His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (11 page)

Stazzie didn't seem to mind, though. She watched him intently, taking a tentative step forward. Then another. Suddenly she burst into a purr as rusty as the window's old crank. Bemused, Eden watched as her imperious, self-absorbed feline padded the rest of the way to the sawbones and butted her head against his inner thigh.

Michael jumped about six inches.

"Anastasia!" Eden's face flamed as red as Michael's neck. "Stop that!"

To her credit, the cat didn't ignore her completely. Instead, she sat down on her haunches against Michael's knee and continued to purr in affectionate little rumbles. Michael had to step gingerly around her.

"I'm, uh, sorry about my cat,"
whose neck you'd be well justified in wringing right now,
Eden groaned to herself as Stazzie slinked back between his legs.
For heaven's sake, Stazzie. Show a little decorum!
"I don't know what has gotten into her," she added meekly. "Stazzie doesn't usually like people. In fact, she avoids them—unless they're sick."

Michael made what could only be described as a choking sound. Stazzie rubbed his ankle, purring all the louder.

"Um..." Eden set aside the broom, wondering what would be more scandalous, prying Stazzie from Michael's leg or watching the cat rub whatever sinewy, male body part she chose. "Would you like me to put Stazzie outside?"

"That would be appreciated, yes," he ground out, making a dexterous grab for the fur behind Stazzie's neck. The cat yowled in indignation, but Michael braved flailing claws and flashing fangs to thrust Stazzie toward the door. Eden held it wide, and the sullen feline stalked across the threshold, her tail slashing the air behind her.

Thus ends another cease-fire.
In resignation, Eden dumped the dustpan, rubbed it clean of pie filling, then turned back to Mrs. Buchanan's grocery list. As much as Eden was dying to know where she remembered Michael from, she didn't dare ask him to enlighten her until she was confident that they could both laugh over the incident as friends. Unfortunately, the chances of that happening were growing bleaker by the moment.

As if to verify her conclusion, Michael began hammering with a vengeance.

Wincing at the sound, Eden checked the onion bin. Finding it empty, she crawled up on Aunt Claudia's stool to complete Mrs. Buchanan's order. The perch was awkward with its wobbling three legs, but she needed its extra height to reach the onion sack that Aunt Claudia, or more likely Michael, had thrust on the top shelf.

"Blast," she muttered when her fingers fell short of their mark. Careful not to trip over her skirts, Eden eased herself back to the floor and moved the stool more directly under the sack. She glanced hopefully over her shoulder. Michael was busy cranking a wrench and didn't appear to have the slightest inkling of her dilemma.

"Um, Michael? Do you think you could—"

"Help you?" he finished for her, testing the window handle he had just repaired. "I was wondering if you were too stubborn to admit you weren't tall enough."

Ooh.
Eden fumed. So he
had
been aware of her dilemma!

"Never mind," she retorted. "I may not be tall, but I'm resourceful." Grabbing a nearby wall hook, she leveraged herself higher, testing the strength of a shelf with her foot.

"Eden," Michael warned.

"Pray go back to grousing. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"Don't be a fool."

She heard his boots thumping behind her, and she glared over her shoulder. "Michael Jones, you stay right where you are. I don't need or want your—"

She was interrupted by an insidious cracking. The hook twisted in her hand. Suddenly, the mounting ripped from the wall, and she gasped, flailing through a hail of plaster. She made a desperate grab for a shelf; the stool heaved, throwing her sideways. She might have crashed to the floor if her breasts hadn't struck Michael's shoulders first. His arms clamped over her waist, and she "oomphed." She found herself sliding down his torso.

For a suspended moment in time, she was locked in his embrace. Her heart hammered madly against his chest; her feet dangled helplessly beneath her. All she could see in that instant were his eyes, two molten pools of sapphire, so hot and hungry they consumed her senses, flushing her skin with fever.

She gulped, her breath rattling in her throat like dried leaves.

"Th-thank you."

His lashes fanned downward, inky spikes that did little to impede the radiant heat of his gaze.

"Y-you can put me down now."

"You're bleeding."

His voice, husky warm with concern, rumbled deep in his chest and vibrated into hers. It was a heady sensation, one that distracted her almost completely from the throbbing in her left hand.

"I am?" She noticed then the ragged flash of her knuckles and the bruise purpling the base of her thumb.

He nodded. As he held her, she could feel the heat of his hands, reassuring but titillating too, as they spanned her waist. If she hadn't been so convinced the man disliked her, she might have wondered at his delay, as minute as it was, in lowering her to the ground.

His breadth blocked out everything at this proximity, everything but the lightning-swift charge that seemed to leap from his belly into hers. She had little doubt that he'd felt their fireworks, because when she tilted her head to gaze past his stubbled chin, she glimpsed the answering flame in his cheeks.

Breaking their contact, he abruptly turned and straightened the stool. "Wait here," he rasped.

His trip to the rain barrel gave her time to slow her racing pulse, but when he returned to her side with a valise and a sloshing bucket, her silly heart jumped like a rabbit.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked in a tone that was still too throaty to be entirely businesslike.

"I... don't think so."
Really.
What was the matter with her, letting the man's presence electrify her nerves? And what had she been thinking, letting him goad her into climbing shelves like a half-grown Indian? She wasn't a thirteen-year-old anymore, shimmying up elder trees to gather berries for Talking Raven.

Besides, she was trying
not
to make a sensation in Blue Thunder. It unnerved her to think that Michael might already know about the past she was trying to flee. Part of her thought she should befriend him to woo his loyalty and his silence. Another part of her wanted to avoid him and his inevitable censure.

