Project Runaway Bride(28)

As soon as the latest round of illness ended and Juliet slumped over weakly, Reid jumped up and grabbed a towel, folding it into a makeshift pillow and easing her onto the tile floor. Rewetting the washcloth, he placed it on her forehead, then said, “I’ll be right back.”

Taking off at a sprint, he hit the refrigerator and was back beside her again in under sixty seconds.

“Here,” he murmured, sinking down in front of the tub and lifting her up beside him, into his arms. She moaned, the sound a wordless plea as he brushed his lips along her brow and popped the tab on the can of soda he’d brought back with him.

“Here,” he said, holding it to her lips. “Take a sip. It will help you feel better, I promise.”

She did as instructed, and he thought he heard a small sigh of delight. He only let her have a little bit, though, pulling the can away to run its chilled aluminum surface here and there over her perspiration-damp face. She liked that, too, he could tell.

After several long minutes of sipping the clear soda and running the cold can along her cheeks and brow, she began to stir. Her lashes slowly parted and she stared up at him with fever-bright eyes. She wasn’t actually that hot, though—warm from exertion, but not burning up with fever.

“Feeling better?” he asked, still brushing back her hair and patting her with the cool soda can.

She nodded, struggling to lick her lips. “What time is it?” she wanted to know, but the words came out cracked and dry.

He offered her another sip of soda, lifting his arm to glance at his watch. “A little after eleven, why?”

“I should be okay soon,” she murmured, pushing herself up and away from him to lean against the side of the tub alone.

Reid popped his jaw, trying not to feel annoyed by her sudden rejection. Then he zeroed in on what she’d said.

“What do you mean you should be okay soon?”

Food poisoning or the flu or whatever other unknown virus she might have picked up wouldn’t come with a scheduled end time, would it?

Leaning her head back against the edge of the tub, she let her eyes slide closed. “It usually passes by eleven or eleven-thirty.”

“What passes by eleven or eleven-thirty?” His brows drew down, confusion and suspicion warring inside his brain.

She shook her head, essentially dismissing him as she rolled away from him and climbed none too steadily to her feet. She held on to the side of the bathtub, rested a hand on the back of the toilet, and lurched her way to the sink. Running a bit of cold water, she splashed her face and patted it dry with a nearby hand towel before smoothing her hair back into a tight ponytail and setting it in place with a band from the vanity.

Without a word, she left the bathroom on shaky Bambi legs, making Reid wonder if she was going to walk away from him on stubborn principle alone only to drop into a dead faint on the other side of the bedroom door.

On a huff of frustration, he pushed to his feet and followed her, carrying the half-empty can of soda along with him.

Sure enough, he found Juliet collapsed on her side on the bed, as though she’d made it as far as she could before her short burst of energy abandoned her and she could go no farther.

Damn obstinate woman. She would freeze to death in the Arctic before accepting a coat from someone she didn’t want to speak to.

Crossing to the bed, he set the soda on the nightstand, then nudged her over a couple inches and hitched a hip on the mattress beside her. He didn’t touch her, pretty sure any attention on his part right now wouldn’t be welcome, but had to curl his fingers into his palm to keep from stroking her hair again or brushing his knuckles lightly across her cheek.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked softly.

She rolled her head back and forth in response, doing her best to ignore him otherwise.

“Let me rephrase,” he said a bit more firmly. “What is going on?”

With a moan, she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, refusing to answer.

“Do you have food poisoning?” he wanted to know.

“Yes.”

Too quick, which meant no. “Funny, because we ate exactly the same thing last night, and I’m fine.”

A beat passed in total silence.

“Do you have the flu?”

“Yes.”

Again, instant response. She was lying, but why?

“That’s funny, too, because you’re not all that feverish, and you were perfectly well last night. No complaints that you were feeling under the weather. And I’m okay. You’d think I’d have a few symptoms, too, if you were contagious.”

He could hear crickets. Or maybe this far out, they’d be cicadas.

“So that leaves...what?” he continued when she didn’t show signs of giving in. “Meningitis? Scarlet fever? Ebola? Rabies?”