High-Risk Fever (7 page)

Warm semen slid down the insides of her thighs, chilling as cold cellar air crept up under her skirt. The still-sane part of her brain hoped Brian’s sperm would serve something this time. She drew up her panties and slumped to the dusty cement floor, the back of her head resting against a pillar. She pulled her knees and ass up and imagined the semen gliding back in. She didn’t care if the baby was conceived during emotional turmoil. The most important thing was, she wanted a child.

Something climbed up her bare ankle. Imagining a furry, long-legged spider, she screamed, slapped her skin, and scrambled to her feet. Her grazing shoe soles on the dusty cement filled the eerie silence, adding to her angst.

Merde!
She hated this, hated everything. Being blinded by darkness, corrupted by a gorgeous stranger, suspected of marital deceit by her husband, and now attacked by a miniature creep!

Pulse pounding in her ears, she spun and reached out in the dark for the shelf. She met a flat, wooden surface and felt along its surface, trying to block out the images of a spider family waiting to eat her alive. Beneath her palm she found a cold cylinder shape and picked it up, turning the flashlight on.

Relief washed over her as the cellar came to life. She swept the cement floor with light, but found no eight-legged beast. She double-checked her bare legs. No traces of blood.

She wiped dust off the back of her skirt, pointed the flashlight ahead to the stone stairs, and climbed up to the kitchen.

Strategically placed candles lit the small room, throwing shadows on the furniture and walls and turning every object into dancing silhouettes. She switched the flashlight off. The power had not returned, but warmth from the candles brushed her bare forearms, enveloping her.

Voices drifted from the living room, and she peeked through the door. Brian stood in front of the main entrance, talking to the French family, dressed in raincoats. A suitcase and large bags sat on the floor.

Micaela’s coughing resonated in the open space, interrupting their talk. The children stared in his direction.

She had promised Todd aspirin. Where was he? And what else had she been doing before she went to the cellar? She turned and tried to collect her thoughts.

Ah, the food.

She opened the fridge, emptied its remaining contents—cheeses, ham, eggs, and vegetables—into a picnic basket, and went back to the cold cellar, lighting the familiar black void with the flashlight. Such an easy task, now. Funny how complicated life could be at certain times and then surprisingly simple at others.

She placed the basket atop a shelf and returned to the stairs.

When she reappeared in the kitchen, Todd stood in front of the stove, cross-armed, staring at a boiling kettle. Yellow candlelight danced on his thoughtful face as he turned to her, features drawn.

“Hey.” She gave him an encouraging smile. He had more on his plate than she did.

“Hey. I’m making a cup of tea for Micaela. He hasn’t eaten anything since last night.”

She nodded, closed the cellar door, and clicked off the flashlight. “Of course, make yourself at home. How is he?”

“Not well. He has a fever.” Worry flickered in his deep-emerald eyes.

“I’m going to get you the aspirin from upstairs.”

Shuffling steps sounded behind her, and Anne jumped. She was on edge and dreaded facing Brian again.

Brian entered the kitchen and looked between her and Todd with a placid face, hazel eyes devoid of emotion.

Anne sucked in a breath. Hurt and shame lurked, threatening to burst out.

He nodded to Todd. “Your friend’s pretty sick.” His low voice sounded constricted.

“Yeah. I hope he hasn’t caught pneumonia.”

Brian turned to her, eyes still expressionless. “Anne, why don’t you get him some medicine.”

“Yes.” With an inward sigh of relief—glad she was off the hook and could leave—she made for the door.

He stretched out an arm and stopped her, blocking the exit.

Her heart leapt. What did he want?

“By the way, the French family is leaving. They’ve had enough of the bad weather and want to go south.” He nodded to Todd. “That means a room is available for you and your friend.
If
you intend to stay.”

Calmness washed through her. For a second, she’d believed he would bring up what happened in the cellar and scold her in public.
But he’s not going to make a scene
.

“That’s great!” Todd smiled. “It wouldn’t be wise to move on now that Micaela is sick.”