She watched him uncomfortably, trying not to notice how the sultry summer twilight had moistened his shirt, making it cling to the muscles of his back. He opened his valise and retrieved a cake of soap. After lathering and rinsing his hands, he turned to her.

"Let's see the damage."

She fidgeted. Michael had composed his voice again; he'd even managed to smooth his features into a semblance of professional courtesy. He was a fine actor, she decided, the way he appeared willing to put aside their differences in such a short span of time. Would he still be willing to help her, she wondered, if he knew vigilantes wanted to punish her for helping Papa peddle a homemade heart remedy?

"It's just a scrape," she hedged, peeking at the swollen knuckles she'd wrapped in her apron. "In fact, it looks a good deal worse than it feels."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"You needn't go to any trouble—"

"Eden." His voice was quiet, but it rang with an unmistakable authority. "Give me your hand."

She bit her lip. She suspected the only reason he hadn't dragged her hand out of hiding was because she'd tucked it between her thighs. "Very well."

He took her wrist. Much to her embarrassment, her pulse thumped wildly beneath the pads of his fingers.

His eyes raised to hers. They were warmer than ever, but wary too. "That was quite a spill you had."

She blushed, glad for the distraction when he cupped water over her scrapes with his hand.

"I suppose an 'I-told-you-so' is in order."

An endearing dimple creased his cheek. "You're your great-aunt's niece. That's all I care to say."

"Is that so bad?"

"Actually..." The dimple deepened, and he used his own shirttail to pat her knuckles dry. "It's quite refreshing."

In that moment, Eden couldn't recall a single reason to be annoyed with him.

"Does this hurt?"

She winced, nodding as he rotated her thumb. "I must have jammed it."

"Hmm." He shifted, and lamplight struck blue highlights from his hair. "Ice will reduce the swelling. And eucalyptus oil will soothe the bruise after that. If Aunt Claudia doesn't have any, come by my office tomorrow morning."

"I'm sure I needn't bother you over a bruise."

"You won't be bothering me, Eden. Your health is my responsibility."

As he reached into his valise for a jar of ointment, his seriousness struck her in an odd way. Part of her was touched to realize the depth of concern he must feel for his patients. But another part of her was troubled to think he held himself accountable for her healing.

That's when she recalled something Sera had said. "Michael thought he could cheat God and keep Gabriel alive. But of course, he couldn't. The angels came, and... Well, I don't think Michael has ever been the same."

Odd, wasn't it, Eden mused, that she and Michael had each failed to save a loved one? She marveled that he had found the courage to carry on with his work—a courage she feared she might never muster.

"Michael," she murmured, her respect for him growing by leaps and bounds, "I hope you don't really believe you're responsible for my health."

"I am Blue Thunder's doctor."

"Yes, but I was the careless one."

"How you were injured is irrelevant."

"Michael..." Her heart twisted for him. No one understood better than she how weighty self-blame could be. "Sera told me about Gabriel."

His hands fumbled with the lid of the jar. For the briefest of moments, his composure slipped, and she glimpsed the anguish he'd grown so adept at concealing.

"Sera talks entirely too much about private matters. Especially mine."

"She's very fond of you," Eden said gently. "I think she worries and is looking for reassurance."

"Then she should speak to me."

Eden sighed. He did have a point.

Still, if she were in Sera's shoes, she wasn't certain she would bare her soul to Michael, either. He might be a finely trained medical doctor, but he didn't possess the manner that encouraged a girl to divulge her secrets or her dreams.

"I'm very fond of your sister, you know," she said, thinking to give Michael a new perspective on Sera. "She's gone out of her way to be neighborly. Why, she came to the store with fresh-baked peach cobbler the day she introduced herself."

Michael's hand stilled, a dollop of salve quivering on his fingertips. "To the store, you say?"

"Yes. It was a lovely, thoughtful gesture on Sera's part."

Michael's face darkened. Eden sensed he disagreed.

"Sera is delightful," she said hurriedly, not sure what had caused his ire this time. "Aunt Claudia and I thoroughly enjoyed the cobbler for dessert that evening. It was a shame you couldn't join us."

His lips twisted mirthlessly as he reached for a bandage.

"I'm glad to know Sera spent that evening with you, at least."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"It seems my sister hasn't been completely honest with me."

Oh no
.
Eden received an unwelcome insight.
Don't tell me Sera has been using me as an excuse to sneak out of the house at night with Kit McCoy.
"Maybe you just misunderstood."

"No." He sounded upset. "I am very clear about where Sera said she was going the night of the storm. It's the one thing I am clear about," he muttered under his breath.

Eden watched him uncertainly. She could have sworn she'd sensed the rise of something panicky in Michael a moment before he'd tamped it down. She didn't know if his worry about Sera was to blame, or if something else was troubling him.

Releasing her hand, he abruptly stood. "You'll experience swelling in that thumb." His voice sounded unnaturally strained. "Soak it in ice for as long as you can. Tomorrow, begin applying hot water bottles to stimulate the blood."

Eden blinked at him. Was it her imagination, or did he look a shade paler than before?

He took several steps and swayed. Suddenly he was grabbing for the counter. A jar of peppermint sticks crashed to the ground.

"Michael?"

She rose in concern. He stood with his head bowed and his eyes squeezed tightly closed. Every muscle in his body was taut and quivering.

"What's wrong?"

He waved her away, somehow managing to straighten, to open his eyes. They were glazed with pain.

"Did Collie's punch—"

"No," he gasped. "Not Collie. I apologize. That... that was clumsy of me. There's no need for you to be concerned. I'll pay for the jar and candy."

Eden suspected his sheer strength of will kept him from buckling at the knees. "Michael, please. Sit down. Aunt Claudia won't care about the—"