The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
inside there?
She couldn’t.
Putting the tips of his fingers beneath the smooth, shiny surface, he put all his force into opening it, breath whistling out through his teeth, muscles shaking with exertion as he strained upwards. His grip failed, hands slipping and throwing him back onto the plush carpet behind him. Soft music played in the background and people milled around, holding plates piled with food.
Why wasn’t anyone helping him? Couldn’t they see she was trapped?
He glanced around for something. Anything. His eyes fell on a crowbar that had been tossed up against the wall beside a dainty blue velvet couch. Crawling toward it, he grabbed it with both hands, the weight of it surprising him. He stood to his feet, dragging the metal bar behind him until he was in front of the box once again. The music got louder, and what had been soothing elevator music became a little more sinister in tone. Nothing that he could put his finger on exactly as it seemed to be the same tune.
Time was running out.
It was as if everyone else had finally noticed as well. They gathered around him, plates in hand, as he swung the heavy crowbar up, like he would one of those carnival hammers, and somehow got it to hook under the lid. He swallowed, suddenly not so sure about what he was doing. But they were all watching now. Waiting. Including a familiar blonde near the back of the room.
Where had he seen her before?
He shrugged and turned back to his task. Taking a deep breath, he silently counted to three.
One...two...
Three!
He put his full weight onto the metal rod, pushing down, down, down, the splintering of wood telling him he was getting somewhere. With a groan the top released and popped up an inch or two before the crowbar fell out of the groove. But no matter, he’d broken whatever seal was holding it closed.
He dropped the tool beside him and once again placed his fingers beneath the lid and slowly lifted. The sheen of blue satin met his eyes, the color matching that of the sofa behind him. He pushed the top higher and saw the cool white skin of her cheek. Her nose. Her pale lips.
A shot of horror went through him as he finished opening the top of the box.
It wasn’t Paula. And she wasn’t sleeping.
Mira!
He let go of the lid, and it fell in a series of disjointed frames, like a stack of still shots ruffled with a thumb to form movement. Then it hit the lower half of the box with a craaack!
Jack jerked, his eyelids flying apart and meeting darkness. Panic swept through him. He reached next to him to see if Paula was still there. His fingers met warm flesh, and he let his head drop back to the pillow in relief.
Just a dream.
More thoughts sifted through. Memories of making love. Groaning as he’d touched each silky inch of her body. Trying to hold off the inevitable until it had become too much, and he hadn’t been able to resist pouring himself into her. Holding her until his breathing had slowed.
He swallowed hard, his head turning to the left. But it hadn’t been Paula.
It had been Mira last night.
It was still Mira this morning.
And he’d enjoyed himself far too much. Had laughed and played the wicked rogue to the very end.
Hell.
He threw his arm over his eyes and tried to figure exactly what had happened last night.
A fling.
Yes. She’d used that word. So had he, in his head.
The bed shifted as she moved. Sighed.
Jack couldn’t resist turning his head again. It was morning, it had to be, but it was still some time before dawn, judging from the darkness that hovered around the edges of the curtains. His adjusting eyes caught the first glimpse of a bare shoulder peeking from beneath the thick duvet cover. Her back was to him, her arm curled up to rest on the pillow beside her face.
The face he’d just seen lying in a satin-lined coffin.
Damn. And his bottle of sleeping pills sat on the bedside table untouched. The “mess” he’d been worried about her seeing.
He swung his legs out of bed and sat on the edge of the mattress for several long seconds, trying to stamp out the images still flickering in his mind. To distract himself, he opened the drawer on the table and knocked the medicine inside it. No need to let Mira see them. She’d just ask questions.
Questions he couldn’t answer.
Like why he’d put her in Paula’s place. The dream was the same as always, but the face had changed.
It had to be the aftereffects of the avalanche. Of those people suffocating, and one of them dying. Mira had been there, so maybe that’s why she’d been in the nightmare this time. His wife’s coffin had been closed. In reality, there hadn’t been a body to go in it as Paula had been incinerated along with most of the other passengers.
Or maybe Mira had been in his dream because his subconscious was telling him to slam the lid down on this particular relationship and to seal it tight. But they didn’t have a relationship.
They had a fling.
Just the word had a calming effect on him.
He’d had fun. There was no crime in that.
So why did he feel like the lowest form of low?
Guilt, probably. A false sense of loyalty to a woman he’d loved and lost.
She’d want you to go on.
Yes, she would. But that’s not what he wanted. He remembered all too well facing that polished coffin and wondering how he was going to pick himself up and go on living.
Never again.
Standing, he made his way to the bathroom, suddenly wishing they’d gone to her room instead. Then he could just quietly get dressed and let himself out. No awkward goodbyes. No wondering if you should say thank you or I’m sorry.
He took his time, brushing his teeth and showering, then toweling off, all the time rehearsing exactly what he was going to say when he opened that door. But all he could see was the way Mira’s back had arched like a cat as she’d moaned.
Please, don’t stop.
Yes, he’d made her say it again. And where male pride should be, there was a slight sense of something else. Shame?
No.
He wasn’t sure what the emotion was, but he didn’t like it. It felt like something was poised to break loose, like that snow on the mountain that had gotten heavier and heavier until it had finally thundered down that slope, wiping away anyone in its path.
And from what Jack could see, he was standing right in front of it. Only it wasn’t snow. But something just as devastating.
Staring at himself in the mirror, he wrapped a towel around his waist, wishing he’d thought to bring in a fresh set of clothes. Getting dressed would send an obvious hint that the night was over and that it was time to make their way back to reality and their own separate beds.
Except that tiny images of the pleasure he’d given and received last night circled in his head, bringing with them a whole new set of ideas. Ones that whispered that this was only a fling, no need to fear. Just get back in there and do a little more flinging.
The more he thought about it the more he relaxed. Why not? He wanted her. Wanted to slide his hands over that lithe body and roll her beneath him again.