‘My legs work perfectly.’
‘So does your mouth, unfortunately,’ I reply in an undertone.
‘Not even two days together and you two are already bickering.’ The wheelchair wheels squeak against the hospital floor as Rhett attempts a spin in the tight space. ‘Are you sure you’re cut out for spending more time together?’
‘I can’t wait to get her alone to kiss every inch of her skin. To taste her from her lips to the tips of her toes as I whisper my want of her at all the places in between. Does that answer your question?’
‘A little too graphically,’ he retorts with a twist to his mouth.
‘It must be the concussion speaking.’ Remy grins.
‘You don’t need a wheelchair. You need a muzzle.’ My cheeks sting, no doubt pink.
‘I don’t need a wheelchair, period.’
‘Well, according to the hospital’s insurance policy, you do. So get your cutie-patootie butt in that thing, and let’s get this show on the road.’
Rhett stands. ‘I think I was just a bit sick in my mouth.’
A nurse wheels Remy to the entrance of the hospital to where Everett has brought the Range Rover around. I try not to hover around him as he climbs into the car, but honestly, it’s hard.
‘Got everything?’ I ask, ready to close the passenger side door.
‘I think I left my dignity in there.’ With a sniff, his gaze lifts above my head to the hospital building.
‘Remy, I love you. You’re probably going to get sick of me saying this because the thought of you—’ I stop abruptly. He needs to hear this less than I need to say it. I think he’s pretty sick of being reminded of his own mortality. I take a deep breath. ‘So, I love you. I’ll thank the heavens every day.’ He reaches out to where I’m gripping the door, his fingers lightly brushing mine. ‘But I have to tell you, you are a pain in the ass.’ Eyes narrowed, he can’t seem to stop his reluctant grin. ‘Love you!’ I slam the door shut before he can say anything else.
‘Have you had any more thoughts?’ At the back of the car, I keep my voice purposely low as Everett loads Remy’s bag into the trunk.
‘About what?’
‘You know—the thing we were talking about. Remy’s so-called accident.’
‘Did we have a conversation about this?’ His expression is blank as he reaches up and presses a button, the tailgate gliding closed.
‘You know we did. Out in the hallway.’
‘I think your imagination is playing tricks on you. Remy slipped from a passerelle with a defective rail. It’s been investigated and the cause determined as just that.’
‘And the huge wound he has on his head? The one that looked like he’d been hit with something, rather than the other way around? There was no blood on the gangplank thing—you told me that.’ He’d mentioned it in passing, then looked like he wished he hadn’t.
‘Gangplank?’
‘The thing he fell off.’
‘Why do pirates not visit strip clubs?’
‘What?’ The mention of strip clubs barely registers. A second later, my stomach fills with dread. ‘Pirates? Why are you talking about pirates?
‘Pirates don’t go to strip clubs because they already have all the booty.’ There’s an air of resignation in the shake of his head. ‘A gangplank is for pirates, love. It’s a gang walk or a passerelle to those in the know.’ His eyebrows ride high, his attitude infuriating. ‘Also, Le Loup is in water. Water and blood are both liquids, and seeing as water was the larger source, it would’ve washed any blood away.’
‘Why are you being such a dick?’
‘Why are you playing Miss Marple?’
‘Because if it was what you think it was, that means someone tried to kill him.’ I throw my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of Remy sitting in the passenger seat. ‘And I want to know who it was.’ So I can replay the favour.
‘It feels like you’re shouting. You’re not shouting at me, are you?’
‘This is called whisper shouting. You must never have had a girlfriend.’
He laughs; I assume it’s some lame-ass inside joke. ‘I didn’t say it wasn’t an accident., but we can’t really know either way. Not unless Remy remembers something.’
‘Who was it, do you think?’ Because no way I’m buying that, even if he is folding his arms and doing that whole big boy swinging my dick thing. ‘Was it Amélie?’
His expression twists. ‘What would she stand to gain from murdering him? She’s not the one named in his will.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, and don’t say shit like that to me.’ Not unless you want me to have a coronary. ‘It totally could have been her. A woman scorned and all that.’
‘All right, Velma. Keep your hair on.’
‘Velma? Like as in jinkies?’ My incredulity, or maybe my anger, makes him smirk. ‘What in the Sam Hill is wrong with you?’