Difficult Decision: Connecticut (The Americana Series Book 7) Page 6

Too? It was a split second before Deborah realized he was referring to the driver of the other car. It prodded her out of the numbed disassociation with reality. The glass from her broken car window must have cut her arm, but the injury wasn't bothering her so it couldn't be too bad. She transferred her concern to the driver of the other car and tried to open her door.

  The same stranger said, "The door is bashed in. You'll have to get out on the other side."

  Deborah scooted across the seat to the passenger door. It opened easily at her touch. The items on the seat spilled onto the pavement. Someone helped her to pick them up. She remembered thanking the person and worrying about the blood that had dripped from her arm onto the report.

  Looking around, she saw the car that had careened off the side of hers. It had rammed into the front of a third car stopped at the light. It was the occupants of the third car who were hurt, not the driver who had run the stoplight. She could hear the distant moans of pain. They were almost instantly drowned out by the wail of police sirens, followed by an ambulance.

  When they arrived on the scene, Deborah was caught up in a rush of confusion. Everyone was talking at once, the police asking questions and everyone, including her, answering them. An ambulance attendant was administering first aid to stem the flow of blood from the cut in her arm, and making his own inquiries. The intersection was blocked and horns were blaring with impatience. Policemen were blowing their whistles and directing traffic to a limited degree.

  The next thing Deborah knew, she was being ushered into an ambulance and a policeman was handing her shoes, purse, and report to her. One of the more seriously injured victims was being slid into the ambulance on a stretcher.

  As the rear doors closed, Deborah heard herself ask, "What time is it?"

  "A little after eight, miss," an attendant replied.

  She glanced at the report on her lap and remembered, "I have to get to the office. I'm late for work."

  "You are going to be later yet," he smiled sympathetically. "That cut needs to be looked at. Your boss will understand."

  "You don't know my boss," Deborah murmured. She could just imagine Zane Wilding's reaction to the accident. He would probably accuse her of being an incompetent driver.

  At the hospital one of the ambulance attendants ushered her through the emergency entrance while the other two brought in the second victim. Inside, an admitting nurse guided her to one of the treatment rooms where Deborah was subjected to more questions, this time about her medical history, allergies, medication, et cetera. Her answers were jotted down on an admittance form.

  "The doctor will be in directly." The nurse started to leave the small cubicle.

  "Excuse me, but I'm late for work. How long will it be?" Deborah wanted to know. "There is a nine o'clock meeting and my boss needs that report." At the present moment it was sitting on a straight-backed chair in the room, along with her purse and shoes.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Holland, but I don't know. It won't be long, I promise," the nurse assured her. "I'm positive you'll be able to leave as soon as the doctor examines you and sees to that injury."

  "But—" Deborah paused in her protest, searching for the words to convince the nurse of the importance of the papers she had in her possession.

  "Why don't I call your office and explain the reason for your delay?" the nurse suggested helpfully.

  "Yes. My employer is Mr. Wilding, Zane Wilding." She felt slightly relieved by the offer. "He'll probably want to send someone over for these reports rather than wait."

  "I'll call him right away," the nurse promised and left.

  The minutes dragged while Deborah waited for the doctor to appear. The shock had worn off and her arm had begun to throb. She was sitting on the treatment table, her nylon-stockinged feet dangling over the edge, when she realized she still hadn't put on her shoes. Just as she slid off the table to remedy that, the doctor entered the room along with a nurse.

  "Don't tell me my patient is planning to run away," he joked with a pleasant smile.

  "I was just going to put on my shoes. I was in such a rush when I left for work this morning, I forgot," Deborah explained, feeling slightly ridiculous as she did.

  "I wouldn't bother with them now—" he consulted the chart the nurse handed him before he added "—Miss Holland. Have a seat while I take a look at your arm." He motioned toward the treatment table.

  Favoring her left arm, Deborah inched her way onto the table again with as much grace as possible. The doctor unwrapped the temporary bandage that had been applied at the scene of the accident. Blood from the wound had already begun to dry on her skin.

