A Treasure Worth Seeking (8 page)

His fingers seemed disinclined to pull the zipper upward and close the dress over her back. "Thank you," she muttered quickly when she knew he had reached the top.

"Just a minute," he said, placing restraining hands on her shoulders. "There's a doodad up here." He pulled her closer to him and leaned down over the back of her neck to better see the tiny hook and the thread eye in which to insert it.

His fingers were warm against her neck and his fragrant breath stirred the curls at the back of her head. He had already accomplished the task of fastening the hook, but she didn't move away.

He encircled her slender throat with the fingers of both hands and did something hypnotic to the base of her neck with his thumbs. She swayed slightly before surrendering to the temptation and leaning into him. Unconsciously, she adjusted her bottom against his hips. Hard thighs pressed into the backs of her legs.

His lips caressed her ear as he spoke. "Do you always smell so delectable?" One hand slipped under her arm, moved around her waist, and flattened on her stomach, almost covering it completely. With a slow, steady, inexorable pressure, he drew her tighter against him.

She felt rather than heard his ragged breathing at the same time as she was aware of a powerful stirring against her.
Oh, God,
she thought,
I shouldn't let—

"Erin, aren't you ready yet?" Melanie called shrilly from downstairs.

Erin and Lance jumped apart. Erin tried to compose herself as she answered unevenly, "I . . . yes, I'll be right down."

"Okay, I'll wait in the car," Melanie shouted back.

Color stained Erin's cheeks and she was unable to meet Lance's eyes as she mumbled to the carpet, "Thank you."

Conspiratorially he leaned down, placed his lips against her ear, and whispered, "It was my pleasure."

She all but ran down the stairs.

ANY OTHER TIME
, Erin would have delighted in the pulsating, cosmopolitan excitement
of
Fisherman's Wharf.

She and Melanie strolled along the piers taking in the unique sights, sounds, and smells. Melanie pointed out the major points of interest. Erin shuddered when she saw the deserted island of Alcatraz. Its bleak, ominous walls rose out of the blue water of the bay like some gruesome, concrete leviathan. The Golden Gate Bridge, even at this distance, was awesome in its proportions. Melanie rattled off statistics about it like a tour guide.

They succumbed to the tantalizing smells of the sidewalk vendors and bought paper cups of shrimp fresh out of the vats of seasoned boiling water. They ate hungrily, decided they hadn't had enough, and ordered another serving each. They bemoaned their overindulgence, but it had just begun.

Melanie practically dragged Erin up the steep sidewalk to Ghirardelli Square
. They strolled through the pic
turesque shops and, though they were still full from the shrimp, treated themselves to a hot fudge sundae at the Old Chocolate Manufactory.

Erin could barely breathe, she felt so stuffed. Too many more weeks in San Francisco and she'd return home roly-poly.

"Do you think I should go back and buy that dress?"

Melanie asked as she scooped up the last syrupy spoonful of her sundae. Erin had persuaded her to try on a dress that had caught her eye in one of the boutiques they had shopped in.

"I think it was made for you, my dear," Erin parrotted the sales clerk in a high falsetto voice, and they were reduced to a fit of giggles.

"Okay," Melanie said, standing up from the small round table in Ghirardelli's. "I'll go get it. You talked me into it."

They traipsed back through the throng of shoppers and sightseers toward the boutique. A company of sidewalk comedians caught Erin's attention and she said to Melanie, "If you don't mind, I'll wait out here for you and watch the performance."

"Sure. I'll be back in a jiffy," Melanie said before being swallowed up by the crowd.

Erin was so engrossed in the talented antics of the per-formers that she didn't really notice the man standing next to her before he said, "They're quite good, aren't they?"

She looked up into a friendly face, unmistakably British with its ruddy complexion. "Yes they are," she said, smiling.

"Are you a native of San Francisco?" he asked conversationally in his clipped, short phrases.

"No. I live in Houston, Texas. You are apparently a tourist just as I am," she said.

He chuckled. "I plead guilty. We're frightfully obvious, I'm afraid."

"Where do you live?" Erin asked him.

"Kent. Actually this is my second trip to the . . . colo-nies." He grinned engagingly, and Erin laughed. "This is my first trip to California, however, and I—"

He was rudely interrupted when someone elbowed his way between them and grasped Erin's arm painfully. "Excuse us, old chap," Lance said in a voice that was anything but neighborly.

Erin didn't have time to wish the English gentleman a pleasant trip before Lance dragged her away through the crowd. She murmured apologies as they shoved through the press, noticing that several people gave them withering looks. Lance's actions weren't exactly mannerly, but he seemed impervious to the crowd and his rudeness.

When he had gotten her out of the flow of traffic, he demanded angrily, "Where the hell have you been? Where is Mrs. Lyman? Who the hell was that man you were talking to?" With each question, the pressure on her arm increased until she almost cried out in pain.

"I'm not telling you one damn thing until you let go of my arm," she said.

He looked down at the tight fist gripping her upper arm as if realizing for the first time that he even had a hold on her. He released her immediately. "All right," he barked,

"where is Mrs. Lyman?"

"She's in a boutique buying a dress," Erin explained as she rubbed her arm in an effort to restore its circulation.

"She tried it on earlier and went back just now to pick it up. I was waiting for her out here."

"Who was the man you were having so much fun with?" His eyes were as cold as his tone of voice.

Erin's dark eyes flashed in vexation as she cried, "I don't know! He was just a man, a very friendly, nice man.

Someone you couldn't identify with," she added scathingly-

"You can cut the sarcasm, Miss O'Shea. My rudeness is a product of worry. You were gone for hours! Then when Clark called and said he'd lost you in the crowd—"

"You had us followed!?" she asked incredulously. "Of all the—"

"For Mrs. Lyman's protection only."

