She thought about continuing to argue, though she didn’t really feel like doing so, but the need for sleep won out, and she surrendered to it gladly.
***
She had been mistaken about an uninterrupted stretch of sleep, and she felt bone-weary the next morning when Dr. Whitaker came to check on her. “I’d feel better if I had gotten to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time last night,” she groused when the doctor asked how she felt.
Dr. Whitaker just smiled. “We had to check on you frequently to make sure the pressure hadn’t increased. You seem to be doing well though, and I have no hesitation sending you home with some caveats. If your symptoms worsen, of course come back or call nine-one-one, and of course you can’t be alone for the next forty-eight hours.”
“You can stay in my apartment, or I’ll stay with you,” volunteered Connor, who looked just as handsome and put-together as he had yesterday, as though he hadn’t spent an uncomfortable night in the chair that folded out into a too-narrow, too-short bed. She nodded her agreement, though she had no intention of following the doctor’s orders. Having someone around for the next two days seemed unnecessary, but she wasn’t about to argue until she was free from the place, not wanting Dr. Whitaker to change her mind about releasing her.
The doctor finished up with her a little while later, and Angelina shuffled into the shower, pleasantly surprised to find the hospital had more than adequate pressure and water hot enough to fill the entire small bathroom with steam. It was only after she had finished her shower and dried off that she realized she hadn’t brought her clothes into the bathroom with her.
Feeling awkward, she cracked the bathroom door and poked out her head. “Um, Connor, do you mind handing me my clothes? I hope they’re in that little closet cubby over there.”
He nodded. “Sure.”
A moment later, he found her clothes in the closet and brought them to her. She blushed like a schoolgirl when he accidentally dropped her panties and picked them up, handing them to her after a slow perusal of the lacy white garment. “Nice,” he commented with a lascivious leer that was clearly exaggerated—she hoped.
She rolled her eyes, a maneuver that was surprisingly painful with her had still aching. “Thanks for the clothes.” She took a measure of satisfaction in slamming the door in his face, but his husky laugh detracted from her feeling of victory.
She dressed as quickly as she could, having to pause between motions to allow the waves of dizziness to pass. Finally, feeling like an invalid, she shuffled from the bathroom to discover the nurse had brought her discharge papers. A few minutes later, the nurse wheeled her to the exit, and she stepped out of the wheelchair at the front door. Connor put his arm through hers to offer support as they stepped into the sunlight.
For a moment, she thought the bright flashes were a reaction from her concussion at first exposure to direct sunlight. It took a moment for her to realize they were camera flashes, and there were a lot of them, all centered on her and Connor. Each flash was like an icepick through her head, and she grasped her temple and pressed closer to Connor in her confusion. She was doing her best to avoid the flashes, so it took a moment for any of the words being screamed at her to coalesce into comprehensible sentences.
“Is this the first time Mr. Blackwell has hit you?” asked an aggressive reporter as he shoved the microphone toward her face.
“Can you confirm your engagement?”
“When is the baby due?”
“Is it true he hit you because you wouldn’t agree to marry him?”
“Sources say he struck you because you tricked him into proposing. Is that true, Ms. Walsh?”
“Who will you be wearing on the big day?”
“How long you been engaged?”
“Are you staying with him after he beat you? What kind of example does that set for young women everywhere?”
The questions blurred together, but she quickly realized the reporters were there for her and Connor, and because they believed Connor had been the one to injure her. She was confused and overwhelmed. Her head spun, and it was a relief to allow herself a moment of weakness and surrender herself to Connor’s care. Angelina reveled in the way he swung her into his arms, carrying her in a tender fashion as he pushed his way through the throng of reporters with the assistance of security guards from the hospital.
She’d never been so glad to be in a car in all her life as she was when he placed her in the passenger seat of a black sedan less than five minutes after the ordeal had begun. It had been over in minutes, but felt like years had passed. He drove like he was on the race course as he sped away from the hospital, putting distance between them and the aggressive pack of reporters with their vicious lies.
“What was all that?” she asked, rubbing her aching head.
His expression was grim. “Someone clearly tipped them off about your injury, and I guess they jumped to the conclusion I had been the one to hit you.”
She snorted. “Idiots. And who would tip them off?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps someone at the hospital. We haven’t made an official announcement of the engagement, but since I was with you the whole time at the hospital, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out you’re important to me. The ring on your finger adds another clue.”
She looked down at it reflexively, having forgotten she was wearing it. It had been on her finger for almost a week now, and she was completely adjusted to it. That was disturbing for many reasons, and if she’d had the energy, she would have tried to pull it off. “Still, why would they assume it was you?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I guess because I’m a celebrity.”
She shook her head, and then groaned at the motion. “The hospital people would have known the truth though. So would anyone that was at the house, assuming it was one of Carly’s associates who called in the tip.”
He sounded bitter when he said, “When does the paparazzi let a little thing like the truth stand in the way of a sensational story?”
“True,” she conceded with a sigh. “Well, I’ll just issue a brief statement with a reputable newspaper, and this will all blow over.”
He let out a sound that could have meant anything, but seemed to be one of skepticism. “I hope you’re right.”
She was clinging to her optimism, but it rapidly faded as they approached her apartment building to find it surrounded by more reporters. He barely slowed down before driving on by. “Hey, I need to go home, Connor.”
“You’ll stay at my place.”
His inflexible tone struck her wrong. “No, I won’t. I’m not going to let a pack of cretins run me from my own home.”
“They won’t leave once they see us go in together.”
She frowned. “Then drop me off.”
“No way. Dr. Whitaker said you have to be watched for the next forty-eight hours.” He barely glanced away from the road as he reminded her of that.
She shrugged. “She’ll never know.”
“I’ll know.” He shook his head. “I’m not risking your health when I have plenty of room in the penthouse. You’ve been there, so you know what it’s like.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “Well, okay. Thank you, Connor.”
His lips twitched. “If that tone was any more grudging…” A hearty laugh burst from him.
“Sorry. I’m just used to taking care of myself.”
Connor looked at her for a moment, lifting her hand from her lap and squeezing it with his. “Let me take care of you for a bit. It will be a privilege.”
She wanted to make light of his words, and she searched desperately for a hint that he was kidding or being mock-gallant. She saw nothing but sincerity in his expression, and that made her swallow a thick lump that unexpectedly lodged in her throat. “Well, thanks, I guess, Connor.”