The Baby Came C.O.D. Part 10

"Mama, are you listening to me?"

No longer in the doorway, her daughter was now hanging off the back of her swivel chair. Very carefully, Claire pried off ten little fingers.

"All the time, honey."

Libby fisted her hands at her waist and fixed her with a look Claire knew the little girl had been on the receiving end of more than once. It wasn't easy to keep from laughing, but somehow, she managed.

"Then what did I say?" Libby demanded. It was obvious she had her doubts about her mother's statement.

Claire folded her hands in her lap and did her best to look contrite. "You asked if it was time yet."

The little face unclouded. Mama was listening after all. "Okay." The word absolved her mother of any blame. "So, is it?"

Claire sighed. The last thing she wanted was to go over there now. She didn't need him distracting her, and for once, the phone calls hadn't been coming with the regularity of a pendulum marking time.

"No, it's not."

Libby refused to give in so easily this time. "But maybe he needs us."

"Then he'll call," Claire a.s.sured her. She returned to the logo she was creating. "He's been calling all the time."

Libby pushed herself into her mother's line of vision. "But not today. Maybe something's wrong." She chewed on her lip, concerned. It wasn't so much Mr. Q. she was thinking of, but Rachel. "She's awfully little, Mama," she declared as if it were news. "What if he did something to her, something wrong, and doesn't know how to undo it now?"

The child had much too much imagination. That, Claire knew, was something she'd inherited from her.

"Nothing's wrong, Libby," Claire told her soothingly. "He's just getting better at taking care of Rachel, that's all. Even monkeys learn if you train them."

Or maybe he was celebrating his pending return to Work, she added silently. Evan had lined up a nanny who was to begin on Monday, which, Claire knew, he was looking upon as his independence day. He was returning to work, and life was returning to normal.

There would be no need for her shortly. Maybe even now, she thought ruefully. Just as well. Claire stabbed at another key, almost breaking a nail.

Libby tugged on the chair, bringing it around to face her. Huge blue eyes plaintively looked up at her mother. "Please, Mama? For me? Can we go over and check?"

Claire sighed. A few keystrokes shut down the computer, and she rose, pushing back her chair. She really had to get better at saying no to Libby.

Maybe tomorrow.

She wondered if Libby knew the kind of power she wielded over her. Probably. "Okay, just this once."

Libby was out of the room before she finished. Claire heard the front door opening.

"Libby, wait for me," she called, even though she knew it was useless. The girl was like a bullet when presented with a target Making sure she had her keys, Claire hurried after her daughter. She reached Evan's front door a full minute after Libby. Standing on her toes for added leverage, Libby was leaning on the doorbell.

If Rachel was sleeping, she was awake now, Claire thought guiltily as she removed Libby's finger from the bell. Just as she did, the front door opened.

Claire avoided his eyes. "I'm sorry," she apologized, struggling not to flush like a teenager urged on by her girlfriends to ring the school hunk's doorbell. "This was Libby's idea," she hurried to explain, looking down at her daughter. She was holding on to Libby to keep her from dashing inside. "She got worried when you didn't call today and thought you might need help. I told her you were probably just getting better at taking care of Rachel."

Claire finally had enough courage to look at him, afraid of seeing amus.e.m.e.nt in his face. There was no amus.e.m.e.nt. There was sweat, and flushed cheeks that conflicted with the rest of his pasty pallor. His eyes were one step away from gla.s.sy.

It took her a minute to find her tongue. "You look awful."

Though he knew he did, Evan's first thought was to deny it. Masculine pride prevented him from admitting that he felt as weak as a kitten being blown around in a gale.

"Are you all right?" Claire asked before he could force the denial out of his mouth. She touched his forehead. "No," she answered her own question, "you are definitely not all right. Evan, you're burning up." Not waiting for an invitation, she came in, instantly taking charge. "Why didn't you call me?"

Claire looked around for Rachel. The baby wasn't anywhere in the living room.

He'd been battling this feeling since late last night, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus his mind or his eyes. Both were becoming watery. "I didn't want to seem like a wimp."