  "Messy, isn't it?" he grinned. "But I'll bet it isn't as bad as it looks." No comment seemed to be expected from Deborah and she made none.

  The nurse brought him some towelettes and a bowl filled with some solution. Deborah watched as he began cleaning the excess blood from her skin. There were several small cuts, but only one major laceration on the inside of her arm. The flow of blood had been reduced to a slow seepage.

  "It's going to require a few stitches," he informed her. "First, we'd better make sure there aren't any glass splinters in there."

  Working with professional efficiency, he probed the cut. Deborah winced several times, biting at her lower lip to check the gasps of pain. When the stitching was all done and the injury once again bandaged, the doctor leaned back.

  "Any other aches or pains I can treat?" he asked in a half-joking manner. "You didn't hit your head, twist your back?"

  "No. Nothing." Deborah shook her had. The movement started a shower of tiny slivers of glass that had been caught in her thick hair.

  "You were lucky. You know that, don't you?" the doctor remarked. "If you hadn't lifted your arm, that broken glass would have cut your face more than it did." Glancing at the nurse, he ordered, "Bring me that bowl of antiseptic."

  "My face?" She was suddenly conscious of a vague stinging sensation along her left cheek.

  "Don't worry," he smiled. "It's just a few tiny nicks. The skin has barely been pricked. They'll be all gone in a couple of days."

  His gentle, capable hands swabbed the pinpoints on her cheek. "How is the driver of the third car?" she asked.

  "A broken leg, I understand," the nurse was the one who answered her question.

  As the doctor finished, a movement in the doorway drew Deborah's gaze. "Zane," she breathed in astonishment, unaware she had used his given name. He entered the treatment room, making it seem smaller than it already was. Something flickered in his shattering blue eyes, but the glimpse was too fleeting for Deborah to identify it.

  "Are you a relative?" the doctor was asking in his pleasant voice.

  "No, I'm her employer."

  "This is Mr. Wilding, doctor." Deborah would have introduced them but she couldn't remember the doctor's name or whether he had told her. Her initial shock at seeing Zane was receding, but her confusion hadn't. "What are you doing here?"

  "The hospital called to inform me of your accident."

  If he had intended to say more than that, Deborah didn't give him a chance. "Of course, the meeting," she remembered. "Is it nine o'clock yet? The report is on that chair behind you. The first pages are a little smeared with blood. They should be retyped, but—"

  "Her face, will it be scarred?" Even as Zane asked the question, interrupting her hastily prepared speech, his strong fingers were closing on her chin and turning her head so he could examine the left side of her face for himself.

  His touch stopped her heartbeat before it went racing off on a snare-drum roll. One of his fingers was on the pulse in her neck and Deborah wondered if he had felt her reaction to the unexpected contact. It made her feel hot and slightly giddy.

  "No. Those little cuts will go away in a day or two," the doctor assured him. "She did have a bad laceration on her left arm, but we've stitched that up. It'll give her pain for a few days, but I'm sure it will heal perfectly. She will have a scar from that."

  A ner
ve twitched in his hard, lean jaw as his hand fell away from her chin. Deborah had trouble trying to breathe normally again. Zane appeared upset about something. If it wasn't because she was late for work, then she didn't know why.

  "Is she free to leave now?" he demanded of the doctor.

  "Yes. Here is a couple of prescriptions, one for an antibiotic to ward off any possible infection and the other is for a mild painkiller if it's needed." The doctor rose from his stool after handing two slips of paper to Zane, and smiled at Deborah. "Take care of yourself, Miss Holland. Stop by the desk on your way out and the nurse will give you an appointment to have the stitches removed."

  "Thank you." She returned his smile.

  "Are these your things?" Zane turned to the chair behind him as the doctor and nurse left the treatment room.

  "Yes." His curtness and the grimness of his expression confused Deborah. "The accident wasn't my fault," she asserted just in case an accusation was forthcoming. "The other driver ran a red—"

  "Yes, I know," he interrupted, picking up her shoes. "I've already received a full report from the police."

