Spirit of a Champion (Sisters of Spirit #7) (6 page)

She laughed. “I do the same thing. I thought it was only me.”

Seeing she didn’t mind, he laughed with her. “No. I think it
happens to all of us. Strange car, but we still want to drive like we do in our
regular one.”

She folded the towel, unfolded it, folded it up again.

"You shouldn't have been out walking in the sun," he
said.

"I know that...now. I didn't realize what I was doing to
myself. Where are you staying?"

He pointed to the hotel they were approaching. It took up what
would be a normal nine square blocks of city space. "Right there. I didn't
want to have to drive too far to the gym every day so I got the closest one at
this end of town. And it’s right across from where the fight will be
held."

“Very convenient.”

He drove up, gave the attendant his keys, then hurried her
inside. He was in luck. No one noticed him this time. Sometimes fans made it
almost impossible to go anywhere.

She was walking wobbly, and he took her arm and guided her
through the maze of slot machines to the elevator. She had on a pink top today,
filling it out quite nicely, and if anyone looked their way, they would have
seen Stormy and not him.

Once inside, she leaned against the wall. She looked like all
the fight had been knocked out of her. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake by
not taking her to the emergency room.

Fifth floor. The doors opened and she swayed as she moved, so he
took her arm again and helped her down the hallway and into his suite: a
sitting room and two bedrooms, one for him and one which was going to be for
Arne, until he decided to stay elsewhere. It was done in the Vegas-type
flamboyant style that made everything seem much grandeur than an ordinary room.

"In here." He led her into the second room, noting
that the maid had already turned up the air-conditioning and pulled the
curtains against the sun. He held Stormy's arm as she sat on the bed, then took
off her shoes and helped her swing her legs the rest of the way up and onto the
bedspread. She was trembling, her breathing shallow, and he stared down at her,
worried anew. Should he get medical help?

He'd see how things went. Hurrying into the bathroom, he threw a
couple of washcloths into the sink, soaked them in cold water, at the same time
filling a glass with water. He wrung out the cloths and carried everything in
to her.

"Here. Water. Cloths." He handed them to her, ran back
for the aspirin. "Aspirin." He removed the lid and handed her two,
then slipped his arm under her shoulders and lifted her up enough to drink.

She downed the water and the pills, and he helped her lay back,
then put the cloths over her forehead.

"Should I send for a doctor?" he asked, concerned.

"Oh, no. I don't think I'll need one."

"Are you sure?"

"No. But wait a little. This feels so much better...being
cooler. Could I have some more to drink?"

"No problem." He refilled the glass and handed it back
to her, holding her up to drink again. She downed it thirstily.

He found he liked holding her, liked helping her. She didn’t
fight him, just accepted his help as natural. Which it was, for him. 

She was going to sunburn, he decided. Her face was beginning to
flush a deep rose, but it didn't detract from the loveliness of her features.
Her eyebrows arched delicately on each side of a slender nose that ended
abruptly with a slight upward tilt.

She had her eyes closed, but he remembered them being a deep
chocolate brown. He was amazed at the length of her lashes. No artificiality
that he could see. Whatever make-up she might have started the day with was
completely demolished by now. A determined looking mouth...he thought of her
walking the distance from the bus stop to the gym and back again in the Las
Vegas heat. Even the asphalt melted during this time of year.

Kyle glanced down at her shoes. Thin soles, which meant little
protection. Her feet were swollen, red. He returned to the bathroom for more
towels, which he got cold and wet, then used to wrap her feet and replace the
cloths on her forehead.

"That's wonderful," she murmured.

He left her, went into the sitting room and opened up the small
refrigerator that was there, found the bottle he was looking for and hurried
back.

"Here's a sport's drink,” he said. “You probably need to
get these electrolytes in you. I've been told that they help."

"Do they?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

She sat up by herself this time and drank it, then lay back
again. "This isn't helping," she said.

"It isn't?"

"No. I mean it's not helping me talk to you. It's so
urgent."

“Well, if it's urgent, I suppose you must."

"It's about Jerry."

"Yes."

"He's—  You can't fight him." She stopped
as Kyle stared at her in amazement. "That's not what I wanted to say. You
see...I overheard the doctor—Jerry's doctor—talking to him. A few
days ago. He told Jerry...if he fought, it would kill him. Soft spots."

She looked anxiously at him, as if wondering if he understood.
"You know...soft spots are places on the brain that's been injured—"

"I know what soft spots are."

"He told Jerry he has them. You just can't...can't fight
him. If you refuse to fight, they'll have to stop the bout, won’t they? Will
you? Please?"

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kyle stared down at Stormy and noticed her hands, twisting the
wash cloth. She had pulled it off her forehead and was wringing away at it.
This must have been what was worrying her on the plane.

"Why come to me?" he asked. "I'm not the one to
stop the fight. If Jerry's not well, why isn't he stopping it?"

"I don't know. I don't understand. I've told him...I've
begged him. He still insists on going through with it. But I know what the
doctor said."

She sounded confused, bewildered, as if unable to comprehend
what was happening. It did sound unreasonable...but there had to be an
explanation. Kyle figured that logic—however twisted—always
propelled events.

He sat down on the side of the bed. "Are you sure you heard
right?"

"Yes. After Jerry left, the doctor called back and I talked
to him, for just a little while. But I'm sure."

"Did he verify it?"

"No. He cited, uh...you know...patient privilege
...doctor-patient confidence. But he said he wouldn't be accountable for
anything that happened in the ring if Jerry went through with the fight."

