it, exhausted and aching. She jerked in startled reaction when the door to her bedroom was flung open and Lance's silhouette filled the doorjamb. His eyes were wild, his hair was mussed, and he was shirtless. A pair of jeans had been hastily pulled on. They were zipped, but not snapped.
Running shoes were on his feet, but the laces hung untied on the floor. Melanie cowered behind him, tremulous and frightened in her pink quilted robe.
Lance came quickly to the bedside and leaned over Erin, placing a palm against her forehead. His face had lost its guarded look and his eyes traveled over her body anxiously looking for signs of injury or pain.
"Erin? What's the matter?" This couldn't be Lance. It was someone who looked like him. Lance never sounded this gentle and kind. He had called her Erin, not Miss O'Shea. She loved the way he said her name. What had he asked her?
" I . . . I don't know." Her voice was low and weak and hoarse. She could barely summon up enough breath to whisper. "I guess I ate too much today. The shrimp was bad maybe. I don't—" She grabbed her stomach and jack-knifed in pain as another cramp seized her.
"Dammit," she heard him mutter under his breath before he ordered, "Mrs. Lyman, call your physician and tell him you have an emergency. This is no ordinary stomachache. If he can't come immediately, find someone who will."
"He's a friend. He'll come," Melanie said. To Erin, her voice seemed to float from the dark end of a long tunnel.
She panicked when she felt the bile rising once again in her throat and clamped her hand over her mouth. Lance flung back the covers and swept her into his arms, one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. He carried her to the bathroom and deposited her in front of the commode. She had no time to feel embarrassed before she vomited again.
When she was finished, she straightened up and leaned shakily against the wall. Lance, with a supportive arm around her waist, said, "Here. Swish your mouth out, but don't swallow it."
He clinked a glass against her teeth, and she took a mouthful of the solution. It was green mouthwash diluted with water.
She washed her mouth out and spit into the sink. How would she ever look this man in the face again? Wouldn't he always remember her in this ravaged condition? She couldn't think about it now. All she could do now was cling to him like a parasitical ivy struggling for survival.
He lay her gently on the bed and covered her with the blanket against her shivering. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking the sweat-dampened hair from her forehead when Melanie came running back into the room.
"He'll be here in a minute. He only lives a few blocks away. Is she better?"
"I think so," Erin heard Lance answer. "Go down to the kitchen and fill a plastic bag with ice. Bring it to me."
Erin didn't remember Melanie leaving or coming back, but in what seemed a few seconds, Lance was saying to her, "If you feel nauseated again, I'll put this on your throat. It may help." She nodded weakly, but couldn't open her eyes. Her lids were incredibly heavy. All her strength was concentrated in her right hand which gripped Lance's as if retaining the hold on him were a matter of life and death.
She must have slept, for the next thing she knew she was being shaken by a hand on her shoulder and a strange, new voice was coming at her from the end of the tunnel. "Miss O'Shea. Miss O'Shea. If you're going to get a man out of bed at two o'clock in the morning, the least you can do is greet him properly."
The face hovering over hers was as kindly as the soft-spoken voice. The doctor's hair was gray, his eyes a faded blue. "How are you doing? Did you get rid of it all?"
"I think so," she nodded.
"You have quite a tummyache from what I hear. Does it still hurt?" He had pulled away the covers and was probing her abdominal region with practiced fingers.
She pondered the question for a moment and then answered, "It feels hollow, but every
Running shoes were on his feet, but the laces hung untied on the floor. Melanie cowered behind him, tremulous and frightened in her pink quilted robe.
Lance came quickly to the bedside and leaned over Erin, placing a palm against her forehead. His face had lost its guarded look and his eyes traveled over her body anxiously looking for signs of injury or pain.
"Erin? What's the matter?" This couldn't be Lance. It was someone who looked like him. Lance never sounded this gentle and kind. He had called her Erin, not Miss O'Shea. She loved the way he said her name. What had he asked her?
" I . . . I don't know." Her voice was low and weak and hoarse. She could barely summon up enough breath to whisper. "I guess I ate too much today. The shrimp was bad maybe. I don't—" She grabbed her stomach and jack-knifed in pain as another cramp seized her.
"Dammit," she heard him mutter under his breath before he ordered, "Mrs. Lyman, call your physician and tell him you have an emergency. This is no ordinary stomachache. If he can't come immediately, find someone who will."
"He's a friend. He'll come," Melanie said. To Erin, her voice seemed to float from the dark end of a long tunnel.
She panicked when she felt the bile rising once again in her throat and clamped her hand over her mouth. Lance flung back the covers and swept her into his arms, one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. He carried her to the bathroom and deposited her in front of the commode. She had no time to feel embarrassed before she vomited again.
When she was finished, she straightened up and leaned shakily against the wall. Lance, with a supportive arm around her waist, said, "Here. Swish your mouth out, but don't swallow it."
He clinked a glass against her teeth, and she took a mouthful of the solution. It was green mouthwash diluted with water.
She washed her mouth out and spit into the sink. How would she ever look this man in the face again? Wouldn't he always remember her in this ravaged condition? She couldn't think about it now. All she could do now was cling to him like a parasitical ivy struggling for survival.
He lay her gently on the bed and covered her with the blanket against her shivering. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking the sweat-dampened hair from her forehead when Melanie came running back into the room.
"He'll be here in a minute. He only lives a few blocks away. Is she better?"
"I think so," Erin heard Lance answer. "Go down to the kitchen and fill a plastic bag with ice. Bring it to me."
Erin didn't remember Melanie leaving or coming back, but in what seemed a few seconds, Lance was saying to her, "If you feel nauseated again, I'll put this on your throat. It may help." She nodded weakly, but couldn't open her eyes. Her lids were incredibly heavy. All her strength was concentrated in her right hand which gripped Lance's as if retaining the hold on him were a matter of life and death.
She must have slept, for the next thing she knew she was being shaken by a hand on her shoulder and a strange, new voice was coming at her from the end of the tunnel. "Miss O'Shea. Miss O'Shea. If you're going to get a man out of bed at two o'clock in the morning, the least you can do is greet him properly."
The face hovering over hers was as kindly as the soft-spoken voice. The doctor's hair was gray, his eyes a faded blue. "How are you doing? Did you get rid of it all?"
"I think so," she nodded.
"You have quite a tummyache from what I hear. Does it still hurt?" He had pulled away the covers and was probing her abdominal region with practiced fingers.
She pondered the question for a moment and then answered, "It feels hollow, but every
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