Here Comes Trouble (16 page)

“What do you think I should do with the company?”

“I think it depends on what your endgame is. Is stealing the company from your father enough, or do you have to destroy it to get what you want? Keep in mind what we hope to do with the art auction. Chadwick won’t have anything left to fight you with. No one will take him seriously in the business world again and his reputation among art collectors will be ruined. Severing those contacts, making him for all intents and purposes impotent when it comes to refilling his coffers won’t be an option.”

He wiped his mouth and braced his arm along the back of the sofa. He trailed fingers through the strands of curls that had come loose from the knot on her head, wanting to shift closer, but Sherlock had claimed the space between them. Who knew a kitten could snore? “I thought I knew what I wanted,” he said. “And I’ll admit, when Veronica said we had the shares, I didn’t feel the satisfaction I anticipated.” Probably because he was focused on getting to her so she wouldn’t be alone during Alcina’s funeral plans. And then . . . “Ty knows. I told him the other day.”

Sheila circled her finger against the inside of his arm. “And?”

Malcolm shrugged. “And nothing. I haven’t heard anything from him or my father since, which either means they’re planning my murder or . . .”

“Ty’s the one faced with the decision. Are you going to make the takeover public before you dismantle it?”

“Dismantling has always been the plan.” The news might be good for TIN, but his company was going to take a hit when word got out about Malcolm’s cancer.

“Plans can change.” Her fingers continued to dance over his skin, creating an odd buzzing in his ears. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to find out if he has any strategy for the company before you decide whether to disband or dissolve it? Maybe save those jobs?”

“The employees will be compensated one way or the other.”

Her hand stilled, her body stiffened. “You’re throwing money again, I see. Tell me something.” She leaned her chin on her hand. “Would you have been satisfied with that if your father had sent you on your way with a check in hand? Or did you feel worthless, as if you weren’t worth the fight? Collateral damage doesn’t only apply to your family, you know. There are families who count on those employees.”

“You’re taking this personally.” Not to mention assuming the worst about him again.

“You want to know why?” She leaned forward. “Because if you were anyone else and you closed up that company, displaced all those people for no other reason than revenge, you’d be next on Nemesis’ list.”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d slapped him. “You can’t be serious.”

“When you hacked into Oliver Technologies that day in Ty’s office, did you bother to look beyond what you wanted to find?”

“No.” At the time nothing else mattered.

“Seems a little short sighted is all I’m saying. Maybe your desire to destroy your father’s company might end up doing you and TIN more harm than good.”

“Plans are already in place, Sheila. We’re leaking word of the takeover to the media the day after the art auction.”

“You know.” She stretched her arm out over his, this time stroking his elbow, down to his wrist. “Retribution is so much more nuanced than revenge. It’s about finesse. It’s thoughtful. Careful.”

“Said Nemesis.”

“Exactly.” She smiled and Malcolm couldn’t remember ever seeing a more beautiful sight. The way the dim light of the loft glanced off her smooth, peach-touched skin, the sparkle in her blue eyes—a sparkle he’d caught glimpses of in the last few days. Suddenly all he could think about was kissing those pursed lips of hers, of holding her against him, burying his face in the thickness of her hair as she stroked other parts of him. “I know whereof I speak,” she whispered. “Just think about it, okay? Maybe you don’t have to destroy everything and everyone you think you do to get what you want. Maybe there’s another way. A better way.”

What he wanted was to push her into the sofa cushions and lose himself in the feel of her, her touch, her softness. What he wanted was to push aside all thoughts of takeovers and art auctions and family drama and spend whatever time he had left being reminded of everything beautiful in the world, beginning with her.

“I never should have left you behind.” He cupped her cheek, stroked his thumb across her lips.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Sheila said with a sad smile. “But it’s better that you did. After all those years on the pageant circuit, I had no idea who I was. Not really. After all that, you were a fun . . . diversion. Like rehab after a ten-year drunk.”

“You managed to keep me pinned down for a good six months.” He caught her hand in his, kissed the inside of her wrist and watched as her eyes glazed over. “Six months for me was a lifetime.” Six months could be a lifetime for him. “You were the first woman who could pull me out of the computer lab long enough to see the sun.”

