"Are you okay?" The deep voice, softened with concern, sounded close behind her.
The Band-Aid folded in on itself, sticking irretrievably. She threw it into the trash and reached for another one. "It's nothing serious."
"Do you need a hand?"
"No. Not even a finger." She pressed a tissue to the cut that still oozed blood.
Ignoring her feeble joke, Nick stepped closer, crowding her in the small bathroom. That proximity, that faint scent, overrode the pain and did straightaway what she'd earlier denied-sent her thoughts back to their first encounter, and the thrumming sensuality of it. He reached for her hand again, and this time she let him see the cut. She was beginning to think she might need more than a Band-Aid. "I've kind of hurt my wrist too."
Gently, he wiped the blood away, then, still cradling her hand in his, he looked up and met her gaze. "I'm taking you to the emergency room."
The threat of his suggestion quashed her awareness of his proximity, of the gentleness of his touch, the caring in his eyes. "I don't like doctors. Or needles."
His grip on her hand tightened. Green eyes met and held hers. "Deal with it." The sympathy stayed in his gaze. "Where's your first-aid kit? We'll do what we can here. But then you are going to see a doctor."
She looked at the cut again. Maybe he was right. Reluctantly, she nodded at the bathroom cabinet. "The cupboard beneath the sink. Red box. White cross on it."
Nick's half smile softened his features. He crouched down and reached into the cabinet. For a second his movements stilled, and sudden fear clenched in her chest. He stood with the first-aid kit in his hands. She couldn't see his face as he bent over her hand and deftly applied a couple of Steri-strips.
The twenty-minute trip, with her wrist iced and her hand bandaged, was made in silence. Callie knew what was in her bathroom cabinet beside the first-aid kit, could too easily picture the pristine box. She'd spent long enough staring at it over the past few days. She just didn't know whether Nick had seen it, whether he had time to read what it was.
And she wasn't about to ask him.
The A&E clinic was mercifully quiet. She filled in a form on a clipboard, and after waiting a short while a nurse approached. "If you'd like to come with me," she said, sounding far too cheery. Callie wanted to turn and run. She glanced at the door, then at Nick.
"Do you want me to come with you?" There was a tightness in his expression and a frown marred his brow. But still, he seemed the lesser of two evils. She nodded and they followed together as the nurse, her right shoe squeaking quietly with each step, led them to a room with a white-sheeted bed, a desk and a couple of chairs. The smell of disinfectant permeated the air. Callie felt the nausea rising.
"Take a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment." The squeaks faded away down the corridor.
"How much don't you like doctors or needles?"
She didn't look at him. "It's nothing I can't handle."
Before he could question her further, the doctor appeared. He scanned the form on the clipboard, then turned to Callie. "Let's take a look at you. Why don't you sit up on the bed?"
She eased herself onto the bed, legs dangling vulnerably over the edge. The doctor carefully examined her hand and then her wrist.
"You'll need stitches, and you've sprained your wrist, but it's nothing serious," he said cheerfully, apparently having been to classes with the nurse.
Didn't they know there was nothing remotely cheery about being here, about the prospect of stitches? Callie hesitated. She looked up and saw the gaze of both the doctor and Nick on her. "Perhaps it'll be best if you lie down," the doctor suggested, a sudden wariness creeping into his expression.
Did that mean she'd gone as white as she felt? Callie was happy to oblige. She lay back on the bed and screwed her eyes shut.
"And sir," the young doctor said, "you might like to hold her other hand."
Callie opened her eyes to see both of them still watching her. She gave her head a small and apparently unconvincing shake. In two steps, Nick was at her side and took hold of her good hand. She didn't want to need anyone, and especially not him. As she was about to pull her hand from his clasp she looked across at the doctor, saw the syringe he held and felt as though she was falling. She turned her head, and her eyes found Nick's, saw strength and comfort offered in the depthless green. He was here with her for now, and this would be all right. He told her so without speaking. She closed her eyes and tightened her fingers around his hand. His thumb stroked gently across the back of her hand, warm and sure. A calmness stole through her.
That calmness had fled by the time Nick stopped his car in front of her house. "Thanks for helping me out." It was over, and now she needed to get rid of him. "You don't need to come in, I'm fine now."
He turned off the lights and cut the engine.
The silence pressed down on her. "I know I was a sissy back there, but honestly, I'm fine." Using only her left hand, she unbuckled her seat belt and opened her door. "Thanks again."
Nick opened his door and got out as she did. He looked at her across the roof of the car, his face illuminated by the sensor lighting that had come on. He did not look happy. "We haven't finished talking."
She remembered the financial reports still stacked on her outdoor table, hoped against hope that it was those reports he was referring to. Not the box in her bathroom cabinet. "The reports can wait. It's late, you must be tired. I am." She faked a yawn.
"I don't want to talk about the reports," he said quietly. He shut his car door and climbed the steps to the veranda, then stood waiting at her front door.
Callie took slow, dread-filled steps toward him. He made no move to help her as she fumbled with her key, finally slipping it into the lock and pushing the door open.
"Can I make you a drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger?"
He shook his head, lips pressed ominously together. But at least he didn't mention the box.
She didn't want a drink, either, but playing for time, Callie filled the kettle, set it to boil. Even in the distorted reflection of the kettle's curving stainless steel she could see that he watched her. Avoiding facing him, she pulled a mug from an overhead cupboard, dropped a tea bag into it. Nick sat on a bar stool on the far side of the breakfast bar. She turned back and watched the kettle. The only sound in the room was the low whisper of the water heating and the occasional quiet drum of his fingertips on the countertop. The feeling of vertigo that had assailed her at the clinic threatened to return. Her heart thundered in her chest.
A chair leg scraped across the floor, footsteps sounded down her hallway. Perhaps he just needed to use her bathroom. Callie poured boiling water into her cup, prodded the teabag with a spoon. As the footsteps returned she dropped the sodden bag into the bin and added a dash of milk to her drink.
Finally, she could delay it no longer. Cup in her good hand, she faced the breakfast bar. Nick was seated again, watching her. On the counter in front of him sat a rectangular blue-and-white box. She dragged her gaze from the box to the man. The Nick who'd held her hand at the clinic was gone. This one's icy glare chilled her to the marrow.
"When did you buy this?"
Callie opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. She'd only bought it a few days ago, when she could no longer ignore the lateness of her period. She quailed under his scrutiny. Could she lie, tell him that the box wasn't hers or that she'd bought it a year ago, but then never had to use it?
Tension radiated from him. "What aren't you telling me?" The question was harsh, more like an accusation.
She looked at the box. Guilt and fear rose within her. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
"What wasn't supposed to happen? Are you pregnant?"
"I don't know," she said quietly, not meeting his gaze. "That's why I bought that." She nodded at the innocuous-looking box, a cardboard grenade with the potential to explode throughout her life.
"You told me you'd had your period."
"I did." Finally she looked up. Confusion and distrust were etched on his face.