"Trying to scare an invalid. You vicious bastard."
"Go back to sleep." He brought her hand to his face, rubbed it against his cheek.
"I will if you will. I'm not going to sleep with you prowling around and lurking over me."
"I'll have you know I was valiantly standing watch over my concussed beloved." He slipped in beside her, settled her head gently on his shoulder. "Pain?"
"A little achy maybe, nothing major. Hey, remember? I got hit in the face right before our wedding, too. Now it's like a tradition."
"And so uniquely us. Quiet down now, and go to sleep."
She closed her eyes. "Roarke?"
"Hmm?"
"I almost had her."
* * *
The next time she awoke, the room was dim. She spent the first twenty seconds worrying that this time she was going blind, then realized he'd lowered the sun screens on all the windows, including the skylight above the bed.
Okay, so her mind wasn't real sharp yet. She lay still and took mental inventory of the aches and pains. Not so bad, considering, she decided, and when she cautiously sat up was pleased there was no violent throbbing or disorienting dizziness.
She inched over to the side of the bed, planted her feet on the floor. After a bracing breath, she rose. The room bobbled a bit, but steadied quickly. Her head felt like it was caught in a vice, but at least nobody was tightening the screws.
As she was naked still she frowned down at the Arena Ball-sized bruise on her ribs, the raw, scraped area on her hip. The bruising in both areas was a miserably faded gray and yellow, and that was a good sign. Well into the healing stage, she decided, then tested her shoulder.
Stiff, but not painful. She turned her head to examine the impressive bruise on that area as well.
Roarke stepped off the elevator. "You're not to get up without clearance."
"Who says?"
"Common sense, but when have you listened to that particular individual?"
"I want a shower."
"As soon as Louise looks you over. She'll be up in a minute. She's just having breakfast."
"I have a conference at eight hundred."
"Rescheduled for nine." He got a robe out of her closet. "Tentatively."
She snatched the robe and would have shot her arms through if her shoulder had cooperated. Instead she eased into it. But when she started to stalk past him, he shifted to block.
"Where are you going?"
"To pee," she snapped. "Is that allowed?"
"Even recommended." Amused, he wandered to the AutoChef while she marched into the adjoining bath. He counted off the seconds, and thought it might take her eight.
"Holy shit!"
"Seven," he murmured. She was moving faster than he'd expected. "You should have seen it a few hours ago." He walked in behind her and stood while she stared at her face in the mirror.
The same sickly combination of gray and yellow— with a tinge of green—which she'd found on her hip and ribs, flowered over the entire right side of her face. It was a mottled pattern, a bit heavier along the ridge of cheekbone and around the eye where her skin puffed out and sagged like a deflating balloon. Her hair sprung out in untidy spikes, matted from sweat and blood, she imagined.
Her bottom lip looked tender and when she poked a finger at it, she found it felt the same way.