"What about your father? He wouldn't let the fight continue
if—"

"My father believes Jerry. He wants to believe Jerry. He
never was good enough to qualify to fight for a championship himself."

Kyle rubbed his hand across his face, the pressure helping him
focus on the problem and not on Stormy's big brown eyes. "Have you tried
the ring doctor?"

"I don't know who he is."

"I do. It will be one of three. One will be chosen to do
it, while the other two are back-ups. I'll give you their names. Find out who
is doing the match. If you're right about this, then he'll stop the
fight."

"But what if he tells Jerry and he still want to
fight?"

"The doctor could stop it over his protests."

"Really?"

"The doctors have the final word."

"Do they look for soft spots?"

"Of course."

"Then I'll go to them."

She tried to sit up; then grabbed her head with a moan. He
pushed her back down, gently but firmly."Lie still. You're not going
anywhere until you're better."

Tears flowed from her eyes and she wiped futilely at them, then
sniffed, trying to fight them back.

"Oh, no," she wailed. "I can't stand blubbering
women."

Kyle laughed softly, feeling his heart melt. In spite of the
storm clouds in her name, she was an exceedingly feminine woman, distressed by
the very weakness that enhanced her. His mother reacted the same way whenever
she started to cry, and he understood now why his father's resolve would
disappear as soon as she broke into tears.

Stormy's distress made him want to put things right for
her—but she was asking the impossible of him.

"You aren't blubbering. Part of it is heat exhaustion. It’s
upset you emotionally, so you aren’t yourself.”

“It just feels so impossible,” Stormy sobbed. “Everyone I talk
to, acts like they’re listening, but they aren’t. You would think I was ten
years old and just being a pest. I feel so helpless. I don’t want to have to
try to stop this match, but I know I must. I don’t want to lose my brother.”

“Like I said, he has to stop the fight. Not me.”

“I understand. I think. Thank you for helping me.”

“No problem.”

"What I really need...."

"Yes?"

"...is cold water on the top of my head. It still feels
like it's boiling."

“I’ll tell you what. Why don't you go into the bathroom and take
a cool shower? Cold water will cool you down, especially on the top of your
head. Stand in there and see if it helps. Wash the heat out of you."

"Are you sure...it'll be all right?"

“Of course.”

She tried to sit up and he had to help her off the bed and to a
standing position. She stood still, seemingly disoriented. She looked so
fragile, so lost, it took all of Kyle's discipline not to pull her into his
arms and kiss her. Instead he led her into his bathroom, turned on the shower,
headed resolutely for the door—and then stopped, finding it hard to
leave.

"Can you manage?" he asked.

She wiped away the last of the tears. "Yes. Thanks."

He left, carrying her image with him as he passed on into the
main suite; found himself too unsettled to sit down, so picked up the phone and
dialed room service.

He was so glad he had
recognized her at the bus stop. She could easily be in the hospital by now with
a serious case of heat stroke. That was where she was headed.

Stormy looked around at the bathroom. It was huge—her
entire hotel unit would almost fit inside. Gold fixtures—fancier than any
she had seen in homes—were outshone only by several rows of decorative
bulbs that encompassed the large mirror. The walls were beautifully tiled near
the tub and wallpapered elsewhere with a reflective silver and gold foil.
Fluffy white towels overflowed several racks and a large white throw rug graced
the floor. The only marks of Kyle's presence were some men's toilet articles
placed on glass shelves near the granite sink and a large blue bathrobe hung
behind the door.

Feeling a trifle overwhelmed by all the glitter, she
concentrated on yanking off her shirt, shorts and undergarments, then stepped
into the stream. It hit her—cold—and she gasped, then dropped her
head so that the water poured down on top, drawing the heat out of her body. It
felt good, but she was still tired and sat down under the flow, letting her
mind wander as she savored the coolness.

Kyle had told her his name on the plane, but she had not been
really listening, caught up in her own problems. Or had he told her? She didn’t
remember him saying ‘Kyle.’ If he had, wouldn’t she have looked more closely at
him?

Why hadn't she recognized him, even with longer hair? The plane
trip would have been the perfect time to tell him about Jerry...much better
than now. She couldn't recall much of what she had just said to him.

What was she going to do? The ring doctors were her last hope.
At least Kyle was going to give her their names. One more group to see.

She wasn't going to give up. She couldn't.

She had been impressed by how tenderly The Killer had given her
liquids and put the damp towels on her overheated head. Perhaps he wasn't such
an ogre after all.

"You all right in there?"

She opened her eyes and peeked past the curtain to see that he
had cracked open the door slightly. He hadn't come in.

"Yes. It just feels so good." She thought briefly to
herself that those weren't quite the right words to use. "I hate to
leave."

"Take as long as you want. I've ordered supper."

"I'll be right out."

"Take your time. It’ll be awhile before it gets here."
He closed the doors.

She did feel better. With the heat gone, her brain functioned
again, although she still felt as exhausted as if she had just finished a
marathon swim.

She sat for about five more minutes, savoring the cool water,
until the feeling of nausea left. She stood up, grabbed the soap and did a
quick cleansing, and a rinse. By now she was really cool.

Reaching up she turned off the water, dried herself, and stepped
out. Reluctant to put her dirty clothes back on, she pulled the large bathrobe
off its hook and shrugged herself into it; then stopped upon seeing her image
in the mirror—flushed face, wet hair, man's robe.