Page 6 of Triple Threat

I hurt, stiff from lying in bed for too long, aching, tired, my head full of cotton batting rather than the brains I was born with.

I pushed myself up into a sitting position and the room tilted at a crazy angle. I put a hand to my face, the heel of it pressed to my forehead as I winced and waited for the sensation of my brain sloshing around in my skull to dissipate. A rich voice, velveteen and wrapped in a British accent, startled me.

“Here, drink, you’re dehydrated, Love. The good doctor cautioned against restarting an IV until I was certain you wouldn’t panic.”

I looked up sharply and cried out, stilling as everything screamed in protest and star fire erupted at the edges of my vision.

“Who are you? Where am I?” I demanded, voice shaking.

“My mother named me Conan, but you can call me Roan, and you’re in my house,” he said. The mountain of a man stepped forward, his loafers sinking into the plush carpet, his gait a little uneven. He used a cane, but that didn’t seem right. I mean, he was too young to be using one. Probably late thirties? Maybe early forties.

I let my eyes skate over the expensive black slacks and crisp white dress shirt until I looked up into cautious light green eyes. They were made vivid by the fiery orange ginger of his hair and the light dusting of his beard; his pale skin heavily freckled. He had the beginning of crow’s feet around his eyes. Not an age thing, and not a smile thing; at least I didn’t think. I mean, he wasn’t smiling now and with the shuttered and guarded look he gave me, I didn’t think he ever did.

He held out a bowl that was gently steaming and said again, “Drink, Sadie.”

“How do you know my name?” I demanded. “Where am I?”

“A mutual acquaintance of ours found you and brought you here. Please have a bit more,” he urged again, and held out the bowl a bit more for emphasis.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry and finally, reluctantly, I took the bowl.

I drank, and the motion quickly became greedy becauseGod, was that good… A rich chicken broth with vegetable and herbal notes, yet no pieces of either in it.

“Um, thank you,” I said and handed the bowl back, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. I looked down and pulled the blanket up over my chest, blushing. “Where are my clothes?” I demanded.

“Does this not suit you?” he asked, setting the bowl aside on the nightstand.

It was actually a nice satin and lace nightgown, but no – not really. Not when my nipples were on full display pressing against the off-white cloth so thin you could see the shadow of my areola through it.

What the hell?I thought, followed by,Oh, God… was this guy a human trafficker? What happened, how did I even get here?

“You’re safe here, you have my word,” he soothed. “Please don’t be upset.”

Lord have mercy, there was absolutely nothing that I could keep to myself. Every thought, every feeling, crossed my face as though it were a reader board and no matter how hard I tried, I could never keep it under wraps. I was an open book to anyone who ever looked at me and it got me into more trouble than...

“Miss Brooks.” His voice was disapproving and held a note of warning.

I had tried to act fast. Had tried to act before it could show on my face, but no luck. I tried to bolt past him for the door and I almost made it except for that damn cane of his.

He flipped it around and literally hooked my foot, and I went crashing to the floor.

“That would be inadvisable,” he said crisply and held down a hand to me. I scooted away from him and looked up into an unreadable face – his expression tight around the edges with something I couldn’t define. I just knew it wasn’t good.

“What are you going to do to me?” I demanded, and he sighed.

“The worst sort of things,” he said flatly. “Nurse you back to health, provide you a warm and safe place to stay, treat you like an honored guest, which you are. There are clothes suitable for you in the armoire and these dressers.” He tapped the white lacquered dresser with his cane. “When you are more attired to your liking, I will bring you something more substantial to eat, and antibiotics. The doctor was adamant that you finish your regiment of medications, and now that you are conscious, we can start using the pills.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I demanded, and trying to breathe too deeply, fell into a fit of coughing.

“Pneumonia, primarily.”

“You still haven’t said how I got here, why I’m here.”

“Lach brought you, and I’m afraid only Lach knows.”

“Lock? Who’s Lock?”

“I’ll be back shortly. I’ll answer more of your questions then,” he said. He swept up the bowl and went out the door. I leaped up and got to it just in time to hear the click and sure enough, it was locked.

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