One Tough Cookie Read Free Page A

forming a tight band around her neck.
    She couldn't be embarrassed. She had no inhibitions about the human body. So why the schoolgirl blush? She couldn't figure. But she did know that he'd be severely irritated if he woke up and found her staring at him.
    She turned to go, but his soft moan stopped her. When he started to roll onto his back, she clenched her eyelids. When he moaned again, she took a breath and opened one eye. Stupid woman, she berated herself, the man might need you, and there's not much you can do with your eyes closed. Still she was relieved when she saw that the sheet had rolled with him, twisting protectively around his lower body.
    Willy was left looking at a broad muscled chest. His eyes opened on her, looking glazed and unfocused; she stepped to the side of the bed.
    "Are you okay? Can I get you something?" she asked.
    He pointed to the empty water glass on the night table. Willy nodded and went to fill it. He looked sick—real sick. Now she was super worried. She brought him the water, and he propped himself on one elbow to drink it, then fell heavily back on the bed. When he put an arm across his eyes to cut the light coming in from the window, Willy closed the curtains before going to sit on the side of the bed.
    She chewed nervously on her lower lip, then lifted his arm away from his forehead to replace it with her palm.
    He was burning up. When the chills started again, she pulled a blanket over him, refilled his water glass, and left.

 
     
    Chapter 2

     
    Taylor woke in a haze. He remembered Willy's cool, soft hand pressed against his forehead, had heard the door close. He swallowed painfully. She was probably miles away by now. By that stricken look in her eyes when she'd felt his fever, he'd scared her. No doubt she had better things to do than look after a sick man. Dan's friends were never big on accepting responsibility.
    He turned his woozy aching head toward the bedside clock. Almost three. That was all that registered before his eyes closed and he was back in a rocky, drifting sleep.
    The sound of rapid-fire Spanish woke him minutes later. The door opened, and Willy came in followed by a man. Nice of you to knock, he thought irritably.
    "This is Doctor Ortiz, Taylor. I thought he should look at you." She gave him a worried once over.
    What the hell was she looking for? The plague? Open sores? And he didn't need a damn doctor. He needed rest.
    When the doctor started to ask him questions in Spanish, he glared peevishly at the tall, pretty girl standing at his side, an impatient lift of his brows telling her he didn't understand.
    Pretty? She wasn't pretty last night. Must be the fever. I'm hallucinating.
    Briefly he closed his eyes to block her image. When he opened them, she was frowning at him—but she was still pretty. More than pretty—seriously hot. Definitely the fever.
    Willy translated the doctor's questions, and Taylor answered, grateful the guy's queries required only a shake or nod of his head.
    When Ortiz left, Willy came back to the room carrying a pen and paper. She sat on the edge of the bed.
    "According to the good doctor, you've been hit with a double whammy. Flu and laryngitis. The good news is, you'll live." She smiled. "But it will take a few days for you to completely recover. He's given me a prescription for you. Something to ease your throat, I think. For the rest, he says there's not much he can do. Just that you should stay in bed and rest."
    I could have told you that, he grumbled inwardly. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and looked down at him. Her hand was sure, strong, and soothingly icy. "I'm going to la farmacia, the drugstore, now. Is there anything you want before I go?" She handed him the pen and paper. A flush of heat rapidly replaced the cool imprint of her hand.
    He took the pen and wrote, "Sweats." Even his damned hand was shaky when he pointed to his suitcase. If he didn't get to the bathroom soon, his bladder was going to burst.