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Jonas came awake to dark silence and a tangle of damp covers. He lay without moving, listening to the stillness, trying to orient himself. A truck rumbled by outside, its brakes hissing as it rolled to a stop. Faint light crept around the edges of the blind-covered window above his head, just enough to outline the room's features: double sliding closet doors, a long, low dresser with a chair beside it, a nightstand and lamp beside him. Nothing looked familiar.
He frowned. The last thing he remembered was lunch in the truck stop. Kate had agreed to take him to Ottawa, they'd gotten back into the car, he'd dozed off, and then—nothing. Certainly nothing that involved a bed that smelled like...he sniffed. Summer. It smelled like summer, and sunshine, and—
Kate. Where was Kate?
Gingerly, all too aware of the hole in his side, he pushed himself up on one elbow and switched on the lamp. When his eyes adjusted to the glare, he took more thorough stock of his surroundings. Pale blue walls. White furniture. White sheets and lamp. Red chair. Floral duvet sprigged with some kind of red flower. Daisies? The overall effect was cool. Fresh.
Undeniably feminine.
He hadn't expected this side to Constable Kate Dexter. Not that he'd spent much time dwelling on his rescuer's personal tastes. He'd been more interested in getting as far away from her as he could. And he was still interested in that, he told himself firmly. No matter how he'd ended up in Kate's apartment, leaving was his top priority now that he was awake.
Yawning, he scratched absently at his chest. His hand stilled and he raised an eyebrow. He was naked. How in hell had he gotten naked? His gaze snapped back to the chair, taking in the neatly folded jeans and shirt there.
Kate?
A not-unpleasant tension thrummed through him at the thought of her efficient, slender hands stripping him of his clothes, the imagined sensation of her blond curls brushing like fine silk against his skin as she leaned over him. He coughed. What in hell was he thinking? The absolute last thing he needed in his life right now was a distraction like Kate Dexter. The sooner he left here, the better, because...
He frowned at the fog settling over his brain.
Well, because reasons. He was sure he had them, but with fatigue crawling over his limbs like a weighted blanket and that summer scent rising from the sheets beneath him, he couldn't quite remember what they were. He fumbled with the lamp switch and the room plunged back into darkness.
To hell with it. Thinking was going to have to wait. And leaving, too. Just until daylight. It would be rude to wake Kate up right now anyway. Or to leave without saying thank you. He pulled the duvet across him, its cotton crisp and cool against his skin, inhaled deeply of summer, and dropped back into sleep.
***
Kate set the tray on the nightstand and glanced at the black shock of wavy hair sticking out from under the duvet, all that she could see of her guest.
"Jonas," she called softly. The black waves didn't stir. She tried again, a little louder. Still nothing. She frowned. Surely he hadn't gotten worse again.
She'd checked on him every hour on the hour until his fever had finally broken at midnight of his second night in her bed, well beyond the deadline Laura had given. She’d sponged his overheated body, changed the duvet cover when it became drenched with his sweat, rolled him from one side of the bed to the other to let the sheet dry beneath him. She'd been a regular Florence Nightingale for thirty-six hours, but what if that hadn't been enough? Unease gelled in the pit of her stomach. Had she relaxed too soon?
She stretched out a hand and eased back the duvet. Jonas's face might have been carved of wood, it was so still. The beginnings of minor panic prickled through her chest, stealing her breath. Freaking hell, now what? Casting aside gentleness, she grabbed his shoulder and shook.
"Jonas, wake—"
The rest of her demand ended in a garbled choke as a strong arm pulled her down onto her back, looped under her arm and around her neck, and braced behind her head in a half nelson. Kate clutched at it, struggling for air, and almost instantly Jonas’s hold loosened until his forearm rested across her chest—muscular, hot, heavy.
"God, Kate, I'm sorry," he muttered, his words warm against her ear. "Are you all right?"
Crisp chest hair rasped against a blouse that had just now become an entirely inadequate garment, and a dozen traitorous sensations made breathing even more difficult than when he’d taken her down. She nodded, not trusting her voice. Her heart thundered against her ribs, and heat scorched her face in the wake of the molten fire flooding her limbs. She pulled against Jonas’s arm.
"May I get up, please?"
Surely she only imagined his brief hesitation before he released her—and her answering reluctance to leave his warmth. She clambered off the bed and straightened her shirt, trying not to close her eyes as the fabric slid over sensitive breasts.
"I brought you breakfast." Crap. Was that husky voice really hers? Freaking hormones. She cleared her throat. "You haven't eaten for a while. I thought you might be hungry."
