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Was it him? Though he couldn’t think why she’d be looking for him, since she wouldn’t know him from Adam. Still, he stepped closer and when she looked around again, her dark eyes met his. ‘You,’ she whispered and again reached out a hand to him.
The paramedics were putting her onto a wheeled stretcher and, once they’d strapped her in, he stepped in close and took her reaching fingers in his. They closed convulsively on his hand, gripping tight, and so he had no choice but to follow as they wheeled her to the ambulance.
‘Will she be all right?’ he asked one of the paramedics.
‘She has a concussion,’ the man said. ‘We need to get her to hospital to get her checked out. Are you her next of kin?’
‘No.’ Aristophanes’ attention was consumed by the woman and the grip she had on his hand. She felt so warm.
They were preparing to put her in the ambulance.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the paramedic said. ‘If you’re not her next of kin, you can’t come with her.’
He hadn’t planned on going with her. His plan for the evening was Angelina and her slender, supple body. Yet now the woman’s grip tightened, as if she was trying to hold onto him, and he realised suddenly that he wouldn’t be able to give his full attention to Angelina until he knew this complete stranger was okay.
She probably had next of kin somewhere, but she’d slipped over next to his limo and now he felt responsible. Also, she was holding onto his hand very tightly, making it clear—in his mind anyway—that she wanted his presence.
‘I am coming with her,’ he said flatly, using the same tone he always used when people disagreed with his wishes.
The paramedic shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. You can’t.’
Aristophanes, who didn’t hear the word no very often and never liked it when he did, focused on the man. ‘I don’t care.’
‘Sir, you can’t—’
‘Yes, I can,’ Aristophanes cut him off with all the force of his considerable authority. ‘Or do you really want me to go to the trouble of buying your hospital just so I can fire you?’
The paramedic opened his mouth. Shut it. Then shrugged and muttered something Aristophanes decided not to catch.
They loaded the woman into the ambulance and let Aristophanes climb in beside her, and he continued to hold her hand as the sirens started and they sped towards the hospital.
She sighed, settling on the stretcher, her eyes closing.
Angelina was going to have to wait.
Nell was having a lovely dream. She’d been running from something very upsetting and had fallen over, and then the most beautiful man she’d ever seen had grabbed her hand to help her up. He was holding onto it now and she didn’t want to let him go. She didn’t want to let him go ever. He was so strong and reassuring and she was sure that nothing could touch her while he was here.
Now they were dancing and...no...wait...they couldn’t be dancing because she was lying down and not moving, and her head was hurting, and she felt dizzy. Had she been drinking? Had she got really, really drunk?
Then again, no, she couldn’t be drunk because she didn’t drink much and, anyway, she had work the next day and she never missed work. She loved her job at the preschool, and she loved the kids. So not drunk, then. Perhaps she was sick and that was why her head was hurting?
If felt like an effort to open her eyes, but she managed it, expecting to find herself in her little flat in Brunswick with the morning light coming through the window.
Except she wasn’t in her bed or in her flat.
She was lying on what looked like a hospital bed with a curtain drawn around it, and someone was holding her hand.
Wait, what? A hospital bed? What on earth was she doing in hospital?
Desperately she tried to remember what had happened. Things were a little hazy, but she’d got to the bar where she was supposed to meet Clayton—she’d been seeing him for about a month—and had sat there waiting for him. She’d dressed up specially, because she’d decided that tonight was the night she was going to sleep with him. She hadn’t yet, wanting to wait until she was sure he was someone she could see having a long-term relationship with, and only in the past couple of weeks had she decided that, yes, he was.
So she’d worn a slinky black dress that clung to her generous curves and, in a fit of daring that wasn’t like her at all, she hadn’t put on any underwear. He’d been getting impatient with their lack of physical contact, so she’d wanted to make sure he knew that she was ready and willing right now.
Except then he hadn’t turned up. At first she’d thought he was just late. But then late had turned intoverylate, and then, an hour after that, she’d got a text from him saying he was sorry, but he didn’t think this would work between them. She was too uptight, he’d said, too many hang-ups about sex, which wasn’t what he was looking for.
After the text, she’d walked out of the bar into the drizzly night, upset and full of embarrassment that she’d put on a sexy dress and no underwear for a man who hadn’t wanted her. Who in the end had left her to wait in the bar for an hour then not even turned up.
She’d been determined not to cry as she’d walked blindly through the drizzle and then...something had happened and she’d woken up here.