“But I have only one room for the both of you. The other tenants are staying a while longer. I’m not sure how many days, but—”

“That’s fine. Thanks.”

“It’s fifty euro a night.”

“Sure, no prob.” Todd broadened his smile. Probably one less stone for him to carry.

An ill loved one was so heartbreaking. In the past two and a half years,
Papa
had progressively suffered from Alzheimer’s, losing memory, messing things around in the house, and failing to recognize his own family.
Maman’s
decision to move into an apartment in town was the only wise thing to do, and though she never told Anne much about her feelings, watching her beloved husband reach the end stage of life in such a condition must be extremely painful.

I pray Brian and I never have to go through that
.

Brian turned to her. “Would you mind changing their bed sheets?”

“Not at all. I’m on my way.” She exited the kitchen.

Her heartbeat slowed. Flashlight in hand, she went up the creaking stairs to the landing. Micaela’s hoarse cough sounded in the living room behind her, and she paused to listen, hand on the paneled wall, wondering what she could do to help. Not much, yet.

Brandishing the flashlight, she walked past the tenant rooms and entered her empty bedroom. Among a variety of medical supplies in a cupboard, she found a small box of licorice pastilles and bottles of soluble aspirin, vitamin C, and cough mixture.

She grabbed a pile of clean sheets from the bigger closet—the one against which Micaela had pinned her—and carried everything to the vacant tenant room down the hall.

The door was unlocked. She put the sheets and medicine on a small desk in the corner. The room contained a double bed with ruffled sheets, a small table on each side, and a chair. The distinct smell from the previous tenants lingered. Dim light peeked in from two windows overlooking the street. Rain clattered on the glass panes, and playful gusts of wind made the hinges shake.

She opened a window to let in fresh air. Her hair blew back and danced around. Horizontal raindrops whipped her face, but she welcomed each cold sting as if it could wash away her confusion. Chains of heavy black clouds moved from one side of the village to the other, weighing on the neighboring buildings before being replaced with new clouds. Thunder raged like some monster in the distance, threatening to crack open the skies.

The door handle clanked behind her. She froze then turned with her heart in her throat.

Micaela stood in the doorway smiling, wearing the same pullover and sweatpants as yesterday. He stepped in and closed the door. In the dim light, his pale face looked clammy and his dark eyes shone with sickness. Yet the straight, confident way he held himself revealed not only the stance of a dancer, but pride and inner strength. Beard stubble covered his handsome chin. He reeked of pure masculine hotness.

Pulse racing, Anne closed the window and faced Micaela with her hands clenched at her sides. She didn’t know what else to do with them. Nervousness and anticipation raced through her. They hadn’t been face to face since he’d approached her last night, naked and very aroused.

God
. The memory sent sweet tingles to her inner thighs, and from the gleam in his eye, he seemed to be recalling the same sensual encounter.

Yet, she couldn’t help being pissed at him for trying to seduce her. Because she now knew he had a boyfriend—which meant he’d betrayed both Todd
and
her. His behavior ultimately was root to her immoral thoughts and Brian’s desperate reaction in the cellar. She could not let Micaela come close again. She could not slip.

He glanced from the unmade bed to the pile of folded sheets on the desk before slumping on the chair with a throaty sigh.

Anne bit her lower lip while searching for the right words to say. “How are you?”

He shrugged. Keeping his shiny black eyes locked on hers, he put a hand on his throat. “Sore.”

“Yes, I heard you cough.” She pointed to the bottles on the desk. “I brought you some medicine and pastilles for your throat.”

“
Grazie
.” He gave a weak nod, winced, and closed his eyes, as if in pain. In the next moment, he leaned forward to cough into his hands with his elbows on his knees. The coughing sounded like the barking of a big dog and shook his body. Long, black locks hung from his head like a curtain, jerking with each contortion.

Her stomach knotted. He might be a total stranger, but all that had happened last night inevitably connected them on some level. Which level, she wasn’t sure.

When the coughing subsided, he groaned and ran a hand along his flustered face, brushing aside a few hairs glued to his skin.