“And yet here we are, five years later.” She rested her head on her arm, flexing her fingers within his grasp. “I’m even more ensconced in Lantano Valley than I was before and you have a new life hundreds of miles away. A life you don’t want to give up.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy what time we do have together.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Is it so scary if we know this time we’ll say good-bye?” He leaned across and pressed his lips to hers, memorizing the touch of her mouth, the soft sigh that escaped her as he moved closer, knowing that at some point in the near future, it might be the only thing he had to remind him of how close he’d come to forever. Needles pricked his thigh. He looked down as Sherlock latched on to him.

“Mew.”

Sheila chuckled, reaching down to pet him.

“You and I need to have a conversation about timing, young man.” But he shifted Sherlock around.

“Why’d you name him Sherlock?” Sheila asked.

“I didn’t. But that reminds me.” He handed the cat over to her and pushed himself up, grabbing the dinner plates on his way to the kitchen. While he ran the water to clean up, he got a bottle of water and took his evening antibiotic and wondered if the horse pills were ever going to get easier to swallow. When he returned to the living room, it was with the last of the bottle of wine for her and a DVD, which he waved in the air. “The woman at the shelter gave me this to go with him. She said we’d understand once we put this on.” A few clicks of the remotes later, he rejoined her on the sofa. When Sherlock tried to wedge between them again, Sheila grabbed hold and forced his little butt onto her lap, keeping him in place.

The music started. Sherlock’s ears perked. He stretched out and rested his head on his paws, blinking wide eyes at the flat screen.

“Huh.” Malcolm tugged Sheila closer, reveling in the sensation of having her snuggle into his side and rest her head on his shoulder. “Maybe you found a babysitter.” Ten minutes later, the cat was sitting at attention before he bounded across the coffee table onto the ledge of the glass TV stand. Sheila shot forward, but Malcolm caught her arm. “Leave him be.”

“Mew.”

Sherlock, the feline version, reached both paws up to bat at the face of Benedict Cumberbatch, patting, then sitting down when the actor disappeared, patting and mewing again as he came back on the screen. “Mew.” The cat looked at them as if for approval and then took a nearly shortened leap forward back onto the coffee table before he hunched and settled down to watch.

“Unbelievable,” Sheila laughed, sliding her arms around Malcolm even as he reached forward and grabbed for a leather-bound red journal from under the coffee table. “What are you doing?”

“Capturing for posterity?” He asked, finding a pencil on the table beside the sofa. “My phone’s out of reach and I want proof this happened.” He shoved the book into her hands. “Draw it for me.”

“What?” She shoved herself away from him so fast she nearly toppled off the couch. “Malcolm . . .”

“For me. I want this scene, right here. Sherlock watching Sherlock. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Good thing.” She stared down at the journal in his hands as if it were going to open her up and send her through the gates of hell. But she bit her lip, in that way she had when she was pushing through something she didn’t want to do. Progress. “I don’t think—”

“That’s the point of today, Sheila.” He placed the journal on her lap and pressed a kiss against her temple. “No thinking. Just do. Whenever you’re ready.” The pencil joined the journal as he focused his attention on the screen. When she flipped open the cover, he relaxed.

Phase three complete.

***

“How’s this?” Satisfied, Sheila shoved the journal into Malcolm’s hands. He was asleep. She glanced at the clock. After midnight? She’d been sketching for four hours? She flipped through the pages, stunned to find she’d filled six of them with various angles and interpretations of Sherlock’s viewing preferences. “Huh.”

The TV was settled on the DVD menu and even the fuzzy version of Sherlock had succumbed to an eventful day and curled into snooze land. “Lightweights,” she murmured and set the sketchbook on the coffee table. It was as she reached for the blanket on the back of the sofa that she noticed the sheen of sweat of Malcolm’s face. She touched his arm. “Malcolm?”

He shivered and she heard his teeth chatter. Pressing a hand against his chest, she felt the heat pouring off him in waves. Sweat stained his shirt, dampened his hair.

“Malcolm, wake up.” She shook him, the relief that washed over her made her head go light as he rolled his head toward her and blinked open his eyes. “Malcolm, you’re burning up.” She pressed a hand against his forehead. “I think you have a fever.” For a moment, Sheila worried he wasn’t quite there.

