To Have and to Hold (6 page)

❧

Her throat felt worse than ever as she crawled into bed and turned out the light. The room, in the darkness, seemed to spin around and around. If only it weren't so hot....

When she woke up the next morning, she couldn't even raise her head, and her throat felt like an oven. She tried to speak and found that she couldn't. There were aspirins on the bedside table and half a glass of water. She took the tablets and swallowed them down, leaning back exhausted against the pillows. It would have been funny if it weren't so frightening. She couldn't get to a phone to call for help, and it looked like her rations for the rest of the weekend were going to be aspirins and less than a half a glass of water. Tears of sick frustration ran down her cheeks. Even Cal wouldn't come looking for her now, not after last night.

She buried her face in the cool pillow and cried like a baby. She was alone in the world, and everybody who could have cared about her wouldn't, and she hoped they'd all come to her funeral and hate themselves—they being Cal. She hoped he wouldn't bring the brunette. That would ruin it all.

By the end of the day, she could feel the fever beginning to climb dangerously, but there was nothing she could do to get it down. The aspirin bottle was empty, and there were only a couple of teaspoons full of water left in the glass. With a muffled groan, she closed her eyes and drifted away....

She was floating, and it was hot, so very hot. She kept asking why it was so hot, but no one would answer her. Then she was in a cool mountain stream, feeling the water wash over her body like wet silk, cooling, cooling, washing her parched lips, her dry face and hands. It was the most beautiful feeling, like a caress, like a tender caress as it bathed her all over in its coolness.

A sound, something, woke her. Her eyes opened drowsily, and she saw Cal sitting in a chair by her bed. His face was shadowed with a faint growth of beard, his hair rumpled as if by restless fingers. His clothes were rumpled, too, as if he'd slept in them.

"What are you...doing here?" she croaked.

He raised an eyebrow and lifted a glass of water from the bedside table. Moving to sit beside her on the bed, he lifted her head in one big hand and gave her a sip of the cool, clear liquid. It tasted like heaven to her parched mouth.

"How delicious," she whispered with a wan smile.

"I thought it would be." He put the glass down and studied her through bloodshot eyes. "Feel any better?"

She moved under the covers and suddenly discovered something. She wasn't wearing a nightgown—or anything else. Defensively, her fingers clutched the sheet and she looked at him with the question in her wide eyes, her flushed face.

"You were running a temperature of 104," he said quietly. "I couldn't get in touch with the doctor, and I had to get it down quick. It was the only way."

"I see," she whispered.

"God, you're lovely, woman," he said with something like reverence in his tone. He stood up, ignoring her blazing embarrassment, and went to the window. "I finally got in touch with my doctor and described your symptoms. He said it's probably flu and called in a prescription to the drugstore for some antibiotics. I'm going to pump you full of them for the next three days, and if you're not better by then, you're going to his office."

"Three days?" she gasped. "But, I can't, I've got to go to work, I'm...!"

He came back to the bedside and leaned down, his big hands making deep impressions in the pillow on either side of her head as he looked straight into her eyes. "Three days, madam. Precisely three days, if I have to climb into that bed with you and hold you down."

She averted her eyes. "All right. But how can I call Mr. Richards like this?" she said in a rusty whisper.

"I already have. You're officially on sick leave and, some girl named Brenda's taking over for you."

"Oh, poor Brenda," she rasped. "She and Mr. Richards will kill each other."

"That's none of your concern. Just get well and stop trying to carry the world on your shoulders," he told her. "I'm going to run down to the drugstore and fetch your medicine. What would you like to drink or eat?"

"Tomato juice," she said instantly. "And chicken noodle soup!"

He smiled down at her. "And...?"

"That's all any sick person needs. Tomato juice and...."

"...chicken noodle soup. If you say so, honey," he said with a smile.

She reached up.a weak hand and touched his rough cheek gently. "Cal, you didn't have to do this...."

"Yes, I did." He reached down and pushed the damp hair away from her temples tenderly. "I can't let anything happen to you, Burgundy. In some strange way, you make life bearable for me. I'm not going to lose you."

There was something threatening in the way he said it, in the possessive way he was looking at her flushed face, her soft mouth. Big and dark and arrogant, he seemed to be taking over her life, an d she wasn't at all sure that she wanted to stop him.

One long, brown finger traced the soft line of her mouth. "No comeback?" he asked in a soft, deep tone.

She gazed up at him helplessly, staggered by the statement.

He smiled. "Go to sleep, little girl. I'll be back as soon as I can." He went out the door, leaving her quiet and thoughtful in the big bed.

