Sure. But what did doctors know? Not much, as the last months had surely proved.
But the righteous Travis Wilde had no way of knowing that, and she wasn’t about to enlighten him.
She’d decided, from the beginning, to keep her own counsel, which was a fancy way of saying it was her life and what was happening to her was her business, and she didn’t want anybody involved in it.
Her parents were gone. She had no brothers or sisters. The last thing she wanted were strangers, offering phony sympathy. She’d had her fill of that from well-meaning hospital volunteers. Or therapy groups, where everybody thought they had problems until they heard hers.
She’d even tried private counseling, and what a joke that had become when the shrink had broken protocol, reached out and hugged her.
Protocol.
There it was again, the same stupid word that had fallen from her lips last week, after a simple decision to—to take her research to another level had led her into this man’s arms, into letting herself feel like a woman instead of a—a creature drowning in a sea of test tubes and lab notes.
And what a mistake that had turned out to be.
Her car was just ahead. Thank goodness. Another minute and she would never have to see Travis Wilde again.
Jennie gathered all her strength, told herself it was vital that she not sound as awful as she felt.
“The tan Civic,” she said. “It’s mine.” He didn’t answer, didn’t even slow down. “Mr. Wilde. I said, that tan car...”
“I heard you.”
“Then put me—”
“You can get it tomorrow, when you’re up to driving.”
“I have already had the pleasure of retrieving my car, thanks to you. I have no intention of doing it again.”
“I don’t think you want to argue over the reasons you had to leave your car, last week or this.”
He was right. She didn’t. What she had to do was exert control.
“I am perfectly capable of driving my own car.”
Sick as she was, she was pleased to have achieved what she thought was a determined tone.
Perhaps not.
He laughed, though it was not a pretty sound.
“And pigs can fly.” He set her on her feet, held her steady with one arm around her waist while he dug out his keys and opened the ’Vette’s door. “Get in.”
“Where’s Brenda? Brenda can—”
“Brenda’s still partying with the rest of your pals. Go on. Get in.”
“No. I absolutely refuse to have you—”
He muttered something short and graphic, scooped her up again and put her into the passenger seat. Then he closed the door, went to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.
“Seat belt,” he said sharply.
“Really, I don’t—”
He reached across her, grabbed the end of belt and brought it over her body. His hand brushed over her breasts. She thought of what it would be like if he really touched her, not in passion but in an offer of comfort.
“Comfort” was not in his game plan.
She could tell by the way he fastened the latch, his motions brisk and efficient.
“What’s your address?”
“I don’t need your help, Mr. Wilde.”
“Yes,” he snarled, “you do. And it’s a little late for formality, isn’t it? I wasn’t ‘Mr. Wilde’ when you were in my bed.”
A wave of hot color rose in her face.
Nice, Travis told himself, a truly nice touch. She didn’t deserve to be coddled but she was sick and he’d taken it upon himself to see her safely home.
Besides, he had no right to judge her.
She’d walked into a bar, looking for a hookup?
Her business, not his.
She drank to excess?
Her business again, absolutely not his.
There wasn’t any reason to make things worse than they already were, especially when his real anger had just reversed itself and gone from her as its target to himself.
Touching her breasts had been inadvertent.
And his body had not clenched with desire.
Desire, even with her like this, he would have understood. What he’d felt instead, the overwhelming need to take her in his arms and comfort her, was the last thing he’d expected.
He didn’t understand it.
Didn’t want to understand it.
What he wanted to do was get her to her apartment and then get the hell out of her life.
Whatever life that was.
Who was this woman? Everything about her confused him, even the way she looked...Entirely different than last week.
Far as he could tell, she didn’t have a touch of makeup on her face. Her hair was pulled back. She had on a cotton blouse. Sleeveless, simple, buttons all the way down the front. It was tan, pretty much the same color as her box-on-wheels automobile. And she was wearing jeans. Plain, no-name denim, not the torn kind that cost hundreds of bucks just so the wearer could look like somebody who actually worked for a living. Her feet were encased in flat leather sandals.
