Under the Gun. Lyn StoneЧитать онлайн книгу.
As for the other thing she’d mentioned, his warning to them, he didn’t want to think about how he had done it. And he sure didn’t want to talk about it. Matt could have explained it, if only he were around to ask.
His death seemed unreal, impossible. But it was a fact.
If only Matt had experienced a premonition before they’d gone out that night. He’d had no warning something fatal was about to go down. Why was that? Why hadn’t he picked up something—anything—from the shooter before the event? This Odin must have been near enough that Matt could have done so, probably during the whole operation.
Maybe there’d been too many people converging all at once for Matt to have zeroed in on any particular one. After all, just about every man at the airport had been armed and ready to kill anybody who got in the way. And Matt’s ability wasn’t all that consistent. Not surefire.
He had been blessed—or cursed, as Will sometimes thought—with telepathy and occasionally prescience. Will had never before experienced either one, at least not with people other than his brother.
There was the twin deal, of course. He and Matt had always operated on the same wavelength, a fairly common occurrence between identical twins. Besides that, the best Will had ever managed was the tingling along the back of the neck when being watched, a keen wariness when expecting things to go wrong, the usual intuition many people had.
Life without his twin was just too unthinkable.
Will couldn’t decide whether he was now a half person or if he had absorbed Matt’s soul and become two. It was as if his brother were still here…even closer than before he had been killed.
“Going back to sleep? If you are, I’m draining this tub so you won’t drown,” Holly warned, dragging him back to the present. She leaned over the edge and put her hand in the water.
Matt grabbed her wrist, glad to note his reflexes were still working. “You leave the drain alone,” he warned. He moved her hand away and promptly turned her loose.
Her fingernail raked softly down the side of his face. “I see you shaved,” she said, her tone sardonic.
“How observant.”
“Hard not to notice. You have blood running down your neck.” Her nail tapped just below where he had nicked himself.
She stood, her figure wavering as he looked up at her. “Come on. Let’s get you out of the tub. You’re getting all pruny.”
Pruny, huh? Maybe his fingers and toes. Will sat right where he was, wondering how many soap bubbles were left in the tub to provide cover. Probably not many. Maybe none.
He was picking up signals from Holly that indicated she was taking full advantage of the view. He felt himself stir. No matter how cold the water, when a woman was looking at you naked, it had a predictable effect.
“Where’s that guy? The one who’s been helping me,” he demanded.
“Doc Grayson? He’s in the kitchen. He trained as a medic his first stint in the navy, but he’s not a real doctor. He’s just—”
“Yes, but he is a real guy, okay? Leave me a little dignity. You’ve already made one too many jokes about my gun.”
She laughed, the sound merry as Christmas morning. “You rascal! That dry sense of humor’s still working, huh? I’ll go get Doc.”
Will smiled in spite of himself, listening to her laughter trail down the hallway and out of earshot. It was all right, after all. She wasn’t reading his mind. If she had been just now, she wouldn’t be laughing.
He splashed water on his face to wash away the blood from the nick.
In a few minutes, someone else entered the room. “Doc…Grayson, is it?”
“That’s me,” said the quiet, gentle voice. Will sensed he was an older man.
“Thanks for the help.”
“No problem. That’s what I get paid for.”
He didn’t elaborate. Doc was a man of few words, his movements unhurried and methodical as he assisted Will out of the tub and helped him dress.
The sweats were new, judging by the slightly starchy feel of them. Will didn’t care where the clothes came from; anything was a damn sight better than a freaking hospital gown. He sat down on the john and pulled on the socks Grayson put in his hand.
“Here are your shoes.”
One at the time, Will put the stiff new runners on and tied them. This was like being a kid again, but not in a good way. “I’m stronger now.” He stood up and stretched. “I feel better,” he announced, adding a little starch to his voice. Just saying it almost made it so.
“Take it easy now,” Grayson advised. “Don’t want to get too feisty too soon.”
“No, really, I’m okay,” Will argued. “I can make it under my own steam if you’ll guide me around the furniture. The big stuff I can maneuver, but anything spindly sort of blends in.”
“Was the optic nerve damaged?” Grayson asked.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Will snapped, then was immediately sorry. “Look, I don’t even know if the bullet’s still in my head, okay? Let’s go ask Holly.” He started for the door and tripped on the scatter rug.
Grayson caught him. “You better slow down.”
“Or get a fast dog and a cane.”
“No use making light of it, son. We’d best get somebody who can see about your eyes.”
“My thoughts exactly. I told Holly to,” he said as Grayson led him out of the bathroom.
The hallway seemed miles longer than before. Will’s legs felt so wobbly, he had to accept support and lean heavily.
However, instead of walking him back to the bedroom on their left, Grayson guided him right, into the kitchen. No question, that’s what the room was. The scents of bacon frying and coffee perking permeated the place.
Sunlight through the window silhouetted Holly’s head and shoulders. “Brunch?” he asked, forcing a smile.
“You bet. You up to some real food now, kiddo?”
She’d never called him that before. It was a name she reserved for Eric Vinland, youngest of their team. It rankled, being called that, but Will knew it would be childish to make an issue of something that trivial. He decided to ignore it.
“Heaven must smell pretty much like this,” he commented, striving for congeniality, hoping he sounded at least halfway normal. “I don’t know if my stomach is ready for the menu, but my nose is having a field day.”
“Park him right there, Doc,” Holly said. “I’ve got some oatmeal with his name on it.”
“Oh, Lord. Go ahead and shoot me,” Will muttered as he took a chair, his feigned good humor fading fast.
“Somebody already took care of that,” she quipped. “Now we have to get you well so you can shoot him back, okay? Mind Mama and eat your porridge so you’ll be a big, strong boy.”
She set something in front of him and began fussing over it. Adding sugar, butter and cream, he supposed. Not that he was going to eat the stuff, no matter what she did to it.
As close as she was to him, her arm brushing his shoulder, her head next to his, Will caught the familiar subtle scent of her. It jarred memories of holding her close last night, early this morning.
His appetite for food might be nil, but another appetite definitely was increasing. He needed to fight it. Rather, he ought to keep fighting it as he had, off and on, for a couple of years now.
Talk about denial. How the hell had he buried something like that in his subconscious?