A Younger Woman. Wendy Rosnau

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СКАЧАТЬ off an hour later, something he had fought hard against. How long he was out, he didn’t know. The sound of water running in the bathroom jarred him awake, and he slammed himself upright, his gaze locking immediately on the bed. When he found it empty, he jumped to his feet and headed for the open door.

      The sight of Margo weaving slowly back into the room hauled him up short. “You should have kicked me awake if you needed something,” he growled, then hurried toward her.

      She didn’t say anything, just stood there with her right arm drawn close to her side, her face ghostly pale. Afraid she would fall, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to bed. As he carefully laid her down on the soft mattress, he scolded, “No more getting up without my help. You could have fallen, dammit. If you break open those stitches, I’m taking you to the hospital whether you like it or not.”

      “You can try,” she muttered, her voice half-strength.

      He pulled the covers to her chin. “You still cold?”

      “Cold?”

      “You’ve been talking in your sleep.” Ry noticed his words gave her pause. “What’s the matter, Margo, you afraid you said something you shouldn’t have?”

      “No,” she insisted.

      Ry didn’t press the issue, though he damn well wanted to. He would get the truth out of her. That was his job, and he was damn good at it. “Go back to sleep, baby. You need to rest.”

      She nodded, tried to get comfortable and winced in the process.

      “I almost forgot, I’ve got some pills. I’ll get you a couple.” He started for the door, surprised that he had forgotten about the sleeping pill in the medicine cabinet.

      “No pills.”

      Her objection stopped him and he turned around. “They won’t hurt you. They’ll just take the edge off,” he promised, knowing that the prescription was potent as hell. A life saver when you needed to forget for a time and let sleep rescue you from your pain—pain of any kind; the pill didn’t discriminate.

      “I don’t take pills.”

      “More whiskey, then?”

      “So I can do more talking in my sleep?” There was accusation in her tone, in her beautiful brown eyes.

      He strolled back to the bed. “Afraid you’ll share your darkest secret with me? Afraid you’ll confess you still love me?” The comment was ridiculous of course, but Ry had always hoped she still cared for him, that even after he’d played the bad guy, he hadn’t destroyed everything they’d shared.

      “I never loved you,” she insisted. “I only thought I did. I guess that’s what you get for robbing the cradle, Detective Archard—a girl too young to know her own mind.”

      “Did a shrink convince you of that?”

      “A shrink?” She frowned. “Why would I need to go to a shrink?”

      Ry passed off her question with a shrug, then sat on the chair. “I thought it was the thing to do these days. Everyone has a shrink, right?”

      “For what it’s worth, I think there are far too many shrinks out there advocating whining these days. They always say something stupid like, talk it out and you’ll feel better. What they should be saying is, you’re not the only one in misery’s boat, so shut up and paddle through it.”

      Ry grinned, reminded of how refreshing he had always found Margo’s honest assessment about anything she had an opinion on. “Go back to sleep, and next time you need to use the bathroom, wake me up so I can help you.”

      “So you can watch?”

      Enjoying her sudden spunk, he teased, “A perk for rescuing you? I like the way you think, baby.”

      She eyed him without saying a word.

      “Come on, Margo, backing down so soon?”

      “We both know the truth about you, Detective Archard.”

      “And just what truth do you think we know?”

      She hesitated only a few seconds before saying, “You taught me how to kiss dirty, old man? I was barely eighteen that first time.”

      She knew she’d been legal. But Ry had to agree she’d still been too young for a jaded cop who kept a .38 Special in the bread saver in the kitchen. But just for the record, he said, “You know you were nineteen plus.”

      She closed her eyes and muttered, “How long?”

      “How long, what?”

      “I met you when I was fifteen. How long had you wanted me?”

      The question was unexpected. But she was right to imply it had been an on-going problem for years. He’d been crazy to have her, so crazy that when he had finally gotten her into his apartment that first time, he’d been a man on a single-minded mission. He wasn’t proud of the fact that he had ached to have her, that he’d made love to her virgin body three times the first night before he’d come up for air. Back then his ego had been the size of his libido, full-blown and hungry to be stroked. And when she had met him more than halfway, nothing could have stopped him from climbing inside her except her objection. But that hadn’t happened because she had confessed that night she had wanted him with the same crazy intensity.

      But it hadn’t been just her body that had held him prisoner, though he knew that’s how it had looked at the time. Honestly, he’d fallen in love with the entire package; from her sexy smile to the way she combed her hair. He’d loved it all—her voice, her walk, the way she brushed her teeth.

      And he had known from the beginning, and at the end, that his life had been made better by knowing her. That’s why walking away had damn near killed him.

      “That long, huh.”

      “Margo—” Ry paused “—maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

      “You’re probably right. I’m with Brodie now and you’re with…some blonde, I imagine. I read in Cosmopolitan that 75 percent of today’s men have a blonde in their bed, one at the office and keep a spare in the trunk of their car.”

      “Margo—”

      “Go away and let me sleep,” she insisted, turning her head away from him and closing her eyes.

      The next time Margo opened her eyes, the sun was shining through the long narrow windows draped in sheer panels of pale yellow. She blinked out of her sound sleep, her gaze going straight to the occupied chair, a big, round, tufted half-circle in a yellow paisley on navy-blue.

      “Good morning.”

      Margo moaned and slowly pulled herself upward to lean against the headboard. Her head spun, her arm throbbed. She screwed up her face. “It feels like a dozen marbles are rolling around in my head.”

      “And your arm?”

      “Like you cut it off with a razor blade.”

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