Lainie mumbled something into the pillow, and her mother hid a smile. “I’ll tell him he can come back for a few minutes in the morning, shall I?”
Will at his most belligerent was a puny opponent for her mother. Lainie heard the altercation, and he was ousted from the flat in less than sixty seconds. Richard was made of sterner stuff. It took her mum almost five minutes to get rid of him, and he insisted on having another look at Lainie before he left.
The bed dipped as he sat on the edge of it, his eyes fixed on her face. She stared miserably back, and he unexpectedly leaned down to kiss the spot on her forehead where the imprint of his thumb still teased. “I’ll be back to check on you in the morning,” he said. “Try not to succumb in the interim.”
“Following your Pat orders?” Lainie asked drowsily, and he snorted.
“Completely flouting them.” There was a tiny note of bewilderment beneath the sardonic words, as if he was surprised by his own behaviour. “I’ve been commanded to stay well out of the infection zone. They don’t want to inflict more than one understudy at a time on a paying audience.”
“Oh.” Lainie’s fevered brain struggled to cooperate. “Maybe you should stay away.”
“I have no doubt whatsoever that I should stay away.” He touched a light hand to her hair and stood up. “Nevertheless, I shall see you tomorrow.”
*
It was still dark outside when Richard followed Lainie’s landlady back up the stairs to her flat the following morning. And he was still on edge.
He’d been trying to keep his focus away from Lainie when she’d taken a header into the stage floor and just about given him a fucking coronary. He’d been less immersed in his role than usual, partly due to Farmer’s unprofessional stirring. He could cheerfully have thrown Lainie’s ex-lover the length of the theatre. He had never liked Farmer. The antipathy was mutual, and now personal.
He wasn’t used to worrying about someone. He’d pushed the speed limit to get her home from the theatre and away from the vulture press, thankful that he possessed a comfortable car for her. He hadn’t realised her skin could go several shades whiter than her usual shade of pale. The spots of burning red on her cheeks and the purple smudges beneath her lashes had prevented her from looking like a black-and-white still.
He approved of her mother. Rachel Graham had calm eyes and a no-bullshit demeanour. And a way of handling Farmer that was almost artistic. He’d been less appreciative when she’d tried to evict him, as well.
He coolly returned Cat Richard’s stare when he passed the lounging lump on the landing. The cat looked heavily disapproving, but could be feeling euphoric for all anyone would know. It was not a pretty face.
Twinsies. Jesus.
He knocked on the door, only just overcoming the instinct to walk straight through and into Lainie’s bedroom.
Rachel answered the summons. She examined him thoughtfully, her eyes moving from his head to the soles of his boots. It was difficult to read anything into her expression. She would have made a very good Rosalind.
Her daughter was more of a Beatrice.
“How is she?” He moved forward, forcing her to take a step back and let him into the flat.
“Good morning.” Rachel had an empty coffee cup in her hand, which she took into the kitchen. “Her temperature is still up. She’s asleep.”
Without waiting for further permission, he walked down the tiny hallway to the equally miniscule bedroom. Lainie was curled up in the middle of a double bed that left very little remaining floor space. The room smelled like her. Flowery. Sweet. With a slight undertone of sweat at the moment.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, looking down at her, and touched his hand to her face. Her forehead and cheeks were burning hot against his fingertips. He smoothed his hand over her forehead, stroking back the damp, matted red hair.
She looked bloody awful, and he said as much to her mother.
Rachel’s gaze moved to where he rubbed his thumb in a rectangular pattern on Lainie’s collarbone. “It’s a nasty bug. But she’ll be fine.”
Once more, the feeling that was attempting to crawl up his throat from his chest had nothing to do with a solely physical attraction, and he intensely disliked the sensation it left in its wake.
“Of course she will.” She had the flu in the twenty-first century, not the bubonic plague in the seventeenth. He took her hand in his. With little awareness of his actions, he brushed her knuckles back and forth across his lips.
Rachel gathered a pile of dirty washing and quietly left the room. She looked thoughtful.
*