Squeezing out of the room again, he went into the postage-stamp kitchen. A quick search led him to a box with over-the-counter pills, which he shoved in his pocket. He found a drinking glass and a big soup pot, filled them both with cold water, cracked some ice cubes into the pot, grabbed a stack of clean tea towels and headed back to her room.
He set the drinking glass and pills on the windowsill on the other side of her bed. Perching the pot of water on the chair, he wet a little towel and wrapped it around one of her feet. She moaned and her foot jerked a little, but he held her gently and made shushing noises as he rubbed the cold water into her calloused foot. She shivered but didn’t move at all when he wrapped another towel around her other foot.
“Let’s try to cool the rest of you down, huh?” He lowered her arms to take the strain out of her shoulders, and her face drifted toward the wall. He wet a third towel and lifted her head and shoulders off the pillow. Smoothing the towel under her back, he laid her on the bed again and covered her shoulders with the corners. One more towel he folded up and placed on her forehead.
He wet the last towel and stroked it across her body, down each arm, across her chest and belly, around her legs and in between. Her skin heated the thin fabric, so he dipped it in the cool water again and started over. Three times he passed the towel over her, and just as he was getting ready to wet it a fourth time, he felt her eyes on him.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?” He knelt down by the bed, his feet wedged against the closed door. He’d never felt like such an oversized lout in his life.
“Crappy,” she rasped.
“I heard you had a bad night.”
She barely nodded. “Can...my phone? Need call work.”
“It’s Sunday. I know you work hard, but surely not on a Sunday.”
She sighed. “Emma?”
“Left not long ago. She phoned me to take care of you. Do you think your tum can handle some paracetamol?”
She made a noise of agreement and he helped her sit up enough to take the pills. Squeezing himself half behind her, he propped her up and held the glass to her lips. She swallowed the pills and relaxed against him, tugging her tank top down to cover her underpants.
“How would you feel about going back to my place to sleep?”
She was snoring before he finished. Probably not the best time to move her, then.
He moved the pot of water and sat on the chair to watch her until he could think of something better to do. Stretching out his legs, his foot kicked something hard under the bed. Hoping it would be something he could entertain himself with for a while, he reached under and pulled out a clear plastic wallet full of letters. He could see without opening it that they were all in envelopes, and all addressed in the same masculine handwriting. He looked closer at the return address, and his heart froze. The name Michael Rogers, an ID number and four terrifying words:
San Quentin State Prison.
Chapter Seventeen
Someone had replaced Caitlyn’s eyelids with sandpaper. Every inch of skin, every tendon and muscle, ached as if she’d spent days being tortured on the rack. Her tongue had dried out like parchment, and she discovered a desperate need for water.
“Hey.”
She gasped, the voice bouncing around her skull. It couldn’t be...
Keeping her eyes closed so they wouldn’t fall out, she turned her head and blinked up at Spencer. She’d dreamed of him—strangely erotic dreams, given how miserable she felt. Dreams where he’d bathed her and touched every burning bit of her body. Where he’d held her, comforted her and quenched her thirst.
And now here he was, clasping her hand and running something cold and moist down her leg.
“You’re making me wet.” Her voice croaked like a frog’s.
He paused before his face turned into an expression so sinfully suggestive that the only parts of her that
hadn’t
ached before began throbbing now.
She tried to smile, but even she could tell it was weak. “Incorrigible.”
“Big word for a woman who’s spent the last couple of hours babbling.”
Couple of hours? God, what was he doing here? And why be so kind, gentle, after how she’d treated him? She swallowed hard but the fever had taken all her spit, so her throat convulsed uselessly.
“Want some water?”
She let him hoist her into a seated position. He managed it so effortlessly, as if he’d done it a dozen times already. As she reached for the glass, she realized how very semi-naked she was. Her breasts hung heavy under an old tank top, and the only thing between her undercarriage and Spencer’s gaze was a thin slip of nylon.
At least they weren’t her period panties.
Taking a few sips sapped her strength, and she couldn’t muster the energy to care if he saw her in her third-best pair of underwear. What the hell—he’d seen her breasts, legs and everything in between before. He’d even seemed to enjoy them.
He took the glass from her and let her recline against his chest. They fit together so perfectly this way, like she’d been carved out of the granite of his body. Er...a much softer kind of granite.
Crap, the fever had eaten her brain.
“Feeling better?” His chest and voice rumbled around her, vibrating her.
“Mmm.”
“How would you feel about a bath?”
She froze. Gently sniffed the air above her shoulder.
His chuckle rocked her. “I just thought it might make you feel better.”
“Oh. Sounds nice, but my tub’s probably filthy. It’s Emma’s week to clean the bathroom.”
“Mine’s spotless. Why don’t we take this party back to my place? You’ll have a nice big bed to stretch out in, your pick of a shower and a bath, and—best of all—a TV with hundreds of sports channels.”
She smiled, and for the first time all week she didn’t feel like it would crack her face. “Spencer?”