She took the box of pastilles on the table and went toward him, stopping a half-meter from his feet. Damp heat oozed from him. “Do you want a glass of cold water?”

He shrugged and clenched his teeth, as if speaking would be too painful.

“Cold water helps soothe the pain.” She opened the box. The sour-sweet scent of licorice rose to her nostrils.

Eyes feverish, he reached out a trembling palm.

She dropped the candy into it, careful to avoid physical contact—both due to the risk of contagion and because she didn’t want to know what it would feel like to touch his hot skin.

He put the pastille in his mouth and leaned back in the chair with his gaze fixed on her. Breathing deep, he sucked on the candy, but couldn’t seem to relax. Each intake of air caused his features to tighten. Tiny beads of sweat appeared all over his face and ran alongside his temples and bearded cheeks.

She closed the box and eyed him for a moment, trying to consider him as a patient and not an object of her fantasy. A difficult thing to achieve with the obvious tension between them and the way he stared into her eyes. At any moment, he could unbalance her.

She searched for ways to keep their interaction professional. Focusing on his sickness was the only thing that could take her mind off of his sensuality. What would help fight his fever?

She nodded to his pullover. “You should take off your clothes.” Her face heated. God, the words had come out too fast, too soon. She couldn’t believe her audacity. As he gave a small smile, she explained, “It’ll help bring your fever down.”

He swallowed, and winced. “Fever is good.” His voice sounded raspy.

“I know. A high fever can be useful on the first day of sickness. But I think—”

Her instincts told her to put a hand on his forehead like a mother examining a sick child. But she couldn’t. It was hard enough to stand in front of this stud and passively receive the warmth emanating from his body—and ignore the tease in his glowing eyes. Her impulses had proved treacherous lately, and she feared they would bring her straight into his arms.

Brian
. Cold fear rushed through her.
Remember Brian!

She took a deep breath, avoided Micaela’s stare, and tried to control her choking voice. “I think what you need now is to bring the fever down.” She had read about it in mommy magazines. When a child had a high fever, the best way to stabilize its body temperature was to remove all the clothes and keep only a thin cloth of cotton on.

He shrugged with a white-toothed grin before proceeding to remove his pullover. Once more, damp heat drifted to her with the smell of musk and sweat, though not an unpleasant one. She couldn’t help breathing in his manly scent and wanting to memorize it.

When he folded the sweater over the chair arm and straightened, she stifled a gasp of admiration. The man was better looking than any god from Greek mythology. Dim light shone on his tanned and perfectly sculpted torso. She could only gape and stare, transfixed. Blood pulsed in her temples.

Now was a good time to leave. She’d helped him and had no business staying. From the way her body reacted to him, the situation could quickly get out of control. But she was too weak.

His dark, seducing eyes held hers and seemed to scrutinize her reaction—before a new coughing fit forced him to lean between his knees again. Scorching barks filled the room. His torso jerked back and forth, thrashing his long hair around. He coughed so hard and so long she thought he would throw up, and she stood helpless before him.

When the coughing stopped, he drew ragged breaths, groaned, and rubbed his face.

Wanting to do something to help—maybe just put a palm on his shoulder to calm him—Anne stepped forward.

With a grunt, he shot his hands to the backs of her legs, behind her skirt, and pulled her toward him. She stumbled between his spread legs with a small cry, knees pressing against the edge of the chair. He buried his face in her lap, guttural moans drowned in her skirt.

She should have pushed him away but didn’t.

Face nestled against her, he lifted her skirt and stroked her naked thighs with hard hands, sculpting her muscles, heating the skin—probably not from sexual teasing, but
need
, as if rough handling could ease the pain in his throat and lungs.

He moved forward on the chair, and his hot crotch met her knees. Her inner thighs and stomach filled with such intense heat, she couldn’t move. Her corrupt body overruled every reasonable thought and willingly melted into his forceful embrace. She gasped as her traitorous pussy reacted, opening and wetting with lust.

Against her will, she reached down, found his head, and entwined trembling fingers in the sweaty black locks. She pulled at his hair, pressed him to her burning core. There was no stopping, no reasoning.