Doctor and Protector Page 14

  And suddenly Cassie felt an overwhelming tiredness, as if all the activity and tension of the day had hit her with the ferocity of a hammer-blow. She slumped down on the bed, then lifted up her legs and lay back, head on the pillows, her arm across her eyes.

  Through the open door, McCall saw her sit, then settle back, and his own creeping exhaustion told him just how she must feel. But his day wasn’t finished. He had to talk to Dave—tell him about the Wayne they’d seen at the vet’s, about the bird’s words and about Lennie’s sudden friendliness.

  Dave could look into both men’s whereabouts next morning. He was the policeman after all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CASSIE woke with a sense of disorientation. Where the hell was she?

  She was feeling around, peering into the darkness, trying to make sense of the space around her, when she heard a groan.

  Maybe that was what had woken her. It came from somewhere in the room—this room she didn’t recognise.

  Memories of the letters flooded back and fear held her immobile on the bed. If she didn’t move, whoever was there might not see her—might go away.

  Then slowly, as the deep drug effects of sleep faded, more memory returned. She was in a motel room.

  With McCall.

  Was it he groaning?

  Had he been injured? Attacked by the murderer?

  Still frozen into total immobility on the bed, Cassie registered the thoughts racing through her head.

  She should get up and investigate. Turning on the light would be a start. Was she decent? For heaven’s sake, do you think the murderer cares if you’re decent?

  She moved her hands, patting them cautiously over her body, feeling jeans, a T-shirt. Decent certainly, but why had she gone to bed in her clothes?

  Unable to remember anything after they’d walked into the motel room, she finally decided if the murderer was with them in the room he’d have attacked her by now, so it would be safe to switch on the light.

  She reached out, feeling for the bedside table all motel beds had—for the lamp that should be on it—for a switch.

  Another groan as she turned it on and she shrieked this time, being now fully awake but as taut as a suture knot.

  ‘What? What’s happening?’

  McCall was on his feet—more or less upright—looking around for the source of her panic.

  ‘It’s OK, you were groaning. It frightened me,’ Cassie told him, her gaze scanning the broad bare chest with a light sprinkling of dark hair and the slim hips that only just held up a pair of purple boxers.

  ‘So would you be groaning if your back felt like mine,’ McCall told her, trying cautiously to straighten the offending portion of his anatomy.

  Cassie felt a fleeting sympathy, but she was more concerned with her own condition.

  ‘Did I go to sleep in my clothes?’ she asked him.

  He managed a smile in spite of his obvious pain.

  ‘You walked into the room, lay down on the bed and passed out,’ he told her. ‘I thought of waking you to ask if you wanted to eat or shower, but you looked so peaceful I let you be.’

  ‘Did you eat?’ Cassie asked, suddenly realising she was ravenous.

  ‘I had a bowl of cereal. I can offer you the same if you’re hungry, or there’s bread and the room has a toaster. Toast and Vegemite?’

  ‘Comfort food.’ Cassie sighed. ‘And a cup of tea. That sounds blissful. I don’t suppose you could make it while I take a shower?’

  She looked around, wondering if her suitcase was still in the car, but, no, while she’d slept McCall must have brought it in and set it on the stand on the far side of the bed. She found what she needed, though was slightly embarrassed about the raggedy old T-shirt she’d thrown in as nightwear, then went through to the bathroom.

  She had just pulled off her top when there was a tap on the door.

  ‘Need water for the kettle for your tea,’ McCall said, and Cassie opened the door far enough to stick her hand through and grab the kettle. She filled it and passed it back, but the simple exchange had brought home to her the logistical problems of sharing a motel room with a strange—as in unfamiliar—man.

  But it wasn’t until she was washing shampoo out of her hair that another thought struck her. McCall had obviously been groaning because sleeping on the couch was causing him pain. And how would she be able to sleep with him groaning all night?

  About here, her conscience caught up with her.

  How guilty was she going to feel about him sleeping on the couch?

