passion. He grabbed on to her shoulders, more to steady himself than her, she suspected. Then his hands dropped, he wobbled once, and crumpled to the concrete floor.
7
A lawn mower with a muffler problem was running rampant through Michael’s skull. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he slowly regained consciousness, knowing that to let light in would be a serious mistake. He tried to acclimate himself through his other senses.
The antiseptic smell was unmistakable. He was in a hospital. Occasional droplets of water spattered on his right hand and forearm.
As his head slowly cleared, he suddenly realized that the racket sawing through his gray matter wasn’t a lawn mower at all, but instead was the sound of someone loudly blowing a nose. As soon as the racket stopped, someone took his hand.
“Please, please, please,” that someone whispered.
Darcy.
The events of that night came back in hammering spurts. The cruise ship, the drive to Darcy’s, the kisses . . . the explosion at the back of his skull. Something had hit him in the head. Hard. And it felt, at the moment, that whatever it had been was still pounding behind his eyelids and at his temples.
Slowly, by degrees, he allowed his eyes to open. The light was a blinding spear straight through his brain.
“Michael?” Darcy whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Unfortunately,” he croaked, closing his eyes again.
“Oh, thank God!” she said, squeezing his hand hard enough to break bone. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“I’m sorry” seemed to be Darcy’s mantra. If he remembered correctly, she hadn’t had anything in her hands with which to bonk him on the head. Which meant that whatever had hit him had come from above. So what the hell was she apologizing for?
He cracked one eye open. “Darcy?”
“Yes, it’s me. You’re in Fairfax Hospital. They say you probably just have a slight concussion, but you should be fine soon. They’re going to take tests tonight.”
“How soon is soon?” Michael asked, wondering how long he’d have to live with the pulsing pain in his head.
“I don’t know. They want to keep you overnight for observation, but if it’s what they think, you should be able to go home tomorrow.”
He looked at her. Her eyes were pink-tinged, her nose as red as Rudolph’s, her golden lashes spiked with tears.
He’d never known any woman could look so beautiful when she looked so awful.
As gently as he could, he pried Darcy’s hand off his. “What happened?”
“You were hit with a beer bottle.”
“From the party?”
“Y-yes,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “And . . . and it’s all my fault !” she whispered.
She started crying again, softly, but the sound was the sound jackhammering between his temples. Yet the pain in his head had nothing on the pain in his chest. Nothing on earth bothered him more than a woman’s tears.
“Please don’t cry,” he pleaded. “It’s not your fault, Darcy.”
“Yes it is. It’s always my fault.”
“You’re not the one who hit me.”
“It might as well have been me,” she whispered miserably. “If I could have gotten you into bed, then we wouldn’t have needed fresh air and we wouldn’t have been kissing on the balcony and you wouldn’t have . . . wouldn’t have been hurt.”
With logic like that, Michael felt Darcy could probably start a whole new field of science. He considered asking her to raise the head of his bed, but thought better of it.
Gingerly, he turned his head toward the sound of her soft sobs. “Darcy, please don’t cry!”
She made a pitiful attempt at stifling her sniffles. Leaning over him, she caressed his jaw, which, he had to admit, felt rather good. He covered her hand with his, just to keep it on his face.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” he said softly.
Her hiccup sounded surprised. “You’re welcome.”
The squeak of rubber soles on flooring reverberated through his head like screeching tires.
7
A lawn mower with a muffler problem was running rampant through Michael’s skull. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he slowly regained consciousness, knowing that to let light in would be a serious mistake. He tried to acclimate himself through his other senses.
The antiseptic smell was unmistakable. He was in a hospital. Occasional droplets of water spattered on his right hand and forearm.
As his head slowly cleared, he suddenly realized that the racket sawing through his gray matter wasn’t a lawn mower at all, but instead was the sound of someone loudly blowing a nose. As soon as the racket stopped, someone took his hand.
“Please, please, please,” that someone whispered.
Darcy.
The events of that night came back in hammering spurts. The cruise ship, the drive to Darcy’s, the kisses . . . the explosion at the back of his skull. Something had hit him in the head. Hard. And it felt, at the moment, that whatever it had been was still pounding behind his eyelids and at his temples.
Slowly, by degrees, he allowed his eyes to open. The light was a blinding spear straight through his brain.
“Michael?” Darcy whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Unfortunately,” he croaked, closing his eyes again.
“Oh, thank God!” she said, squeezing his hand hard enough to break bone. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“I’m sorry” seemed to be Darcy’s mantra. If he remembered correctly, she hadn’t had anything in her hands with which to bonk him on the head. Which meant that whatever had hit him had come from above. So what the hell was she apologizing for?
He cracked one eye open. “Darcy?”
“Yes, it’s me. You’re in Fairfax Hospital. They say you probably just have a slight concussion, but you should be fine soon. They’re going to take tests tonight.”
“How soon is soon?” Michael asked, wondering how long he’d have to live with the pulsing pain in his head.
“I don’t know. They want to keep you overnight for observation, but if it’s what they think, you should be able to go home tomorrow.”
He looked at her. Her eyes were pink-tinged, her nose as red as Rudolph’s, her golden lashes spiked with tears.
He’d never known any woman could look so beautiful when she looked so awful.
As gently as he could, he pried Darcy’s hand off his. “What happened?”
“You were hit with a beer bottle.”
“From the party?”
“Y-yes,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “And . . . and it’s all my fault !” she whispered.
She started crying again, softly, but the sound was the sound jackhammering between his temples. Yet the pain in his head had nothing on the pain in his chest. Nothing on earth bothered him more than a woman’s tears.
“Please don’t cry,” he pleaded. “It’s not your fault, Darcy.”
“Yes it is. It’s always my fault.”
“You’re not the one who hit me.”
“It might as well have been me,” she whispered miserably. “If I could have gotten you into bed, then we wouldn’t have needed fresh air and we wouldn’t have been kissing on the balcony and you wouldn’t have . . . wouldn’t have been hurt.”
With logic like that, Michael felt Darcy could probably start a whole new field of science. He considered asking her to raise the head of his bed, but thought better of it.
Gingerly, he turned his head toward the sound of her soft sobs. “Darcy, please don’t cry!”
She made a pitiful attempt at stifling her sniffles. Leaning over him, she caressed his jaw, which, he had to admit, felt rather good. He covered her hand with his, just to keep it on his face.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” he said softly.
Her hiccup sounded surprised. “You’re welcome.”
The squeak of rubber soles on flooring reverberated through his head like screeching tires.
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