Claiming His Christmas Wife. Dani Collins
how bedraggled she’d looked, he’d deduced she needed the sleep.
She still had dark circles around her eyes and an olive tinge in her normally ivory face. The hollows in her cheeks he put down to some women’s desire for a skeletal frame in the name of fashion, but she was overdue for a manicure and her hair was limp and dull.
Looking at her, all he felt was pity at her condition. Tired anger. He had known he was making a mistake even as he married her, so why had he gone through with it?
The doctor came in at that moment, along with the nurse who elevated her bed. The doctor wanted her to finish her course of antibiotics orally and said she was anemic. Needed iron.
“You’re run-down. Burnt out. I’m prescribing a few weeks off work, along with high-potency multivitamins and proper eating. Get your strength back.”
“Off” from what? Travis wondered acridly. She hadn’t held down a real job in her life.
“Thanks,” Imogen said with a tight smile, folding the prescription in half once, then held out her hand to Travis.
He gave her the worn silk bag that was all she’d had on her when she collapsed, like she was some kind of runaway. It might have been good quality twenty or thirty years ago, but it was frayed and faded now. Ugly.
“So, I can go?” She indicated the needle still feeding medication and fluids into her arm.
“Oh, goodness no,” the doctor said. “You’ll have another dose of antibiotics and an iron infusion. We’ll talk tomorrow about discharge, but I would think later in the week—”
“I can’t afford this,” she cut in. “Please.” She lifted her arm. “I’d rather you remove this even if I have to pay for it. I’m squeamish.”
“Mrs. Sanders—”
“Gantry,” she said at the same time Travis said, “We’re divorced.”
The doctor sent a perplexed look between them.
“My ex-husband isn’t paying for my treatment. I am.”
Travis had to raise his brows at that, but was far less surprised by her next words.
“And I can’t. So.” She crossed her arm over her body toward the nurse. “Please get me out of here as quickly and cheaply as possible.”
“You’re not well,” the doctor said firmly. “She’s not,” he insisted to Travis, causing an annoying niggle of concern to tug on his conscience.
Why did she get to him like this?
* * *
Her stupid arm was too heavy to hold up and even her head needed to flop back against the pillow. “Is this pro bono, then?”
She knew it wasn’t. She knew suggesting it put Travis in a tight spot. He’d brought her here. He would be liable if she refused to pay.
“I’ll pay for her treatment,” Travis ground out, tone so thick with contempt she cringed. His next words, resounding with sarcasm, sawed right through her breastbone to scratch themselves into her heart. “You can pay me back.”
“I’ll pay for my own treatment,” she said, capable of her own pointed disdain. If she knew nothing else, she knew that she would not go deeper into his debt. “But my bills stop now. Bring me whatever forms I need to fill out and get this needle out of my arm. Where are my clothes?”
“I threw them away,” Travis said.
“Are you serious? Who—Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? Thanks.” She looked at the nurse. “I’ll need some pajamas. Heck, throw in a hot meal, since I’m spending like a drunken sailor anyway.”
“Like an Imogen Gantry,” Travis corrected under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear it.
She glared at him. “Don’t let me keep you.”
He had the nerve to look at the doctor and jerk his head, ordering the man to confer with him outside the room.
“Don’t you talk about me,” she said to their backs. “Did you see what just happened?” she asked the nurse.
“Let’s finish this dose of medication before we talk about removing your needle. I’ll bring you some soup.”
Imogen fell asleep in the time it took the nurse to come back, but felt a little better after a bowl of soup and a glass of vegetable juice. Half her weakness in the street had been hunger, she realized. Apparently, the human body needed to eat every day, and sneaking a few maraschino cherries from the bar while she scrubbed the floor behind it didn’t count. #ThingsTheyDon’tTeachYouInSchool.
The nurse removed her needle after giving her some pills to swallow, then helped her shower and dress in a pair of drawstring pajamas and a T-shirt with yellow birds on it.
After all that activity, even finger-combing her hair was too much. Imogen used a rubber band she begged off the nurse to gather her wet hair into a messy lump, then sat in the chair, trembling with exertion, pretending she was fully on the mend, fishing for the thin slippers that would no doubt cost her a hundred dollars apiece.
She signed forms that promised the hospital both her useless arms and legs and tried to be thankful Travis hadn’t thrown out her boots with her jacket. She snuck a blanket off a linen cart on her way to the door, but it was still going to be a long, hellish walk home, looking like one of New York’s finest. It would be dark soon and was still snowing, growing dusky at three in the afternoon. Her debit card would combust if she so much as tried to put a subway fare on it. She had no choice.
“Bye now,” she said as she passed the nurses’ station with a wave. “Add this to the bill,” she added with a point at the blanket. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Gantry,” the motherly nurse said in protest. “You really should rest.”
“I will,” she lied. “Soon as I’m home.” She would swing by to see one of her employers on the way, though. See if she still had a job with the biker bar’s janitorial staff after blowing her shift last night with this unplanned excursion to the right side of town.
She walked out of the blasting heat in the space between the two sets of automatic doors, and winter slapped her in the face. It immediately sapped 90 percent of her energy, making her sob under her breath as she began putting one foot in front of the other. The cold penetrated before she took ten steps, but she pushed on, doggedly following the looped driveway toward the gilded gates that suggested this place was heaven after all.
It began to look like a really long way just to get to the road. She had to stop and brush snow off a bench dedicated to a hospital benefactor, rest there a moment. She felt so pathetic her eyes began to well. At least her ear didn’t hurt like it had. It was just a dull ache.
There was always a bright side if she looked for it.
Nevertheless, panic edged in around the meditative breaths she was blowing like smoke in front of her face. She was shivering, teeth chattering. How was she going to carry on?
One day at a time, she reminded herself, closing her eyes. One footstep at a time.
Before she could rise, a black car stopped at the curb in front of her. The chauffeur came around and opened the back door. She already knew who would get out and tried to pretend she was bored, not so very close to beaten.
Even her father hadn’t crushed her as quickly and thoroughly as one irritated look from this man did. He wore a fedora and a gorgeous wool overcoat tailored to his physique. His pants creased sharply down his shins to land neatly on what had to be Italian leather shoes.
“You look like a gangster. I don’t have your money. You’ll have to break my knees.”
“Can those knees get you into this car or do I have to do that for you, too?”
The air was so cold, breathing it to talk made