Free Hawk's Prize by Elaine Barbieri Page A

do.”
    “That’s different.”
    “Different . . .”
    “You were sick. You still are. You needed somebody to take care of you.”
    Right.
    “Besides, you still have the remnants of a fever.”
    More than she realized.
    “Dr. Wesley said the infection seems to be improving, but it still could go either way.”
    Drew’s stomach twisted tight as her breasts heaved before she said, “But you’re right . . . Drew. Formality is a bit absurd at this point.” She compressed her lips. “Now, are you ready to eat something? Your hands are probably unsteady, so I’ll feed you.”
    That thought was more than he could bear. “I can feed myself,” Drew responded more sharply than he intended.
    “But I—”
    “I said, I can feed myself.”
    Tricia did not bother to respond. Instead, she pushed the nightstand closer to the bed and said, “Go ahead.”
     
    Stubborn . . . unwilling to back down . . . he was
impossible!
    Those thoughts flitted through Tricia’s mind as Drew attempted to spoon the thin broth into his mouth while leaning forward awkwardly over the dish. She did not comment when more of the first spoonful ended up on his shirt than in his mouth. She looked away when he mumbled under his breath and tried again, with the same result. She turned determinedly toward the bandages on the dresser that Dr. Wesley had left for her to roll. Moments later she heard the sound of his spoon striking the tray. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he said flatly.
    “Oh, no, you don’t!” Suddenly angry, she strode back to the bed and said, “I’m going to feed you whether you like it or not, and you’re going to finish that broth just like Dr. Wesley instructed—because if you don’t, you’ll never get well.”
    Drew Collins’s eyes met hers as she demanded, “Do you understand?”
    She was uncertain whether she saw a hint of amusement in those depths as she sat down determinedly at his bedside. Annoyed, she picked up the abandoned spoon and ordered, “Open your mouth.”
    Her heart pounded as Drew’s lips parted and she shoved the first spoonful of broth into his mouth. She watched as his lips closed and his throat worked visibly as he swallowed.
    She was sitting closer to him than she really wanted to. His light-eyed gaze was almost palpable as it searched her face and gradually settled on her lips. She could almost feel his body heat, and she controlled hertrembling at the thought that the heat she sensed was unrelated to his fever.
    Hardly able to breathe, she slid another spoonful into his mouth.
    Damn . . . what had she gotten herself into?
    Angie shrugged into her dressing gown and pulled it closed around her. She did not bother to fasten the tie, allowing the gown to gape open to reveal flimsy undergarments that exposed a bounty of intimate flesh as she walked down the hallway toward the bordello kitchen. Chantalle frowned on such a casual manner of dress. She took great pains to impress upon all the women that her establishment was not the average bordello, and that she catered to patrons who appreciated an aura of decorum and delicacy in the public rooms, just as much as they sought full sexual gratification once the bedroom doors closed behind them. Angie was only too happy to supply the sexual gratification part, but she continued to fight Chantalle’s restrictions at every turn.
    Frowning, Angie flipped back her dark, unbound hair and started toward the stairs. Hesitating, she then turned back toward the office where she knew Chantalle would be working on her books. Memories of her visit to Simon’s house the previous night remained chillingly clear in her mind.
    Simon hated her almost as much as she hated him—with one difference. He wasn’t
afraid
of her.
    Angie paused at Chantalle’s doorway. She was uncertain when the relationship between her and Simon had changed from the mutual gratification of perversesexual needs to something much darker. All she now knew was that he paid her an exorbitant sum