Page 63 of Beachcomber Danger

Cap only had to nod his head to convince her.

“Promise to let me know immediately if anything happens,” she said.

“I will. I’ll be right here.”

*****

She hadn’t needed the doctor to tell her she had a concussion, but she was surprised at his adamant instructions on what she needed to do to treat it properly. Shana didn’t tell him she’d already broken most of the recommendations. She’d been overexposed to stimulation, lights, noise, and activity and had had no rest if she didn’t count the time while she was unconscious.

At least when she walked from the examining room she felt refreshed and was bandaged where she needed to be, including her hand. Plus, she’d swallowed a few super Tylenols or whatever they were called. Her head still pounded, but not as loud. She found Cap leaning against the wall a few feet from her.

The only one thing the doctor couldn’t do for her was remove the lump of anxiety in her throat. She looked at Cap and he shook his head.

“No news yet. Must still be in surgery. He’ll be fine.” Cap put out an arm and she went to his side and let him hold her while they stood waiting.

*****

Dane opened his eyes almost before he was awake. How else to explain the vision of loveliness at the center of the bright light above him. He was either in heaven—and that was damned unlikely—or he was dreaming.

It only took an instant of screaming pain in his neck to tell him he was neither in heaven nor dreaming—unless it was a nightmare. Or he was in hell. He’d shut his eyes again as if to block the pain. He didn’t dare move otherwise. He didn’t want to test his hypothesis about being in hell.

But the soft familiar warmth of Shana’s hand on his face convinced him he was alive and, if not well, who the hell cared? Once he blinked his eyes open again and her gorgeous angel’s face came into focus, he smiled—in spite of the searing pain.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” He could have sworn he’d said the words out loud but he could hardly hear his voice. Maybe he didn’t want to know what was wrong.

Shana brought her face to his and kissed him gently as if he were a lamb. A badly hurt lamb. He wanted to grab her by the hair and crush her to him, but a quick check of his right arm’s mobility discouraged him.

“Dare I ask how you feel? You have more stitches in your neck than Frankenstein. Or so I’m told.”

As soon as she spoke the events crashed into his head like bombs. He felt like he’d lost the war, but he hoped to hell someone had made Emeline and Preston pay.

“Emeline?”

“Dead.” Shana’s lashes fluttered and she darted her eyes away from his. He knew she was the one who’d killed her. After a beat, she looked back, her jewel-green eyes clear and guiltless.

“Preston is in custody and the President is fine.”

“Don’t tell me I’m the only lucky casualty.”

She smiled then and he looked past her warm glowing eyes to see her still puffy lip and the bandage on the side of her head and on one hand. And his heart wept to see her bruised and bandaged. It was as if he could feel the pain she’d felt and wished he could have prevented it or taken it on himself rather than allow her to endure it.

He reached out to touch her face, but the excruciating pain stopped him. The right side of his neck and shoulder were heavily bandaged. He closed his eyes against a wave of light-headedness and nausea.

When it passed, he opened his eyes again to see her concerned and leaning close, examining his face and neck.

“I’ll be okay but recovery will be a bitch,” he spoke as if he knew what he was talking about and maybe he did. He’d been injured before and he felt relatively whole.

“What do you know?” she said.

“I know I’ll need you to take care of me, nurse me back to health.”

She smiled. “The doctor said no strenuous exertion for a few weeks.”

“The hell with that if it means no lovemaking.”

“I can find a way to minimize your exertion. Leave it to me.” She kissed him lightly again like the tease she could be sometimes. He loved her for it.

“But maybe we should postpone the wedding—”