in the lock. If his reflexes had been up to par, he would have closed the door before she could get inside. Instead, she came into the sitting room.
“Can’t you leave me alone!” he rasped.
She put a gentle hand on his arm. “You’ve been through a horrible ordeal. It’s all right to need help.”
“Don’t touch me!”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been in a grave, for God’s sake. All I want to do is stand under the shower and scrub the stench of death off.”
She put her arms around him and he started to shake. Her embrace tightened. For long minutes she simply held him, willing him to accept what comfort she could give. But he was still fighting himself and couldn’t accept the solace she offered. “Jessica, get out of here,” he tried one more time. But the note of conviction in his voice was missing.
“Let’s get you into the shower.”
“I’m a big boy. I can do it by myself.”
“Okay, but if you need me, I’ll be right outside.”
“Suit yourself.”
The bathroom was in a little hall off the sitting room.
“Don’t lock the door.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t snap the catch either.
Jessica sat down on the couch. She was exhausted from the mental anguish of trying to find him and the waiting at the hospital. She listened for the sound of the water, but he hadn’t turned it on.
“Are you all right?”
The muffled reply could have been either yes or no.
Tentatively she turned the knob and peered inside. Michael had taken off his shoes and shirt and unzipped his pants, but he was leaning against the wall, his wide shoulders and head pressed backward as if he needed the contact with something solid. Her eyes took in the familiar expanse of his naked chest and then traveled back to his half-closed eyes. His face was drained of color.
“Michael, what’s wrong?”
“Dizzy. It’s going away.”
“Maybe a shower isn’t such a good idea right now.”
“Don’t you understand, damn it? I’ve got to get clean!”
“Yes, I understand.” She reached behind the curtain and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature. Then she turned back to Michael. “Let me help you finish getting undressed.”
Before he could object, she hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of his pants and pulled them down. After a moment’s hesitation she did the same with his briefs, being careful to appear as impersonal as the doctor who had examined him in the emergency room. Yet she was vividly aware of every muscle in his strong, trim body. There was a bruise at his waist and another on his ribs.
Turning quickly away, she held the curtain aside and waited while he stepped under the spray of water. She could see more bruises on his back. So they’d roughed him up before they’d shoved him in that crypt. Remembering the way he’d fought in Lonnie’s living room, she wondered how many men it had taken to overpower him.
But he wasn’t in fighting shape now. His foot slipped and he caught himself by grabbing the shower head. Reaching inside, she steadied his shoulder. She should never have let him get in there. He might fall and hit his head.
When his body hit the side of the shower, she winced. This was ridiculous, she thought, reaching for the buttons of her own shirt. Stripping down to her bra and panties, she stepped behind the curtain.
Water was streaming down Michael’s face, but his half-closed eyes snapped open. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Keeping you from killing yourself in here.”
“I should never have let you come home with me.”
“You couldn’t prevent it.” Michael had readjusted the water so that it was hotter. Where it hit her body, it almost burned. “Listen, if you’re worried about your reputation as a macho loner, it’s safe with me. I’m not going to tell anyone about this.”
He gave her a scathing look. “If I had the strength, I’d kick you out of here.” Then he pointedly looked away from her. It was obvious that the next best thing to getting rid of her was pretending she wasn’t there.
If the performance was designed to make her angry, it didn’t work. She knew he was in pain, if not physically, then mentally. She wanted to fold him into her arms again. Knowing that he still wouldn’t allow that, she picked up the bar of soap and worked up a lather in her hands. Then she began to smooth her fingers across his chest. After a few strokes he closed his eyes and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. Encouraged, she washed his neck and chest. The feel of his firm skin sliding under her soapy hands was erotic, but she tried not to think about it. She worked up more lather and coasted her soapy palms across his flat belly but didn’t dare go any lower. “Turn around and let me do your back,” she directed instead, her voice husky.
He shifted his position, bracing his hands against the wall. Now that he was facing away from her, she allowed herself the luxury of drinking in the uncompromising masculinity of his form. Muscles corded in his arms and shoulders, and his body tapered down to a narrow waist and tightly rounded buttocks. Her soapy fingers trembled slightly as they slid across his waterslick skin. The bruises she skimmed over with the barest touch.
“Bend your head back so I can do your hair,” she instructed.
For a moment he hesitated, then complied. She poured out a dollop of his green shampoo into her palm and inhaled the fresh pine scent. Her fingers combed through his hair, appreciating its slightly rough texture. When she worked the lather into his scalp, he muttered something unintelligible.
He straightened and thrust his head directly under the stream from the shower. The water seemed to have had a reviving effect. She could see new tension in the set of his shoulders.
“I can finish this by myself.”
“I don’t think that’s very smart.”
“Believe me, it’s very smart.” There was a gritty edge to his voice. “You might have come in here with good intentions, but I’m afraid having an almost naked woman in the shower running her hands over my body is more than I can handle right now.”
“I’m sorry,” she tried to apologize
“If you won’t get out, I will.” He pulled the curtain aside and stepped from the cubicle, leaving her under the cascading water. She took a steadying breath. Touching him had aroused her too.