She took one step away from the bed. “I’m afraid the home health-care system doesn’t work that way, Mr. Reynolds.”
“It’s Simon, remember? And what way is that?”
“Assignments are handled by the coordinator, Pat Gautreau.”
“What about requests?”
“It’s not a call-in radio show,” she snapped.
“I didn’t mean to insinuate that it was.”
“Time out.” The doctor put his hand up. “I’m going to put in the paperwork requesting a home nurse for you, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll get in touch with Pat and see what she can do to accommodate your personnel preferences. In the meantime, Megan, clean him up. One way or the other he’s going to need that. I’ll do the sutures when I come back.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
After the doc left, Simon watched her move around the small space. It took several moments to register that she never looked at him. She pulled over a stand-up metal tray and put a disposable cloth on it. Paper crackled as she assembled packaged squares, gauze and other mysterious packets. It looked like she was preparing for major surgery. If she pulled out a scalpel, he was outta there, even if he had to crawl.
Finally, she looked at him. “Okay, hero. Lie back down and grit your teeth.”
He complied with her first request, sucking in a breath when every part of his body protested. He slowly let the air out, then said, “So why don’t you want to come home with me?”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
“My brains might be scrambled, but I’m not stupid.” He watched her tear open a square white package, then closed his eyes. She was a bundle of energy, and it made his head hurt to watch her.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” The clipped tone said she knew damn well.
“You looked like you’d swallowed a whole bottle of castor oil when I asked for you.”
“Hold still. I’m going to spray on a topical anesthetic for the pain. It might sting a bit.”
He felt something cool on his skin. It stung for an instant, then stopped and there was blessed relief as the throbbing discomfort went down a notch. He opened his eyes. “Come on, Megan. What’s your deal?”
“I don’t have a deal. You’re imagining things. You should have your head examined.”
“I already did. What happened to the straight-talking, take-no-prisoners angel of mercy?”
“I’m still here. Although you might have your doubts about the mercy part when I get through with you. This is going to hurt. I’ll be as quick as I can.” She let out a long breath, then said, “I’m sorry.”
One minute he was thinking that her tone held heartfelt apology and he wasn’t sure why. The next, fire shot through him and it was all he could do to hold it together. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on holding still. Simon gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw to keep from making any sound as she dabbed and prodded, rubbed and poked his skin to clean the scrapes.
Should he tell her not to bother? There was nothing she could do for what really ailed him. The wound was deep inside where no one could reach it.
“There. Done,” she said.
He opened his eyes and saw her toss bloodstained gauze on the tray. “That wasn’t so bad.”
But he’d heard the raw edge to his voice. His scraped skin tingled and throbbed, hurting only slightly more than his throat from his effort to hold back any sound.
One of her eyebrows lifted. “Really? Maybe I missed something. I can check and see. Go through it again—”
“No!”
He met her gaze and saw the shadows in her wide blue eyes. Her lips turned up at the corners, evidence that she was teasing him. But it cost her. Every job had its downside. Hurting a patient, even to help, wasn’t easy for her. Humor was her defense mechanism.
“You’re absolutely sure?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He let out a long breath. “I’m squeaky clean.”
“At least your boo-boos are,” she qualified. “Now I’m going to put on some antibiotic.” She grabbed a packet and ripped off the edge, then squeezed until opaque ointment appeared. After touching a swab to the stuff, she applied it to his scrapes.
She met his gaze. “Okay, just a couple more spots on that pretty face of yours and you’re almost ready for the doctor to suture your shoulder before you go upstairs for the night.”
“You seem awfully cheerful at the prospect of passing me off.”
“Really? And I thought I was being subtle.”
“Why are you so anxious to get rid of me?” he asked, squirming.
“Hold still.” She finished dabbing the ointment at a spot on his jaw, then met his gaze without blinking. “You’re my worst nightmare.”
“Wow. Don’t sugarcoat it, Megan. Tell me how you really feel.”
Her lips compressed into a straight line for a moment and she shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“But you did. So come on. The least you can do is explain.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not going to provoke me into saying anything else.”
“How unfair is that? I should get something for holding still while you tortured me.”
One of her delicate eyebrows rose. “Now there’s a switch. The person being tormented is usually the one who sings like a canary.”
“I think it hurt you more than me. So give.”
“No.”
“Why? Why am I your worst nightmare?”
Still holding the swab, she looked at him, her eyes snapping. “Are you going to drop this?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “You win. Why am I anxious to pass you off? You’re dangerous, a loose cannon. Before you ask how I know this, I’ll tell you. No one in their right mind would try to leave the hospital in your condition. Obviously, you thumb your nose at the rules.”
“I prefer to think of it as marching to my own drum.”
“You didn’t bother to deny it. I have to admire that. But people like you are bad for me.”
“Junk food is bad for you. I’m—”
“The saturated fat in the veins of my life.” She dropped the used swab onto the tray beside her.
“Some son of a bitch dumped you.”
“How did you know?” Her head snapped around so fast whiplash was a real possibility. “Never mind. We’ve already established that you’re not stupid.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It’s probably the nicest thing I will ever say to you.”
Simon found that bantering with her took his mind off the pain. There was no other explanation for the way he was acting, why he was pushing her—provoking her. If he didn’t know better, he would call it flirting. But that was impossible. A guy only flirted to show interest in a woman, and he hadn’t been interested for a really long time. Not in women—or anything else.
“So tell me about him—the jerk who dumped you.”
“It’s none of your business.” She picked up the empty packaging on the tray