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Hands grab my shoulders from both sides, pulling me in opposite directions.
The doctor’s smooth, strong hands push me firmly back into the pillow.
My eyes and mouth are wide open. I jerk upward.
The light blinds me. All I can see is three blurred figures around the bed. I remember the way to the bathroom, though. I’ve heard enough people come and go.
I spring bolt upright, up to sitting, pushed by the snowball as it swells up through my chest. The doctor’s hands are still on my shoulders.
“Just wait,” he starts to say.
Until my acid volley of puke splashes straight across his face and covers his glasses.
My legs and feet are unsteady as I jump out of the bed and spring toward the bathroom. Wires and tubes rip and yank out of my arms and off my chest. Machines clump and clatter to the floor. My balance rolls like a raft in a gale but, slipping and stumbling, I make it across the room.
I get to the WC and hurl up the rest of the acrid snowball. Thick, stinking bolts splash against the porcelain.
On my knees with my head hung, I pant and gasp, leaning over the bowl. When I finally feel almost ready to pull myself up, I still can hardly open my eyes. I force them open and they clamp shut against the light. I blink and squint as I haul myself up on my shaky legs to lean over the sink. I take a few moments to gasp and breathe before I splash cold water on my face.
I cup my hands to hold water, but when I try to bend low enough to drink it, I feel like I’m going to fall. Then I see a glass. Swishing and sloshing, I take a few mouthfuls. Then I manage to gulp a couple of glasses down. It feels like I’m drinking off a very long thirst.
The bathroom mirror is covered with a piece of fabric. I try to shift it aside, but I can’t. It’s fixed and it’s all I can do to stand with one hand on the basin. If I take both hands off at the same time, I’m in danger of falling.
I don’t remember closing the door and, when I lurch back to lean against the frame, it takes me several moments to get it open. Blinking in the doorway, I can make out the three men by the hospital bed.
The large room looks half like a hospital ward and half a luxury bedroom. The machines around the top of the huge hospital bed have all been stood back up, with their wires and tubes all hung over them. One long wall is covered with closed curtains, and on the other, silk scarves drape from floor to ceiling, all over the closet doors.
My head spins and my legs wobble. The doctor is easy to identify in his shirtsleeves with a vest. He’s the one wiping his face with a blue towel. The other two men wear suits and ties. All of them rush toward me but I wave them away.
The doctor is insistent, but so am I. Even though I’m tottering and weaving as I hurry across the room, I hold a hand firmly out to his face. I make it back to the bed and clamber on top of the mess of sheets.
The doctor lurches at me again.
As he comes near, I manage to blurt, “Not now. Give me an hour,”
He blusters, saying, “Let me examine you,” but he’s recoiling at the same time. Probably afraid that I’ll vomit in his face again. If I could, I certainly would.
He says, “You may need…” but his heart isn’t in it and the other two steer him away.
The biggest of the men has a cruel mouth with a twist of sarcasm. He’s broad shouldered with a powerful chest. With his feet planted apart he exudes power and I’m sure that he is the Emperor.
The other man is the Mastermind, I’m certain, from the dark gleam in his flashing eyes. His sharp, high cheekbones and thechiseled cleft in his chin could be straight from a white marble Michelangelo.
As he opens the door, the Emperor calls out, “She’s awake.”
The Mastermind tells the doctor, “We’ll get you cleaned up.You can examine her afterward.” The two men guide him out of the room, ignoring his protests. He has somewhere else he needs to be, apparently. They very obviously don’t care.
As he leaves, the Emperor says, “Watch over her. We’ll give her half an hour, then we’ll be back.”
My Warrior strides in through the doorway.
CHAPTER SIX
Light from behind him picks out his big, muscular and athletic silhouette. When he moves, he prowls like a panther. His face is in shadow, except for the hot glints of his eyes and a pointed dimple in his chin.
Liquid sparkles in his eyes seem to melt away what little clothing I have. Instinctively my hand reaches for a sheet to pull up and cover myself. With his wide brow and improbably full lips, he looks like the evil Roman centurion in a renaissance painting.
He lets out the word,Madonna, over a long sigh and his low chuckle reverberates through my core. His eyes blaze as he strides for me, all sensual, rolling muscle.
