High-Risk Fever (12 page)

She was speechless. What could she possibly say to justify or somewhat apologize for what she’d done? The weight and ugliness of the truth in his words hung between them like an invisible barrier.

Seconds later, he spun around and strode to the other side of the bed, letting out a long line of Italian curse words she didn’t understand.

Her eyes burned, and her throat tightened. How could the tone of their relationship turn sour so fast? She’d never meant for him to be angry at her.

Keeping his back to her, he removed the towel and bent to grab his clothes that sat folded on a chair. “Women, all the same. Traitorous bitches. No better than men.”

How could he say that? He had the right to be pissed about her snooping, but his labeling all women as bitches was entirely disproportionate.

She finally found her voice. “No.”

“You know what they do to people like me?” He put his briefs on and turned again, long locks dancing around his shoulders, shiny eyes staring as if drilling a hole into her conscience. “In the past, they burned us with the witches. Seventy years ago, they sent us to Auschwitz. Now, you think they only piss in our faces?” His voice trembled, and he clenched his fists. “Nooo, they find other ways.”

Anne shook her head and fought tears. She wanted to reach out and, with some magic, calm his anger, soothe his pain, ask for forgiveness, but the bed separated them.

“I liked you, bella.” He tilted his head to the side, wetness in his black eyes reflecting light from the windows behind her. “I thought you were different. Nice. But no.”

She grimaced. “M-Micaela.”

He pointed a finger. “You gonna destroy me”—his voice cracked—“like her.”

Her? Who was he talking about? His mother, a sister, a girlfriend? And what did that woman do to him?

He bent to put his pants on, black hair sliding along his arms.

“No.” Eyes filling with hot tears, she stood helpless while he straightened and zipped up. “I’ll never hurt you, I swear. I’ll never tell anyone.”

He huffed and, without another look or word, put on his pullover, then his socks and shoes, before pivoting and opening the door, exiting the room like a whirlwind.

She stood alone in the overwhelming silence, clutching her aching chest and struggling to hold back a loud gasp.

Ooo-kay, only one thing to do before she fell to her knees and started sobbing.

Get the hell out of here, stupid. Find him and talk to him
.

Heart in her throat, she followed Mica out into the hall, past Caroline’s still-closed door—
no time for good-byes
—and joined him at the front door as he zipped up his raincoat.

He refused to look at her; they would have to talk in the car.

She grabbed her raincoat and, together, they stepped out into the rainy wind, careful not to let the door slam behind them. Caroline and baby Désirée needed all the sleep they could get.

Her small Peugeot stood alone in the clearing. Tall trees loomed around the farmhouse, whistling and bowing dangerously in the wind. Raindrops whipped her face, prickling her skin like a hundred bee stings. Heavy clouds passed high above their heads at frightening speed. When the hell would the storm relent? She hoped to God they would make it home.

They hurried to the car and slumped into their respective seats. Silence lingered between them as she started the engine and let it warm for a minute.

Heart hammering, she swallowed and turned to him. “Micaela?”

He shook his head and stared out the passenger window. “Not now.”

Okay, later. But we will talk
.

When the storm subsided, he and Todd would hit the road, and she might never see them again. But after Mica’s numerous advances and the intimate sleep they’d shared last night, she didn’t want him to leave with a grudge, hating her.

She pulled out of the clearing, sent a mental good-bye to Caroline and her baby, and drove out onto the narrow forest road. A few minutes after they left the trees behind, gravel became asphalt, and she drove past the château, now standing tall and majestic in the daylight.

She glanced at Mica, who sat with his hands in his lap, thoughtful, gazing ahead.

At the village entrance, she took the main road to the left. Wind gusts played with the car like a marionette as they followed the winding lane, rain clattering on the roof. The wipers swooshed from side to side, sending waves of water backward. Though she didn’t dare drive too fast on the slippery asphalt, they would be home soon.

In the bottom of a deep valley, a sharp turn made her pull the brakes—a good thing because a few meters farther, a fallen log barred the road, huge tentacle-like branches spread on the ground. The car wheels skidded on the wet asphalt until she managed to stop on the shoulder.

