Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [74]
She moaned, and her eyes fluttered open. She couldn’t seem to focus, and he knew he had to get her to a hospital, fast, when she suddenly yanked herself out of his arms, turned and vomited in the snow.
He held her, anyway, and she was too weak to fight him. She didn’t have much in her stomach, and he realized belatedly that he hadn’t been feeding her properly. When she’d gotten rid of everything and there was nothing left but dry heaves, he pulled her back in his arms, and she buried her face against his chest as he stroked her damp, flushed face.
“I need to get you to a hospital,” he said after a while. He was kneeling in the snow, holding her, and he was cold, wet and uncomfortable. And he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let go of her.
She shook her head, the movement unmistakable against his chest. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“You passed out. God knows how much of that shit you’ve got in your system. We’ll take your car, and if they agree you’re okay then you can get right away from here.”
“We can’t take my car. You slashed the front tire, remember?”
His heart had stopped racing and his brain had finally started working. “I didn’t slash your tire.”
She didn’t say anything, just turned her face closer to his chest, like a kitten seeking comfort. He had to ask her the question he didn’t want to. He doubted her automotive skills extended to jump-starting antique automobiles, but who else could it have been? Who else was there?
“Were you trying to kill yourself? Tell me the truth, Jamie?”
She looked up at him then, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Just because I’m stupid enough to be in love with you doesn’t mean you’re worth committing suicide over.”
He blinked in surprise, but she didn’t seem to realize what she’d said. “Someone was there. I had the stereo on loud and I didn’t hear anything until it was too late.”
“You were listening to Nirvana?”
“Hardly. U2.”
At least he still knew that much about her. His mind was still reeling with what she’d said before. “Then someone was trying to kill you.”
“Yes,” she said, her face pressed against his plain white T-shirt and his pounding heart beneath it. “Was it you?”
So much for her astonishing declaration of love. “I wasn’t here, remember? And if I were trying to kill you I wouldn’t have saved you, would I? It wouldn’t make much sense.”
“Nothing makes sense,” she said wearily. “I don’t suppose we can go back inside? My butt is soaking wet.”
“The hospital—”
“No. Just fix my goddamned tire and I’ll get out of here. Never darken your door again,” she said in a defeated little voice.
He wanted her to tell him she loved him again. With some kind of shock he realized that no one had ever said that to him when he wasn’t making them come. Anyone could think they were in love when they were climaxing. But Jamie Kincaid was sitting with her butt in the snow, her lungs just beginning to clear from poisoned air, her stomach hurting from throwing up, and she could say she loved him. Even if she thought he was trying to kill her.
It was too strange for him to even begin to take in. Instead he stood, scooping her up with him, and she made an expected sound of pain.
“Are you all right?” He sounded anxious, and he didn’t like it. He couldn’t help it.
“Fine. I could probably walk….”
“I’ll carry you.” To be honest, he wanted an excuse to hold her tight against him. That excuse would leave when she did, as soon as he fixed her tire, but for now he was going to indulge himself.
The kitchen was cold now. The open doors that had let out the gas had brought in the icy night air. He kicked the door shut, then closed the door to the garage as well. “It’ll warm up in a minute….” he began, but she started struggling.
Instinctively he