Seaside Avenue (Cedar Cove #7)(91)

She blinked rapidly in an effort to forestall the tears, not that it did any good. “Let me help you,” she begged.

He seemed reluctant to have her touch him. “Be careful.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Slipping her arm around his waist, she led him outside. At least the rain had stopped. They walked, step by unhurried step, to where she’d parked her car. “Did the doctor give you a prescription?”

“Yes, it’s in my pocket. For pain. What I need most, they told me, is rest.”

“And chicken soup,” she added. It was all she could think of. “I’ll get the prescription filled and buy you a can of soup.”

She half expected him to argue. His acceptance of her being there told her how much pain he was in.

Although he didn’t complain, the walk to the parking lot obviously left him in agony. He looked pale and drained by the time she got the passenger door open and helped him inside. Then she dashed around the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

“I would’ve taken a taxi home,” he murmured.

“I’m here.” She put her key in the ignition, then glanced at him. “I should call Bobby and Teri,” she said, “but I don’t have a cell.”

“I spoke to them a few minutes ago,” James informed her. “From a pay phone near the ER.”

She nodded.

“He told me the police have already recovered the limousine. It was abandoned by the railway tracks.”

She shifted the car into gear, watching as even the slightest movement made him grimace in pain. “I’ll drive very slowly.”

Halfway back to the house, she started to cry again, the tears slipping soundlessly down her cheeks. She was shocked that seeing him like this had such an emotional impact on her. She told herself a dozen times a day that she found him a nuisance, but she knew that wasn’t how she really felt. She was falling for this guy. Falling hard.

As soon as she pulled up to the house, Bobby and Teri hurried out to see James.

“He’s badly hurt,” Christie said in a stern voice. “Keep your distance. His ribs are broken.”

“Oh, James.” Teri began to cry, too. “James, stay at our place, okay? Those stairs to your apartment are too much. We have a downstairs guest room and—”

“No,” he insisted. “No. I can manage.”

Christie knew his stoicism and his need for privacy would keep him from accepting Teri’s suggestion, and she understood that, but it was hard to watch him suffer.

“I’m going to make Vladimir pay for this,” Bobby said through gritted teeth. His fists were clenched at his sides.

Christie’s hand was on James’s arm as she turned to look at Bobby. “If you need any help with that, let me know.” She spoke fiercely and she meant every word.

“Is there anything I can do?” Teri asked.

Christie took the prescription out of her purse. “Get this filled and pick up four cans of chicken noodle soup.” She’d seen a grocery store flyer that advertised four for three dollars; having grown up poor, she automatically noticed a bargain.

“I’ll go with you,” Bobby said, following Teri.

“I’ll take you to your rooms,” Christie said, again clasping James’s elbow and gently steering him toward the outside staircase that led to his quarters above the garage.

“I’ll be fine now. Thank you,” he said when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Forget it.” Christie wasn’t taking no for an answer, and he must’ve realized that because he capitulated without an argument. Bad enough, she figured, that he’d been so stubborn, refusing to stay at Teri’s house. They took the stairs slowly and each one made him wince. When they finally got to the landing, Christie had her arm around his waist and he was leaning against her. The door was unlocked and, as she’d suspected, his quarters were immaculate. He pointed in the direction of the bedroom and she supported him as he hobbled toward it.

His bed was made with military precision and even when he sat down the blanket didn’t wrinkle.

“I’ll be fine now,” he said again, more firmly this time.

“I…” Christie was reluctant to leave.

“I don’t need your help anymore.”

“Do you mean that?” she asked, trying to disguise the pain his comment had inflicted.

He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You said I’m a stuffed shirt.”

“So? You are.”

“You don’t want anything to do with me,” he reminded her. “You said that…the last time I drove you home…”

“I did?” She couldn’t even remember, although they’d argued about what she’d called his “hovering” and “overprotectiveness.”

“You asked—yet again—that I not drive you anymore.”

She didn’t see that as any big deal. “I’m capable of driving myself, you know.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “And I’m capable of looking after myself.”

“Fine,” she said, hands on her hips. “We’re both capable people. Now climb into bed and I’ll tuck you in.”

“Then you’ll go?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”