Mica ran a hand over his face with a low curse. Heart hammering, she clutched the steering wheel, holding her breath, staring at the hindrance behind the rapidly moving wipers.

No way could they move the heavy log by themselves. They would have to sit in the car and wait for rescue.

She killed the engine. Everything stilled, except for the relentless prickling of rain on the windshield.

With a grunt, Mica pulled up his hood and yanked the passenger door open. The swooshing of a nearby river filled her ears. He climbed out, closed his door, and walked around the front of the car, head bent, palming the glistening metal. When he reached her side and opened her door, cold, humid air swirled in, circling her legs.

Oh God. Not that
. She stared into his face with wide eyes. The idea of stepping out of her warm, safe shelter and walking all the way home terrified her. Couldn’t they just wait for…?

He frowned. “Come on!”

“B-but you’re sick!”

“Not that bad. I can walk.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled until she scrambled out of her seat, into the bad weather, into the unknown.

Leaving her Peugeot behind broke Anne’s heart, but the tall vegetation growing along the road persuaded her. What if another tree gave in to the brutal gusts of wind, fell over the road, and hit the car roof?

In this weather, it would probably take a whole day before a rescue vehicle arrived, and although Mica was sick, waiting to be decapitated by a tree was not a good alternative to walking home. Only three kilometers separated them from their destination, a mere forty-minute walk.

Hood covering his head, Mica tugged at her hand, pulling her behind him as they stepped over the first branches. Humid air filled with the snaps of twigs and the bitter smell of pine needles and fresh resin. They reached the thick, knee-high trunk of wood lying across the asphalt like a giant from some fairy tale. He stopped and turned to help her climb. Their gazes met as he lifted her hand, urging her on. No time for romantic eyelash-batting.

Clutching his strong hand for balance, she stepped up on the slippery trunk and jumped down to the other side. He joined her, entwined his warm fingers in hers again, and soon they left the dead giant behind.

Stinging, wind-borne raindrops whipped their faces, and icy gusts of air blew through the valley, rustling their coats. The rain splashed up their legs and soaked their shoes as small currents of water danced on the asphalt. Hand-in-hand, they marched down the winding road, shoulders hunched and heads bent to fight the wind.

She hoped the cold weather wouldn’t worsen Mica’s condition. If it did, his cough could turn lethal, and she wouldn’t know what to do then. The thought paralyzed her. She couldn’t think straight. Thank God his warm, encouraging hand tugged on hers and kept her going.

They walked in silence at a steady pace, meeting no one along the road. No stray cat looking for prey, nor the usual munching sheep on sloping green hills. It seemed the storm had put a stop to all activity on the mountain, and only the neediest, as in their case, dared put a foot outside.

The road climbed uphill and wound through a short mass of trees before straightening in the middle of a wheat field. A little farther ahead, an open barn came into view, with a couple of farmhouses in the background. The rain eased, but relentless wind swept the flat landscape, blowing up their coats and assaulting their mouths and noses.

Mica started coughing. He withdrew his hand and spun away from her as scorching coughs shook his torso.

Oh God
. She’d hoped the medicine would stop the coughing fits.

He made it to the low stone barn and they sought shelter inside, where hay lay on the floor and the smell of cattle hung in the air. He coughed hard, crouching before going down on his knees.

Fearing for his life, she knelt next to him, pulled the hood of her raincoat back, and reached out to pat his back. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

He turned to look at her, heaving, sweat beading on his pallid face and black hair sticking to his wet skin. He frowned. “Eh, bella, don’t cry.”

Oh, was she crying? She nodded with a sniff and wiped her face. She hadn’t realized tears were rolling down her numb cheeks. He stared at her through his long hair, and she brushed wet locks from his face. “Y-you don’t hate me anymore?”

“Hate you?” Dark eyes widening, he took her hand.

“You were so angry—”

“No.” He slid cold fingers in between hers. “No, it was just…what you call it—heat of the moment? But it wasn’t about you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have snapped. It was wrong. I’m sorry.”

