Future Perfect (7 page)

Webster went inside to take a cold, cold shower.

Juliana rested her forehead against Captain’s strong neck.

“I don’t even
like
the guy,” she said, and the horse shifted its feet, snuffling softly. “But every now and then I get a glimpse of something in his eyes, and it’s like I’m sucked into this mad whirlpool of emotions. Every time it happens, it’s harder to get back out. It scares me to death.”

She stroked Captain’s soft nose, and his big, brown eyes looked back at her, full of disappointment it seemed. She sighed.

“I know, I can’t believe I’m actually attracted to him. He thinks he’s so perfect. He thinks all he has to do is smile, and I’ll fall at his feet.” Juliana shook her head. “You know what the funny part is, Captain?”

The horse didn’t try to guess.

“The way that man writes could make me fall at his feet.” Just the little bit of Webster’s novel that Liz had read to her was enough to make Juliana long to hear more. She couldn’t wait until Alicia got home and they could read his book together.

Everything would be easier when Alicia was home. Juliana would feel … the word was chaperoned.

Yeah, she wanted to be chaperoned around Webster Donovan.

*   *   *

Webster woke up drenched with sweat. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky in the east, and the clock on his bedside table read 6:27. A sound from the yard made him sit up, and he stumbled on the cold floor as he crossed to the window.

It was foggy outside, a thick layer of cloud hugging the ground, swirling in the spotlight that was mounted over the garage door.

He saw her.

She pulled her helmet off, freeing all that beautiful hair. Even in the darkness, even in the mist, it gleamed. She swung her leg off her bike—it was a Harley, and a big one—and pushed it into the garage. She came out a moment later, shutting the door behind her. Her face was pale against the darkness of her black leather jacket.

Web watched her walk toward the house, overcome with pangs of jealousy. Where had she been, out all night like that? A better question yet—
who
had she been with?

He remembered the handsome sheriff, and for the first time in a long time, Webster found himself wishing he was someone else.

He shivered, suddenly freezing cold. His head was pounding, and he felt sick to his stomach. Oh, man, he didn’t have time for the flu.

Praying he was having a bad reaction to the food and beer he’d had last night or maybe to the disappointment of knowing that the beautiful and evasive Miss Anderson had spent the night with someone else, Webster crawled back into bed.

Juliana looked at the clock: nine-fifteen.

With the exception of the day before, Webster Donovan was usually done with breakfast by eight, wolfing it down, hardly aware of the food he was putting in his mouth in his haste to get back to his writing. Or non-writing. Or whatever he was doing up there in his room.

She put the pancake batter back in the refrigerator and briskly climbed the stairs to his door. He better not think she was going to bring a tray up every morning from now on.

Putting her ear to the door, she didn’t hear the clatter of his computer keyboard. He was probably asleep.

He’d probably stayed at Red’s last night until Sam stopped playing—no doubt some time around three or three-thirty. And he
had
been drinking. She’d tasted the beer when he kissed her.

Juliana closed her eyes, wishing that she didn’t remember that kiss so damn clearly.

Someone was knocking on his door.

Webster opened his eyes slowly, confused by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. His head split open with a pain so intense he nearly shouted out loud.

Morning. It was morning.

He risked opening one eye slightly to look at the clock on his bedside table. If it was morning, why did his clock say 4:12?

And where did he get this headache from hell?

Then he remembered.

It was the flu. It was definitely the flu.

He’d spent most of last night and a good part of this morning in the bathroom on his knees in front of the john, doing the big heave-ho.

He was sick.

His stomach still hurt, and it had been emptied out long ago. God almighty, it felt like someone must have a voodoo doll of him, and they were sticking big, sharp pins right in his gut.

But he didn’t know anyone who had it in for him that badly. With the exception of Miss Anderson. And he could only guess at her hobbies. But why not voodoo? Nothing she did could surprise him anymore. He never would have guessed she’d own a Harley, either.

“Mr. Donovan.”

He opened both eyes. The vision of her lovely face as she stood next to his bed was well worth the stabbing pain that shot through his skull.