The soup was every bit as good as she'd anticipated it would be. Sitting propped up in bed, in the prim cotton gown she'd thrown on while Cal was gone, she thought nothing had ever tasted so wonderful.

"You and your chicken soup," he murmured, shaking his head. "Why do women think it's the universal cure? Even my wife, as sensible as she was, always brought me chicken soup at the first sneeze."

Wife. One word, to bring the stars and moon crashing down on her head, to make her ache with a kind of grief that was almost like a death. Wife. She closed her eyes on the pain.

"I...I didn't know you were married," she said, concentrating on getting the spoonful of soup to her mouth.

"I'm a widower," he said, and she felt his eyes watching her closely. "My wife is dead, Burgundy."

"Oh," she murmured inadequately, hating the relief she felt, hating herself for the pleasure....

"It was a long time ago," he said. "Not what you'd call a love match, but I was fond of her, and we'd lived together long enough that I missed her. Poor Jen, she was in love with another man, and he was married too. Funny thing," he added quietly. "He didn't outlive her by a month. Heart attack they said, but I think he grieved himself to death. Can you believe that?" he laughed brittlely. "I can't conceive of a man caring that much about any woman."

"No, you couldn't, you insensitive brute," she teased, but the laughter didn't go deeper than her lips.

"Insult my character again, and I won't bring you any more soup," he threatened.

"Some soup!" she scoffed. "You didn't even put butter in it."

"Listen, lady, the only butter you keep has a crumpled wrapper and what looks life fingerprints in it. I'm not putting that in any fresh soup," he countered.

"Don't insult the way I keep butter," she said.

"Would you like me to show you the proper way to do it?"

She smiled wickedly and drew back the half-full soup bowl. "Want some?" she asked sweetly.

"Do it and die, baby," he challenged. "If you're sure you want to waste it."

She wasn't, and she didn't.

❧

Two days later, she was back on her feet and at work, despite some forceful protests from Cal, who maintained that she was too weak. Her first day back on the job almost proved him right. She had lunch with Brenda in a small restaurant near the office and could tolerate only a small salad.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Brenda asked sympathetically. "You look terrible."

"I feel terrible. Cal was right, I guess," she sighed. "It may be a little too soon, but I'll make it."

"I wanted to come see about you, but your friend said you didn't need any visitors tiring you," she laughed. "Gosh, he's a tiger, isn't he? I didn't dare argue with him."

"A bulldozer," Madeline countered. Her eyes went soft. "A very nice bulldozer."

"I thought he was old and ugly and ran over people?"

Madeline shifted uncomfortably. "Well, he does run over people. But," she added with a tiny smile, "he's very attractive."

"Oh, my goodness! Am I hearing right? Madeline Blainn noticing an attractive man?" Brenda said in mock astonishment.

"Cut it out. I can look, can't I?"

"Honey, you can look and touch for all I care, I think it's wonderful!"

Madeline looked down at her salad. She thought it was wonderful, too—but platonic. She'd wanted it that way after all, and Cal had seen to it that things stayed strictly non-physical. But...did she really want that?

That first day tired her out more than she realized. She had an early night and went to sleep almost immediately. But she seemed to have hardly closed her eyes when the sound of breaking ceramics crashed into the blissful silence, and woke her out of a sound sleep.

Without thinking, she bounded out of bed and grabbed her robe, whipping her arms into it as she opened her bedroom door and peered down the hall toward the source of the noise. There wasn't another sound, and she tiptoed cautiously in the darkness going to the doorway that opened into the living room.

She still didn't hear anything, although her heart was beating like a triphammer. Quickly, she reached for the light switch and hit it, silently praying it wouldn't disclose a burly burglar.

Light flared into the room, and it didn't take two seconds for her to piece together the mystery. The flower vase had been knocked off the mantel, where it crashed into a larger vase holding dried flowers, and finally rested in shards of broken pottery all over the carpet.

Sultana, alias Cabbage, was just emerging with wild, dilated eyes from behind a chair.

"Clumsy!" Madeline exclaimed on a sigh of relief. "Oh, you extraordinary animal!"

Cabbage let out a squall of protest and didn't quiet until her mistress picked her up and stroked her.

"Come on, and I'll pour you some milk," Madeline laughed. "I could use a cup of coffee myself. Oh, you dumb animal, you!"

Her nerves were still screaming from the mishap, even though she knew she was safe now. With a shaky sigh, she poured the cat a bowl of milk and started a pot of coffee perking. She wondered how in the world she'd ever wake up on time in the morning.

"And how can I blame it on you?" she asked the nonchalant Siamese. "I can see me now, telling Mr. Richards I'm bleary eyed because my cat like to play volley ball with vases at one o'clock in the morning!"