  She finished her shower, dressed and came out to find McCall had set her snack on the small table, and was once again on the couch, though sitting this time.

  ‘You can’t sleep there,’ Cassie said, before she had time to change her mind about the solution which had occurred to her in the bathroom. ‘And having seen you trying to stand up, I’m not going to offer to take your place. The bed’s huge, we can share it. It’s not as if we’re involved with each other. Two women in the same situation would share it, and I assume two men would also, so why shouldn’t we?’

  Why shouldn’t we indeed? McCall thought. He could have given her several reasons, some to do with male-female chemistry and some more personal, but three hours of trying to get comfortable on the couch had been enough to convince him it was an impossible option.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK with that?’ he asked, watching Cassie tuck into toast and Vegemite with obvious relish.

  She glanced up at him, but her face was unreadable.

  ‘Fine with it,’ she said, so casually he had to believe she meant it, and felt a pang of disappointment. For surely, if she’d been feeling one one-hundredth of what he was feeling in her company, she’d have had a whole lot of reservations.

  You poor schmuck, he told himself, heading for the bathroom. Best he clean his teeth again just in case he rolled her way and inadvertently breathed on her in the night.

  Really, this was not a good idea.

  But the couch…

  ‘Are you going to spend all night in there? I thought women were supposed to be the bathroom hoggers.’

  He came reluctantly back into the main room. If there’d been a bath he could have slept in that, but the very small shower alcove looked even more uncomfortable than the couch—besides being wet.

  ‘I’ve turned the bed down,’ Cassie informed him. ‘And just so we don’t feel uneasy about it, you can sleep between the sheets and I’ll sleep on top of the top one. That way we’re not technically in bed together, and our…bits of us, if they happen to touch, won’t get all entangled with each other.’

  Unable to think of a response to this remark, McCall looked at the bed, which was turned down exactly as she’d said, with her side—where she’d been sleeping earlier on top of the covers—turned down from above the top sheet so she’d have only the woven cotton blanket on top of her, and his side turned down in the normal way.

  He slid between the sheets, his mind yelling at him that this was the stupidest thing he’d done in a lifetime that held some really major mistakes. He closed his eyes, though sleep was about as likely as the murderer walking into the police station across the road and giving himself up.

  The bed moved and he knew Cassie was settling in, then the light went out and they were in darkness.

  In bed in darkness.

  She was moving cautiously around, probably trying to get into a comfortable sleep position. McCall, who was lying rigidly on his back, thought maybe he should do the same.

  He turned on his side and realised he didn’t know where he usually put his legs. He seemed to have one too many and it was getting in the way. Did he sprawl it out across the bed? Was it because he was keeping it tucked up, away from Cassie, that it felt so uncomfortable?

  ‘Do you ever start to think about breathing then panic because you can’t remember how it happens?’ a small voice asked.

  McCall relaxed—a little.

  ‘I’m having the same trouble wit
h one leg. I can’t remember where it goes.’

  ‘So perhaps we should both just shuffle around for a while until we’re comfortable, instead of lying like mummies afraid to move for fear of disturbing each other.’

  ‘Good idea,’ McCall said, and he wiggled and squiggled but still couldn’t get things quite right. Though he did sort out the leg problem, and Cassie had apparently remembered how to breathe, because she wasn’t gasping or choking or making any other breathless noises.

  Silence crept between them again, but McCall, who’d had a little sleep on the uncomfortable couch, was wide awake, trying hard to keep his mind focussed on a mental analysis of what he knew about the murderer, while every nerve ending in his skin was reminding him of the soft body just inches away from his.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could just hold your hand?’ The small voice came again. ‘I feel a bit more tense than I usually do at bedtime.’

  A scuffle across the sheets indicated her hand was already on the way, and in the way body parts could find each other in the dark, his hand found hers—though a sheet still separated them.