Her hair was pulled back up on top of her head. As usual, there were stray curls that escaped the bun she’d made, and they hung in delicate wisps around her face. She wore a pale-blue blouse today, and a skirt of darker blue. Somewhere under that skirt, Webster knew, were long, long legs. Legs that knew how to grip a man-sized motorcycle …

“Did you have too much to drink last night?” she asked, not entirely sympathetic.

Web closed his eyes against a new wave of nausea. It passed, but when he looked up at her again, he could feel the sheen of perspiration on his face, and he knew that he was shaking.

“I’ve had far more than my share of hangovers,” he said, making an effort to enunciate each word precisely, “but I’ve never had one that gave me a fever.”

Her expression changed slightly, and she reached down toward him. Her hand was cool against his forehead, and he closed his eyes. He could feel her fingers as she brushed his hair back out of his face, and felt his forehead again, then his cheek.

It was worth it, he decided right then and there. He’d gladly have the flu, if it meant she would touch him like that.

“You’re burning up,” she said, concern in her voice. “Oh,
Webster
 …”

She realized it the same instant he did. He could tell by the look of shock on her face. She’d called him by his first name! A wave of triumph rocked through him, followed by total brain-numbing nausea. If he didn’t move fast, he was going to lose it right in front of mysterious Miss Anderson. And that would be very,
very
uncool.

Web tore back the sheets and blankets, ignoring the fact that he wore only a pair of briefs, and rocketed for the bathroom.

Juliana brought her cordless phone down from her apartment. She’d changed out of her Victorian clothes into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and she’d put her hair back in a single braid.

She paced back and forth in Webster’s sitting room,
talking to Liz, wondering when—if ever—he was going to open the bathroom door.

“First thing you have to do is take his temperature,” Liz, a former nurse, was saying.

“Shouldn’t I just bring him over to the county hospital?” Juliana asked, her voice low with worry.

“Jule, he’s probably got a little bit of the flu,” Liz said. “The hospital wouldn’t even admit him.”

“But he looks so … bad,” Juliana said, “and I don’t think I’ve ever felt anyone that hot.”

“You’re really worried about him,” Liz said, delight in her voice. “This is so great—”

“This is
not
great,” Juliana nearly shouted. “Liz, I don’t know anything about taking care of someone else, particularly a rude, obnoxious man—”

“You have any cola? Or ginger ale?” Liz interrupted. “Ginger ale is better. Let it get a little flat. He definitely needs liquids. But first, hang up and take his temperature. If it’s higher than one hundred—”

“I can tell you just from touching him that it’s higher than one hundred,” Juliana interrupted.

“Then try to get some Tylenol into him. If he can’t keep it down, and his temp goes up to one oh three or higher, put him in a cool bath.”

“How am I supposed to—”

“Climb in first,” Liz snickered. “Something tells me he’ll follow you fast enough.”

Webster didn’t look up as the bathroom door opened. He didn’t even open his eyes, he just kept his forehead pressed to the floor tiles.

“I’m going to take your temperature” came her cool, familiar voice. Web felt her presence on the floor next to
him. She lifted his head, then lowered it onto her soft lap, and he opened his eyes, staring up at her. Either she’d changed her clothes and her hair, or he was experiencing an alternate reality.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, smoothing back his hair with one hand as she adjusted the aural thermometer with the other. “Hold still,” she said. “This won’t take long.”

She placed the nozzle of the thermometer in his ear and watched the digital readout as she continued to stroke his head.

“Please,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I don’t know why,” she said, her face perfectly straight, one delicate eyebrow slightly raised. “Your outfit has a certain charm.”

“God almighty,” Webster said, wetting his parched lips with his tongue. “You’re teasing. You’re flirting with me. You must know something I don’t. I’m dying, right?”

She laughed, a soft, husky, sexy sound that penetrated his misery and made his chest feel suddenly tighter. With shock, he felt another part of his body respond. He was sicker than a dog—so sick that he could barely lift his head—yet he wanted her. And dressed as he was, or rather undressed, wearing only his shorts, there was no way to hide it. Webster closed his eyes in despair. Why should he settle for mere embarrassment when he could be utterly humiliated?

