Chapter 8 #2
Touchy, he thought, and shrugged off her sharp question. “Nothing. Come on, let’s go. We’ve done all we can for now.” He gathered the reports together and tucked them under his arm to give back to the sergeant. “Ready?” he asked, holding the door open and looking at her.
Their glances met again, his faintly questioning, hers revealing nothing.
“Yes,” she said, and walked out ahead of him.
Devlin knew he should have told her the truth, at least before they’d left for the station.
The moment he kissed her that morning he’d been certain she didn’t remember what had happened the night before.
If he knew women at all, and he did, Gabrielle was driving herself crazy trying to figure out whether they’d actually slept together.
A decent man would have told her, but Devlin never claimed to be decent.
Which was why his nobility the evening before hadn’t set well with him.
It smacked of weakness and that made him uneasy.
No, uneasy wasn’t the word. It irritated the hell out of him.
He had wanted to get to her, because she’d gotten to him, so he’d let the charade play on.
But it was beginning to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
As they walked down the narrow third-floor hallway he glanced at her. Her face was still pale and her lips were stretched into a tight, thin line, as though she were in pain. Hell, she probably was. Her hangover must be a doozy.
He watched her hand come up and clutch spasmodically at her chest. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she grew even paler.
A doozy, all right. Low blow, Sinclair, he told himself, ashamed for taking advantage of her when she was down.
To steady her, he put his hand beneath her arm.
“Where’s the restroom? Can you make it there? ”
Her eyes were opened wide, the pure panic in them sending off palpable waves of anxiety. “Yes—no—I’m—” Gasping, she tried again. “I’m—fine.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. No way would she make it far. He looked around for options, but before he could decide what to do, she solved the problem by dashing into the stairwell. Devlin figured there were worse places and followed her.
She was crouched down against the wall of the stairwell.
After another look of horror and a desperate, “Go away!” which he ignored, she started ripping through her purse, frantically searching for something.
Devlin couldn’t imagine what she wanted, but it occurred to him that if she’d been about to throw up, she’d already held off longer than he’d have thought possible.
Pills? he wondered. Was she looking for medicine of some sort?
He squatted and grabbed the purse from her, dumping the contents out and spreading them over the floor. Junk. Keys, mints, lipstick, a novel, notes. Pens, a checkbook, a wallet. And there it was, bright as a beacon even before she snatched it up.
A plain brown paper bag, carefully folded. You could’ve blown him over with a gentle breeze. A panic attack? He stared as she fit the open end of the bag over her mouth. Damn straight, and a monster one, at that. She huddled against the wall, breathing in and out of the paper bag.
Devlin helped her sit, then sat beside her.
Gently, he pushed her head down, unconsciously stroking her hair, patting her back, murmuring soothing sounds.
As he waited for her to regain control, his emotions reeled in total chaos.
He had seen one or two people hyperventilate before, but he’d never seen the equal of Gabrielle’s attack.
Gabrielle Rousseau, subject to blowout panic attacks? Of all people he would never have suspected to have such a problem, Gabrielle topped the list. Yet he was seeing it with his own eyes.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when she finally dropped her hands to her lap and leaned her head back against the wall. From above, Devlin heard a door open, and a few seconds later a policeman clattered down the stairs.
“Everything all right here?” he asked, giving them a sharp-eyed look as he paused at the landing.
“Fine,” Devlin said. “My associate just had a dizzy spell. Touch of flu, I guess.” With a nod, the officer continued on his way.
“Thanks.”
Her voice was so low and strained, Devlin barely heard the word.
“Better now?” he asked, smoothing her hair back from her face.
The tender gesture surprised him as much as it apparently did Gabrielle.
Good God, what was happening here? What he felt went beyond mere compassion.
He wanted to…protect her, he realized. Shield her.
And he wasn’t at all sure he could deal with that feeling.
Her eyes wide, the pupils dilated, she stared at him and slowly nodded. “They don’t last long.”
“Do you have these often?”
“No.” She spoke quickly, too quickly. Closing her eyes, she was silent for a few moments. “I’m all right,” she said, taking another deep breath. “Let’s go.”
Devlin rose and helped her up. If she had the attacks so rarely, why did she carry a paper bag in her purse? He waited until they were in the parking lot before he said, “Have you seen a doctor about this?”
Her back stiffened; her chin lifted. He watched the transformation from shaky and weak to strong and in control with admiration and not a little awe. But it only reinforced his certainty that Gabrielle was no stranger to these attacks.
“No. I told you, this doesn’t happen often.” She glared a challenge at him while waiting for him to unlock the car door.
He met her gaze with a look of patent disbelief. “Right. If you say so.”
“It’s just an aberration,” she snapped. “Like what happened between us last night.”