Jonas remained silent for several seconds, his eyes hidden beneath a forearm as he lay back against the pillow.
"I am," he agreed at last, moving his arm to prop himself up in the bed. "And thirsty."
She handed him the glass of orange juice from the tray, careful to keep her fingers clear of his. He drained the contents and gave the glass back to her.
"I don't remember a thing after leaving that truck stop yesterday. What happened?"
"Fever. You wouldn't go to a hospital. And it was the day before yesterday."
He stared at his, blue eyes startled, then scowling. "You should have woken me."
"With what, my magic wand? Your fever didn't even break until last night. You slept because you needed it." Kate grabbed the duvet and held it in place when he tried to fling it back. "You still need it."
"What I need," he retorted, shaking off her hand and swinging his bare legs out of the bed, "is to get as far away from you as I can."
He pushed himself upright to sit on the edge of the bed, but almost instantly, every ounce of color drained from his face. Without comment, Kate pressed her lips tight, stooped, and lifted his feet back onto the bed. Jonas subsided against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut.
She regarded him with equal amounts of concern and annoyance as he struggled to push back the pain and regain control. Could he not, just for two seconds, make this easier on himself? On her? She pulled the duvet across his nakedness and made a concerted effort not to notice that her breasts hadn't stopped tingling from his touch yet.
"I repeat," she said, "You still need sleep."
Eyes still closed, he shook his head. "I can't. If Lewis and Ramirez connect us and come asking questions—"
"I get it," she interrupted. "I really do. But like it or not, you're going to have to heal before you can go anywhere on your own. Stay here and let me help, Jonas. Just for a few days. Get some rest, focus on healing, decide what your next move is. Please. You know I'm right about this."
He declined to respond. With a sigh, Kate moved the tray closer to him, and then she and her tingling breasts headed for the door. The sound of her name stopped her. She turned back to meet the hard glitter of his gaze.
"I know you mean well," he said, "but if I stay—"
Kate pursed her lips at the emphasis on if. Jonas either didn't see or chose to ignore it, continuing without pause.
"—this is as involved as you get, is that clear?"
She crossed her arms. "Please tell me you don't think you can give me orders like that."
He scowled. "I mean it, Kate. You don't need this, and I don't need your help."
Leaning her good shoulder against the doorframe, she let her gaze travel the length of his prone figure. "Because you're totally able to look after yourself at the moment, you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"I know you've been shot," she corrected. "And that you're not very good at accepting help. But you can relax, Burke, because I'm offering you a place to hole up in for a few days. Nothing more, okay? Now eat your breakfast and get some rest. I want you out of here as much as you do. "
***
Jonas glared at the door long after Kate closed it behind her, leaving her parting words hanging in the air. Damned right, he wasn't good at accepting help. And for good reason, too. He'd been six when he'd gone into his first foster home, already streetwise and carrying a chip on his shoulder, the weight of which would have slowed most men down.
Help back then had consisted of one family after another trying to break him, to make him surrender to their rules. It was never about what mattered, what would have helped him. There had been no job for the homeless mother who'd had to give him up, no attempt to keep him with the baby sister he’d so desperately tried to protect.
By the age of eight, he'd learned repeatedly that the kind of help offered by others couldn't be depended on. That he was the only one he could ever really trust. The message had been reinforced repeatedly throughout his teen years and adult life, and oh, look. Ramirez and Lewis had hammered the lesson home yet again just days ago.
With a grunt, Jonas locked away the memories he preferred not to dwell on. He pushed back the covers and levered himself upright, slowly this time, respecting the tight, fiery knots in his gut and leg that could explode without warning if he abused them.
He rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw line, pausing when the scent of vanilla wafted up to his nose and walloped him in the gut. His arm tingled with another memory, this one of Kate's softness beneath it. The tickle of her hair across it. The warmth of her—
Jonas held his arm away and stared at it, horrified at its treachery. Jesus, but he needed to get away from here. Kate's help—and those golden cat's eyes—be damned.
He stood, giving his body time to adjust to the demands being made on it. If he took it slowly enough, this might work. He hobbled across the room to the clothing piled on the chair, telling himself that the knife in his thigh was normal; the pain, within acceptable parameters. Sweat beaded on his brow. Sweatpants and shirt in hand, he returned to sit on the bed. He slid his legs into the pants one at a time, took a deep breath, and stood to pull them on. The too-quick movement knocked him right back down again.
Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling, coming to terms with the reality he'd been handed. As much as he hated to admit it—and it really did gall him—he wouldn't make it a block like this. He was going to have to take Kate up on her offer, at least for a day or two.
Hell.