A sudden, hard knock on the back door froze her. Shivering, she managed to turn her head in that general direction, starting when she saw the big, shadowy figure silhouetted against the glass.

A burglar; a real one! Desperately, she looked around the kitchen for something, anything, she could use for a weapon, and the sound came again, louder, making her jump.

"Burgundy!" came a familiar voice along with the banging.

With a sharp, audible sigh, she ran to the back door, flicking on the carport light as she opened the chain latch. Cal stood on the doorstep, his hair rumpled, his clothes thrown on, his shirt half unbuttoned, his eyes dark and bloodshot.

"I thought you were a burglar!" she exclaimed.

He scowled at her disdainfully as he walked past her into the kitchen and riffled through the cabinet for a coffee mug. "Would a burglar knock, for God's sake?"

She closed the door again and leaned back against it with a wistful smile. "I guess not, but some burglars are pretty weird, and you never know, do you?"

He threw her a glance as he poured himself a cup of the freshly perked coffee. "With you, no." He drew out chair and sank into it wearily. "I was almost asleep when I heard a crash and saw your lights come on. God, I think I set a new land-speed record for fast changing! What happened?"

She shrugged, pouring her own cup of coffee. "Cabbage knocked a vase off the mantle, and it hit another vase on the floor. Pity she lived," she added maliciously, with a glance at the cat, now wrapped lovingly around Cal's ankle.

He shook his head and ran a big hand through his rumpled dark hair. "That's why I keep a dog," he said. "They can't get on mantels."

"They bark," she returned as she sat down beside him at the breakfast bar.

"Suleiman doesn't."

"Suleiman," she reminded him, "isn't a dog. He's a horse."

"That isn't what his papers say."

"What do the kennel club people know?" she returned. "He never sat on any of them!"

A wisp of a smile touched his hard face, lined and taut with lack of sleep, every year of his age showing suddenly, relentlessly.

"Cal, you look so tired," she said gently.

He ran a big hand over his eyes. "I am. I had a tangle to straighten out tonight, and I had to do it by overseas telephone. God, it's frustrating!"

"A tangle?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I thought you knew I was in business. Construction, to be precise. That's how I know your boss."

"Oh, yes." She smiled into her coffee cup. "Evenly Fried McCallum. I wonder what he'd do to me if I ever called him that?"

"Probably have you skinned alive, if I know the old barbarian." His eyes studied her oval face. "What's it like, working for him?"

"I don't know since he's never there." She sighed. "But Mr. Richards can be such a pain. Poor man, I think his wife must beat him, and he takes it out on the rest of us. I get along, but he gives Brenda an awful time. She can't do anything to please him."

"Oh, I see. One of those," he added with a sharp inflection.

"He's not quite as bad as one of the vice presidents," she said. "Mr. James comes over every other day to have us run errands for him, since Mr. Richards had his secretary fired. We're now doing our own work and the public relations' correspondence as well. 'We' being the staff in McCallum's executive suite of offices. We feel like little lost sheep sometimes. The shepherd's too busy off shacking up with his women to care about what goes on in his business," she sighed.

"He keeps women?" Cal teased.

"He has them coming out the windows, from what we hear!"

"My goodness, for an old man he must be in fantastic shape."

"Well, almost." She stared down at her cup. "He's not well; you know that, I guess. They say he's grieving himself to death, and the doctors are making him take a vacation before he burns himself out."

"My God, isn't gossip fascinating?" he said, leaning forward on his elbows to watch her intently. "Tell me more. What's he grieving about?"

"The plane crash...."

"Grieving won't bring back the dead, honey, and I'm sure McCallum knows it," he told her quietly. "I think you're taking office rumors a little too seriously. McCallum's not on his deathbed by a long shot, and you can take that as gospel. I spoke to him less than an hour ago, and he's no more decayed than I am. Speaking of health," he added pointedly, "how's yours, you stubborn little red-headed mule?"

"I am not red-headed," she replied. "And I did just fine. No problems—until tonight when my cat decided to have a party, that is."

He shook his head. "Well, the coffee's good, anyway."

"Thank you. Want a slice of cake?"

He shook his head. "I've got to grab a few hours sleep. I'm flying over to Dallas in the morning for a conference. I'll probably be gone three or four days, so try to stay out of trouble while I'm away, okay? And don't get sick?"

She smiled gently. "I'll do my best. You, too."

He winked at her, leaving the cup on the table as he rose. "Be seeing you."

"Sure."

He left her sitting there, and the house lost all its color and became an empty shell.