Hero For the Asking (Reed Sisters: Holding out for a Hero 2)

Clay found Spring that way, on her knees beside the mattress, heedless of the dirt being ground into her light-colored jeans, tenderly bathing the face of a sick young woman she'd never laid eyes on before. He was struck by Spring's quiet strength. A lot of women would have run shuddering from the room, afraid to be exposed to whatever germs were rampant here. But not Spring. He moved over beside her, dropping an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sure that feels good to her."

Spring looked around at him. "It was all I had."

"It'll do. The ambulance will be here soon."

"She's barely stirred. Is she...do you think she's in a coma?"

"I don't know, Spring. I don't know what—or even if—she's eaten—since she disappeared nine days ago, I think she's had a friend with her some, but the other kid's even younger than Thelma and not capable of dealing with the situation. She'd promised Thelma not to tell where she was, but she got scared and broke down when Frank questioned her."

The ambulance team arrived then, bearing a stretcher. Spring thought she'd never seen two more beautiful people in her life.

"You okay?" Clay had his arms around her as she stood weakly, watching the medical team going efficiently about its business of saving Thelma's life.

She leaned her head into his shoulder. "Yes. Clay, do you think she's going to make it?"

"I don't know, Spring. I just don't know."

The two paramedics already had Thelma on the stretcher. Together they lifted her, her slight weight giving them little resistance.

"We'll follow them to the hospital," Clay told Spring, leading her to the door with one arm still tightly around her shoulders. "I have to know that she gets there all right."

"Of course." She would have expected no less. She would have allowed no less.

Thelma made it to the hospital alive. The doctors could make no promises that she would remain that way. She was diagnosed as having a severe case of viral pneumonia, complicated by various secondary infections probably caused by exposure and malnourishment. Clay called Thelma's mother, coming back to the waiting room with his face hard and his eyes angry. Spring had never seen him angry. "We'll stay until that...woman gets here," he told her. "Then I'll have to leave. I won't be able to stay in the same hospital with her without losing my cool completely."

It wasn't long before Mrs. Sawyer arrived, loudly blaming her daughter, Clay, Thelma's friends—everyone but herself—for Thelma's problems. True to his word, Clay left the hospital almost immediately, visibly restraining himself from giving vent to his anger. In his car he sat immobile behind the steering wheel, staring out the windshield at the hospital.

"Are you all right?" Spring asked tentatively, wanting to reach out to him but not knowing how. She laced her fingers in her lap, noting impassively that they were dirty.

He inhaled deeply and turned his head to look at her. "Yeah," he answered, "but it makes me so damned mad."

"I know," she told him softly.

Not as shy as she was about reaching out. Clay took her hand, dirt and all, and squeezed it. "You were wonderful. I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't have to," she told him, flushing slightly. "I didn't do it for you."

He smiled, though weakly. "No, you didn't, did you? You did it for Thelma. A kid you don't even know."

Embarrassed by his praise, she looked away. "How long do you plan to stay in this parking lot?" she demanded a bit huskily.

In answer he started the car. Backing out of the parking space, he asked, "Okay with you if we go by my place? I'd like to clean up before I take you back to your sister's. I'm filthy."

Of course she told him that she didn't mind at all, though the thought of being alone with him in his home made her swallow hard. She'd seen a different side of Clay this afternoon, a side she found much too fascinating. And even with dirt streaked across one cheek and smeared liberally on his worn jeans, he was too damned attractive for her peace of mind.

She fell in love with his house. One of the Victorians that added to San Francisco's quaint charm, it sat regal and arrogant, wearing its bright blue paint and funny little stained-glass windows with studied nonchalance. It reminded her a lot of Clay. "It's wonderful," she told him sincerely, even as she found herself wondering how he could afford such a choice piece of San Francisco real estate. He had a doctorate degree in counseling, but he worked in the public-school system, didn't he? Then she told herself that Clay's finances were none of her business. After all, they were only passing acquaintances, she reminded herself sternly.

He smiled broadly, not bothering to hide his deep pleasure at her praise. "You're not the only one who's into restoring old homes," he commented, subtly pointing out another thing they had in common. "I've been working on the inside for a couple of years. It's almost finished."

He led her in and allowed her to look around without asking for comment. She loved it. All the clever nooks and crannies, the elegant, just slightly eccentric antique and reproduction Victorian furnishings that again were so typical of Clay. A shiver coursed down her spine at the strange similarity in their taste in furnishings. Clay had some pieces that were almost identical to ones that were even now residing in her apartment in Little Rock!

She loved it, she thought again. And then she made a deliberate attempt to wipe the word "love" from her mind as she turned back to the handsome blonde tagging at her heels. For some reason it made her nervous. "Beautiful," she summed up succinctly.

"Me or the house?" he demanded cockily, some of his bold self-assurance returning now that they'd put the hospital behind them.

"Both of you," she answered with a sigh. "You said something about cleaning up?"

He wasn't quite sure how to take her unexpected answer, so he ignored it. "Yes, I would like to shower and change. I'll be quick. I could dig you up something to wear if you want to shower, as well."