A female voice answered and recited the number. “May I help you?” she pleasantly inquired.
“May I speak to Richard, please?” Maybe she should have called him Mr. Worth instead of Richard.
“Your name?”
“Sweeney.”
“S-w-e?—
“S-w-e-e-n-e-y.” Her name wasn’t difficult, she thought irritably. Why would anyone have any trouble spelling it? Of course, her teeth were chattering so hard she might be difficult to understand, so she gave the woman the benefit of the doubt.
“Sweeney.” Richard’s voice sounded in her ear only a few seconds later. “What’s wrong?”
“How did you know?” she asked weakly.
“That something was wrong? Why else would you be calling me?”
She tried to laugh but couldn’t. “I’m cold,” she said, and was appalled to hear a whimper in her voice. “Oh, God, Richard, I’m so cold I think I might die.”
“I’ll be right there.” His tone was quiet and calm. “You’ll be okay.”
Because he had said it, she clung to the idea while she waited for him. She would be okay. He would arrive soon and get her warm with that miraculous body heat of his. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered, though her legs began cramping again and she couldn’t even crawl back to the vent. Tears wet her face again, and she dried them with the blanket. She didn’t want to be crying like a sissy when he got here.
She would have to unlock the door. She tried to get up and fell back with a cry when her thigh seized in a cramp. She knew she should wait until he arrived, that it was dangerous to leave an entry door unlocked, but damn it, what if by then she wasn’t able to move at all? She massaged the knotted muscle, digging her fingers deep in a savage effort to buy herself a few relatively comfortable minutes. One minute would be enough, just long enough for her to get to the door and unlock it.
If she couldn’t walk, she could crawl. If she couldn’t crawl, she would drag herself on her elbows. She would get to the door.
She drew her right leg beneath her, pushing herself up, and breathed a sigh of relief when it didn’t cramp. Her entire body was trembling violently, both from the cold and in reaction to the incessant shivering. She was unbelievably weak. How could shivering be so debilitating? Wasn’t it the body’s means of producing heat?
She couldn’t stand. Even though her legs weren’t cramping at the moment, she simply didn’t have the energy to get to her feet. She crawled a few feet, then collapsed on her side, breathing hard from the exertion. After a few moments she rolled, blanket and all, like a large human sausage. If babies could use rolling as a means of locomotion, so could she.
She laughed aloud at the picture she must have made, and then cried because she ached so badly in every muscle. When she reached the door, she stretched to reach the doorknob, then hauled herself up on her knees. In that position she could reach, just barely, the two dead-bolt locks on the door. She fumbled them open, then curled into a ball beside the door to wait for Richard.
CHAPTER NINE
The ringing of the doorbell, when it came, startled her. She had no idea how much time had lapsed. “R-Richard?”
The bell rang again, and she realized her voice had been too weak to penetrate the wood. She took a deep breath, holding it to buy herself a few seconds free from shivering. “Richard,” she called, not letting herself think what she would do if someone else was at the door.
“I’m here. Open the door.”
“It’s u-unlocked.”
He opened the door, looked down, and saw her curled on the floor and said, “Shit,” in a very quiet, very controlled tone. He closed and locked the door, then bent down and effortlessly lifted her in his arms.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked as he swiftly carried her to the couch.
“S-since I woke up. A-about n-nine.”
“It feels like the Sahara in here,” he said grimly. He placed her on the couch and unwrapped the blanket, then with sure, brisk movements unfastened her jeans and stripped them down her legs.
“H-hey!” Sounding indignant and outraged was difficult when your teeth were chattering, she discovered.
“Don’t argue,” he said, and pulled her sweatshirt off over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra, because she never did when she was at home. Her nipples had pinched into tight little points. She started to cover her breasts with her hands, then abandoned that idea in favor of wrapping her arms around herself to conserve heat. Her eyelids drooped heavily.
“Don’t let yourself go to sleep,” he ordered.
“I w-won’t,” she promised, and hoped she wasn’t lying.
He left her socks on and went to work on his own clothes. He wasn’t wearing a suit today, she noticed, just slacks and a silk shirt. He unbuttoned the shirt, his fingers moving swiftly, and dropped it to the floor. He kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt at the same time, stripping himself as efficiently as he had her. His pants hit the floor, he jerked off his socks, and then he was with her, wrapping her in his arms and all but crushing her against the back of the couch. “Easy,” he murmured, feeling her convulsive shaking, and pulled the blanket over them.
He pushed his feet under hers and placed one big hand on the back of her head, tucking her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, forcing her to breathe air heated by his body.
The shock of his heat was so intense she thought she might faint. At first all she was aware of was warmth, surrounding her, seeping through her skin and penetrating down to her marrow. He held her tightly against him, helping her contain the shivering, adding his strength to hers. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, making her aware that she still was, and wiped her face with the blanket.