The answer stunned her. "Because you're sick? That's stupid."

The word penetrated the fog that was closing in on his brain. Stupid. That was him, all right. Not like Devin. Devin was smart. Devin had it all. Admiration, time to breathe. Everything.

"I didn't want to look stupid, either," he mumbled into his chin.

He really was out of it, she thought. "Well, you failed. You need to get into bed."

It took him a minute to absorb what she was telling him. Then he shook his head and nearly keeled over. He steadied himself by grabbing on to her shoulder.

"Can't. I've got a baby to take care of. Rachel, remember?"

She braced her legs to keep from falling. Evan was leaning more than a little of his weight on her. "I've been here most of the time-it's a little hard to forget."

If she lived forever, she was never going to understand the way a man's mind worked. He'd called her for everything from what temperature a bottle should be to whether or not it was all right to use packing tape to hold a diaper together if the tabs broke, which they seemed to do for him with a fair amount of regularity. He called her with questions she knew he knew the answers to. And yet when he really should have called her, asking for help, he didn't Why?

Libby stared in fascination at the way perspiration was beading along Evan's forehead. There was triumph in her face. "See, Mama, see? I told you something was wrong."

"Yes, you did, Libby."

He was going to fall flat on his face any minute, Claire thought in horror. In an effort to steady him, she took his arm and laid it across her shoulders. She didn't want Libby underfoot right now.

"Go check on Rachel for me, honey." Just as she thought, he was beginning to sink. Claire did her best to keep him upright. "I'm going to get Mr. Quartermain to bed."

His head was really swimming now, and incoherent thoughts were slipping in and out of his brain like minnows in a pond. Had she just propositioned him? It certainly sounded that way. Why did she have to do it now, when he had no strength?

"Shh." He tried to lay a finger to his lips and missed. "Not in front of your daughter."

Astonishment gave way to laughter. Claire shook her head, then braced her arm around his back as he began to sink again. "I think you're getting delirious, Mr. Quarter- main."

"Naw " He shook his head and instantly regretted it. "My head's as clear as a bell. You want me in bed. I want you in bed. See?" He looked at her and was surprised to find how close her face was to his. Had she been standing here all along? "Clear."

Libby, poised to run off, stopped and regarded Evan curiously. "Does he think you're sick, too, Mama? Are you? Your cheeks are pink, like his."

She didn't doubt it. Though she believed in being truthful with Libby, this was a little too delicate to go into right now. "I'm just struggling, honey. He's very heavy. Now scoot, Libby. Do as I told you." Libby was gone in a flash, rushing off to Rachel's room. "C'mon, macho man, I'll get you to bed."

When he began to weave, Claire was quick to compensate for the motion and managed to keep both of them from falling over. Very carefully, she led him to the stairs and tried not to think how many there were.

Evan sighed deeply. "Strong," was his only comment. And then he shuddered.

He was burning up. She had to get him to bed before he collapsed. There was no way she would be able to get him off the floor. Struggling, she had visions of both of them toppling down the stairs.

"But not an Olympic contender, so you're going to have to help me here." She was already sinking under the added weight. The man's arm seemed to be getting heavier with each step she took. "One foot in front of the other, Mr. Quartermain."

He did as he was told, his mind drifting farther and farther away from him.

"Stop calling me that," he muttered. "Like my teachers. They always called me Mr. Quartermain. You're not my teacher." He turned his head to look at her and swayed. Claire yelped as she caught hold of his shirt. "Are you?"

"No, I'm still feeling my way around, learning, just like you, Evan," she murmured. They were nearly at his door and it was none too soon for her. There was almost as much perspiration on her forehead as there was on his.

"Good. Evan's good." As he drew a breath, his head filled with her scent. Good enough to eat, he thought. He grinned foolishly at her. "Wanna play hooky together?"

If he remembered any of this tomorrow, he was going to feel like an idiot, she thought. Life had its little compensations.

"You really are out of it, aren't you?" She tightened her hold on the hand that was slung over her shoulder and took smaller steps, afraid of losing him. "I've got to hand it to Libby, she got me here just in time." She spoke slower as his weight robbed her lungs of air. "She thought there was something wrong when you didn't call. I just thought you were getting better at it."

