Undercover Mistress

would have thought you were just being incoherent and called 911 anyway. But like I said, I have this imagination-maybe it’s the business I’m in-but at the time, under those circumstances, I could think of all sorts of reasons why somebody might ask such a thing. And then…”

“And then…?” Roy prompted when she looked away again, and his heart beat faster with the thought that she might not give him the answers he wanted.

But, she did turn back to him, and this time there was no mistaking the darkness in her eyes. He was no psychologist, but he was pretty sure he knew genuine pain when he saw it. She drew a quick, shallow breath and said softly, “I sort of know what it’s like, wanting to keep things…private.”

Again made impatient by the fear she might not continue, he waited only a moment before he prompted, “I thought actors-”

“I haven’t worked in over a year.” She said it in a quiet, bitter voice. And then the words came at him in a rush, as if she’d taken the lid off one of those joke cans with the coiled-up springs disguised as snakes inside them. “I had an accident on the Pacific Coast Highway. I’d been shooting a guest appearance on another show, which was a great opportunity for me, and I didn’t want to pass it up, even though I knew it would be hard, keeping up with my obligations on Doctors… Anyway, I was on my way home-it was Friday, after a long week of shooting, and I…I guess I must have fallen asleep. I don’t remember it, but they tell me my car crossed the center line and hit another car head-on. I got two broken legs and a ruptured spleen out of it, so I guess you could say I was lucky. There was only one person in the other car-a forty-year-old woman. She was killed.”

This time when she fell silent, Roy didn’t urge her on. After a moment she gave another of those falsely airy laughs and fingered the hair back behind her ears-a self-conscious gesture that seemed uncharacteristic of her. “Naturally, the first thing everybody thought was that I was drunk or strung out on drugs. I wasn’t,” she said with stiff-lipped, angry emphasis, “but that didn’t keep the story-the speculation, the rumors, or whatever you want to call it-from making the rounds of the media. It was everywhere-the newspapers, and not just the tabloids, I’m talking the L.A. Times, TV news, magazine shows, talk shows-even the Internet. There were reporters, photographers, paparazzi-even in the hospital. It was…awful. I don’t know if you can imagine…” She looked away, her throat working.

“Anyway,” she concluded dryly, “I’ve had enough sensational publicity to last me a lifetime, so when you said, ‘No cops,’ that sounded fine with me.”

She swiveled to pick up the tray, then rose, and irrational twinges of impending loss flashed through him at the thought of her going. He was groping for something to say that would keep her there longer without making him sound too infantile and pathetic, clearing his throat and trying to hitch himself higher on the pillows, when a red-hot poker buried itself in his chest. As air gusted from his lungs, as he was falling backward into a whirling vortex of pain and dizziness, he heard her voice asking if he was all right. He heard the rattle of crockery, felt the mattress beside him dip as she sat on it. Felt her hand touch his forehead with surprising gentleness. The thought flashed through his mind: That’s one sure way to keep her from leaving. He almost wanted to laugh, but it would have hurt too much.

“Damn,” he said without unclenching his teeth. “Hurts.”

“Doc left you some painkillers. Do you want-”

“Yeah…that’d help.”

“How many? Doc said-”

“About…eight.”

“Yeah, right. How ’bout two?”

He heard the rattle of pills in a plastic bottle. A moment later, he felt her hand slide under his neck, and that felt so good to him he wished he could think of a reason for her to leave it right there.

Something brushed his lips. “Here-open up.”

He opened his eyes as he took the pills she gave him and found that her face was so close to his he could have counted her lashes-if he could have focused his eyes, that is. He could smell that sweet fragrance, feel the swirl of her breath on his skin. His lips tingled where her fingers touched them. Then the smooth coolness of china was there instead, and he was swallowing pills and tepid, bitter tea, his eyes were closing again, weakness and weariness flowing through him along with a regret as acute as pain.

“Where’re you going?” Could that pitiful sound have come from him?

Her voice seemed to come from far away, so maybe he imagined the odd little catch in it. “I have to put the groceries away. But I’ll be right back. Is there, um, something else you need?”

Answers! That’s what I need…more answers. Against his better judgment, he lifted his head off the pillow so he could look at her. “One…thing…”

“Yes?” She took a step toward him, her image blurring and shimmery in his unreliable vision.

“Doc. What’s his story? You told me why you did what you did. Doesn’t explain him.”

She folded her arms across herself in a quick, defensive motion. Even with the shimmer he could see her shrug. “Doc’s my next-door neighbor. And my friend. I needed help-I couldn’t very well move you all alone.” She paused, and when he didn’t say anything, abruptly unwrapped herself and went on with an air of surrender, “I went to him because I knew he’d probably do what I asked. Because I knew he has an even better reason than I do for not wanting to involve the authorities. Okay?”

Roy felt a chill go down his spine; once again, he was wondering what the hell kind of people he’d fallen in with. There was a deadly stillness inside him as he calmly said, “Oh, yeah? What reasons are those?”

Again, and for a longer time, she hesitated. Then she said flatly, “He lost his license to practice medicine. How and why is his story to tell. Let’s just say that these days, like me, he likes to keep a low profile. Lucky for you- that’s why you’re here, instead of in a hospital trying to explain that gunshot wound to a bunch of police officers.”

A smile flickered like a faulty lightbulb. “Also, unfortunately for you, maybe, it’s why you only get ibuprofen for your pain instead of something stronger.” She turned to go, then checked and looked back. Her smile was softer now and maybe sadder, too. “He was a good doctor, once,” she said, and left him.

Alone, Roy slowly lowered his aching head to the pillows and closed his eyes. He was thinking, What have I gotten myself into? Wounded soap stars and defrocked-was that the word?-doctors… On the other hand, this was California, which everybody knew was the nut capital of the world. What did he expect?

I have to call Max, he thought. He’ll get me out of this crazy place. Probably get me some painkillers that work, too. I should have asked her for a phone.

Why hadn’t he, when he’d had the chance?

There’d been distractions, of course, other things going on, not the least of which was, he’d passed out cold on the bathroom floor. Lucky he hadn’t cracked his skull. Or maybe he had-from the size and tenderness of the mouse on his forehead and the way his head was pounding, it felt like a distinct possibility. But there was something else, too, something he hadn’t forgotten, but which had slipped to the back of his mind.

His name wouldn’t happen to be Max, would it?

How could she know about Max?

The question clamored in his brain like an alarm bell. He knew he needed to answer it, had to do something about it, but…he was too weak, too tired, and his head hurt too much. There was nothing he could do about Max right now-nothing he could do about anything, really.

Except…sleep.

“I’m worried about him,” Celia said. It was hard to tear her gaze away from the flushed face on the pillow in order to look at the man standing next to her, but she managed it. “I think he has a fever.”

“I think it’s safe to say he very likely does,” Doc agreed, frowning judiciously down at his patient. Together, they watched the man mutter and mumble, eyes glaring, fierce and unfocused, at nothing. After a moment, he lifted his eyebrows and drew a considering breath. “Although, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know. Fever is nature’s antibiotic, after all, and, under the circumstances, the only one we have at our disposal.” He glanced over at her, then quickly away, but not before she saw her own concern mirrored in his decidedly bloodshot eyes. “Keep a close watch on him, give him plenty of fluids, keep his head cool. If he’s still feverish in the morning, well…I guess we’ll have to think of something, won’t we.”

Celia listened to Doc’s footsteps cross the room and fade away. We both know what that