  She reached to take her shoes from him, but he was already bending to slip them onto her feet. "I'll do that," she protested in a surge of self-consciousness. But a hand was already cupping her heel and sliding her foot into a shoe. The contact was oddly intimate, not at all resembling the impersonal touch of a shoe salesman.

  "You are hardly Cinderella," he remarked in a dry, flat voice.

  It prodded her retort. "And you are certainly no Prince Charming."

  As he straightened, a cold, crooked smile slanted his mouth. "Now that sounds like you, Miss Holland."

  Before she could guess his intentions, his hands were spanning the sides of her rib cage to lift her off the table, setting her feet on the floor. A crazy weakness attacked her legs. Deborah wavered unsteadily against him for an instant, aware of his hard strength and an elusive, masculine scent that clung to his skin. Then he was stepping away, blue eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. Was it her imagination or had he held her a fraction of a second longer than was necessary? And why was she disappointed that his hands were no longer against her flesh?

  Deborah gave herself a mental shake. This was all insane. Where were these silly, romantic notions coming from? Zane Wilding was a married man. She didn't want to become tangled in that kind of nowhere situation. Plus, despite his rugged good looks, she didn't like him as a person. He was too hard and insensitive, totally lacking in compassion and gentleness. Deborah decided that the accident had simply knocked her a little more off balance than she had realized.

  "If you are ready, we'll get you signed out of here." He handed the purse to her, but kept the report in his possession.

  Assured that she had recovered her poise, Deborah nodded. "Yes, I'm ready." She took the purse he held out to her.

  After they had made the appointment, Zane took charge of the details of her discharge, accomplishing the whole procedure at the cashier's desk in record time. Deborah recognized that his forceful personality was one few people would argue with and the girl behind the desk was no exception.

  "My car is parked outside."

  "What about my car?" Deborah remembered with a start, stopping halfway to the exit door.

  His hand gripped her elbow to propel her forward. "It's been towed to a garage for repairs. Tom has already handled the details so you don't need to be concerned about it." He pushed the door open and held it for her.

  "But—" Deborah felt compelled to assert herself "—it's my car. I have to notify my insurance company and—"

  "I told you that it has already been done."

  Deborah walked toward the sleek, cobalt blue Continental. She would have stopped without the hand on her elbow. Instead of feeling relieved by his announcement, she felt confused and suspicious.

  "But why did you do it?" she demanded. "It wasn't any of your business."

  "On the contrary—" Zane unlocked the passenger side and helped her into the seat "—the fact that you work for me, made it my business. We all help in time of necessity. It's called teamwork."

  "And you call the shots." But he closed the door on her faintly sarcastic response and Deborah doubted that he had heard her.

  It was an unusual experience to have Zane behind the wheel. Usually she or Tom drove, depending on which of them Zane wanted to confer with at the time. But there was no mistaking that the hands on the steering wheel were very strong, very competent, and very much in control—just like the man.

  During the first few minutes of the drive, Deborah studied the rawly masculine profile of the driver, the rakish thickness of his jet black hair, and the steel blue of his eyes. Her arm began to throb, distracting her attention. She shifted its position on her lap to relieve the stress of the previous one. Her glance noticed the report on the seat between them.

  "What time is it?" she asked suddenly.

  "Where is your watch?" His quick glance noticed the bareness of her left wrist.

  "I left it on the dresser this morning." In her haste to leave for the office, she had forgotten all about it.

  "It's a few minutes before nine."

  "The meeting! We'll be late," Deborah realized in a voice that revealed her own feelings of guilt and frustration. "You haven't had a chance to go over the report. The first few pages really should be retyped. I don't suppose there will be time—"

  "The meeting has been postponed."

  "That's a relief." Deborah relaxed against the plushly upholstered seat of gray velour, and released a sigh that quivered through her nerves, easing their tautness.

  "How is your arm?" With a sliding look that was both sharp and impersonal, his gaze ran over the bandage before slicing back to the traffic.