"Like hell." Erin saw Melanie coming toward them chatting to a man who was as nondescript as Mike. He was looking chagrined as they walked up. "I found her," he told Lance unnecessarily.

"Yeah. Thanks," Lance said dryly. Erin felt sorry for the young man when she saw the censure in Lance's eyes.

Melanie seemed oblivious to the tension as the foursome wound their way back to Erin's car. "We're parked across the street. We'll follow you home," Lance said as he held the driver's door open for her.

"Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir." She saluted him mockingly and found smug satisfaction in the tight, angry lines on his face as he slammed the car door.

She sought further revenge by asking Melanie to direct her on the longest route home. It included Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, having seven curves in one block. The Mercedes took them with ease.

The car Lance was riding in didn't fare as well.

WITH THE FIRST TWINGES
of an upset stomach, Erin thought she must be paying for her eating binge that afternoon.

Her altercation with Lance surely hadn't done her digestion any good. She went to bed pleading fatigue and didn't mention her stomachache to Melanie.

She settled down in bed and tried to sleep, but tossed restlessly before finally dozing off. Sometime after mid-night she was awakened by severe stomach cramps. Every muscle in her body contracted against them and sweat broke out of every pore.

Her limbs felt weighted down with lead as she threw back the covers and staggered toward the bathroom. She barely had time to switch on the light and lift the cover of the commode before she was violently ill.

In her life she couldn't remember having an attack of nausea like this. She retched for what seemed like an endless amount of time. With each spasm, the cramping in her intestines took her breath away. Intense heat snaked up her spine, washed over her neck and head, penetrated her brain, and burned in her ears. Then she would shiver with cold. A clammy sweat bathed her body, making her nightgown cling to her like damp seaweed.

At last, when she felt like she had been turned inside out, she washed her face in the lavatory and, unable to stand upright, virtually crawled back to the bed. She collapsed on it, relieved that whatever had made her so sick had been expelled.

That wasn't the case, however. She was alarmed when only a few minutes later, she felt her stomach churning again. She bumped against the door in her dash to the bathroom, and it crashed into the wall. She was still in the throes of nausea when she realized that Melanie was standing there watching her, looking white-faced and terrified.

When Erin was able to look up, Melanie was gone.
Once
again she stumbled
toward the bed and fell across it, exhausted and aching. She jerked in startled reaction when the door to her bedroom was flung open and Lance's silhouette filled the doorjamb. His eyes were wild, his hair was mussed, and he was shirtless. A pair of jeans had been hastily pulled on. They were zipped, but not snapped.

Running shoes were on his feet, but the laces hung untied on the floor. Melanie cowered behind him, tremulous and frightened in her pink quilted robe.

Lance came quickly to the bedside and leaned over Erin, placing a palm against her forehead. His face had lost its guarded look and his eyes traveled over her body anxiously looking for signs of injury or pain.

"Erin? What's the matter?" This couldn't be Lance. It was someone who looked like him. Lance never sounded this gentle and kind. He had called her Erin, not Miss O'Shea. She loved the way he said her name. What had he asked her?

" I . . . I don't know." Her voice was low and weak and hoarse. She could barely summon up enough breath to whisper. "I guess I ate too much today. The shrimp was bad maybe. I don't—" She grabbed her stomach and jack-knifed in pain as another cramp seized her.

"Dammit," she heard him mutter under his breath before he ordered, "Mrs. Lyman, call your physician and tell him you have an emergency. This is no ordinary stomachache. If he can't come immediately, find someone who will."

"He's a friend. He'll come," Melanie said. To Erin, her voice seemed to float from the dark end of a long tunnel.

She panicked when she felt the bile rising once again in her throat and clamped her hand over her mouth. Lance flung back the covers and swept her into his arms, one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. He carried her to the bathroom and deposited her in front of the commode. She had no time to feel embarrassed before she vomited again.

When she was finished, she straightened up and leaned shakily against the wall. Lance, with a supportive arm around her waist, said, "Here. Swish your mouth out, but don't swallow it."

He clinked a glass against her teeth, and she took a mouthful of the solution. It was green mouthwash diluted with water.

She washed her mouth out and spit into the sink. How would she ever look this man in the face again? Wouldn't he always remember her in this ravaged condition? She couldn't think about it now. All she could do now was cling to him like a parasitical ivy struggling for survival.

He lay her gently on the bed and covered her with the blanket against her shivering. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking the sweat-dampened hair from her forehead when Melanie came running back into the room.

"He'll be here in a minute. He only lives a few blocks away. Is she better?"

"I think so," Erin heard Lance answer. "Go down to the kitchen and fill a plastic bag with ice. Bring it to me."

Erin didn't remember Melanie leaving or coming back, but in what seemed a few seconds, Lance was saying to her, "If you feel nauseated again, I'll put this on your throat. It may help." She nodded weakly, but couldn't open her eyes. Her lids were incredibly heavy. All her strength was concentrated in her right hand which gripped Lance's as if retaining the hold on him were a matter of life and death.

She must have slept, for the next thing she knew she was being shaken by a hand on her shoulder and a strange, new voice was coming at her from the end of the tunnel. "Miss O'Shea. Miss O'Shea. If you're going to get a man out of bed at two o'clock in the morning, the least you can do is greet him properly."

The face hovering over hers was as kindly as the soft-spoken voice. The doctor's hair was gray, his eyes a faded blue. "How are you doing? Did you get rid of it all?"

"I think so," she nodded.

"You have quite a tummyache from what I hear. Does it still hurt?" He had pulled away the covers and was probing her abdominal region with practiced fingers.