The Pregnant Mistress

“Umm. Nice,” she whispered, her eyes still tightly closed.

“Very nice,” he whispered back, and drew up the silk duvet.

She sighed, let out a long breath. He waited until her breathing become slow and steady. Then he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her slightly parted lips.

Briskly, he undressed and put on a pair of sweat pants in deference to his guest. He turned off all the lights but one that he dimmed, went into his dressing room, left the door open so he could hear Sam should she need him and lay down on the sofa. It was too short for his long legs but he was exhausted and he groaned with pleasure at the cool caress of the sheets. He shut his eyes, rolled over, rolled over again…

Sleep evaded him. He kept listening for Sam; kept getting up, going into the bedroom, standing over her to make sure she was all right.

Sometime during the endless hours of the endless night, he heard her moaning. “Sweetheart?” he said, and he threw back the blankets and hurried to her side. She was sitting up, the duvet clutched to her chin, still groggy enough to stare at him blankly.

“Demetrios?”

“Yes.” He sat down beside her, stroked a tangle of curls from her forehead. “Do you hurt, gataki?”

“My ankle feels like an elephant’s sitting on it.”

Quickly, he brought her one of the tablets the doctor had given him, poured her a glass of cold water.

“Open your mouth,” he said softly, holding his hand to her lips.

She took the tablet, her tongue brushing lightly over his palm. A shudder went through him and he cursed himself for being an animal. Only an animal would feel desire now, when she was hurting.

“That’s good. Now drink some water.”

She took a sip, sighed and sank back against the pillows. He watched her for a moment before bending to her and brushing a gentle kiss over her mouth.

“Sleep well, kitten,” he whispered.

“Stay with me,” she sighed against his lips.

“Sam. Sam, you’re—you’re as good as drunk…”

“Stay,” she said softly, and looped her arms around his neck.

“I cannot,” Demetrios said. “Sweetheart—”

She was asleep, still holding him, still with her breath sighing from her mouth to his. He stared at her for what seemed forever. Then he drew her arms from his neck, pulled back the duvet and got into bed beside her. She sighed, turned into his open arms and he gathered her close, careful not to touch her injured ankle, careful not to let his body betray him.

This is torture, he thought. It was worse. It was hell. He would get no sleep this night, but he would see to it that Samantha was safe. He would hold her, protect her, soothe her if she awakened again…

Demetrios sighed, closed his eyes, slipped his fingers under Sam’s silky hair and cupped the back of her head. She sighed, too, and snuggled against his shoulder.

It was the last thing he remembered before he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HERankle hurt.

Sam moaned, then bit her lip against a whisper of pain.

It really, really hurt, though maybe not as bad as when she was seven and Billy Riley said she was a girl and girls didn’t have the guts to swing out on the rope over the Nautuck River, and she’d said he was too dumb to know anything about girls—except that her hands slipped and she’d ended up coming down in the shallows, coming down hard. And when Dr. Carter asked how she’d managed to break her leg, she said it was all Billy Riley’s fault and that she was gonna beat him up as soon as the cast came off.

Then the doctor gave her some medicine and she’d floated away. Just closed her eyes and floated.

“Sam? Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

“Mmm.” That was nice. Dr. Carter had his arm around her. It felt good.

“Sam?”

“Uh-huh.” She sighed. “I’m floating,” she said happily.

“Yes, kitten. I know. Does your ankle still hurt?”

Sam gave a giant yawn. “Uh-huh.”

“The ice will help bring down the swelling. I’m sorry I can’t give you anything more for the pain. You’ve had a reaction to the codeine…Sam?”

Ice. Ice on her ankle. Heat everyplace else. She was warm. Nice and warm and…

“Snugly.”

“Good. That’s my girl. Just lie back against my shoulder.”

Nice shoulder. Hard and comforting. Sam frowned. How come Dr. Carter smelled so good? He always smelled of mothballs and something her mom called Old Spice…

“Sam?”

She didn’t remember Dr. Carter’s voice being like that, either. So low. Husky. Sort of—sort of sexy.

“Can you open your eyes?”

Why would she want to do that? She felt fine. Snugly. “Issit still night?”

“Yes, sweetheart. It is.”

She sighed, burrowed against the doctor and fell asleep to the feel of his stubbled cheek brushing gently against hers.

* * *

She slept, drifted, awoke again. A voice murmured in her ear.

“Sam? Are you awake?”

“Mmm.”

“Does your ankle hurt?”

Did it? No. She shook her head, burrowed closer. “Thirsty,” she whispered.

“Sit up, then. Just a little. Fine. Good. Now, take little sips.”

She drank. The water was cool. Wonderful, going down her throat. Darkness had given way to the gray light of early morning but she didn’t want to get up. Not yet.

“Doan wanna wake up yet,” she sighed.

“No. You go on sleeping, gataki. Here, lie—Sam? What are you doing?”

But he knew what she was doing, turning in his arms so that they lay a breath apart, putting her arms around his neck, giving him the faintest, sweetest of smiles.

“Demetrios?”

He nodded, afraid to speak.

“Demetrios,” she whispered, “you’re not Dr. Carter.”

He wanted to laugh but he didn’t trust himself. “Who, sweetheart?”

“Dr. Carter. Mothballs. Liver spots. Ol’ Spice.”

“No,” he said solemnly, “that isn’t me.”

“I know.” She touched his face, let her hand linger against his cheek. “I’m glad.”

Demetrios took her hand from his face, kissed the palm and curled her fingers over the kiss. He wasn’t Dr. Carter, whoever that was. Neither was he a saint. Perhaps the best thing would be to go back to the sofa in the dressing room. A decent man would do so. A moral man…

“You’re Demetrios,” she murmured. “And you smell good.”

He groaned. His body was hard as stone. “Sam.” He curled his hand around her wrist, tried to draw back and put a little distance between them. “Sweetheart, now that you feel better, I’m going to—”

Her mouth, her sweet, soft mouth found his. He hesitated, then gave in to what was happening and kissed her.

“Sam.” Once again, he thought of how wrong that sweet nickname had seemed, and of how right it now felt on his lips. It was a soft, lovely name, just like her kiss. It belonged to her just as she belonged to him. As she would belong to him. “Sweetheart? Do you know what you’re doing?”

His question was answered by a gentle snore. Demetrios smiled. His beautiful Sam, his sweetly drunken Sam, had fallen asleep at the worst possible moment—or maybe at the best. Sighing, he gathered her close. Would she remember any of this tomorrow? Would she hate him? Would she want him? And, if she didn’t remember, what was he going to do about it?

She threw her uninjured leg across his.

Demetrios could feel the sweat bead on his forehead. He counted to ten in Greek, in English, in every language he knew. Then, carefully, stealthily, he eased Sam onto her back, brushed his mouth over hers, rose from the bed and tiptoed from the room.

* * *

Sam opened her eyes.

The room was filled with sunlight. She was thirsty, her head ached, and her ankle felt as if someone had

used it for an anvil.