Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [10]
“Has he ever been shot before?”
“No. He says not. Injured a few times and beaten up more than once, but never shot.”
“So that's changed. And one more thing has changed, Jared.”
He waited, silent.
“This time, Quinn's on a leash. Something a man accustomed to total freedom might well find to be a problem. A deadly problem.”
“Yes,” Jared said. “I know.”
“The doctor said you have to take the pills. They'll help prevent infection.”
“Not with milk,” Quinn said firmly, frowning up at her. “I hate milk, Morgana.”
She sighed, faced with the first real mutiny from her patient after slightly more than twenty-four hours of tranquillity. He had slept most of that time, waking only briefly every few hours and accepting without protest the broth she had spooned into him. He had watched her steadily, his green eyes quiet, thanked her gravely for any service she performed for him, and was otherwise a model patient. Until now, anyway.
Given his personality as she knew it, she hadn't expected the placidity to last, of course, but she had hoped for at least a couple of days before he began to get restless.
“All right, no milk,” she said agreeably. “But you have to take the pills. How about juice?”
“How about coffee?”
“The last thing you need is caffeine.”
“Coffee,” he repeated, softly but stubbornly.
Morgan debated silently, then decided it wasn't worth a fight. It was more important that he take the pills—no matter what he washed them down with. Besides, she was almost sure she had a can of decaffeinated. “All right, coffee. It'll be a few minutes, though; I have to make some.”
He nodded, those absurdly long lashes veiling his eyes so she couldn't tell if he was gloating over her capitulation. She retreated from the bedroom with the unwanted milk, vaguely suspicious although she didn't know why.
Fifteen minutes later, she returned to the bedroom to find the covers thrown back and the bed empty and realized she must have read his intentions subconsciously if not consciously. His minor rebellion was escalating. The bathroom door was closed, and there was water running in the sink.
She set the cup of coffee on the nightstand, went to the door, and knocked courteously. “Alex, what are you doing in there?”
“It's not polite to ask that, Morgana,” he reproved in a muffled but amused voice.
She leaned her forehead against the door and sighed. “You're not supposed to be out of bed. The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said, but I'll be damned if I ever let myself get that helpless. There are some things a man prefers to do for himself. Do you have a razor?”
“You aren't going to shave.”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
Morgan took a step back and glared at the door. “All right. I'll just wait out here until you get dizzy and fall on your ass. When I hear the thud, I'll call Max and ask him to come over here and drag your carcass back to bed.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the water stopped running in the sink and the door opened. He stood there a bit unsteadily, a towel wrapped around his lean waist, his green eyes very bright, and that crooked, beguiling smile curving his lips. He had slid his left arm from the sling meant to ease the weight on that shoulder and braced his good shoulder against the doorjamb.
Judging by the dampness of his tousled hair, he had washed up a bit, doing the best he could when he could hardly stand and couldn't get his bandaged shoulder wet. As for the towel—he probably hadn't felt steady enough to get into any of the clothing Max had sent over, even though the stuff was neatly folded in plain view on the storage chest at the foot of Morgan's bed.
When Max had stripped him, he had removed everything; Morgan knew that because she had washed the pants and shorts and thrown the ruined sweater in the trash.
“You're a hard woman, Morgana,” he murmured.
She wished she was. She had been trying rather fiercely to see him only as a wounded body