  He tucked her fingers, sheet and all, into his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

  ‘Tense?’ he teased. ‘You’ve every right to be having screaming hysterics after the day you’ve had. I know it’s hard, but you need to put it all out of your mind, at least for tonight. I’ve a great routine for the stupid worries that come to me in the night. I ask myself if there’s anything I can do right now to solve the problem, and if the answer’s no, I refuse to think about it. Now, tell me about Blondie. Have you had her from a pup? Is she yours or a family dog? Why choose a golden Labrador? Family favourite?’

  He felt the hand in his move, then return the pressure he’d given it earlier.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Blondie’s just the best. And, yes, she’s mine and I’ve had her from a pup. We’ve always had Labs and usually have two dogs at a time, but Sam, Blondie’s uncle I suppose he was, has only recently died and we’re not quite ready to replace him.’

  ‘Do you—or did you—breed with her?’

  ‘Not with Blondie. She was the runt of her litter so it didn’t seem wise, but she was born here to Mum’s old dog, Muriel. Out of the last litter Muriel had.’

  ‘Muriel?’ McCall echoed, anxious to keep Cassie talking as he could hear the tension leaking out of her voice.

  ‘Mum’s mother’s name. She always said Muriel looked just like Gran, and also had a lot of the same habits. She was a bossy dog, Muriel, particularly when we were at the beach-house. If she thought we were going out too far into the surf, she’d swim out and grab our arms, very gently, and tug us back to shore.’

  ‘Maybe saving your lives?’

  Cassie laughed.

  ‘We could swim like fish, Em and I, and Muriel’s idea of too far was about waist deep. In the end, we had to tie her up when we went to the beach.’

  He heard a shuffle as she moved again in the bed, then the hand in his relaxed, and she murmured, ‘You’re a very nice man, McCall.’

  Sensing she was drifting off to sleep, he was unsure whether he should keep her hand or give it back. Common sense suggested he’d be safer not touching any part of her during the night. He lay still a long time, listening to her breathing pattern change as she drifted into a deep sleep, then tried to disengage the clasp, but her fingers clamped onto his and he gave up and settled himself for sleep, platonically attached, through a sheet, to a woman who was likely to give him unacceptably erotic dreams.

  Cassie drifted into sleep, aware, at a place in her dreams where fantasy intrudes into rational thoughts, that she felt safe and comfortable. Nice of Mum to let Blondie sleep on the bed for once. She must be sick, because it only happened when she was sick.

  Was she very sick? She might be. After all, someone was holding her hand and in the hospital people usually only did that to very sick people—held their hands while they slept. But surely they wouldn’t let Blondie sleep on a hospital bed. Although it was her hospital. She was the boss. That must be why Blondie was with her.

  She let go of the hand she was holding, rolled over, snuggled back against the warm, heavy bulk of the dog and drifted deeper, feeling a weight on her shoulder as if Blondie had used her paw to protect her.

  McCall woke from a night where his dreams had been every bit the torment he’d expected, to find a soft, warm body tucked confidingly close to his. Horrified by the discovery, he checked his own disposition in the bed. Damn, his arm was over her shoulder—had he pulled her closer during the night? Snuggled up to her?

  Further checks suggested, no matter who was responsible for this familiarity, he had better move away. Her body might be soft, but there was part of his that was anything but, and she couldn’t help but be aware of it if she woke while they were still spooned together.

  He moved his arm first, raising it carefully and settling it down at his side. Then, with infinite caution, he eased his body back from hers, lifting the blanket so he didn’t drag it with him and leave her uncovered. Back, back, steady now, just a little further—

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Who? What? What happened?’

  Cassie was sitting up in bed, blanket clutched to her chest. She looked around, obviously confused as to where she was, then she must have remembered for she turned to him, leaning forward so she could see over the edge of the bed.

  ‘Did you spend the night on the floor?’ she asked. ‘After I told you you could sleep in the bed?’

  ‘I didn’t spend the night on the floor,’ McCall told her, unable to believe he’d fallen out of bed for the first time in—three from thirty-seven was—thirty-four years.

