Racing Against the Clock

What was happening?

A reaction to Virusall?

Hannah knew the drug was volatile, unstable and had some serious side effects, but she couldn’t tell Tyler about it.

Without hesitation, he bent and scooped her into his arms. “I knew something like this was going to happen,” he muttered under his breath. “I knew that you weren’t well.”

Her chest still encompassed by an invisible band that squeezed tighter with each inhalation, Hannah leaned her head against Tyler’s shoulder. Even though she weighed only a hundred and twelve pounds, he was much stronger than she had anticipated. For a lean man, he was quite stout. He carried her as if she weighed no more than thistledown, holding her aloft as he stalked up the stairs toward the house.

If Hannah had thought holding hands with this man had been an earthshaking experience, it was nothing compared to what zinged through her body now.

Desire.

Quick and hot.

Never had she wanted any man the way she wanted this one. Suddenly, the woman who disliked being touched, who hated being kissed, could think of nothing but this man’s lips upon hers, his hands tracing a brush fire across her body.

What would he do if she were to kiss his cheek? Why was she thinking like this? She wasn’t the sort of woman who fell willy-nilly into relationships. She was cautious, practical, sensible.

Maybe she had a head injury from the accident. Or perhaps she was shell-shocked. She longed to cling to the explanation but she feared her attraction to this man was due to much more than trauma.

And yet, she had waited all her life to feel like this, had waited for someone to unlock her passion. No matter what her parents had told her, deep down inside Hannah had secretly believed in the Cinderella fable. She had hoped against hope that it was true.

Now that she felt these unfamiliar stirrings, she was terrified. This couldn’t be happening. Not at this juncture in her life. Not with so much at stake. Not with her future so uncertain. Not when she could drag him down with her.

She clung to Tyler’s neck, tossed helplessly by her emotions, more frightened of what she was feeling than the increasing tightness twisting through her chest. Were the two connected? Her emotions and her physical distress?

Tyler sat her on the porch, then reached into the pocket of his scrub pants for the key, keeping one arm curled around her waist.

The door sprang open at his touch. He reached inside, fumbling for the lights. They came on with blinding brightness. Hannah shielded her eyes with her forearm.

Picking her up again, he then hurried inside and kicked the door closed with his foot.

He was right. The house did smell musty. She crinkled her nose against the odor of mildew. Her head ached. The living room furniture was covered with sheets that made it appear like squat, silent ghosts.

Carefully, he deposited her on the sofa, and then disappeared into another part of the house. He returned seconds later with a small black medical bag. He popped an old-fashioned glass thermometer under her tongue and strapped a blood-pressure cuff around her right arm. Hannah peered up at him. His eyes were so filled with concern she experienced an unexpected urge to cry. She was not given to displays of emotion and she fought against the tears.

His bare arm brushed her hand and she lost her breath. She stared at him, unable to look away. He compelled her in a way nothing, beyond her work, ever had.

The green of his scrub suit contrasted nicely with his tanned complexion and straight white teeth. Most people looked blah and shapeless in scrubs, but Tyler Fresno looked astonishing. The cotton scrub top lightly grazed his chest, coyly hinting at the streamlined muscles lurking under the material. Even though he was slim, the man was built like the Rock of Gibraltar.

She felt herself blush. The heat burned her cheeks. What was this? She never blushed. She’d been trained to be passionless, clinical, in control of her emotions.

Disassociate. Disconnect. Disengage. But her favorite mental chant failed to stop the alien sensations from tumbling over her.

His prying fingers were strong yet tender as he examined her. He raised her scrub top, exposing her chest, slipped a stethoscope into his ears and placed the cold bell against her rib cage, his warm hand skimming over her skin. She closed her eyes and battled the hot yearning sensation that surged through her. She ached for him to drop that stethoscope and cup her breasts in his palms.

Why? She had never hungered for anyone’s touch.

Tyler told her to take several deep breaths and then cough. Avoiding his eyes, she did as he asked.

