Page 6 of Asher

Yuck.How embarrassing. At last, she was done, but throwing up always made her cry, damn it. She was stronger than this. Enough with the tears already. She couldn’t even sniff through her nose. She was drooling and the damned thing around her neck was in the way.

“Aww, honey, it’s okay to be sick, and it’s okay to cry. Are you done?” Why did this guy have to be so considerate and nice?

She nodded. Yes, she was done making a joke of herself. Her aching head bobbed like a leaf snapping in a stiff wind, and she needed something to wipe her disgusting mouth and nose. A drink wouldn’t hurt.

As if he’d read her mind, the guy smoothed a soft, warm damp cloth over her face and wiped away the mess stinging her eyes, make that, eye. What the heck? She fingered the bandaged area where her left eye should’ve been. Damned thing wasn’t there. Instead, a large patch covered that entire side of her face.

She traced her tender lips next. Tiny stitches lined the full length of her bottom lip. Well, duh. Those creeps had punched her enough. She was genuinely shocked they hadn’t busted her jaw. Wait a second. Did they? She moved her jaw from left to right. Nope. Her front teeth were loose, but they were all there, and her jaw was sore, but intact. This place might be her new reality, but it was only another challenge to overcome. Another test. They couldn’t keep her here against her will. As soon as she could stand on her feet, she was history.

Ever so slowly, Marlowe looked up at the man leaning over her. Something about him was familiar, but she didn’t recognize that firm, square jaw or the five o’clock shadow covering it. Or the perfectly arched brows over eyes the color of pine trees in spring, sparkling with hints of amber. Damn, he was breathtaking. Chiseled, in an alpha-male kind of way. Beautiful, long lashes no man had a right to. Handsome, absolutely. He’d be more at home in Hollywood though, not here in—wherever she was.

The stranger lifted a covered mug and placed its straw on her lip. “Just a sip, okay? When you’re feeling better, you can have more.”

Something in her chest thumped. Like an obedient little mouse—which she had never, ever been—Marlowe whimpered, “Okay.” Whatever his name, this guy’s sedate demeanor was soothing, and the hit of ice-cold water sliding down her throat was heaven. She wanted more, so before he got away, she latched onto his wrist. At least, that was the plan. But he was bigger and stronger and—

He looked down at her fingers circling his wrist. It dawned on her then that this very nice man was dressed in black. All black. He looked different in the light.But he was still that guy, theman she’d kicked. Oh, no.Marlowe froze. Was this when he punched her?

Grabbing the blanket with her one good hand, she shielded her face to block the blow. As much as she could, she fisted her other fingers. The best defense was a strong offense. If nothing else, she’d strike first. She could do it.

Until he set the mug quietly on the nightstand and whispered, “Lean back and take it easy. You’re safe, and I’m here to protect you for as long as it takes you to heal. I’m not going anywhere, just need to let the doctor know you’re awake.”

That voice… Not baritone. Lower. Gravelly.

“You’re not going to hit me?” she squeaked. How does a woman apologize for kicking a guy’s privates, the guy who today looked like he’d stepped out of the latest hunky Australian fireman calendar? Who, despite her attack, had still hauled her ungrateful butt up that steep mountainside, on his shoulders, to a giant black helicopter and—

That was all she remembered, other than he’d killed her attackers and he’d saved her life.

“No, honey,” he whispered. “I don’t hit women, babies, dogs, or cats. And I’m a pushover for grandmothers and grandfathers, too. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, suddenly shy, her heart pounding at the details she couldn’t recall. Afraid to look him in the eyes with her—eye—Marlowe turned away. Or she tried. Not happening with her neck and head caught in that unwieldy contraption like they were.

A toilet flushed nearby. He was probably emptying that disgusting bag. A chair scraped and he was back, sitting with one ankle crossed over his knee. Apparently, he meant what he said. He was staying. Why? Didn’t he have anything else to do besides babysit her?

“Yes, she just woke up,” he said quietly into his cell phone. “He’s not available?” The guy paused. “Okay, then. Sure. No time like the present.”

Oh, yeah. She had a doctor. It didn’t take long before a nurse in bubblegum-pink scrubs rushed in, grinning like a Barbie doll at the handsome man in the chair. Not even glancing at the patient in bed. Not that Marlowe blamed her. This guy was worth dreaming about, and she was Frankenstein’s bride material.

“Well, hello again,” Barbie gushed, shaking her index finger at him. “You didn’t check in at my desk like you’re supposed to, Mr. Downey.”

The tone in her voice made him sound like a naughty little boy instead of a thoughtful, very masculine male. Who did she think she was?

“That’s a rule around here, you know.” She kept up that scolding, sing-songy tone. “Visitors must always check in at the nurses’ station before they visit patients, no matter what. No exceptions.”

Marlowe would’ve rolled her eye at that ridiculous dumb-blonde routine if her head wasn’t already pounding at this woman’s too bright, too loud, and way too obnoxious voice. But Mr. Downey, huh? Finally, a name that went with that gorgeous face.

“Why should I check in? I never left,” he murmured quietly, his voice deliciously low and lullaby soft.

Marlowe closed her eye, secretly pleased he was not brainless Ken to the nurse’s dumb Barbie. But wait a second. He’d been here all night? How many nights? Just last night?

Barbie couldn’t believe it, either. “You were hereall night? Why didn’t I know that? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Staying overnight is not allowed. But, oh well.” She actually bounced and batted her eyes. “I guess as long as it’s you.”

‘Here it comes,’Marlowe thought, sneaking a glimpse at the bubblegum flirt.‘Wait for it.’

Sure enough, Barbie dropped her inch-long fake eyelashes, like a well-trained hooker straight out of Hollywood, and whispered, “I’ll let it pass this time, but next time—”

“There’ll be no next time. I’m not leaving,” he declared, his tone quietly firm. “Where my wife goes, I go.”

Your what? Wife? Me? Since when?

---