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“Estás pero si bien pendejo.” Jorge threw his hands wide. “Stubborn as a mule. Did it ever occur to you I don’t want to bury you?”
It hadn’t, not now, and not when he served in Afghanistan. “No.”
Cecily spoke. “Then maybe you are a fucking idiot.”
Javier swiveled his gaze toward her. She had translated what Jorge had just said. “You understood that?”
She blushed. “I lied to you when I said I don’t speak Spanish. I do. I speak five languages—French, Italian, Spanish, German, and English.”
Despite his pounding head, his aching bones, and overall malaise, Javier realized she had understood every endearment he’d used, from Azúcar to Bomboncita. Maybe she’d guessed how he felt about her before he told her the other night. As if she understood what he pondered, she smiled at him.
“Si, mi Querido, mi Corazón.”
She called him her dear, her heart, but did she mean it? Could she?
He wanted to tell her again what she meant to him but a round of chills struck. He shivered so hard his teeth chattered, although Cecily covered him up. She sat beside him while his brother paced the room. When the harsh chill eased and before the fever returned with a vengeance, Jorge took Cecily’s place.
“Go get some sleep,” Javier told her. “You’ve been up almost all night with me.”
Cecily shook her head. “I won’t be able to rest.”
“Try.” As bad as he felt, sick as a fucking dog, he didn’t want her to go without sleep.
“What will happen if you don’t see a doctor? His brother’s quiet voice made more of an impression than if he’d shouted.
“I’ll be sick, like this, for a few days, then it’ll pass. I’ll be weaker than a newborn kitten, then get back to normal.”
“Won’t the malaria come back, without meds or treatment?”
Still clutching the blanket, Javier shrugged. “Most likely. It did, before, in the sandbox.”
Jorge frowned at him. “I thought you were put in the hospital.”
“Yeah, after I let them know I was sick. The first two times, I suffered through it.”
“Stupid. I always thought you were smart. Let’s go to the hospital.”
Javier felt bad enough he considered it. “See if you can get a doctor to come here first.”
“Oh, sure, I’ll just wave my magic wand to summon one.”
If he had the strength, Javier would punch his brother. “Call the concierge. See if they have a hotel doctor or if they can call one. I’d rather do that.”
Jorge lifted his eyebrows. “Do they really do that?”
“Some hotels do.”
“News to me but then I don’t live Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”
Although it hurt, Javier chuckled. “Rich, yes, famous, no way.”
“I’ll try. If it doesn’t work, you’re going to the hospital if I gotta call an ambulance.”
“Use my phone.”
Javier felt the fever heat claim his body in its savage grip as Jorge called downstairs to the front desk. He listened to his brother’s side of the conversation, struggling to concentrate.
“My name is Jorge Morales and my brother, Javier, is here in the executive suite. He’s very sick and needs a doctor,” Jorge stated. His confident air impressed Javier, proving to be more than he might have expected from someone who worked in a pork processing plant. “He’s a decorated Army veteran who served in Afghanistan and he’s having a malaria relapse. Is there a house doctor?”
