Sleeping with Anemone

“Oh, that’s right!” I chimed in. “Paula had her baby.”

Lottie caught on. “Then we’ll have to stop by the nursery to see the little darlin’. I’ll take real good care of our gal here, Marco. We’ll pull right up to the hospital’s lower level entrance so we can unload our deliveries right where the guard is. Abby can even sit in the back of the van where no one can see her. We’ll be back in less than an hour.”

That was called teamwork.

“What do you say?” I asked Marco.

He gave me a look that said he wasn’t completely buying it. “You really want to go?”

I nodded. “I really want to go.”

“You’re not nervous about leaving the safety of the building?”

Well, of course I was nervous. I wasn’t a total moron. Still, in a show of bravery, I shook my head. My desire to be free from whoever had initiated the kidnappings was stronger than my fear of being kidnapped.

“Okay,” he said with great reluctance.

I wanted to high-five my girls, but that would have been too obvious. Instead, Lottie and I waited until he’d gone back to his Internet search; then we huddled inside the walk-in cooler, ostensibly to gather the arrangements, but really to giggle together like naughty schoolmates.

“I don’t know this Paula person,” Lottie whispered, “but maybe we should take flowers to her anyway.” She slapped her knee, chortling. “Poor Marco. He doesn’t have a clue, does he?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ten minutes later, I was riding shotgun in the rented minivan we used for deliveries, drawing vertical lines in the condensation that had formed on the glass. Seated behind the wheel was Marco, who, as it turned out, had a clue after all.

“So what was your plan?” Marco asked, pulling out of the alley. “Make your hospital run, then get Lottie to stop at the courthouse afterward so you could talk to Morgan?”

I drew crosshatches through my lines, tic-tac-toe style. “Possibly.”

He reached over to run his thumb under my chin. “Sunshine, don’t you trust me to get the job done?”

“Yes. But you hate hospitals, so I thought-”

“Are you sure you trust me?”

I heard the hurt in his voice and turned to reassure him. “Of course I trust you. Haven’t I always relied on you to get the job done?”

“Abby, I’ve had to pull you out of more than a few dangerous situations because you didn’t rely on me. You’re impetuous. You rush into things without thinking them through.”

“Not true. I’m just a fast thinker.”

“A good PI has to come up with a strategy, set it in motion, and watch for results. That takes patience.”

“But I don’t work like that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Try to understand it from my point of view, Marco. You know how I love being independent, but right now I feel like a prisoner, unable to come and go as I please without someone always there watching me. And that’s not going to change until we find out who was behind the kidnappings. So what are my options? Let the DA make his case against Raand and hope he’s got the right guy? Or take immediate action ourselves?”

“My being around all the time makes you feel like a prisoner?”

Was that all he got out of my impassioned speech? “I didn’t say you were the cause of my feelings. Whoever planned the kidnappings is the cause.”

“This bodyguard arrangement isn’t permanent, you know.”

Great. Marco was stuck on the prisoner concept. “I know it’s not permanent.” I drew more vertical lines in the condensation. “I just wish I knew how long it would be until I wasn’t in danger anymore.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Abby. It is how it is. I’m doing my best to keep you safe.”

I drew a box around my lines. “What if the true mastermind is never found?”

“Seriously, Abby, if you have a problem with me being around all the time-”

“No! Absolutely not! I love your being around. It’s different, certainly, but…”

He lifted an eyebrow. Yikes. Was I making it worse? And in all honesty, why wasn’t I enjoying Marco’s company more? What normal, red-blooded twenty-seven-year-old woman wouldn’t want a hot guy like Marco, the love of her life, the man of her dreams, keeping a protective eye on her at work-sitting at her desk and hogging her computer not withstanding-as well as bunking down in her apartment? In her small apartment. That she already shared with a roommate and a cat.

Why did my window drawing look like bars on a jail cell?

I used my coat sleeve to erase my artwork before Marco saw it. Stress, I assured myself, was causing me to think irrationally. Once everything went back to normal, so would our relationship.

“Listen, Marco. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or unwelcoming. You’re merely hearing the voice of a frightened, frustrated florist.” I smiled at him and reached over to squeeze his hand. “I really do appreciate you. Bear with me, okay? I’ll try not to be such a pain.”

“I know losing your independence is hard on you, Abby. Hell, I’d feel the same way.” He squeezed my hand back. “We’ll get through this together.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“No problem. And I found someone to keep you company this evening.”

Not another sitter!

“Rafe is working the day shift this week, and since he doesn’t have wheels, he’ll be bored stiff. If I can drop him at your place, I won’t have to worry about him getting into trouble. You okay with that?”

More than okay. Ecstatic. If I decided to get out and do a little sleuthing, Rafe would be putty in my hands. “I suppose,” I said, trying to sound resigned.

Marco pulled the minivan up to the rear entrance of the hospital so we could unload the two large boxes of floral arrangements. The entrance opened onto the hospital’s lower level, where the laboratory and X-ray departments were located, accessible up the long hallway past the bank of elevators. Close by was the physical therapy center; through large glass windows I could see therapists working with patients.

As I waited inside for Marco, I heard a rapid tap-tap-tap of high heels striking the cement floor and glanced up the hallway to see a slender woman in her thirties, with big honey blond hair and an oversized, shiny gold tote bag slung over one shoulder, heading toward the entrance. I studied her as she approached. She seemed very familiar. I was sure I’d seen her recently. A flower shop customer perhaps?

As she passed, she glanced at me and did a fast double-take before hurrying on. She was probably trying to figure out how she knew me, too.

When Marco came in, we carried the boxes to the bank of elevators and rode up to the second floor.

“We’re taking these to Peter Chinn in room 203,” I told him, after checking the tag on one of the arrangements. “That should be at the other end of the hallway.”

“You didn’t tell me you were delivering flowers to Chinn.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“You’re not going to harangue Chinn about your back door and ramp, are you?”

I scoffed. “He’s injured, Marco. Of course I won’t.” Not on this visit anyway. Maybe a few subtle hints, but no haranguing.

“Then why not leave the flowers for the nurses to deliver?”

“They’re busy and understaffed. And as I told you, I enjoy making deliveries.”

“I’m surprised you’re allowed into the patients’ rooms.”

“They didn’t used to let me, but now that they know me, they usually do, unless the patient is seriously