Interesting? That people wanted to kill him bad enough to stake out a hospital? What had I gotten myself involved in? I stopped at a red light and looked at him. I was eager, despite his obvious assets, to get uninvolved as fast as possible. I wasn’t in one of those movies or books where the heroine immediately decides only she can figure out the dangerous mystery. I could barely balance my checkbook. Someone else would have to take care of the dangerous mystery.
It was decision and directions time. I cleared my throat. He didn’t respond.
“Where do you want me to take you?”
He turned his head slowly, like he was afraid it would fall off. Then he blinked twice. “Why are you…spinning?”
“I’m not spinning.”
“Am I spinning?”
“No…” He slumped against my shoulder. “Might make him a little sleepy, Mike?” I rubbed my face. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
My Good Samaritan gene twitched. It’s passed down from Baptist to Baptist. Maybe the hospital was safe for him now? Or the police—
I looked down at him. His lashes fanned across his cheek, his mouth curved in a slight pout, and his deep, even breathing ruffled the hair next to my ear. What is it that we women find so appealing about that little-boy-lost quality when we know exactly what little boys are made of? And how do we get over it?
“Sometimes I wish the Good Samaritan had passed by on the other side.” The light changed and I set the car in motion, turning it towards home.
With each turn he settled more heavily against me. I reached out and flipped on the defrost. He must have a very high body temperature to steam the windows up so fast. I knew that my mother would think I'd lost my mind to bring a stranger, no matter how unconscious, into my home. But after all that had happened, he didn't seem like a stranger. And at one o'clock in the morning there aren't that many options for the unconsciously inclined—if one ruled out hospitals and police stations. Was I supposed to just roll him out of the car into the gutter and drive away when I'd gotten my most promising date this decade out of the deal? Besides, what kind of standards did she expect from a person whose last roommate had been a roach?
At least I knew there would be no one up this time of night. My mother is of the early-to-bed, early-to-rise school. She likes to pad around while it’s still dark and wax lyrical about the benefits of watching the sun rise. As a confirmed night owl, I was all about moon risings.
When I pulled Rosemary’s car into its slot in her garage, my uninvited guest didn’t stir from his position against my side. All the way home his body lying against mine had taken away the chill and replaced it with feelings I thought I’d safely stowed in the hope-less chest. I didn’t waste time dwelling on what his reaction would be when he came to in the morning, focusing instead on the logistical problems of getting him out of the car and into my apartment. The problem with an over-the-garage apartment is that it is over the garage.
“Mr. Kapone?”
No response.
“Wouldn’t you like to go to bed? I know I would.”
“Bed?” he murmured, stirring. A faint, reminiscent smile curved his mouth.
“Brings back pleasant memories, does it?” It seemed I’d found the magic word. I scrambled out and went round to his door. “Time to come to bed.”
It worked better than Pavlov’s dog bell. He turned toward me, his lashes at half mast, lifting his feet clear of the car and lowering them to the floor like it was a moving surface. Maybe from his perspective it was.
I took his hands, ignored a mental click as they fit together, braced myself and pulled. He came up eagerly, if groggily, and we staggered into my mother’s van occupying the other slot. I slid my arms around him to steady him. I don’t know why he slid his arms around me. His eyes, though hazy and unfocused, still managed to be unsettling.
“Do you think you can make it up the stairs?”
Instead of answering, he smiled.
Some men were born to smile at women. He was one of those men. It was an arrow shot straight through the armor of my resolve. If my toes hadn’t curled into hooks, he would have knocked my socks off. He smoothed the strands that had escaped from my braid off my face, the sweetly abrasive palm of his hand brushing against my skin in the process. His hand settled in for a visit and I realized I might be in trouble. When my breathing changed into this gaspy, CPR-like rhythm, I knew I was in trouble. His head bent towards mine, setting off a chain reaction in my mid-section. My insides curled like a ribbon when you run scissors along it. The blood in my face went all tidal, creating a serious impediment to clear thought.
“Mr. Kapone—”
“Call me Kel,” he murmured against my lips.
My lips really liked being murmured against. I licked them in anticipation and was rewarded with contact.
Cold at first, his mouth warmed up fast. His hard, strong body pressed mine into my mother’s van, sending the rational part of my brain sliding down a spiral tunnel of delight. He broke contact, despite an involuntary protest from moi, then made up for it by taking nibbling bites down the side of my neck. I arched up on my toes to give him easier access and realized I was gripping his shoulders.
I’d already gone further than this Baptist had gone before.
“No wonder people wrote operas about love,” I murmured, while tipping my head to allow access to a neglected spot clamoring for its turn.
His hands, warm and strong, kneaded my back, then slid down to cup my posterior, lifting me deep enough into his embrace to assess his level of involvement. It was pretty high.
