Secret Agent Dad. Metsy Hingle
the mattress.
“It’s storming outside, and the phone lines are down,” she told him. “Even if the roads are still passable, you’re in no condition to drive. So, you might as well quit fighting me and try to rest.” Fingers as soft and warm as the voice stroked his brow, eased the ache in his head.
“If you’re worried about your babies, you don’t need to be. They’re safe and sound asleep in the next room.”
Babies? He didn’t have any babies.
He wanted to tell her that, tried to make sense of what she was saying to him, but it hurt too much when he tried to think. Instead, he allowed himself to be soothed by the gentle touch of her fingers, the sweet sound of her voice.
“Yes. That’s it. Try to rest,” she murmured. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to wake you up again in an hour. That’s what the book says to do for head injuries. Wake up the injured party every hour so that you don’t go into a coma.”
Talk of head injuries, comas and babies jumbled in his brain. So he focused on her touch, the soothing sound of her voice. Her familiar voice. Frowning, he tried to remember. Was she friend or enemy? Could she be trusted? When she started to press something cold against his head, he grabbed her hand.
“It’s all right,” she murmured, but made no attempt to wrestle free. “You pulled the bandage loose. I’m just putting more ointment on that cut before I bandage it up again.”
The need to see her, to see the face that went with the voice was so strong he battled to open his eyes. When he finally managed to do so, he caught a glimpse of familiar green eyes. “Angel,” he whispered, his eyes closing again. But even as the darkness began to tug him under, he could still see those clear green eyes—the eyes of his angel.
Two
You’re a good girl, Jocelyn. Not everyone can be counted on to remain calm and clearheaded in a crisis.
The crisp tone of Sister Charles Marie’s voice came back to Josie as though it were only yesterday and not twenty years ago that she’d snuffed out a grease fire in the kitchen of the orphanage and saved another girl from being badly burned.
Today had been another crisis, Josie realized, as she tamed her thick, black hair into a braid. She’d remained calm and clearheaded while she’d settled the twins into the spare bedroom. She’d even managed to remain calm and clearheaded when she’d maneuvered the little darlings’ daddy to the only other room with a bed—her own. And somehow, she’d managed to stay fairly calm and clearheaded when the man had started thrashing about on the bed and pulled his bandage free. But there had been nothing calm or clearheaded about the way she’d felt when he’d opened his eyes and called her “angel” again before passing out. No one had ever called her by a pet name before—certainly no one from the orphanage or the foster homes she’d lived in. To them she’d always been Jocelyn, and even Ben had never strayed from the “Josie” she’d insisted on being called. She’d come to accept the fact that she wasn’t the sort of person that people called “sweetie” or “honey” or “sugar.” Deep down she’d sometimes wondered if it was because she simply wasn’t special enough to warrant such an endearment.
But he had called her “angel.” Not once, but twice. It was ridiculous that his doing so should make her pulse quicken or make her feel like her heart was smiling. After all, the man had been injured, and in his delirious state he probably thought she was someone else. Yet he had looked at her the way a man looks at a woman—with appreciation, with interest—and for those few seconds awareness had hummed between them and lingered like the scent of her roses. By the time she’d repaired his bandage, she’d been too flustered to even attempt to rid him of his wet clothes.
Now, having had the benefit of a hot shower and a change of clothes herself, guilt sneaked in on her. She really shouldn’t have left him in those wet things, she conceded, then groaned. “I didn’t even take off his boots!” Irritated with herself, she dismissed that sexual zing of his kiss and blamed her reaction on the steady diet of romantic dreams she’d fed herself for years. She dug out a pair of Ben’s old jeans and shirt from the box marked for charity, determined to march right in there and get him out of those wet clothes before the fellow caught pneumonia. Suddenly her throat went dry at the prospect of undressing him.
Get over it, Josie. It’s not like you haven’t seen a naked man before.
And it wasn’t, Josie reminded herself. She had been married for pity’s sake. Feeling some of her calm and clearheaded self return, she armed herself with aspirin, a pitcher of water, a glass, and the clothes. She picked up her tray and headed to the bedroom to check on her patient.
A teensy measure of her newly reclaimed calm slipped when she opened the bedroom door. He lay motionless on the four-poster bed, looking too big and too male amidst the pale rose and ivory bedding. Lamplight framed his handsome face, making his hair gleam like wet gold. The white bandage on his forehead stood out in stark relief against bronzed skin. Once again the image of a golden prince came to mind.
Dismissing the fanciful thoughts, Josie made her way over to the bed. She placed the tray on the bedside table, but continued to hang on to the clothes she’d brought him. “It’s time to wake up,” she said. “Remember, I told you I’d have to wake you every hour? Well, it’s time again. I’ve got some aspirin, and I’ve brought some dry clothes for you to change into.”
Nothing. Not so much as a grunt or a flicker of an eyelid out of him.
Clearing her throat, Josie tried again, this time more forcefully. “You have to wake up now. I’ve brought you some aspirin to help your head and a change of clothes.”
Still, nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t utter a sound.
Frowning, Josie reached over and gave his shoulder a nudge. He stirred, and she snatched her hand back. “You need to take some aspirin and get out of those wet things,” she said again, this time in her firmest schoolteacher’s voice.
He muttered something that she suspected was no.
Annoyed now rather than nervous, his response made her more determined. It also triggered what Ben had called her do-gooder streak, and what she liked to think of as her human streak—that “something” inside her that had made her rescue a stray, or stop in the middle of a storm to help a stranger. Since she’d saved the man’s life, he was her responsibility, she reasoned. Well, at least for the time being. And that meant making sure he didn’t catch pneumonia. The man was going to get into dry clothes—one way or another. Besides, she thought, humor making her lips turn up at the corners. He was only a man. She hadn’t managed to work as a teacher for nearly six years without learning how to exert some authority. It was the schoolteacher m her that made her put aside the clothes and sit on the bed. Slipping an arm behind his neck, she lifted him to a sitting position and with the aspirin in her palm, she tapped her finger against his lips. “Open up,” she ordered.
“What the—”
She shoved the aspirin between his lips, then quickly followed with water. Strong, powerful fingers locked around her wrist at the same time that he clamped his mouth closed and sent water dribbling down the front of his already-wet shirt. The muscles in his neck had gone stiff, and his body felt like corded steel beneath her fingers. Stunned, Josie’s gaze shot up to meet his. The dark eyes trained on her were just as hard as the rest of him... and wary.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s only aspirin and water. Not poison.” When he still failed to respond or release his vicelike grip on her wrist she said, “Please. You need to swallow the aspirin. I know you must be in a lot of pain with that gash on your head. The aspirin will make you feel better.”
After a moment something inside him eased. His mouth lost some of the hard edge. Tipping her wrist, he drank deeply from the glass she held, but his eyes remained open, never once leaving hers. The intensity of his gaze reminded her of the wild kiss he’d given her out in the storm, and Josie felt that shivery heat spilling through her. By the time he finished the