"Nope. Not better. Worse." He sighed the word. "All I think about is you."

He'd misunderstood her meaning. The right thing would have been to stop him right there, before he told her anything else he would rather she didn't know. But she wouldn't have been human if she didn't want to hear more. Claire let him go on talking.

It was probably only the ramblings of a delirious man, she told herself. But still...

"You do, huh?"

"Yeah." He was slipping again, and she struggled to keep him from sinking all the way, half dragging him now toward his bed. "How I'd like to kiss you again. How I'd like to undress you, slow, and watch your eyes when I touch you."

Whether he was delirious or not, his words were creating images for her. Images that made her warmer than he was right now. Her heart began hammering erratically, and she knew her uphill struggle with him was only partially to blame.

"Right now, I'd suggest you just watch your step." Almost there, she thought, eyeing his bed. Almost there.

"That's the trouble. I have been. All my life," he mourned. "And where did it get me?"

"I don't know. A nice house?" When had his room become so big? And why was his bed so far from the d.a.m.n door?

"Sure, a great house. And a better career than Devin's, with lots more money. But what good is that?" he demanded suddenly with feeling, before adding sadly, "I'm alone."

He didn't mean this, she thought. Not any of it. That was just the fever talking. She couldn't take him seriously. She couldn't afford to.

"You're not alone," she argued. "You have Rachel."

"Rachel." He said the name as if thinking about the child. "I don't know if I have Rachel. She might not be mine. Maybe it's a mistake. All a mistake." And then he shifted again. Claire stumbled at the foot of his bed. She threw rather than guided him down onto his bed, face first. "But I'd rather have you." His words were m.u.f.fled against the bedspread.

He was going to suffocate if she left him that way, she thought. Claire took hold of his shoulder and tried to pull him around. "You don't know what you're saying." With one mighty tug, she succeeded in getting him onto his back. "And I'm talking to an unconscious man."

Evan was sound asleep.

Chapter Eight.

Evan had the sensation that he was floating over a river of lava.

Incredible, insurmountable heat surrounded him, obscuring everything so that he couldn't see. He didn't know where he was, only that he was lost and that it was hot.

The heat made him feel as if he were unraveling and growing progressively weaker. There wasn't enough strength to lift his head or move his limbs. He wasn't even sure if he had any limbs.

He couldn't feel them, couldn't feel anything, only the heat.

And then, through the vapors, there was the sensation that someone was holding him. Someone was lifting his head and touching something to his lips. It was cool and slipped down his throat and along his mouth. A little trickled down his chin.

He thought he might have swallowed, but he wasn't sure.

Evan faded again, never quite surfacing, never quite managing to break through the smothering blanket that kept him down.

The dollop of coolness returned and then spread. This time, he felt it along his forehead and on his hands. No, on his wrists. Like bracelets. With it came a sensation of wetness, a circle of cold wetness around each wrist.

Wetness.

Rachel?

Where was Rachel? He had to take care of Rachel. Panic pierced him. He'd left her alone. He had to get back to her. She needed him.

"Rachel."

He said her name aloud. It took the last bit of strength he had, but he knew he forced her name past his lips. Someone had to hear him; someone had to help.

Someone.

Claire.

Claire could help. She had to help.

"Claire." He whispered her name like a prayer.

There was a pressure on his chest, forcing him down. Had he been trying to get up? He didn't know, didn't know anything. Except that he had to find Rachel and only Claire could help.

And then, he sank back into nothingness, letting it swallow him up. He was too weak to struggle against it.

Evan slowly opened his eyes. They felt hot and itchy. And heavy. It took him several tries before they would remain open. And then it took him more time to focus and orient himself.

He was in his room. It was gloomy, but there was no light on. Was it morning? There was a light, rhythmic tapping sound against his window. Rain. It was daytime and it was raining.

He didn't remember getting into bed, but he must have. How else could he have gotten here?

And then he saw her. Claire. Sitting in a chair near his bed, her eyes shut. She looked as if she was dozing.