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She resisted the urge to touch that restless mouth, to try to sooth it. It was sensually shaped, yet the lines that bracketed it seemed to have been engraved by years of discipline.
He was handsome, but too thin. She remembered the feel of his ribs jutting beneath his shirt when she had held him for those few moments.
Almost guiltily, she smoothed his hair from his forehead.
Emerald, clanking, came to her side, dragging something. “Lift up his head,” she said.
Darcy gritted her teeth and slid her hand beneath the man’s neck and up to the back of his skull. His brown hair felt moist at the roots. She lowered his head to rest against the cushion Emerald had brought—before she realized it was the bookworm.
“Not that,” Darcy rebuked, and threw Emerald a sharp glance.
“You said to get something for his head,” Emerald said defensively.
Oh, what the hell, thought Darcy.
“Should I call an ambulance?” Emerald asked.
“Yes,” Darcy said. She touched his brow again. “He’s burning up.”
Emerald arose with the clinking of chain mail. Darcy bent over the man to loosen his tie and undo his top shirt buttons.
Rose Alice burst through the front door. “I saw the whole thing,” she thundered. “I called 9-1-1. Don’t touch him, Darcy. Get back. I’ve got him covered.”
With a shock, Darcy saw that Rose Alice had one of Gus’s golf clubs and was brandishing it at the fallen man.
“Rose Alice,” she cried. “Put that down. He’s unconscious. He’s ill—this is a sick man.”
“Probably drugged to the gills—” Rose Alice sneered “—I thought he had a funny gleam in his eyes. Never should have let him come over here. Get back, Darcy. I’ll teach him to mess with my girls.”
Emerald, halfway to the phone, had stopped dead and now stared fearfully at Rose Alice.
The man stirred. He gave a small groan, and a muscle played fitfully in his jaw. His head rolled back and forth against the bookworm.
“Stand back,” commanded Rose Alice, her grip tightening. “He’s coming to. If he tries anything, I’ll knock his butt to kingdom come.”
“Rose Alice,” Darcy said in her most menacing tone, “put that down, dammit. Right now.”
She put her arms around the man so that her body shielded his, and she glowered furiously at Rose Alice. “I mean it,” she said. “We’re fine. He’s the one in trouble. He’s got some sort of fever.”
Reluctantly, Rose Alice lowered the golf club. “I would have got a gun,” she said. “But I couldn’t find any bullets.”
“Thank God,” Darcy said. “Emerald—call. Make sure an ambulance is coming.”
Emerald went to the phone, dialed and began to talk excitedly.
The man moved again. The frown line between his brows deepened. The dark lashes flickered restlessly.
Suddenly, his hand rose and clamped hotly on her forearm. His grip was surprisingly strong, and she stifled a gasp of surprise. Instinctively she tried to pull away, but he held her fast.
She found herself staring into a pair of green eyes that were narrowed in pain. He raised his head so that his face was close to hers.
“How’d I get on the floor?” he demanded. His voice was a harsh whisper.
“You fell,” she said.
He sank back against the bookworm. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Give me a minute. Then I’ll get out of here.”
He didn’t relax his hold on her, but she hardly noticed. With her free hand, she smoothed back his hair. “No,” she objected. “You’ve got a fever, a bad one. We’ve called an ambulance.”
He groaned. “I don’t want an ambulance. I’ll be fine. Just let me rest a minute.” His eyes squeezed shut, and he grimaced.
“You need to take it easy,” she cautioned.
He opened his eyes and studied her face with perplexity. “You’re the Parker woman, right?”
She nodded. She had a strange, swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Right.”
He put his free hand to his forehead. “And I showed up on your doorstep demanding we talk about our parents, right?”
“Right,” she breathed. His hair had fallen over his brow again, but this time she fought down the impulse to stroke it back into place.
He made a sound of disgust. “I shouldn’t have come. This thing—it sneaked back up on me. I wasn’t in my right mind. I’m probably not in my right mind now.”
He swore and pressed her hand against his chest, and once again she felt the surging beat of his heart.
“Take your mitts off her,” ordered Rose Alice.
He raised his head and looked at her in pained disbelief. Rose Alice was a large, stocky woman with peroxided blond hair. She wore ragged shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. She did not pull the golf club back in a threat to swing, but she gripped it more tightly, and her arm muscles tensed. The movement made the tattoos on her biceps ripple.
“Who’s that?” he demanded.
“My mother’s housekeeper,” Darcy said. “Please—lie back down.”
Rose Alice said, “He shouldn’t be hanging on you that way. It’s too damn familiar.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, but he kept her hand pressed against his heart. “You keep the room from spinning round.”
“I don’t mind it,” Darcy told Rose Alice. “Please,” she said, turning back to Sloan English, “don’t exert yourself.”
“I think I hear sirens,” said Emerald. “Hark.” She stalked to the door with a jingle and metallic clatter.
Sloan gave her a puzzled scowl. “And who’s that?”
“My sister,” she said, trying to coax him to lean back again. “You said something about Kuala Lumpur. Is that where you caught this fever?”
“Yes,” he said, sinking back. “And it’s a devil. But you won’t catch it. Humans don’t pass it to humans.”
Rose Alice curled her lip. “Says you. How do we know you’re not running around spreading your cooties?”
“It’s only transmitted by mosquitoes,” he said.
“Girls,” said Rose Alice combatively, “when he’s gone, spray. Darcy, I wouldn’t touch him.”
“Rose Alice!” Darcy said, offended. “He just said it wasn’t contagious.”