“Shit,” he growled and struggled to push himself up. “Sorry. I should go.”

“I don’t think so.” She tugged him down before he collapsed. “What is it? Has this happened before? Should I call someone? Call 911.” She leapt off the couch to find her phone, but Malcolm snatched hold of her wrist.

“I’m okay.” He coughed, shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “It’s not a fever. Sometimes—um, sometimes spicy food does this to me.”

“I need to call someone.” Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Her breathing came in rapid waves. “Might not be much time. Can’t be too careful.” Her hands were shaking. Where was the phone? She had to call—

“Sheila, stop.”

Even as she watched his eyes clear and the determined set to his mouth return, she couldn’t. She couldn’t pull out of the hole she’d fallen into weeks before. When she’d been too late.

“It’s only night sweats, honey, I promise.” He stroked her arm, but she was trembling, as if one more touch and she might shatter. “Nothing a cool shower and a bed won’t cure. Which is why I need to go.”

“You promise?” she asked, cupping his cheek in her palm and looking so deeply into his eyes she saw her own terrified face staring back at her. “You promise that’s all it is?”

“I promise.” But he winced, as if he was in pain. “Now let me up.”

“Come upstairs with me.”

He turned tired eyes toward her. “Now really isn’t the time—”

“Do I look like I’m feeling frisky?” She grabbed hold of his hands and clutched them against her chest. “Let’s go upstairs, you can take that shower and I’ll put you to bed.”

“Your spare bedroom’s down here.”

“Since when did you turn into Sir Galahad?” She hooked his arm over her shoulder and hauled him up, giving a passing glance to Sherlock, who blinked sleepy eyes at her. “Shower, then bed. And sleep.”

“Sounds good to me.” He stumbled on the first step and sent Sheila back to the edge of panic, but he righted himself and pulled himself up the rest of the way. “Jesus,” he muttered when she shoved him inside the bathroom. “Do the ancient Romans know you stole their bath house?”

“Every woman has her weakness.” And the gold and white marble spa-inspired room had been her pride and joy inside the loft. She reached through the open shower to turn on the water that cascaded down from three recessed heads in the ceiling. “Strip.”

“Your wish.” He bowed, but nearly tipped over. “Wow. This must be such a turn on.”

“Maybe we’ll laugh about it next week.” Satisfied with the cool temperature, she pulled a set of towels off the shelf before helping him pull his shirt over his head. When she reached for the snap on his jeans, he slapped her hands away.

“I’m not that incapable.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “Prove it.”

“Man, this could be my worst nightmare come to life. I don’t need you taking care of me, Sheila.”

“Someone needs to.” Contrary to his claim he could undress himself, he barely pushed his jeans over his hips before he had to lean against the sink. “How often does this happen?”

“Not often.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll be okay, Sheila.”

“As long as you don’t drown.” But she gave him his space and stepped away as he divested himself of his jeans and briefs. “Do you need—”

“I do not.” He held out his hand and walked slowly into the shower. The frosted glass encompassed him and she saw him tilt his head up into the waterfall shower. The tension in her chest didn’t ease until she heard him exhale in relief.

“I’ll be just be a few minutes.” She scooped up his clothes and hurried downstairs, stopping when Sherlock hauled himself up onto the third step. He plopped his butt down and stared up at her.

“Mew.”

“Hang on, little guy.” She went into the laundry room, going through the pockets. She set his wallet aside, squeezed the fabric between her hands and popped out an orange prescription bottle. Antibiotics. “‘Take one tablet orally two times a day with food.’ Maybe it’s just as well he’s not up to being frisky,” she said, and set the load to wash.

On her way up she pocketed her cell phone, picked up the second small litter box Malcolm had bought, filled it, and brought it upstairs with her along with Sherlock, who took to exploring the second floor without hesitation. She put the box just inside the door of the bathroom, and found Malcolm standing where she’d left him. Still on his feet. Good sign. She pulled the comforter off the bed, leaving the sheet on, set his pills on the nightstand, and changed into her sleep shirt.