Not Quite Married. Christine Rimmer

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      And then it turned out it didn’t matter that she couldn’t think of what to say. Because before she could get a word out, she fainted dead away.

Chapter Three

      “Clara?” Dalton watched in horror as her eyes rolled back in her head and she swayed toward him.

      Her face had gone dead white; her forehead and upper lip bloomed with sweat. He caught her automatically as her knees buckled, her body folding in over her big belly, gravity dragging her to the floor.

      Stunned, he stared down at the top of her head. She was limp as a rag doll, out cold.

      He knew terror then. Stark, raw terror. “Clara, my God...”

      No response. She sagged in his arms.

      Bracing one arm at her back, he bent to get her behind the knees with the other before she could slither from his grip. Then, hoisting her high against his chest, he carried her over to the gray velvet love seat under the window and carefully lowered her down onto it.

      “Clara...” he whispered, and put his hand to her damp forehead. No fever. If anything, her soft skin was too cool. The scent of her drifted to him. Sweet as ever. He wanted to touch her stomach, to somehow reassure her and the baby within her that everything was going to be okay, that he would make it so.

      But before he could move his hand from her forehead to her belly, she stirred and moaned. Her eyelids fluttered open.

      “What am I...? Dalton?” She put her palm to her stomach—just as he’d wanted to do—and looked down the length of her own body, frowning. “How did I...?”

      “You fainted.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in 911.

      She tried to sit up. “Listen, I—”

      “Don’t.” He clasped her shoulder. “Stay down.”

      “But I...”

      “Shh. Rest.”

      Wonder of wonders, she settled against the cushions with a long, weary sigh, lifting the back of her hand to cover her eyes.

      The 911 dispatcher answered, “What is your emergency?”

      “I need an ambulance at the Library Café.”

      The dispatcher started in with her series of questions.

      Simultaneously, Clara gasped and dropped her hand away from her eyes. She glared at him accusingly. “An ambulance? I don’t need—”

      He put a finger to his lips and shook his head. It worked. She actually fell silent, though she did continue to glare at him as he rattled off answers to the questions coming at him from the other end of the line.

      When the dispatcher let him go, he stuck his phone back in his pocket. “They’ll be here within five minutes.”

      She had her hand over her eyes again and she grumbled, “I agree I should see my doctor, but an ambulance is overkill.”

      “Have you ever fainted before?”

      “Never in my life.”

      “Think of the baby, then, and humor me. You’re going to the hospital.”

      She made a low, unhappy sound. “If I’d known you were this controlling, I never would have had sex with you.”

      He almost laughed. “Too late now—give me your doctor’s number. I’ll call his office and get him to meet us there.”

      “Us?” she groused. “I’m guessing that means you’re coming, too?”

      “Yes, I am.”

      “Fabulous. And it’s her office.”

      “The number, Clara.”

      Another tired sigh. “My cell. In my purse, second desk drawer.”

      “If I leave your side, will you promise to stay where you are?”

      “Overbearing,” she muttered. “Impossible...”

      “Answer the question.”

      “Yes. All right. I’ll stay right here.”

      So he went and got her shoulder bag from the drawer.

      “Phone in the side pocket,” she said. “Dr. Kapur.”

      He made the call. “All set. She’ll meet you there,” he said as he tucked the phone back where he’d found it.

      The sound of a siren swelled in the distance, coming their way.

      Clara was gently stroking her stomach. “You told them to pull around into the parking lot, didn’t you?”

      “That’s right. Closest exit from here.”

      “I will try to be grateful that at least I don’t have to be carried flat on my back through my own busy restaurant.”

      * * *

      Clara knew she probably shouldn’t have given in and let Dalton take over. She should be strong and sure and independent.

      She was strong and sure and independent. Just not right at that particular moment.

      The paramedics—both of whom she’d known since elementary school—arrived. By then, Renée and half the kitchen staff had realized something was wrong. They crowded in behind the med techs, making worried noises, wanting to know if she was all right.

      Dalton herded them back out again, explaining as he went that she had fainted, that they were taking her to Justice Creek General, that there was nothing to worry about, her doctor would take good care of her and she would be fine.

      He sounded so wonderfully confident and certain that Clara found herself feeling reassured. Of course she would be all right—and the baby, as well. There was nothing wrong with her that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

      Roberta and Sal, the two med techs, finished taking her vital signs. They transferred her to a stretcher and carried her out to the parking lot in back.

      Dalton came out with her. “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he promised.

      “Not necessary,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” And then she waited for his answer, a thoroughly annoying little ball of dread in the pit of her stomach, that he would say, All right, then. Good luck with that, and be on his way.

      But what he did say was “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” in a voice that seemed somehow both tender and gruff.

      She barely kept herself from flashing him a trembling, grateful smile. “Oh, all right.” She played it grumpy and ill-tempered for all she was worth. “Suit yourself.”

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