“What’s he know?” Rose Alice sniffed. “Him staggerin’ around like Typhoid Mary, flingin’ his germs this way and that.”
“It’s sirens, all right,” said Emerald, staring out the door with interest. “It sounds like a lot of them.”
Sloan English let go of Darcy’s wrist. He struggled to rise. “I don’t need an ambulance. I’ll leave. I’m just causing trouble here—”
He heaved himself up enough to prop his weight on his elbows. Even that exertion made him gasp, and his chest rose and fell alarmingly. Darcy saw a vein in his temple banging like a small blue hammer.
“Please,” she begged, grasping his shoulder to restrain him, “don’t…Please.”
His flesh was hard beneath her hand, the muscles lively. But his skin was still unnaturally hot and his shirt damp with perspiration. He struggled to a sitting position, and she could not stop him; for a sick man, he showed an astonishing amount of strength.
But then his strength failed him. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but instead toppled like a marionette whose strings have betrayed it. He would have struck the marble, but once again Darcy caught him.
He fell back, his head in her lap, his eyes clenched shut in frustration and pain. “Sorry,” he rasped, “sorry.”
The vein in his temple beat more violently. Darcy cradled his head helplessly. The sirens’ whine grew higher, louder. “Help’s coming,” she whispered. “Just stay still.”
His eyes opened tiredly. His head turned, and he stared into the grinning face of the bookworm. “My God,” he breathed hoarsely. “What’s that?”
“It’s only a bookworm,” she soothed, pushing it away.
“Shouldn’t I be protecting you from it?” he asked, and tried to smile. Instead he shuddered, as if racked by a chill.
“It’s harmless,” she said. He squeezed shut his eyes, frowning, and shuddered again. She used the hem of her T-shirt to wipe the mist of sweat from his forehead, his upper lip. “Shh. Easy.”
Sloan’s hand fumbled to find hers again, then closed over it.
“Room’s spinning again,” he said through his teeth. “Anchor me.”
She laced her fingers through his, held on tight.
The skirling of the sirens became unbearable, overwhelming. They filled the air, they beat on Darcy’s eardrums, they sounded like all the hounds of hell about to close in.
Then came a moment of miraculous silence, so absolute she thought she’d gone deaf.
“They’re here,” Emerald said with excitement.
A flurry of sounds—metallic doors slamming, people’s voices, hurried footsteps. Darcy thought she could hear a police radio in the background.
“Here!” yelled Rose Alice, opening the screen door. “He’s in here! He’s declared germ warfare on us! Hurry!”
Dammit, Rose Alice, lighten up. Anger flashed through Darcy, but vanished almost instantly, swallowed up by the chaos spilling into the house.
Paramedics swarmed inside. They pushed her away, they hovered over Sloan English, poking and prodding him. They barked terse, incomprehensible orders to one another. Darcy rose to her feet to watch them, but she felt limp and spent. Rose Alice and Emerald stood on the porch, talking animatedly to a tall policeman.
Attendants were strapping Sloan to a gurney and unfolding a blanket to cover him. “What’d he say he had?” asked a boyish paramedic with a shock of blond hair.
“Malay fever,” said a stocky Hispanic woman, stowing a blood pressure cuff in a black bag. “It’s an ugly bastard. It can come back on you.”
“Ugh,” said the youth, cringing. “Can we get it?”
“No way,” she answered. She turned to Darcy. Her brown eyes were coolly professional, yet not unkind. “He said he’d been in the tropics. That right?”
“I think so,” said Darcy. “He mentioned Kuala Lumpur.”
“How long ago did he get this fever? Doesn’t look like he really recovered from his first bout with it.”
“I—I have no idea,” Darcy stammered. She looked at Sloan, strapped to the gurney, covered now, his blanket like a shroud. His head rolled back and forth as if the fever were riding him into a land of nightmare.
“Will he be all right?” Darcy asked, touching the woman’s arm.
“Should be,” the woman said shortly. “Needs rest. Here—” she said. “He seemed to want you to have this.” She handed Darcy the card she’d refused before. Numbly she took it.
The two male attendants began wheeling the gurney toward the door. Darcy quickly moved to Sloan’s side. “Sloan—Mr. English—can you hear me?”
“Stay back, lady,” the blond boy said. “You can’t come.”
“Sloan?” she begged.
His dark lashes flicked. He turned his head toward the sound of her voice. The green eyes opened. “I’ll make this up to you,” he said in a thick voice.
“It’s all right,” she said.
“We still have to talk,” he said, then sucked in his breath sharply.
“Yes,” she assured him. “We do.”
“I—I never got your phone number,” he said. “I dropped your card.”
They were nearly to the ambulance now. She looked back at the porch. She saw her card lying at the policeman’s feet. “I’ll get it for you,” she promised.
She turned and sprinted back to the porch, then snatched up the card. But by the time she ran back to the ambulance, Sloan’s gurney had been loaded. They were shutting the doors.
“Please—please,” she begged, thrusting the card at the woman. “Give this to him. It’s important.”
The woman looked at her, her expression unreadable, but reached out and took the card.
“Step back,” said the ambulance driver. Darcy found herself pushed backward. The doors clanged shut. She watched as the driver climbed inside. He fired up the engine, turned on the hellish siren. He pulled away and left her standing there.
She watched it go, until it disappeared around the curve of the long drive. She looked down at the card in her hand.
It bore Sloan English’s name and corporate title. It told her his business address and phone number, gave her a company e-mail address, but nothing else. It told her nothing of the man himself.
