“Samantha?” She didn’t answer, and he pulled to the curb. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said roughly, as he reached for her. “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer. He put his hand under her chin, made her look at him. Light from a car coming towards them played across her and he cursed sharply. Of course she was hurt! Her eyes were enormous. Her face was colorless, except for a bruise on her cheek and another on her temple.
No, he thought, no…
“Panagia mou,” he whispered, and enfolded her in his arms. “What have I done to you, gataki?”
“It was my fault.”
“No, sweetheart.” He stroked her wet hair. “I shouldn’t have been driving so fast, but when I stepped out of the office and Andreas told me you had run off…”
“Exactly. It was stupid. And then I—I stepped off the curb without looking…”
Worse and worse. She was bruised, probably in pain, and she was contrite. That was almost more frightening than anything else. He cupped her shoulders, drew back so he could look into her eyes, then gently touched her temple.
“Does this hurt?”
“No.” A shudder went through her; the sound of her breathing grew ragged. “It’s my ankle. When I jumped back…I must have landed wrong. My ankle made this—this funny sort of pop.”
Demetrios’s stomach tightened. He twisted in his seat, tried to see her feet, but there wasn’t enough space.
“Can you move your foot, gataki?”
Sam nodded. “Yes. But it hurts.”
Quickly, he got out of the car, went around to her door and opened it. He took a flashlight from the glove compartment, squatted down and tried to see her ankle.
“Dammit,” he muttered. “I can’t…”
What was he doing? She said her ankle hurt. What good would it do him to look at it? What she needed was a doctor. And fast, he thought helplessly, because now she was trembling. From the cold? From shock? God, what had he done to her?
Demetrios peeled off his jacket and carefully folded it around Sam’s shoulders, waiting for her to object, to argue, to tell him what he could do with his jacket and his concern…but she burrowed deep into its warmth.
“Better?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good.”
But it wasn’t good. She should have been sniping at him, accusing him of being an idiot; she should have batted away his hands when he buttoned her inside the jacket. Her quiet passivity terrified him.
“You’ll be fine,” he told her.
She nodded.
“Fine,” he said again, in a voice that would brook no disagreement. Then he clasped her shoulders gently in his hands, bent to her, pressed the softest of kisses on her trembling mouth and told himself that ankles were, after all, only ankles…
But this was Sam and the realization that she was in pain, that he had caused it, was almost more than he could handle.
* * *
There was a hospital only blocks away.
Was it best to drive fast, and get her there quickly, or to drive slowly to be sure he didn’t jar her by hitting bumps or potholes in the road? Compromise seemed the best solution. He drove at a speed that was half what he normally did and twice the crawl he’d considered.
Sam’s teeth chattered; in between, she made muffled sounds of distress. She was hurting, his invulnerable, unshakeable tigress. Please, he thought, please, let her be all right.
Time slowed, seemed to stop, but finally he reached the hospital. He parked in front, ignoring the signs that warned against it. Carefully, so carefully, he lifted her into his arms. She made a little sound and he crooned soft words of comfort as he carried her into the building, words he had not heard since the earliest, almost forgotten years of childhood—words he had never used before.
There was no one in the waiting area. Demetrios strode to the reception desk. “We need a physician,” he said.
The woman behind the desk looked up. He saw boredom in her eyes as she looked at him, then at Samantha.
“What is the problem?”
“This woman is hurt.”
“That’s what I asked you. What is the problem?”
Demetrios told himself to stay calm. It would help nothing to explode.
“She fell.”
“Fell where?”
“On the street.”
“What street?”
He felt his jaw tighten. “It was dark. I did not look for street signs. What does it matter? I tell you, she is hurt.”
The woman took a form from a drawer. “I will need her name and address.”
“Her name is Samantha Brewster. She lives with me.”
The woman looked up. “And where is that?”
He told her. He told her whatever she asked while time, and his patience, waned. Sam shifted in his arms, gave a soft hiss of pain. He thought about putting her in a chair, then vaulting the counter, grabbing the clerk and shaking her.
“And how did this fall take place?”
“Miss Brewster stepped in front of my car. I blew my horn, tried to stop. She was startled and she jumped back.”
“A vehicular accident. I see. Have the police been notified?”
“It was not a vehicular accident!”
“But you just said—”
“I didn’t hit her with the car.”
“I distinctly understood you to say—”
“Demetrios,” Sam said faintly, “make sure she understands it wasn’t your fault.”
“She speaks English?”
“She is an American.”
“Ah. In that case, there are two other forms that—”
“The forms can wait.” Again, Demetrios told himself to stay calm. Anger would not help; he had dealt with enough officious clerks in enough countries to know that. “She needs a doctor immediately. She is hurt. Something is wrong with her ankle. And she is shaking. For all I know, she is in shock.”
“The forms—”
“To hell with the forms,” he roared. “Send for a doctor!”
“Sir. You cannot give orders to me. I must have this information. Some of these papers require the lady’s signature. After that, you will wait until you hear your name called. Do you understand?”
“Perhaps you should understand what your superiors will do when they learn that a man who sits on the board of directors of this hospital was kept waiting.”
The clerk blanched. “What did you say your name was?”
“I am Demetrios Karas. And I wish to see a physician—an orthopedist—at once.”
“Of course, sir. If you would be so kind as to take a seat, I’ll call for the doctor immediately.”
He took a seat, held Sam close in his arms, warmed her with his body. She said something too softly for him to hear and he bent his head towards her.
“What, gataki?”
“I said, that was quite a…” Her teeth chattered. “…a p-p-performance. Are you r-r-really one of the hospital’s directors?”
“Who knows?” He smiled. “It is possible. I donate to many charities and sit on many boards. It is difficult to keep track.”
“Almost as difficult as it is to k-k-keep track of your ac-accent.”
“What accent? I have no accent.”
Sam almost laughed. “You sound different, when you’re upset.”
“Different?”
“Yes. Very old world. Very Greek.”
“I had not noticed,” he said, and winced because he knew she was right. “We will add that to your job description,” he said gently. “From now on, you will not only translate for me, you will tell me when I begin to sound too old world.”
“You never sound—” Sam caught her breath. “You never s-sound too old world. And I’m quitting my j-job.”
“You cannot quit,” he said calmly. “We have a contract.”
“We d-don’t. We nev-never signed anything.”
&nbs
p; “We have a verbal agreement. Such agreements are contracts. Would you try and break a contract with a man powerful enough to intimidate a civil service tyrant?”
Their eyes met. Hers were still dark with pain; her face was still pale. Was that a grimace on her lips or was she trying to smile?
“Sir?”
Demetrios looked up. “Yes?”
“The doctor will see you now.”
“An orthopedist,” he said as he rose to his feet with Sam in his arms.