Nine Lives. Sharon Sala

E.R., and if I do, I’ll use her car.”

      “Yeah, okay. See you around,” he said, and walked on.

      Wilson jumped into the car and started it up, quickly turning on the heater and then re-checking her seatbelt. Once he was satisfied that she was as safe as he could make her, he drove out of the parking lot with a mental map of the route to her apartment in his head.

      Twenty minutes later and with only one missed turn, he pulled into the parking lot of her housing complex, found the building her apartment was in and parked.

      Before he got out, he checked her key ring, making sure that her front door key was on it. He saw one that looked right, then slipped the keys into his coat pocket and opened the door. The cold air cut straight to the bone. He buttoned the top button of his coat as he circled the SUV.

      Cat roused up as he lifted her from the seat. A few feet from the apartment building, she knew she was going to be sick.

      “Throw up,” she muttered.

      She didn’t have to say it twice. He set her down on her feet and then braced her just as the nausea struck. By the time she was through, she was even weaker than before.

      “Sorry.”

      Wilson was staggering, trying not to let her fall.

      “It’s okay. Just be still. I’m trying to help you.”

      Even though she was sick out of her mind, Cat wasn’t the kind to give up or give in. Her legs wouldn’t work, but she kept trying to walk and ended up stepping all over Wilson’s feet.

      A couple who happened to be Cat’s neighbors were coming into the building as Wilson was struggling with her and the door. When they saw she was ill, they quickly offered to help. The man held the door for Wilson as the woman ran ahead to get an elevator. They rode up to the sixth floor together, chattering rapidly about their concern for their neighbor while admitting that they hardly knew her.

      The man took the key from Wilson’s pocket and opened Cat’s door. Wilson walked in with Cat braced against him, still weaving and moaning. The man leaned in, shook his head at Cat’s condition, then laid the key on the hall table and left.

      Wilson sighed with relief. They were home. Now all he had to do was get her into bed. He picked her up, eyed the layout of the rooms, then headed for the hallway to the left. The first door he came to was closed, but the second one on the right was ajar. He toed it open, grunting with satisfaction when he saw a bed.

      Cat began to rouse as he laid her down, and when she recognized her surroundings, began unzipping her pants, clearly forgetting she wasn’t alone.

      Wilson didn’t know whether to help her or get the hell out of the room before she got naked, but the decision was taken out of his hands when she tried to get up, staggered and almost fell.

      “Here,” he said, and guided her back to the bed. “Sit down and let me help.”

      She didn’t bother to argue when her boots came off, and when he pulled her sweater off over her head, she lifted her arms like a baby.

      “Oh, God,” she moaned. “Am I going to die?”

      He started to smile, but she’d already faced that question twice in her life and survived, so he supposed, from her standpoint, it was a fair question.

      “You’re not going to die. You’re just sick, but I don’t think it’s food poisoning, because you have a hell of a fever.”

      He opened the closet and took a flannel nightgown off a hook as Cat motioned toward the bathroom.

      “Pills in the medicine cabinet.”

      “I’ll get them in a minute,” he said, and then pulled the nightgown over her head, letting it fall loosely down to her waist. “Can you get the rest of your clothes off by yourself?”

      Cat looked down, confused by the nightgown bunched around her lap.

      “What clothes?”

      “Never mind,” he said gently. “I’ll help.”

      He slid his hands beneath the gown, undid the clasp on her bra and then pulled it off without touching her. As soon as he had it off, he held out the sleeves of the gown.

      “Slide your arms inside,” he said.

      She did as he asked, then fell backwards onto the bed with a groan. Her voice was so weak Wilson barely heard her whisper.

      “Oh Lord, oh Lord…make this go away.”

      Wilson felt sorry for her. Being this helpless was probably twice as difficult to accept for a woman as strong and independent as Cat Dupree.

      “Scoot up a little,” he said, and then maneuvered Cat’s head onto her pillow. As soon as he had the covers down and her settled in the middle of the bed, he pulled the hem of the nightgown down, then reached up beneath it and pulled off her jeans and panties.

      “Hey,” Cat murmured, and took another helpless swing at him when she felt the panties coming off.

      “It’s all right. You’re still decent,” Wilson said as he dodged the blow and quickly pulled the covers over her.

      She exhaled on a shaky sigh as he tucked her in.

      She was trembling and feverish. It worried him that he hadn’t taken her to the hospital. What if she was desperately ill and he was only making it worse?

      He didn’t know what to do next, then remembered the pills she’d mentioned. He ran into the bathroom, got a bottle of pain and fever relief tablets and a glass of water, then hurried back. Once she’d downed the pills, he got a wet washcloth, folded it lengthwise and laid it across her forehead.

      Cat sighed. “Feels good.”

      He breathed a little easier as she closed her eyes, and while he was watching, she fell asleep.

      Wilson sat at her bedside until he was confident that her breathing had evened out. When she finally broke into a faint sweat, he knew the fever had broken and the pills were working.

      He thought about calling a cab and going home, but he was afraid that when the pills wore off, her fever would come back and she would be in worse shape than before. Sometime after midnight, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure she could cope and began to make himself at home.

      He kicked off his shoes in the living room and hung his coat on a tree in the hall. After a quick look into her bedroom to assure himself she was all right, he went to the kitchen and began digging through the refrigerator for something to eat.

      To his surprise, there was plenty of food, mostly leftovers, but still intact. Nothing looked moldy or on the verge of turning green, which wasn’t always the case in his own kitchen. He shuffled through the drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed, then dished up some food onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. While he was waiting, he gathered her mail and newspapers, which had accumulated under the slot in the door, and brought them to the kitchen. He tossed everything on the counter, ignoring the fact that several envelopes fell across her answering machine. He did, however, notice the red blinking light, which reminded him to check his own messages. Later, as he was eating, he decided to check his calls.

      He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and listened to the messages, none of which were pressing. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went back to check on her.

      She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn’t help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn’t going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her.

      It wasn’t until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip.

      His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep,