Chapter VIOLET
Two days later…
"Ah, no, no, no," I protest as I enter Marcello's office in his penthouse the next day. "You have not been cleared for work yet."
He looks up from a stack of papers on his desk. "Good morning to you, too, Violet."
An edge to the set of his lips tells me that my patient has reached the cranky phase of his recovery.
"You're still on bedrest as far as I know," I move to the desk, putting my hands on the edge.
"One call will change that," he declares arrogantly.
"You might be able to intimidate your doctors, Marcello, but that won't change the fact that your body still needs rest," I explain patiently.
It's only been two days since my first day at this new job, and with each passing day, it's gotten more and more difficult to keep my patient in bed. My patient, that's the mantra I've been repeating to myself every hour since I accepted this torturous job.
"Just change the bandages," he orders.
"Not here," I stand my ground.
"Fine!" He throws the papers on the desk and rises, a bit too suddenly. He sways for a moment, and I rush to his side, putting my arm around his waist to support him.
"I can stand on my own," he snarls.
"I'm sure you can," I soothe, "but I wouldn't be doing my job if I weren't right here."
He glares down at me, seeing through my bullshit, contrary to any other patient I've used it on over my career.
I've taken many nursing and even some psychology classes focused on the convalescence of patients, but none have given me any wisdom on how to deal with a man who thinks himself physically fit enough to enter a bullfight after being shot at a few weeks before.
"Your brain is still adapting," I try.
"My brain is just fine," He counters.
"Alright. Come on, let's get into your bedroom and change the bandages. Once I'm gone, you can do all the idiotic things you want to do."
"Idiotic things?" He challenges.
"Yeah, like working," I say to lighten the mood.
He grabs his crutches and starts to move in the right direction. Unfortunately, he miscalculates the turn, and the right crutch gets caught by the side of his desk. With a sudden bout of fury, he throws it across the room. It hits a glass cabinet filled with books and shatters the pane.
"I hate these fucking things," He yells and throws the other.
Luciano sticks his head in, a gun in his right hand, giving me a near heart attack—I'm still not used to seeing guns, and I probably never will be. He takes one look at Marcello and me and retreats. Coward.
"Feel better?" I ask Marcello, keeping my arms up just in case he loses his balance.
He glares at me. "You act like you would be able to catch me."
"Try me," I dare him.
We hold a silent glare off.
I take his arm and place it over my shoulder, then put an arm around his waist, hooking my hand into his belt for leverage. He overexaggerates his weight, leaning harder on me than he needs to, set on proving his point. But I'm equally set on proving to him that I can bear his weight.
"You're stronger than you look," he remarks when we make it to the bed, where he sits down on the edge, soaked in sweat.
"You are one stubborn man," I reply. "How's your head?"
He glares at me again, and I raise my eyebrow in challenge, bring it on, buster.
I move to the medical rolling cabinet and get out the painkillers. It's a little early for his next dose, but I'm sure his head feels like it's about to split open.
The fridge by the bar has been restocked, and I pull out a bottle of Voss water to hand to him with the pills. With a loud, irritated sigh, he takes both from me.
"What am I supposed to do all day?"
"Heal," I deadpan.
He swallows the pills. "According to you, I can't heal without rest, and I can't rest when I'm angry."
He's got a point.
"I suppose not." I grab the TV remote. "Have you tried watching a movie or show?"
"I don't like movies."
Of course he doesn't.
"Okay, how about a cooking show?"
"Cooking show?"
"Yeah, never mind." I channel surf and automatically stop at one of the renovating shows I like.
"Home improvements?" His voice has the same edge as when he said cooking shows, like it's something beneath him.
"I like them."
"You do?" He turns to me, surprised.
I nod, "Yeah. Someday, I'd like to renovate an old house and make it pretty again."
"Interesting. Alright, let's watch it."
Feeling like I've won a victory, I sit down next to him, not daring to mention his bandages. At least he's on the bed. He's not lying down like he's supposed to, but I count this as a small win.
"And they make money doing this?" He asks after a while.
I nod eagerly. "Yes, lots of it."
I realize that my idea of lots of money is vastly different from his when he scoffs at the end of the show, where the people who invested earn a net profit of forty-three thousand dollars.
"Forty-three in three months," he huffs.
"That's a lot of money for a lot of people," I say a bit defensively.
"I suppose," he acknowledges.
"What?" I demand, almost able to see the cogs in his mind turning.
"Nothing, are you ready to change my wrappings?"
At least it sounds like his sense of humor has returned.
"Sure."
I pull the cart up next to him while he takes his shirt off.
No matter how many times I've seen his naked torso, I'm still not used to it.
His muscles are hard, roped, and chiseled.
My fingers itch to run over his pecs. What would it feel like lying under a man like him?
Images of the sheet tent return to me, igniting a small pulse in my clit.
Great. Now I'm turned on again. Very professional, Vi.
My body automatically remembers what to do: take bandages off, clean wounds, and scrutinize them. "The stitches look good."
No sign of infection. Healing ointment, new bandages. All that is done on autopilot, while my mind won't stop torturing me with scenarios of this man—my patient—fucking me senseless. And he would. I'm sure of it. He is a man used to control and power.
I'm suddenly aware that he's staring at me and realize he said something, but for the life of me, I can't figure out what.
"I'm sorry, I missed that."
"Yeah, you looked a million miles away," he says curiously, studying me with his piercing gray eyes—eyes I could simply get lost in. They are the exact shade of an overcast summer sky, right before the storm.
"You're doing it again," he chuckles.
"I'm so sorry. I do feel a bit scatterbrained today." I'll admit that much. There's no reason to tell him that wherever I went in my head, he was there with me. Front and center. Shirtless. Smirking. Dangerous.
"I said, that's what Doc Brown said, too."
"He did?" Before I make a double-take. "Who is Doctor Brown?" I don't remember a doctor by that name on any of the staff lists.
"My doctor," he fills me in.
"He's not working for St. Raphael's."
He shakes his head. "No, he works for me."
Great. Just great. I arch a brow. "Let me get this straight. You now have a personal doctor and a nurse." I gesture to myself dramatically. "Both of whom you'll fire if they disagree with you?"
His smile spreads. That annoyingly gorgeous, devil-may-care smile that should come with a health warning. God, he's lethal. "Now you're catching on."
"Unbelievable." I shake my head, but my lips are twitching.
I put my hands on my hips. "Well, I'm still going to tell you that you should be in bed."
"That's not what the doctor said," he challenges.
My fists tighten on my hips. "Oh really? And what exactly did this doctor of yours prescribe?"
His dimples flash, and God help me, because both my body and mind are ready to abandon me. "Movement. Activity. Maybe a walk in the garden. Supervised, of course. Preferably by someone with hazel eyes and a sharp tongue."
I roll my eyes so hard they almost get stuck. "You really are impossible."
"I've been called worse." He goes for nonchalant, which is absolutely deadly.
I sigh, defeated. "And yet somehow, I keep showing up. I must be more masochistic than I knew."
"That, or you like me." Another challenge drifts toward me.
My mouth opens. Then closes. Damn him. I tilt my head, giving him my best unimpressed nurse stare. "Like you? Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Orsi."
"Marcello," he corrects smoothly. "Say it like you mean it."
I ignore the flutter that sparks in my chest. "I'm just here to keep you from doing something stupid. Like walking into a gunfight with a concussion and a stitched-up leg."
He grins, and it's unfair how good that looks on him. "So you admit you care."
"I admit I'm paid to care." I grab the chart and make a show of checking it, mostly so I don't have to look at his smug face another second. But even as I turn, I can feel his eyes on me. Burning and knowing. And I hate how much I don't hate it.