Fool's Gold Collection Volume 3. Susan Mallery

I call you something? Mr. Viscount?”

      “My Lord is traditional, but unnecessary.”

      “Good because I’m not the type to curtsey.”

      They’d reached the top of the stairs. Alistair turned to her. “One only curtseys to the queen.”

      “Does one?”

      “Yes.”

      “Good to know.” She guided him into Sophia’s old room and pointed to the bed. “How does that look?”

      Alistair sighed. “Heavenly.” He reached for the buttons on his shirt. “You’ll want me to take my clothes off.”

      “If I had a nickel,” she started, then stopped when he didn’t. In a matter of seconds, the shirt was floating to the ground and he was reaching for his belt.

      “Yikes,” she said, backing out of the room. “Leave on your underwear, or we’ll both be embarrassed. Let me know when you’re done.”

      “It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m a doctor.”

      She shut the door and stood in the hall. “Maybe, but I’m not.” She waited a couple of seconds. “Alistair?”

      There was silence, then a thunk. She flung open the door and found Alistair Woodbury, the viscount of something, lying in briefs and nothing else on her Aunt Sophia’s bed.

      And to think she’d assumed that today was going to be a very ordinary day.

       Chapter Two

      Alistair didn’t believe in angels, yet every time the fever threatened to suck him down into a place he shouldn’t go, the angel was there. Blond, with large hazel eyes and a soothing voice. She talked softly, even laughed, and her hands were cool. Sometimes she insisted he eat, but mostly she was simply a presence.

      Time passed, but he couldn’t say how long it had been since he’d shown up at his friend Simon’s house. He was content to simply sleep and awaken briefly to be with the angel. Until something sat on him and tried to kill him.

      He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a very large cat perched on his chest. The black-and-white feline glared at him, as if annoyed to find a stranger where none should be. Sharp claws dug not so gently into his chest.

      “You’re up,” the angel said, walking into the bedroom. “And being attacked by Daytona. Sorry. He strolled in this morning and I didn’t think he would come find you.”

      She scooped up the cat and held him in her arms. “How are you feeling?”

      She was both familiar and not. Slowly, his memory filled in the pieces. His trip to visit Simon and his friend’s wife, Montana. The onset of the fever. The cough.

      “Measles,” he muttered. “I have the measles.”

      “You do, and a very impressive rash, too.” The blonde smiled. “Do you remember me at all?”

      “You’re the angel.”

      She laughed. “Not exactly, although my Aunt Sophia would be so proud to hear that.”

      He frowned. “She’s a nun.”

      “Was, but yes. I’m Paige McLean.” She kissed the top of the cat’s head. “Let me get Daytona here back to my neighbor and I’ll bring you something to eat. You must be starving.”

      His stomach rumbled. “I am.” He looked at the open window and the blue sky beyond. “Was I out long?”

      “Three days.”

      “That’s not possible.”

      “And yet,” she told him. “I’ll be back with food in a minute.”

      She left the room. Seconds later, he heard footsteps on the stairs.

      Three days? He thought about how hard he’d been working before he’d left Southeast Asia and how many of the children in the village had fallen sick. He should have known better than to travel. Working backwards, he supposed the good news was that he’d likely become contagious about the time he’d driven into Fool’s Gold. With luck, no one had been exposed.

      He used the bathroom, pausing to stare at the rash covering his chest and arms. After brushing his teeth, he returned to the bedroom and picked up his cell phone. He dialed Simon’s number.

      “I’ve already notified the CDC,” his friend told him.

      Alistair swore. “I never meant to endanger anyone.”

      “Per my calculations, you didn’t.”

      “That’s what I figured as well,” Alistair said. “I’m hoping we’re both right.”

      “You doing all right?”

      “The fever broke and I have a—” He smiled as he remembered Paige’s comment. “A very impressive rash.”

      They finished their conversation. Alistair returned his cell phone to the nightstand and lifted himself into a sitting position. Between the trip to the restroom, a brief conversation with his friend and moving around on the bed, he found himself exhausted. He’d obviously been sicker than he’d realized.

      “Here you go,” Paige said, walking into the bedroom. She carried a large tray, which she set on his lap.

      She pointed to the various mugs, plates and glasses in front of him. “Tea, because you’re British and I heard you all disintegrate if you don’t have it daily. A sports drink. Simon said you need electrolytes. I don’t know exactly what those are, but apparently you’re lacking in them. I’d be embarrassed about that if I were you. I’m just saying.” She touched a small plate. “A plain cheese sandwich. The bread is homemade and delicious. Not made by me, so I’m allowed to say that. Tomato-basil soup, also homemade, but not by me. And a cupcake, which is probably too much food for you, so I’ll take that off your hands.”

      She grabbed the cupcake and retreated to a wingchair on the other side of the bed. It looked out of place in the small bedroom and he wondered if she’d brought it in just so she could sit with him.

      He reached for the tea and took a sip. It was perfect. He tried the soup next. Paige had served it in a mug, which made it easier to drink. He took a couple of swallows and found it as tasty as she’d promised. Hunger twisted his stomach and he took several more drinks before looking at her.

      “The soup is delicious.”

      “I know. I had some last night. Try the sandwich. You’ll die.”

      Exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. “You have a chef?”

      She choked on a piece of the cupcake and coughed before swallowing. “What? No. Of course not.”

      “Then who’s doing all the cooking?”

      Her hazel eyes crinkled with amusement. The first time he’d seen her, she’d worn her long, blond hair back in a ponytail. Now her hair was loose on her shoulders. With her jeans and T-shirt, she was quintessentially American. Fresh-faced, pretty, open. Sexy.

      “You’ve never been here before, have you?” she asked.

      “Here being this town?”

      “Fool’s Gold.”

      “This is my first visit.”

      “Well, it’s the kind of place that welcomes everyone. We take care of our own. Word got out that you were here and sick and the town responded.”

      “Meaning what?”

      She tilted her head. “I work several jobs. I teach yoga, I’m a part-time receptionist at one of the local fire stations and I have a couple of shifts at Morgan’s Books.”