“Yeah, Yankee?”
“When I was mumbling in my sleep earlier, did any of the words sound like sorry?”
His body stilled behind her. “No. As a matter of fact, they didn’t.”
“I am. I’m sorry for the way I left you. I’m sorry for running out without talking to you. I’m just so sorry.”
He squeezed her. “You’re forgiven. You can make it up to me by getting me home before the Gloucester match starts.”
In the time it took her to pull on a bra and pajama bottoms, he’d swept through her apartment and thrown toiletries and clothes in a bag. Standing jostled whatever brain she had left, forcing her to sit on the edge of the bed until she was sure she wouldn’t pass out. When she looked up, Spencer frowned at her from the doorway. “Maybe I shouldn’t move you.”
“Please. I’ve been in this bed for days. Two? Three? I don’t even remember. I need a change of scenery. And you promised me a bathtub.”
He winked. “With jets.”
“Really?” Nothing had ever sounded so magical.
“Really.” He squeezed through the doorway and slung her rucksack over his shoulder. “I don’t think I can carry you out this door—not without knocking one of our heads against it.” He shrugged. “Mine’s taken worse hits, but yours is too pretty. Let’s see if I can at least help you out of bed.” He grinned and held her steady as she slowly stood. “I’m much better at getting women
into
bed.”
She tried to roll her eyes but groaned at the pain. “You have such a big head.”
“I’m glad you noticed. Now c’mon. The Gloucester match won’t turn itself on.”
By the time they made it to his apartment, she felt like she’d run five marathons. At least, she assumed this total exhaustion was what marathon runners would feel. She told him she’d take a rain check on the bath, and he carried her into his bedroom to set her gently on his bed. He yanked back the covers and watched her crawl under before kicking off his shoes and reaching for the zip of his pants.
“Wh-what’re you doing?”
“Napping with you.” He slid the zip down and shoved his pants to the floor. She couldn’t help the trajectory of her gaze. It was like a heat-seeking missile, drawn straight to the bulge in his boxer briefs.
She gulped, her throat suddenly parched again.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? You don’t want to catch what I have, Spencer. Seriously, I don’t want to be too graphic, but it has some nasty side effects.” Her stomach ached at the memory of how many times she’d thrown up in the past few days.
He snuggled down next to her, rolling her to face away from him so he could wrap a strong arm around her chest. He cuddled her like spoons in a drawer and kissed her earlobe. “I’m sure. Emma woke me way too early. I have a meeting later I need to be awake for.”
“I thought you had a game you wanted to watch.”
“Comes on in a couple of hours. I just needed to get away from your flat. Built for Smurfs.”
As she settled into the warmth of his cuddle, all her stress and aches melted away. She let herself drift in the safe cocoon he created for them. Her last thought as she fell asleep was that he’d forgiven her so easily—without making a weeklong production of forcing her to prove her remorse and loyalty in a hundred tiny ways, the way her father always had—that she almost couldn’t believe she was forgiven.
She fell asleep with his deep breaths warming her ear and slept so deeply she didn’t stir when he woke up to watch the Gloucester match. She snoozed while he got ready for his meeting, and didn’t hear the door close behind him when he left. At some point, she opened her eyes to see a glass of water on the nightstand, next to a plate of plain crackers with a note folded in half like a tent, saying
EAT ME.
Too exhausted to do more than smile, she snuggled deeper into his duvet and fell back into a restorative sleep, letting her body heal itself. By the time she felt his rough fingertips brushing her hair off her cheek, she’d begun to feel like a new person.
She gazed up at him dreamily before shifting her body into a long, stretching yawn. Rubbing her eyes as her aching muscles relaxed again, she asked, “What time is it?”
“Time for me to make good on my promise.”
She yawned again. Her body couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. “What promise is that?”
“A nice hot bath. Ready for it?”
She nuzzled against his thigh, perched on the edge of the mattress, and was gratified to feel how naturally he let his hands fall across her body, stroking down her back and over her shoulders. “A bath sounds perfect. Every inch of me hurts.”
His fingers became more searching, running over her knotted muscles before patting her butt. “I’ll be right back, then. Drink some water.”
She pushed her fists into the bed and slid up until she propped herself against the headboard. She took shallow sips, letting her stomach reacquaint itself with liquid after having spent days violently expelling it like a foreign invader. A torrent of water fell into the bathtub in the other room as Spencer drew a bath for her. With a pang, she remembered the last time someone had taken such good care of her—when her mother had held her hair back as she’d vomited and rubbed her feverish back.
For nearly ten years, Caitlyn had had only herself to depend on. If she was too ill to make it to the medicine cupboard or sink for water, she did without. If she got sick when doing fieldwork, she’d have to muster all her strength to hoist her ass out of her cot and get herself to a clinic.
Spencer had apparently rushed to her side, despite how she’d treated him the last time they were together. Not only had he cared for her physically, but he’d found ways to comfort her as well.
