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the floor next to her. "Lie down. I'll make some tea." |
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She snorted. "McCall, I hate tea. I'm not an invalid; I got shot. I'll be fine in the morning." |
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Better, he thought. A tinge of anger shrouded her voice when she spoke his name. |
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"Can I get you anything?" |
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She glanced over her shoulder. "Such service. I could grow to like this." Reclining on the floor, she placed her head on the pillow and studied him. "I'm thirsty. Any soda in the kitchen?" |
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Though the words mocked and sounded more like the old D.J., Chris could tell by her face that she had tried very hard to resemble her usual self. She couldn't quite pull off the act. Something about the cabin upset her too deeply to ignore. |
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Chris bowed. "Your wish is my command, master." He went into the small utility-sized kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "There's canned tomato juice." A gagging sound told him what she thought of that choice. "Grapefruit juice?" A retch. ''And a bottle of wine." |
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"Bingo. Just what the doctor ordered." |
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Chris glanced around the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. "I don't know, D.J. You've had Demerol and antibiotics. You shouldn't drink." |
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She raised her head from the pillow and grimaced. "Don't be such a goody-goody, McCall. Bodies aren't meant to absorb bullets either, but mine did today. Now bring me the bottle or I'll get it myself." |
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Chris sighed. He'd give her one glass and wrestle her for the rest if he had to. Moments later, he car- |
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