Moonlight over Manhattan (From Manhattan with Love 6)

Harriet touched his forehead and decided he felt a little cooler.

That had to be a good thing, surely? As was the fact that he was finally sleeping.

The dark shadow on his jaw that had been no more than whisker grain the day before was more pronounced now, accentuating the pallor of his skin.

Halfway through the afternoon she was in the kitchen when she heard a crash from the bedroom.

She took the stairs two at a time and found Ethan clutching the end of the bed, eyeing the bathroom as if he were an explorer contemplating a long and dangerous sea voyage.

She took his arm and he leaned on her heavily, his legs almost buckling as he reached the bathroom door.

“I need to take a shower.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea? You don’t seem exactly steady on your feet. If you do, don’t lock the door. I’ll wait right here.”

His blue gaze connected with hers. “You could join me. I could put my healing hands on you.”

So he had heard.

She decided to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d had a fever when he’d overheard that conversation, hadn’t he? It was amazing how fever could blur the brain.

“Don’t make offers you’re not capable of seeing through. And right now you’re the one who needs healing. I could knock you over with a touch of my finger.”

“I won’t always be sick, Harriet. Then you and I are going to talk.” He started to cough and she rolled her eyes.

“But right now you are sick, so let’s focus on that.” And once he was better, she’d be out of here.

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

Her heart almost stopped. “I—what did you say?”

“I said you’re beautiful.” His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there.

Her skin tingled. She felt as if she’d been electrocuted. “I’ve been up all night and I haven’t even brushed my hair.”

His mouth curved slightly. “That must be it. You look as if you just emerged from a wild night of sin.”

She wanted to say that she wouldn’t know sin if she fell over it, but instead she pushed him toward the bathroom. “You’re delirious. That happens with a fever. Get in the shower, Ethan, and I suggest you turn it to cold.”

She made sure he was steady on his feet—because if he fell and banged his head, that would be something else she would have to fix—and backed out of the room.

She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe.

Beautiful? Last time she’d checked, she’d looked like a ghost. He had to be hallucinating.

During her average working day she didn’t pay much attention to her appearance. She worked with dogs. Her objective was to find practical clothing that was warm in winter, and cool in summer. Sensible shoes more suitable for pounding the paths of Central Park than walking a red carpet.

Pulling herself together, she walked back into his bedroom and took advantage of the fact he wasn’t there to change the bedding. Then she busied herself in her own room, made a couple of calls to clients, answered a couple of calls from dog walkers and handled a few schedule changes. And all the time she kept listening for the moment the shower was turned off. She tried not to think about the water sliding over his naked body. Tried not to think about those wide shoulders, those flat abs, his sense of humor, all that heart-melting charm under that rough exterior—

Stop it, Harriet!

She hoped he didn’t pass out because she didn’t want to be the one to walk into that shower and drag his body out.

She gave him ten minutes and walked back into his room.

He’d pulled on a loose black tee and a pair of trackpants. His hair stood in shiny spikes, droplets of water still clinging to his neck. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom, as if trying to make up his mind if he had what it took to get back to the bed. If she were to judge on appearances she would have said he’d used every last scrap of energy.

He watched as she piled up the pillows. “Thank you for looking after me.”