He
must
be better than the men she was prone to be attracted to. After all these years of avoiding relationships because she’d come too close to falling for a man cut from the same shitty cloth as her father, it looked like she’d accidentally fallen for one of the good guys.
Thank God.
“Ready?” Spencer poked his head out of the bathroom and watched as she lowered her feet and carefully stood up. Wooziness rushed through her head, and she grabbed a bedpost. When she opened her eyes, Spencer stood next to her, forehead creased with concern. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Positive. Just haven’t stood up on my own for days.”
He threaded his arm through hers and escorted her to the bathroom as though they were promenading toward a punch bowl at a ball. He’d transformed the bathroom into a vision of heaven. Instead of harsh overhead lights—which would’ve made her eyeballs throb—he’d lit candles around the tub and along the sink. Lavender-scented bubbles reached the brim of the large bath. He’d even left the blinds open so she could gaze out over the Thames to the warehouses lining the other bank. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Bubble baths aren’t usually my thing so I stole this stuff from your bathroom.”
She sighed with satisfaction, and he chuckled. “You’re not even in the bath yet.”
“It looks so good. I can’t wait.”
He nodded toward the sink. “I didn’t think you’d be coming back, so I threw out your toothbrush. New one, there.”
She cocked a brow. “That a hint?”
“Well, you are a little smelly.”
She couldn’t fault him for his honesty. Truthfully, she thought
disgusting
might be more accurate. She hadn’t shaved since the last time she’d been in this bathroom, several days ago, so her legs and underarms were raspy. Grease plastered her hair against her neck, and she didn’t need to glance in the mirror to know how tired her face looked.
As she brushed her teeth, she wished she’d opted for a pre-bath shower so she could clean herself properly before slipping into the tub to ease her aching muscles and mind.
Spencer rustled in the bag he’d brought from her place. He set her razor and Emma’s ginger body scrub on the edge of the bath and turned to her. “Let’s get you in this tub, then.”
“That’s all right. I’m feeling stronger. I don’t need any help.”
“Famous last words, Yankee Doodle. I don’t mean to be rude, but you look a wreck and I don’t want you slipping. Come on.” He held his hand out to her.
She gripped the front of her tank top, only now noticing how it seemed to reveal more than it covered. “Spencer, I’m dirty and gross and smelly.”
“So? I spend half my life dirty and gross and smelly. It doesn’t offend me. In fact, your grubbiness is one of the things I like best about you.”
Her heart fluttered at the strange compliment. “What do you mean?”
“Get in the tub and I’ll tell you.” He pulled her to stand in front of him. His hands made short work of her pajamas, leaving her bare and shivering as he helped her into the tub. “Cold?”
“No,” she said, looking straight into his hazel eyes.
His gaze warmed up. “Good.”
He clasped the hem of his shirt and drew it over his head, making her sit up so fast water sloshed over the sides. “What’re you doing?”
Tossing the shirt toward a hamper, he grinned and scratched his abs, drawing her gaze to the line of dark hair between his belly button and pants. “Getting in with you.”
Her breath quickened. She licked her lips as he flicked open the button of his pants. Desperate to distract herself, she said, “I’ve never done this before. Have you?”
“Taken a bath with someone?”
She nodded.
“All the time.” He lowered his zip.
“Oh.”
“’Course, it’s usually filled with ice and my teammates.”
“Oh.” She brightened.
“Other than that,” he said, shoving his pants down, “you’re my first.”
“Oh.” Her smile nearly covered her face as his boxer briefs hit the floor.
“But that’s not the kind of bath we’re having. You’re not well and I’m not going to take advantage of that.”
It was the first time she’d seen him naked in daylight, and he was magnificent. His thighs were thick and hard, and those very interesting parts of him began perking up between them.
“Hello,” he called out to her. “I’m up here.”
She tore her eyes away from his groin.
“I never thought I’d feel jealous of my own cock,” he muttered as he stepped into the bath.
She scooted forward and made room for him to slip in behind her. “Now you know how women feel about their breasts.”
“Hmm. I’ve never felt so objectified in my life.”
“Not even when you were greased up and holding a phallic rugby ball to sell underwear?” she teased.
“Hell no. Those adverts paid for this flat.”
He displaced a hell of a lot of water. It nearly sloshed over the sides, so she tried to stay still as he filled a cup with water and held it over her head. “Ready?”
She nodded, and he let it stream over her hair.
“Hmm.”
“What?” she asked.
“It just sort of slid off the top of your hair.”
Damn. She’d been afraid of that. People always complimented her hair, but that was because they never had to get too close to it. “You have to treat it like the rat’s nest it is. You can’t be gentle with hair like this, Spencer.”
He stilled behind her. “I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry. I got this one covered.” She scooted forward to give herself enough room. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back and submerged herself. Holding the lip of the tub with one hand, she ran the other vigorously through her hair so the water could snake through the curls. When she pulled herself up with a gasp, she swiped water out of her eyes and glanced over her shoulder at Spencer. His face was tightly drawn, like maybe she’d stabbed a testicle.