Finding Mr. Perfect. Nikki Rivers

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      A rainbow-striped ribbon had been tied around the vase. From the ribbon hung a card with a charming cartoon face. He groaned, raising himself on one elbow. Merrily colored letters spelled out Wishing You a Speedy Recovery. It was signed with the initials D.P.

      The card was made by hand, but the hand had an expert and impish touch. D.P.—Darcy Parker. He thought of the tall woman with the offbeat beauty and the tousled dark hair.

      He looked at the bureau. His overnighter rested there. She’d been in his room. She’d left this unlikely bouquet as if it were some sort of souvenir of a Midsummer Night’s Fever Dream.

      He fell back to the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut against the blaze of color. He’d have to thank her. He’d have to apologize to her. How? He didn’t want to think about it, and he was momentarily saved from the task—his telephone rang.

      He groaned and hoisted himself back up. His head still ached, and his joints still throbbed, but neither pain was as epic as before.

      He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

      “Hello, you stupid horse’s neck,” said a familiar male voice. “Who in hell told you to drive clear to Austin?”

      Sloan sank back against the pillows with a harsh sigh. The voice, which had a permanently mocking edge, belonged to Tom Caspian. Tom, a former fraternity brother, was now his doctor in Tulsa.

      “I felt fine,” Sloan said. “For the first three hundred miles.”

      “Dammit, there shouldn’t have been a first three hundred miles,” Tom chided. “I told you to take it easy for at least another six weeks. Malay fever’s tricky. You take care of yourself, or the angels’ll be scattering posies on your grave.”

      One already has, Sloan thought, opening an eye and regarding the bouquet of wildflowers.

      “Where’d you get the bright idea of a trip?” Tom persisted. “I told you to stay put.”

      “I was tired of staying put,” Sloan grumbled.

      “Follow doctor’s orders, buddy. Or you’ll be staying put under a tombstone.”

      “I’m sick of hearing about it,” Sloan said with distaste. And he was. He’d convalesced two endless months in Southeast Asia. When they’d finally let him come back to the States, he’d been given the impossible command to rest and mend for another three. He was a man built for action, not relaxing. Physical idleness was hellish.

      “You been running?” Tom asked, his tone accusatory. “I told you to take it easy on the running. Jog a mile a day, at most. Have you been holding it down to that?”

      Sloan thought of the five miles he had done the day before. His body had felt whole again, a strong, efficient machine, all pistons pumping and powerful as ever. “I did a little more,” he admitted.

      “Hell, Sloan,” Tom said in disgust. “Have you got a death wish?”

      “No. A life wish,” retorted Sloan. “I used to have a life, and I want it back, dammit.”

      “It won’t happen overnight, Superman. Lord, Sloan, you’ve always pushed yourself harder than anybody I know. That’s not how you beat this fever. You’ve got to respect it. The Angel of Death passed you over once, buddy. Don’t give him the chance to make a U-turn.”

      Sloan put his hand to his forehead, which was hot and sweaty and had started to bang again. “All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “How’d you find me, anyway? Did you implant a microchip in my ass last time you gave me a shot?”

      “I ought to, you knothead. No. The hospital down there tracked you through your insurance card. I’ve talked to the admitting physician. He’s referred your case to a specialist in tropical diseases from the university.”

      “I don’t want a specialist in tropical diseases from the university. I’ll stick with you. You play bad tennis and have good scotch. What more could a man want?”

      “Listen, pal, you’ve already got a specialist. The name is Dr. Nightwine, and we’ve talked. You’ll get a visit by late this afternoon.”

      “I want to be out of here this afternoon.”

      “No way. You’re under observation.”

      “Observation, hell. Come on, Tommy. Make them release me. I’ll come straight home. I’ll get in bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I’ll watch soap operas all day and take up knitting. Just get me out, will you?”

      “You don’t travel until Nightwine says you can.”

      Sloan swore, but Tommy was adamant. “Nightwine’ll keep you around a couple of days at most, it’s for the best. Another thing—I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve put off saying it long enough. I don’t think you should keep taking these extreme assignments. You get in these dangerous environments and—”

      “It’s what I do,” Sloan said, cutting him off. “Changing is not an option. Don’t even mention it.”

      There was a moment of awkward silence. Tom cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking—exactly what made you take off for Austin like a bat out of hell?” He laughed. “A woman?”

      Sloan looked at the vivid wildflowers in their odd yet perfect vase. A woman, he thought. He said only, “Family matters. That’s all.”

      He said goodbye; he hung up. But in his mind hovered the image of Darcy Parker, her pert face and her cloud of dark hair.

      What, in the name of all that was holy, was he going to say to her?

      SUBJECT: Notes on a Prodigal Son

      From: [email protected]

      To: [email protected]

      Olivia, Beloved—

      It was so good to hear your dear voice.

      But you must stop apologizing about your housekeeper. If a strange man invaded my premises, I might brandish a golf club myself. It is altogether understandable behavior.

      As for my son’s actions, I can only repeat, my sister has always tried to manipulate him, and this time she obviously caught him with his resistance down—both physical and mental.

      I’ve talked to him just now for a second time. He still regrets the whole, embarrassing incident (and he damn well should).

      Physically, he’s on the upswing, thank God. He’s seen a specialist, a Dr. Nightwine. With luck, he’ll be out of the hospital tomorrow, but he’s not to travel for a few days. Dr. Nightwine wants to do some blood work and to monitor a new medication.

      I offered to go and keep him company, but he’ll have none of it. He says he’ll be fine, and the situation’s embarrassing enough without having his old man flying in to hold his hand.

      Ah, would that I were closer to you to hold yours, my love, to take you in my arms, to kiss your deliciously kissable lips (and every other part of you, for you СКАЧАТЬ