High Energy by Joy, Dara (ink book reader .TXT) 📗

him to do."

Tyber counted to ten before he spoke. "Do you know what kind of a place he

invited us to?"

"Yes—a retreat."

"A retreat," he repeated blandly.

"That's right. His place of operation, where we can be approached for—"

"Oh, we'll be approached, all right."

"What do you mean? And why on earth did you insist we'd stay at some inn? Do you

really have a friend up there?"

"No, I do not have a friend up there! I simply told him that because there is no

way in hell I'm going to stay overnight in that environment and neither are

you!"

Zanita was affronted by his high-handed attitude. "I'll decide that for myself,

Captan!"

"Didn't you hear him? All that talk about releasing one's lost sexuality was a

euphemism for a weekend of partner exchanging and communal sex."

"Get out of here! I didn't think he meant it that way. He was talking about

sexuality in the spiritual sense."

Tyber gave her the mysterious face of Mars look.

She swallowed. "Wasn't he?"

"No. And another thing—when he said rustic environment, you can interpret that

to mean a broken-down shack with no amenities in the middle of the wilderness."

"Don't be ridiculous! He would never take prospective marks there. It would

destroy his credibility. He would have to make it appear he was respectable."

"Oh really? Well, you're wrong about that, too. A man who might need to pick up

and move quickly does not bury his roots deep."

She lifted her chin in the air. "Meaning?"

"Meaning he would invest as little as possible of his own capital in the

venture. I bet the place doesn't even have indoor plumbing. And if you're about

to ask me how he would get away with it with marks, don't bother—I'll tell you.

He'll simply explain it away as part of the 'experience' of getting in touch

with your inner self."

Zanita's side of the truck was suspiciously silent.

"What—no comeback?"

Her shoulders sagged. "No, you're right. I didn't think of any of those angles.

I'm really not very good at this, am I?"

She looked so dejected, he instantly felt remorse. "You would have, baby, if you

were feeling better."

"I suppose so," she sighed.

"How are you feeling?"

"There is nothing wrong with me!" A sneeze punctuated her adamant statement.

"I'll tell you what—why don't you take one of your instant Zanita naps, and if

another UFO comes along, I promise I'll wake you up."

She smiled faintly. "Thanks, but I don't think I could fall asleep now."

"This is Zanita talking, isn't it? The woman who has developed the habit of

snoozing to a fine art?"

The corners of her mouth twitched. "Well, I suppose I could try."

"I have complete confidence in your abilities in this area. In fact, I can give

you a recommendation, should you ever need one."

"That's a real comforting thought, Doc." She sneezed again.

"You're sure you're not sick?" he asked in a dry tone.

"I told you, I'm fine."

"Don't you dare even think of rubbing that vile stuff on my chest!"

Tyber had entered the bedroom carrying a tray of various sickroom paraphernalia.

Thermometer. Flashlight. Tongue depressor. Tongue depressor? Tissues. Aspirin.

And a jar of disgusting ointment.

"C'mon, baby, Blooey concocted it just for you. He says it has fresh herbs in

it."

"Like what?"

"Sassafras, comfrey, horehound…"

She crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest. "It stinks!"

"Okay." He put the jar of salve on the night table. "Guess I'll have to go to

Vermont without you."

"You will not! Achoo?"

"You'll never be better by next Friday if you don't take care of yourself."

"I am taking care of myself!"

"Vermont is so pretty this time of year—peak foliage season. Too bad I'll have

to enjoy it all by myself." He sat on the bed, patiently waiting for her to come

around. It didn't take long.

"My head hurts." Her lower lip pouted.

"I know," he commiserated sadly.

"My throat feels scratchy," she explained, as if he didn't know.

"Poor thing." He dipped into the jar.

"And my joints ache, too."

"This will help." He rubbed the ointment on her chest. "Feel better?"

"A little," she grudgingly conceded.

"Let me take your temperature." He popped the thermometer into her mouth,

thinking she really looked quite adorable with her mutinous expression and

flannel granny gown buttoned up to her chin. Not that he would mention it to

her. God knew how she would interpret it. By comparison, men preferred to have

their fingernails ripped out.

When he removed the thermometer, Zanita tried to stare over his shoulder at the

reading, but he turned to the side to scrutinize it privately, as if it were a

top secret formula of some kind.

"Well, what does it say?" she demanded.

"It says you have a temperature. Say ahh…." He stuck the tongue depressor in her

mouth and peered down her throat with the flashlight.

"I hate to break this to you, Doc, but you're a Ph.D, not an M.D."

He arrogantly raised his eyebrow at her.

"You know what you're doing?"

He nodded.

"So, what's the verdict?"

"Mild case of flu."

"Mild? I'm dying!"

"Not for another sixty years—if you eat your vegetables."

"You just want to get rid of all that squash." She stuck her tongue out at him.

He clicked his tongue. "You are a terrible patient."

"So what?" She glared mutinously at him.

"My, my, my. We are cranky, aren't we?"

"I hate being sick!"

"Really? What a revelation! Excuse me while I call the Enquirer." Her mouth

quirked at that. "Haven't completely lost our sense of humor, I see. Would you

like me to sleep in one of the other bedrooms tonight?"

"No!" She belatedly flushed at the vehemence of her response. "I—I sort of…

well…" She picked at the bedcovers.

Tyber yawned. "Feel free to finish anytime."

"I like the feel of you next to me at night, all right?" she snapped.

Tyber smiled broadly. "All right." He quickly shed his clothes and got under the

covers. "You don't have to be so touchy. Jeez, women!" He took her in his arms.

Zanita cuddled against his broad, warm chest, snuggling in to go to sleep.

"Comfy?"

"Mmm-hmmm." She rubbed her face against his chest.

"Good, but you better not sneeze on me."

"I wouldn't do tha—ah… ah… achoo!"

"Zanita!"

She was dying.

Her head throbbed. Her joints throbbed. Her throat was on fire.

Worse than that, she was paralyzed from the knees down. She could not move her

legs!

Blearily, she opened her eyes and managed to lift her head a few inches off