  But in spite of getting the maths right, he found himself reluctant to explain.

  ‘Then why are you there?’ she asked, and anger at his predicament rescued him.

  ‘I fell out of bed, OK? Have a good laugh about it, why don’t you? And as it happens, it wasn’t entirely my fault. Look where you are in the bed! You’d moved right over on to my side.’

  Cassie looked around, and her cheeks turned pink with embarrassment, making him sorry he’d brought up the conversation.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Maybe tomorrow night we can get some extra pillows and put them down the middle like a kind of dividing line.’

  He knew in his head that the Great Wall of China wouldn’t be enough of a dividing line between them when she was in his bed, but he didn’t say so. He’d already made a big enough fool of himself, and the day had barely begun.

  He climbed to his feet and headed for the bathroom. Manners suggested he should offer Cassie first use, but dignity told him he needed to get out of the bedroom. Of course, he forgot to bring his clothes in with him, so once again, once showered and shaved—at least he’d put his toilet things in there the previous night—he had to wrap a towel around his waist.

  ‘My turn to make the toast,’ Cassie announced as he appeared. She waved her hand towards the table where she’d set out teacups, bowls, cereal and, yes, a pile of freshly made toast. ‘I’ve eaten,’ she continued, ‘so if you’ve finished in the bathroom, I’ll use it now.’

  McCall nodded. He was beyond speech—rendered inarticulate by the sight of Cassie’s long slim legs, more of which had been revealed when she’d bent over her suitcase to find clean clothes.

  He stood very carefully out of the way, clutching his towel, until she was safely closed away in the bathroom, then dressed very hurriedly, deciding his first task of the day would be to phone Dave and insist they have two rooms.

  Though that would leave Cassie on her own at night…

  As if you being with her would save her from a gunshot, his mind reminded him when this worry surfaced.

  But the doubt remained and he ate his breakfast instead of phoning Dave.

  Cassie took her time in the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her. She excused this excess by telling herself it might be the last peaceful few min
utes she would have that day, if it was anything like the last few days.

  No, she wouldn’t think about yesterday. Think about today. For a start, she’d have to phone Dave and tell him she and McCall needed separate rooms.

  Though she had slept soundly last night. But it was hardly likely she’d dream McCall was Blondie two nights running and so feel safe…

  A knock on the door and a call of ‘Dave’s here!’ brought her out of thoughts of beds and safety and McCall. She turned off the water, dried herself hurriedly and pulled on the clothes she’d brought with her into the small room.

  ‘Thought you were the fastest showerer in the west,’ McCall teased when she came into the room.

  She ignored him and turned to Dave.

  ‘Has something more happened?’

  Her voice must have told him she couldn’t have taken much more drama, for he smiled reassuringly and hurried to explain why he was there.

  ‘For a start, the termite idea was brilliant. I’ve contacted the electricity people and the power’s off, while the tarps are going up over your house as we speak. I got the SES in to do it, as none of the pest-control people in town have that kind of equipment.’

  He glanced anxiously at Cassie.

  ‘I’m afraid we really will have to do some fumigating as well, though, just to make it look good. Powers Pest Control have a subsidiary company with a pump and blower, and they’ll be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Good work, Dave.’ This from McCall. Cassie was too bemused by the speed at which things were moving to utter a peep.

  ‘I’ve got alibis for yesterday morning for most of the men on the list McCall made out,’ Dave continued, ‘taking in all the men on the other three lists plus people you know. There are a couple of people who were “working”, but on their own so no one saw them. Lennie was at the vet’s place, cleaning out the kennels and doing the general maintenance stuff he does every day, but Derek was on a call so there’s no one to vouch for Lennie. Ditto Wayne, who was supposedly at work at the hospital, but Jock—that’s the head groundsman,’ he added for McCall’s sake, ‘was on a rostered day off—he took it on a Tuesday to take his mother to a doctor’s appointment—so we can’t say for certain Wayne was at the hospital all morning.’