  Something clicked in her mind. Deborah had been puzzling over his presence. His show of concern was for totally selfish reasons. How severely was she going to be incapacitated by her injury? How much would it interfere with her ability to do her job? Anger splintered through her.

  "Don't worry, Mr. Wilding." Her voice reeked with sarcasm. "It is my left arm. Since I'm right-handed, I'm still able to take notes and function quite capably at the meeting."

  "You aren't attending the meeting. I'm taking you to your apartment," Zane announce.

  She flashed him a surprised and wary look. "It isn't necessary. I'm able to work and I know how important this meeting is."

  His sharp gaze caught and held hers at a stoplight. "I can manage quite well without you. Contrary to your opinion, your services as my assistant are not indispensable."

  Stung by his caustic dismissal of the need for her presence, Deborah faced the front, her pride just a little bit hurt. "I never suggested that they were." Maybe a little. Everyone likes to be needed and Deborah wasn't an exception. She liked to think that her contribution was important, but Zane Wilding made it clear that such a belief was a fallacy.

  "My God, I suppose your feelings are hurt," he muttered in an impatient undertone and shot her a glittering look. "I was merely trying to point out that we can survive without your presence today. The accident was a traumatic experience, not counting the injury to your arm. I'm offering you a day off—with pay."

  Obviously he thought he was doing her a favor. How much more receptive she would have been if he had only said, "Somehow we'll make it through today without you," or at least implied she would be missed. But Zane Wilding never needed anybody, she remembered.

  "Thank you." She ground out the polite phrase through gritted teeth and lapsed into a tense silence that didn't end until he had parked in front of her apartment. When he started to get out of the car, Deborah objected, "There isn't any need for you to walk me to the door. I can manage without your help."

  There was a split second's hesitation before he shrugged and remained behind the wheel while she stepped onto the sidewalk. The car remained parked at the curb. The skin at the back of her neck prickled as Deborah walked up the flight of stairs to
her apartment door. He was watching her, waiting to see that she made it inside. She fumbled in her purse for the key and finally managed to unlock the door, but she didn't reveal her awareness of the car as it pulled away from the curb.

  When the door was closed behind her, Deborah was overwhelmed by a feeling of release. She trembled violently and blamed it on the after shock of the accident. Dropping her purse on the sofa, she noticed the red stains on her dress. If she intended to get them out, she had to do something about them right away. Unbelting her dress, Deborah walked into the bathroom and paused at the sight of her reflection in the mirror.

  No wonder Zane hadn't thought her capable of a day's work. Her mahogany hair was rumpled without any semblance of style or order. She didn't look the picture of smooth efficiency. A haunting brilliance of pain was in her gray eyes, lacing their usual confident glow of self-possession. Turning her head sideways, Deborah examined the nicks on her cheek, marks that were barely discernible even now.

  With vivid clarity, she remembered Zane's sharp inquiry whether her face would be scarred. The firm clasp of his fingers seemed to have left their sensual imprint on her chin. She could still feel them. Why would he care if she had been left with facial scars from the accident? She had worked for him nearly six months, but he was still very much a mystery to her in many ways. Deborah shook her head. Where was it written that she had to know everything there was to know about the man who signed her paycheck?

  She stripped off her dress, taking care not to jar her injured arm, and washed out the blood stains with cold water. Wearing just her underclothes, she walked into the bedroom, feeling enervated and tired by all that had happened. She slipped between the covers of the unmade bed and rested her head on the pillow to doze.

  At midafternoon, Deborah wakened to the throbbing pain in her arm. It made her restless and on edge. Donning a cotton duster, she ventured into the kitchen. She knew she should eat, but the cold sandwich she fixed tasted like cotton in her mouth. Cradling her left arm in her lap, she tried to read, but the paperback tale didn't hold her interest. She began prowling the room, holding her throbbing left arm against her stomach. It was a long time since she had so much free time to kill. There was a great deal of housework that needed to be done, but the way her arm felt, such activity would only aggravate her discomfort.