Juliana looked down at Webster, at her hand still soothingly brushing back his thick, dark hair. She was only touching him because he was sick, she told herself. The fact that she’d frequently imagined running her fingers
through his curls had nothing to do with it, nothing at all.

The heat radiating from him was alarming, and his skin felt clammy.

The thermometer beeped. Thank goodness Alicia had insisted they get one of these, with a large digital readout. Juliana couldn’t have read the other kind if her life depended on it. She looked carefully at the numbers. One oh three point seven. That was much too high.

“I’m going to get some Tylenol,” she said, “but first let’s get you back into bed. Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know.” He looked up at her, vulnerability on his face. “Why are you helping me?”

Why
was
she helping him?

Juliana sat quietly, looking down into his feverish blue eyes. “Because I know what it’s like to be alone,” she said.

“I don’t know why,” he said, “I look at you and I wonder what the hell you’re doing all by yourself.”

She looked back at him steadily. “I could say the same about you.”

“I’m a jerk,” he said. “You said so yourself.”

“Well, right now, you’re a sick jerk, so come on, let’s get you into bed.”

He let her help him up, and he stumbled out into the bedroom, collapsing on the enormous bed. The sheet she pulled over him felt cool against his skin, and he closed his eyes and drifted.

Time had passed—he wasn’t sure how much—when he felt a cool hand on his face. Her hand.

“Come on, Webster.” Her voice seemed to come from far away. “Time for some Tylenol.”

He opened his mouth and tasted the bitter pills on his
tongue. Then came the cool wetness of something—ginger ale, he thought.

The instant he swallowed, he knew it was a terrible mistake.

But she was there, holding something, some kind of basin for him. The ginger ale was forcefully returned, and he continued to retch long after his stomach should have been empty. Finally, he lay back, his eyes watering, his whole body shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over, his eyes tightly shut. “I’m sorry.”

He felt her wipe his face with a wet cloth. All along he’d been trying to impress her. He was so confident, so sophisticated, so brilliant, so sardonically bored with everything. But he really wasn’t any of those things. He was just a man, trying desperately to live up to someone else’s expectations.

Now he had been stripped of everything—his pride, his confidence, his sophistication, his strength. Hell, since he was lying on his back, he was even stripped of his height. He looked up at beautiful Miss Anderson, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. But she wasn’t looking at him with the revulsion he expected. Instead, her greenish eyes were soft and warm with concern.

“Thank you,” he said, unable to hold her steady gaze. When was the last time he’d said those words and actually meant them, the way he did right now?

“You’re welcome,” she said. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Juliana.”

“What?”

“My name,” she said. Her face was serious, but her lips twitched slightly, as if she were hiding a smile. “It’s
Juliana. I think we probably know each other well enough now to be on a first-name basis, don’t you?”

Juliana. Her name was as beautiful as she was.

Webster stared up at her, knowing immediately why she had finally told him her name. He had let her help him, let her see him sick and weak. She was invading what was very private and personal. In return, she was infringing on her own privacy, making them, in some sense, even.

“Juliana,” he whispered, trying her name out.

This time she was the one who couldn’t meet his eyes, as if the sound of her name on his lips somehow embarrassed her.

“You have to promise to call me that only when we’re alone,” she said softly, “not when other guests are around.”

Only when we’re alone
. Webster savored the sound of those words. He nodded.

She stood up then, and he closed his eyes, slipping into a feverish dream. Juliana was there, on her Harley, and she was laughing. The sound of her laughter sent chills of pleasure up and down his spine.

“Come on, Web,” she said. “We have to get you into the bathtub.”

“I don’t take baths,” Web said. “I take showers.”

“Well, today you’re going to take a bath.”

She had her arm around his waist, helping him walk into the bathroom. Her hands on his skin felt strong and cool, and his head felt as if he were floating. And sure enough, there in the bathroom, the big tub was filled with clean, clear water.