She swallowed. “I swear to you, I’ll never do anything to hurt you.” Warm tears rushed to her eyes, and she blinked in a meager attempt to stop them.

He shook his head. “But why
you
hurting? Why you cried last night?”

Ah, that again. Caught off-guard, she withdrew her hand.

“Talk to me, bella.” He moved closer to kneel in front of her, staring with a gaze so deep and sincere, she couldn’t deny him the truth.

What would it hurt if he knew her secret? She sucked in a breath, swallowed the lump in her throat. “I want a baby.”

He made a slow, silent nod of understanding.

“We’ve tried for years, but….”

“But?”

“Brian says it’s me, that I’m sterile.”

“Oh?” He lifted a brow. “Why? Why not him?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s well…uh…equipped”—she checked his reaction—“so he’s not likely to be the one….”

A small smile lifted a corner of Mica’s lips before he straightened. “Don’t mean anything. You should ask doctor.”

“He doesn’t want to.”

“No?”

“He says we have to try more.”

“Hmm.” He snickered. “Maybe afraid of truth.”

She gazed into his black but lucid, intelligent eyes. How unusual, to discuss this topic with a stranger!

A stranger? It dawned on her—she might only have met Mica a few days ago, and she honestly didn’t know a single thing about him until their discussion this morning—but he was far from a stranger. Though all they’d shared physically was arousal, their connection struck deeper. For a reason that escaped her, she trusted him.

“I just want a child. Why—” Her voice cracked, and she looked down as her eyes filled with warm tears again. “Why can’t I have that? Is it too much to ask for?”

“No.”

The tears rolled down her cheeks in endless rivulets, dropped into the hay at her knees.

“I mean, what’s my role in life? My identity? I’m Brian’s wife, my parents’ daughter, and the owner of a bed and breakfast? That’s it?”

“Anne—”

“It’s not fair. I want—”

“Hey—”

“I want to be a mom, too. I’m
made
to be one. I want a baby to love and hold in my arms and nurse and—”

His large, warm hand caressed her cheek, a gentle thumb wiping the chilling trails of her tears. She gazed up. Dark eyes glimmering with wetness stared back, and he nodded. His jaw tightened and he bit his lower lip until it became white, before turning aside and looking out of the barn.

Why did he seem so touched by her words? Surely, his reaction had to be more than a sudden boost of empathy.

“Micaela?” She sniffed.

He shook his head. She could only see his profile in the dim light, but enough to note his swallowing and a slow tear that reflected the light outside roll over the silhouette of his cheekbone and down to his jaw.

“Please talk to me.”

With another shake of his head, he stood and stepped out of the barn. What was hurting him so much? Did it have something to do with the woman he’d mentioned earlier?

She fought back new tears, scrambled to her feet, and followed him out onto the empty road. The wind blew in her face again, and she pulled up her hood. Only six or seven hundred meters before they reached the entrance to her village.

He didn’t hold her hand this time, but walked ahead of her with quick strides as if driven by an inner force. He’d been a mystery from the beginning and would apparently remain one.

After a few minutes through flat farmland, the first familiar stone houses appeared with parked cars in front, lampposts, and trash cans. Civilization. Home. The main street was empty, but cold wind hurtled through, merciless.

In no time, they were in the middle of the small village. A few stores and cafés down, the front of Anne’s beloved bed and breakfast came into view with its white-painted brick wall and dark brown wood shutters.

They had made it! Heart racing, she ran the last meters to the porch while Mica stopped to gaze up to the second floor windows.

She grabbed the familiar brass door handle, but hesitated before pressing down. This was their last moment together. In just a few hours, they’d shared an incredible adventure that would end the second she opened the door.

Why did it have to be like this? Why did she need to hide her attraction to him? Why couldn’t she like two people at the same time? When she’d married Brian, her vow had made perfect sense and she’d thought she would always feel the same. And now?

Now, he’s waiting for me.

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and peeked inside the dark and eerily quiet living room. “Brian!
Chéri
, we’re home!”