things that weren't happening. And I keep thinking, you were able to get up and walk all the way to the shower room, so how bad could your fever have been then? Doesn't seem like it could have been bad enough to make you think someone was trying to kill you."
"Oh, thanks, Dylan," Duffy murmured gratefully. "Thanks! It's so nice to have someone here who doesn't think I've gone off the deep end."
She felt hot again, burning up, ablaze. "Could you hand me a glass of water, please? I'm dying of thirst."
Dylan reached over and lifted the heavy metal carafe, pouring carefully. As he handed her the squat little glass, the sleeve on his green tunic slipped back half an inch, revealing a nasty, jagged scratch on his left wrist.
Duffy's heart stopped. She knew she had made a scratch on her attacker that day in the shower. But Dylan? Dylan?
Then she almost laughed aloud. She really was losing her mind. Dylan Rourke wouldn't hurt a fly.
Still, after taking a long sip of cool water, she couldn't resist commenting hghtly, "That's a wicked cut. What happened?"
Looking annoyed, Dylan shook the sleeve back into its proper place. "Nothing. It's just a scratch."
Unable to stop herself, Duffy pressed on. "From what?" Jokingly, she added, "You weren't trying to end it all, were you, Dylan? I thought I was the loony around here."
His expression of annoyance deepened. "If you must know, it happened when I grabbed your wheelchair. Remember? Just as you were about to go into the lake? Slanmied my arm against a rock when the chair dragged me."
Guilt flooded Duffy. He'd hurt himself saving her and here she'd been thinking . . .
Awash in shame, she cried, "Why didn't you tell me? No one said you'd been hurt! Honestly," she added in exasperation, "no one tells me anything around here. Did you have a doctor look at that?"
"No. I told you, it's just a scratch. And this is
exactly why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd make a big deal out of it." Then he grinned and took one of her hands in his. "It's nice to know you care about me, though. I wasn't sure. You're not the easiest person to read."
Funny ... no one else thought that. Everyone else in the hospital seemed to think they knew exactly what was going on in her head and why.
"Of course I care, Dylan," she said and was about to add, "we're friends," when Amy appeared in the doorway.
The expression on her round, pink face told Duffy that Amy had heard her comment about caring for Dylan. She looked stricken. Her eyes were wide and bright with unshed tears, her lower lip quivered, her fists were clenched at her waist.
Duffy thought unhappily, That is not the picture of a girl who cheerfully agreed to end her relationship with Dylan Rourke.
She yanked her hand out of Dylan's grip.
Without a word. Amy turned on her heel and left.
Duffy felt as if she'd just ripped the wings off a butterfly. Amy was clearly still in love with Dylan.
And Dylan was just as clearly interested in Duffy.
"I need to sleep," she told him, her voice curt because of her embarrassment for Amy. "Could you leave?"
It was Dylan's turn to look surprised. "Shouldn't we try to figure out who might have gone after you
in the shower? Maybe someone upstairs got loose." He gestured to the fifth floor where the psychiatric ward was. "And if he got loose once, he could again."
"Fm too tired to think about that now, Dylan. Besides," turning over on her side, **what*s the use? No one will listen, anyway."
He stood up then, laying one hand on the top of her head. "I think your temperature's up. And you*re right, you need your rest. But Fm going to think about this, Duffy. If the people in this hospital aren't safe, someone needs to know that. So stay right here in this bed, where you'll be safe, okay? And take your medicine."
She didn't tell him she'd decided not to swallow one more capsule. He'd argue with her, maybe even tell one of the doctors or nurses. He might not believe her digoxin theory.
When Dylan had gone, she
"Oh, thanks, Dylan," Duffy murmured gratefully. "Thanks! It's so nice to have someone here who doesn't think I've gone off the deep end."
She felt hot again, burning up, ablaze. "Could you hand me a glass of water, please? I'm dying of thirst."
Dylan reached over and lifted the heavy metal carafe, pouring carefully. As he handed her the squat little glass, the sleeve on his green tunic slipped back half an inch, revealing a nasty, jagged scratch on his left wrist.
Duffy's heart stopped. She knew she had made a scratch on her attacker that day in the shower. But Dylan? Dylan?
Then she almost laughed aloud. She really was losing her mind. Dylan Rourke wouldn't hurt a fly.
Still, after taking a long sip of cool water, she couldn't resist commenting hghtly, "That's a wicked cut. What happened?"
Looking annoyed, Dylan shook the sleeve back into its proper place. "Nothing. It's just a scratch."
Unable to stop herself, Duffy pressed on. "From what?" Jokingly, she added, "You weren't trying to end it all, were you, Dylan? I thought I was the loony around here."
His expression of annoyance deepened. "If you must know, it happened when I grabbed your wheelchair. Remember? Just as you were about to go into the lake? Slanmied my arm against a rock when the chair dragged me."
Guilt flooded Duffy. He'd hurt himself saving her and here she'd been thinking . . .
Awash in shame, she cried, "Why didn't you tell me? No one said you'd been hurt! Honestly," she added in exasperation, "no one tells me anything around here. Did you have a doctor look at that?"
"No. I told you, it's just a scratch. And this is
exactly why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd make a big deal out of it." Then he grinned and took one of her hands in his. "It's nice to know you care about me, though. I wasn't sure. You're not the easiest person to read."
Funny ... no one else thought that. Everyone else in the hospital seemed to think they knew exactly what was going on in her head and why.
"Of course I care, Dylan," she said and was about to add, "we're friends," when Amy appeared in the doorway.
The expression on her round, pink face told Duffy that Amy had heard her comment about caring for Dylan. She looked stricken. Her eyes were wide and bright with unshed tears, her lower lip quivered, her fists were clenched at her waist.
Duffy thought unhappily, That is not the picture of a girl who cheerfully agreed to end her relationship with Dylan Rourke.
She yanked her hand out of Dylan's grip.
Without a word. Amy turned on her heel and left.
Duffy felt as if she'd just ripped the wings off a butterfly. Amy was clearly still in love with Dylan.
And Dylan was just as clearly interested in Duffy.
"I need to sleep," she told him, her voice curt because of her embarrassment for Amy. "Could you leave?"
It was Dylan's turn to look surprised. "Shouldn't we try to figure out who might have gone after you
in the shower? Maybe someone upstairs got loose." He gestured to the fifth floor where the psychiatric ward was. "And if he got loose once, he could again."
"Fm too tired to think about that now, Dylan. Besides," turning over on her side, **what*s the use? No one will listen, anyway."
He stood up then, laying one hand on the top of her head. "I think your temperature's up. And you*re right, you need your rest. But Fm going to think about this, Duffy. If the people in this hospital aren't safe, someone needs to know that. So stay right here in this bed, where you'll be safe, okay? And take your medicine."
She didn't tell him she'd decided not to swallow one more capsule. He'd argue with her, maybe even tell one of the doctors or nurses. He might not believe her digoxin theory.
When Dylan had gone, she
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