Nicole frowned slightly, but turned away and moved to grab the phone off the end table, only to set it back as she realized she didn’t know Marguerite’s number. It was in her cell phone contact list though, she recalled and moved quickly around the couch and end table to the door to the hall leading to the office and studio. “I’ll be right back, I have to get my cell phone.”
Jake closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing. He knew Nicole was in a panic, but so was he. He didn’t understand what was happening. He’d gone out to the hot tub in the hopes of ridding himself of the headache, and it had seemed to work. The pain had begun to ease almost before he’d got into the hot tub, the cold air seeming to ease his tension and clear his thinking. The pain had been completely gone within moments of stepping into the hot tub, only to be replaced by nausea instead. That had caught him completely by surprise. He hadn’t felt nausea in seven years. It was a most unpleasant sensation . . . and it had built so quickly. Within moments of getting in the hot tub, Jake had been leaning over the side, retching and throwing up blood, his body weak and shaking. Honestly, if Nicole hadn’t come out, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to get out of the hot tub on his own.
Jake didn’t understand what was happening. He was an immortal. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to be able to get sick, yet he seemed to have the immortal version of the fricking flu. Vampire flu. Great. And a serious case of it. He was hot, feverish, weak, and throwing up blood . . . and his head was pounding like crazy again.
He was also crazy thirsty . . . and not for water. Jake supposed it was all the blood he’d thrown up, on top of already being low. He really should have taken care of the blood and fridge thing right away. That had been driven home when Nicole had helped him inside and bent over him on the couch. It wasn’t her sweet, spicy perfume he’d smelled, but her blood, and he’d been hard-pressed not to bite into her neck. Truthfully, if he’d had more strength and hadn’t felt so nauseous, Jake might not have been able to keep from chomping into the woman’s throat and sucking her dry, life mate or no life mate.
Another wave of nausea rolled over him and Jake reared up desperately from the couch. He knew he wouldn’t make it to the bathroom only ten feet away, but he had to try. He managed to get half upright before collapsing to his hands and knees on the floor. His back bowed as his stomach heaved and he stared at the cream-colored carpet with horror, and then a large red and black bowl was suddenly on the floor under his face. He caught a glimpse of Nicole’s hand before she released the bowl, and glanced to her as she straightened and moved away.
She was punching buttons on her cell phone he saw. Jake didn’t bother to try to listen, but turned his attention back to the bowl, recognizing it as the one that sat on the coffee table. It had held large frosted glass balls when he’d seen it earlier. They were gone now, which was a good thing, he decided, as blood poured out of his mouth and splashed into the bowl.
Halfway through this bout of heaving, Jake heard Nicole talking in quick anxious tones. He tried to stop and listen, but it was impossible. The blood was coming out whether he liked it or not. He had just given up the effort when he heard her say Marguerite’s name. Jake felt a moment’s relief knowing the woman would know what to say to keep Nicole from calling an ambulance. She would also know what to do in this situation . . . he hoped, and then gave up worrying about it as he began to heave again.
Eight
Nicole paced around the couch one more time and leaned to check the cold cloth she’d placed on Jake’s forehead. Once she felt that it was still cool to the touch, she quickly backed away and paced around the couch again, eyeing her patient from a relatively safe distance. Marguerite was the one who had suggested that. She hadn’t explained why she should keep her distance. Nicole was guessing the woman was worried that Jake was contagious. But if he had something contagious, then why were they both insisting she not take him to the hospital?
Nicole fretted over that for about the hundredth time since calling Marguerite, which was—half an hour ago, she saw, glancing at her wristwatch as she paced around the couch again. Marguerite had said help was on the way. Nicole presumed that meant a doctor or something, but how long was this help going to take? For cripes sake, Jake seemed to be dying on her here. He’d finally stopped throwing up blood about ten minutes ago, but not before tossing up a hell of a lot of it. She’d emptied the bowl four times, and that wasn’t counting what he’d lost outside. It was a big bowl. How much blood did a body hold? And how much did he have left inside him?