He took her blood pressure, then removed the thermometer from her mouth and held it up to the light. “Temp and BP are normal,” he proclaimed, his relief unmistakable. “Your breath sounds are clear. How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“That’s good.” He lowered her scrub top and patted her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t know what happened back there on the beach. Or why I collapsed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he soothed. “You’ve had a rough day. I think it’s past time that you got some sleep. Give me a few minutes and I’ll put sheets on the bed in the guest room.”

Hannah nodded. She was so touched by his kind heart she couldn’t speak. A few minutes later, he returned to lead her upstairs and into the guest bedroom.

The room contained a canopied bed, a white wicker chair and a full-length mirror. There was a dressing table with a round-faced clock sitting on it and a small a.m./f.m. radio. Plain white curtains hung at the windows and several pastoral photographs of the beach adorned the walls. It was an understated but elegant room. Had his late wife decorated it?

Her own domestic genes were nonexistent. She’d been a scientist for so long she had no idea how to simply be a woman.

“You can wear one of my T-shirts,” Tyler said, tugging her from her disturbing reverie and handing her a white cotton T-shirt.

She thanked him and when he left the room a forlorn emptiness overcame her. She pressed his cotton shirt to her nose and breathed deeply. It smelled nice and she was surprised to discover the scent comforted her. She took off the borrowed hospital scrubs and pulled the T-shirt over her head. It came to her knees, hugging her in a cloth embrace. Startled, she realized she had never worn a man’s garment before.

Hannah tried to sleep but her mind whirled. She closed her eyes and willed her disturbed thoughts away. She dozed for a while, but then the nightmares came. Vivid ugly dreams in which she relived the car crash again and again. Above it all, she kept seeing Lionel Daycon’s cruel twisted face laughing at her.

At five o’clock, she jerked awake to the sound of rain hitting the window. Her chest tightness returned along with her labored breathing. She had an awful premonition that something terrible had happened to Marcus. She had to speak to him. Now. He should be home at this hour. It was 4:00 a.m. in New Mexico and although she would probably wake him, she didn’t care. She had to know he was safe, plus, she was desperate to get his opinion about the bizarre things that had been happening to her.

Easing out of bed, she tiptoed downstairs, running her hand along the wall to guide her. In the strange house, she was lost and found herself stumbling through the living room before realizing she didn’t know where the telephone was located.

Her pulse rate increased. She padded through another room and skipped her fingers along the wall searching for the light plate. Eventually, she found it and flicked the switch, bathing the kitchen in a fluorescent gleam.

It was a nice kitchen. Open, airy, done in blues and yellows, with a wide picture window that looked out over the ocean. She paused a few moments to get her bearings. Cocking her head she listened for sounds of movement upstairs and prayed she hadn’t awakened Tyler. She didn’t want him involved in this.

A phone was mounted on the wall over the bar. Relief poured through her, and she grasped for the receiver. Sitting down on a bar stool, she punched in the number of her telephone calling card with trembling fingers.

An automated voice came on the line telling her the calling card number was no longer valid. Certain that she had punched the number in wrong, Hannah hung up and tried again.

The same monotone recording greeted her ears.

Damn! Daycon Laboratories issued her calling card and Daycon had probably canceled it the minute she’d left Austin. He had not been idle in the hours she was infirm. She wondered if he could somehow trace her through the card. Terrified at the prospect, she slammed down the phone. She regretted the company phone card, corporate bank account and car they’d leased for her.

Oh, no, what if Daycon had frozen her checking account, as well? A sharp pain rippled through Hannah’s chest, then disappeared.

Don’t panic, calm down, think. What next?

She couldn’t risk dialing direct and having Marcus’s phone number appear on Tyler’s telephone bill. She would call collect. Hannah dialed again and gave her name to an automated operator. Nervously she drummed her fingers on the counter.

“Hello,” a sleepy male replied.

Relief shot through her, and she unclenched her fists. Marcus was safe.