Nothing with the kind of heel that made a man play sexual fantasies in his head.
Not that she needed to dress the part of temptress.
She was beautiful just as she was, and even knowing she seemed woefully short on logic and maybe on morals didn’t change the fact that he still wanted to hold her close and tell her he’d take care of her...
He hated himself for it.
Jaw set, he fastened his seat belt and started the engine. The Corvette roared to life.
“I’m still waiting for you to tell me where you live.”
“This is ridiculous.” She reached for the door handle. “I’ll go back and get Brenda. She can—”
“No. She can’t. I’m driving you home and it’s not up for discussion. Now, what’s your address?”
Jennie closed her eyes.
If only she hadn’t let Brenda talk her into going out with most of the department to celebrate Peter Haley finally nailing his doctorate.
“Come on,” Brenda had said. “You’ve been mopey all week. A couple of hours away from the books will make you feel better.”
Maybe it would, she’d thought. So she’d gone with them.
And she hadn’t even ordered the margarita.
Peter had, and everybody had looked at her when it arrived.
She knew why. It was because she never drank, not even that staple of university life—beer.
Don’t you drink, Jen? someone always said. Or, Good for you! I’ve heard that these 12 step programs are hard to stick with.
Either way, there was no good rejoinder.
She was tired of people looking at her, of always being the one who ordered a Diet Coke.
One sip of the pale blue margarita, she’d thought. What harm could one sip do?
It had tasted lovely.
And it had felt lovely. Not the alcohol. What had been lovely was that, for the first time in months, she felt normal.
To hell with it, she’d thought, and she’d gulped down half of it—half, not two full drinks as Brenda had claimed.
And yes, for a couple of minutes she’d felt good.
And she was desperate to feel good.
To stop thinking about what lay ahead, and what it would be like.
To stop thinking about last week, and how she’d made a fool of herself with this very man.
This man who was every bit as gorgeous and as arrogant as she’d remembered.
The
truth was, she remembered too much.
The feel of his hands on her. The way he kissed. And wasn’t that pitiful? That all of that should still be with her? That a man who was such an unmitigated bastard could be such an accomplished lover that a week later, despite the fact that she despised him, that she couldn’t afford to waste precious time on such nonsensical stuff, the sight of him could still make her heart start to race?
If only he hadn’t been in the bar tonight...
“Are we going to sit here all night?” her unwanted rescuer said. “Because we will, unless you give me your address.”
He would do it, Jennie knew. The best thing to do was give in, let him drive her home and know she would never have to deal with him again.
“I live near the university,” she said in weary resignation. “Farrier Drive. It’s a couple of miles past—”
“I can find it,” he said.
She had no doubt that he could.
Besides, she had other things to think about.
Like not throwing up again, until she was alone—but, oh, dear God, that wasn’t going to work out...
“Stop the car,” she gasped.
He glanced at her, then swerved across two lanes of traffic to the curb. She had barely undone her seat belt when he was out of the car and at her side.
“Easy,” he said, as he helped her onto the sidewalk.
A cramp pinched her belly and she groaned, leaned over and vomited although the truth was, mostly, she just gagged and made terrible sounds because there was really nothing left in her belly, but that didn’t make things any less horrible, especially because Travis Wilde, world-class rat, stood behind her as if he weren’t a rat at all, holding her shoulders and steadying her.
Done, she trembled like a leaf.
“Don’t move,” he said in a low voice.
She felt him lift one hand from her, then the other, as he slipped off his dark gray sports jacket, then wrapped it around her.
She wanted to tell him she didn’t need it—it had to be ninety degrees tonight—but the truth was, she was ice-cold.
“Thank you,” she said in a choked whisper.
He turned her toward him, took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket. She reached for it, but she was shaking too hard to grasp it.