One Tough Cookie Read Free Page B

And he didn't want to get anymore naked with this woman than he already had. Might if he thought it would rattle her, but that didn't look likely. Willy Desmond looked cool enough to handle anything from plague epidemics to berserk sumo wrestlers. She'd sure as hell handled him last night. He watched her bend over and go through his things.
    Great butt… Jesus, Monroe, get a grip. You're dying here, remember.
    "These?" She held up some gray sweat bottoms.
    When he nodded, she gestured at his case. "Anything else?" Her eyes questioned his.
    He shook a negative, and she put the sweats in his outstretched hand and grinned.
    "Need help getting them on?" she said, adopting a studied straight face.
    It would serve her right if he threw back the covers and took her challenge. But he wasn't up for juvenile games. He scowled at her instead. She laughed and raised her palms.
    "Kidding, just kidding. Color me gone. But I'll be back in a few minutes."
    At the door she turned back. "The doctor said you're a bit run-down, and that's probably why this bug is hitting you so hard." She stopped and gave him what could only be called a once-over. "Although I have to say, you look pretty good to me. A bit frail, maybe, but I'm sure that's only temporary."
    Frail!
    Her brows knit briefly before she went on. "What you need is some good hot soup. I've always wanted to make chicken soup for a sicky. It looks like I finally have my chance." With that she stepped through the door.
    Sicky!
    The woman was nuts. He swung his feet to the floor, then shoved them into the sweats. A minor case of flu. A little mind over matter, and he'd be up in a few hours. In one determined motion he stood up—sat down just as fast. He closed his eyes and used two fingers to press the bridge of his nose as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He beat it back and, careful to move more slowly, stood beside the bed.
    He'd taken one wobbly step and she was back, poking her face around the edge of the door. A damn knock or two would be nice.
    "Do you have any money?" she asked.
    He stared at her with zero comprehension.
    "For the prescription—and the chicken. I used all the cash I had for the cleaning stuff and some other food. Can't make chicken soup from air, you know."
    He wanted to tell her what she could do with her chicken soup—but his head was crazy and his voice didn't work. He managed to pick up his wallet from the bedside table and toss it her way.
    She caught it easily, but hesitated. "You want me to go through your wallet?"
    What he wanted was for her to get out of here so he could get to the bathroom. His head spun and he shook it—mistake. He had to close his eyes against a strobe-light dizzy attack.
    She got to him as his knees buckled. Putting her arms around his bare upper torso, she lowered him back to the bed. Her breasts pressed hard against his naked chest as she strained to ease his movement down.
    "It's okay, good lookin'," she murmured close to his ear, "I've got you."
    He clutched the sides of the mattress and sucked in some air. Then he felt her arm slip back under his shoulder. She was lifting him. God, the woman was treating him like a world-class wimp, the before character in a get-fit add.
    "Come on, I think I know where you were heading," she said. "Just lean on me until you get your balance back."
    He had no choice but to accept her help. Letting his arm rest heavily across her shoulders, he got to his feet, slowly, very slowly. The dizziness was gone, but to be on the safe side, he let her support him as far as the bathroom door. Once there, he lifted his arm from her shoulder, grasped the door frame, and stumbled in. She closed the door behind him.
    He was sure she'd be waiting for him when he came out, but she was gone. Some nurse, he thought, heading unsteadily back to the bedroom. I could have passed out in there, cracked my head open. Then where would I be? He halted midway to the bedroom. Listen to yourself, Monroe, griping like you