Finding Mr. Perfect. Nikki Rivers
Put the case down there. Quietly.
Darcy obeyed. Carefully she set down the overnight bag so it would make no noise. Then she turned to leave.
On the bed, Sloan stirred, and his head turned. She could see his face, and although illness had whittled it too lean, there was still beauty in the strong, fine bones of it. The cheekbones were high and sharp, the jawline strong, the chin stubborn and marked by a deep cleft. His nose had an aquiline curve that reminded her of a Roman prince.
The face was almost in repose, but even in sleep the dark brows drew together as if trying to frown. His lashes were thick and black, like blades of jet.
Her heart seemed to spin out of her body, as if it were trying to hurl itself into some higher, more intense world. She took in a sharp but soundless breath. She lost herself in staring at him.
She was an artist, and she knew comeliness when she saw it, but she saw more than just handsomeness in his sleeping face. There was a solitariness about this man that was both touching and disturbing.
Then the nun motioned toward the door, and Darcy understood. She should go. She stole one last glance at Sloan, then ducked her head and left, feeling guilty.
The nun followed, easing the door shut behind them. She looked up at Darcy.
Darcy’s heart had come home to her, but it felt changed. “Will he—will he be all right?” she asked.
“If we can tie him down and make him rest,” said the woman.
“I never heard of Malay fever before,” said Darcy. “Is it bad?”
“He obviously had a bad case. It could have killed him,” said the little nun, looking her up and down again. “This relapse should be a lesson to him. Make sure he pays attention. He needs to learn to stop and smell the flowers. I’d take good care of him, if I were you.”
Darcy gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “He’s not mine.”
The woman gave her a look that told her not to argue.
“You brought the flowers, didn’t you? Maybe you’re supposed to teach the lesson, too.”
She turned and glided off, leaving Darcy standing alone.
The faintest scent of wildflowers still hovered in the antiseptic air.
CHAPTER FOUR
SLOAN AWOKE to a fragile, foreign perfume that he couldn’t identify. It was so delicate that he at first thought he was having some sort of rare hallucination of the nose.
It would go away, he thought; all he had to do was open his eyes.
A hard job, but he was the man for it.
Yet when he forced his heavy lids to raise, the scent did not fade, and his vision was filled by an unexpected kaleidoscope of color.
Flowers. He frowned. Someone had brought him flowers. But not from a florist. This was no formal and formulaic bouquet, its design picked from a catalog and its flowers arranged by rote.
No, the flowers were a wild profusion of untamed color—brilliant scarlets, vivid yellows, and blues as profoundly deep as the spring sky.
They spilled out of a strange clay vase painted with a bright design that wasn’t quite like anything he’d ever seen. It was not elaborate—just the opposite. But it was the perfect complement for its rich cache of blossoms.
A rainbow-striped ribbon had been tied around the vase. From the ribbon hung a card with a charming cartoon face. He groaned, raising himself on one elbow. Merrily colored letters spelled out Wishing You a Speedy Recovery. It was signed with the initials D.P.
The card was made by hand, but the hand had an expert and impish touch. D.P.—Darcy Parker. He thought of the tall woman with the offbeat beauty and the tousled dark hair.
He looked at the bureau. His overnighter rested there. She’d been in his room. She’d left this unlikely bouquet as if it were some sort of souvenir of a Midsummer Night’s Fever Dream.
He fell back to the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the blaze of color. He’d have to thank her. He’d have to apologize to her. How? He didn’t want to think about it, and he was momentarily saved from the task—his telephone rang.
He groaned and hoisted himself back up. His head still ached, and his joints still throbbed, but neither pain was as epic as before.
He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello, you stupid horse’s neck,” said a familiar male voice. “Who in hell told you to drive clear to Austin?”
Sloan sank back against the pillows with a harsh sigh. The voice, which had a permanently mocking edge, belonged to Tom Caspian. Tom, a former fraternity brother, was now his doctor in Tulsa.
“I felt fine,” Sloan said. “For the first three hundred miles.”
“Dammit, there shouldn’t have been a first three hundred miles,” Tom chided. “I told you to take it easy for at least another six weeks. Malay fever’s tricky. You take care of yourself, or the angels’ll be scattering posies on your grave.”
One already has, Sloan thought, opening an eye and regarding the bouquet of wildflowers.
“Where’d you get the bright idea of a trip?” Tom persisted. “I told you to stay put.”
“I was tired of staying put,” Sloan grumbled.
“Follow doctor’s orders, buddy. Or you’ll be staying put under a tombstone.”
“I’m sick of hearing about it,” Sloan said with distaste. And he was. He’d convalesced two endless months in Southeast Asia. When they’d finally let him come back to the States, he’d been given the impossible command to rest and mend for another three. He was a man built for action, not relaxing. Physical idleness was hellish.
“You been running?” Tom asked, his tone accusatory. “I told you to take it easy on the running. Jog a mile a day, at most. Have you been holding it down to that?”
Sloan thought of the five miles he had done the day before. His body had felt whole again, a strong, efficient machine, all pistons pumping and powerful as ever. “I did a little more,” he admitted.
“Hell, Sloan,” Tom said in disgust. “Have you got a death wish?”
“No. A life wish,” retorted Sloan. “I used to have a life, and I want it back, dammit.”
“It won’t happen overnight, Superman. Lord, Sloan, you’ve always pushed yourself harder than anybody I know. That’s not how you beat this fever. You’ve got to respect it. The Angel of Death passed you over once, buddy. Don’t give him the chance to make a U-turn.”
Sloan put his hand to his forehead, which was hot and sweaty and had started to bang again. “All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “How’d you find me, anyway? Did you implant a microchip in my ass last time you gave me a shot?”
“I ought to, you knothead. No. The hospital down there tracked you through your insurance card. I’ve talked to the admitting physician. He’s referred your case to a specialist in tropical diseases from the university.”
“I don’t want a specialist in tropical diseases from the university. I’ll stick with you. You play bad tennis and have good scotch. What more could a man want?”
“Listen, pal, you’ve already got a specialist. The name is Dr. Nightwine, and we’ve talked. You’ll get a visit by late this afternoon.”
“I want to be out of here this afternoon.”
“No way. You’re under observation.”
“Observation, hell. Come on, Tommy. Make them release me. I’ll come straight home. I’ll get in bed and pull the covers