“You’re not?”
“No. It would be too depressing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s because life hasn’t sucked all the joy out of you yet.” I stand and start to pace in front of the chair. “But I can’t let you go, either. Not only did you have the extremely stupid idea to try to shoot your way into my building with your pathetic rescue attempt, you also shot two of my men at La Cantina in Tahoe.”
“I’ve never shot anyone.”
I stop short and look at him.
“I haven’t. Unless you count fish.”
“So those two men killed themselves?”
“No. Alexei shot the two who came to our table. Kazimir shot the other two.”
I already knew about Kazimir. But the intel I have is that Stavros was the shooter at the table. Then again, he and his dead friend Alexei look very much alike. Tall, slim, dark-haired, the same tattoos on their knuckles. Almost like brothers.
He says, “I don’t care if you don’t believe me. It’s the truth. I actually hate guns. I’m more of a computer nerd.”
“Let me get this straight. You’ve never shot anyone before, but you decided it would be a brilliant idea to come to Boston to try to rescue a woman you dated for a few months from a man who has shot people before. Many of them. For far less stupid things.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“We always have a choice.”
“The heart leads where it will.”
“What is that supposed to mean? You’re her puppet?”
He smiles wistfully. “No. I’m just in love. It doesn’t matter if I live or die, as long as I’m near her.”
I glare at him. “Are you trying to get killed here? You have a death wish, is that it?”
“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”
I growl, “Don’t get snippy with me, boyo. I can shoot plenty of things off your body and still keep you alive.”
A sudden vivid image of him on top of Sloane, thrusting between her spread thighs as she moans and arches beneath him, sucks the breath out of my lungs. In its place comes poison.
The poison of pure jealousy.
He sees the look on my face and swallows again.
I return to my pacing. Back and forth I go, thinking. Stavros sits silently, watching me with trepidation.
Like Sloane, he’s not at all what I expected. He’s not a hardened killer. He’s not loyal to anything but romantic notions of true love. He’s young and idealistic, brave and intelligent, and—if I’m honest with myself—is probably a better person than I am.
A person who’d make a good father.
I turn to him and demand, “So you want to marry her?”
He blinks in surprise. “I don’t understand—”
“Answer the bloody question.”
“All right. Yes, I want to marry her.”
“And children? You want those with her, too?”
His eyes shining with emotion, he says roughly, “As many as she’d agree to, yes. I’ve always wanted to be a father. And she’d make a wonderful mother. I’d give it all up if she asked me to. The life. The money. Anything. The only thing that matters to me is her.”
Fuck. This isn’t how I wanted this interrogation to go.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhale hard, and close my eyes. When I open them, Stavros is staring at me like he’s been washed overboard in a raging storm, and I’m the lifejacket someone’s about to throw him.
Which I am.
Trying not to sound as depressed as I feel, I say, “All right, boyo. It’s your lucky day. Let’s make a deal.”
20
Sloane
“Wait, Nancy. Start over. What is it called again?”
“Immunoglobulin A deficiency. IgA for short. It’s a genetic condition passed down from your parents.”
Breathe in for a count of four. Hold for a count of four. Exhale for a count of four. “But I don’t feel sick. Other than this stupid brain clot, I feel fine. I’m in perfect health. I have no symptoms of illness.”
“Most people with the condition have no symptoms.”
“Is there a cure?”
“No.”
Great. I have an incurable disease. At least a pregnancy would be over in nine months. “So what is it, exactly? What am I dealing with?”
“IgA is an antibody that’s part of your immune system. When you’re lacking it, you’re more prone to getting infections. The condition also seems to play a role in asthma, allergies, and autoimmune disorders.”
Confused, I frown at her. “I don’t get infections. And I don’t have asthma, allergies, or an autoimmune disorder. Or any other disorder that I’m aware of, except an unusual affinity for kale.”
She says casually, “Oh, only one in four people who have an IgA deficiency develop any health issues. It’s a silent condition that doesn’t cause any problems for most.”
I can’t be hearing this right. Didn’t she just tell me I had an incurable disease? “It doesn’t cause problems for most people?”
“Correct.”
“But if it does cause problems, I’m looking at stuff like…allergies?”
“Possibly, yes. Or more frequent colds, things like that. And, as in the case of your false-positive pregnancy test, it can interfere with certain blood tests.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
My voice rises. “So it’s not going to kill me?”
Nancy is shocked. “Goodness, no.”
Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “Do you think you could’ve started with that?”
“I’m sorry, I thought I did.”
“No, Nancy. No, you did not. You were all ‘incurable’ this and ‘genetic condition’ that. I thought I had cancer!”
“You don’t have cancer.” She pauses. “At least at the moment.”
“Okay, we really need to work on your bedside manner.”
“I’m simply trying to be medically accurate. At this moment, you don’t have cancer.”
“But if I did, it wouldn’t be caused by the IgA thing, right?”
“Right.”
When I don’t respond and only sit staring at her, she turns and quietly leaves the room.
I lie down on the bed, my central nervous system in overdrive. Between the brain bleed, the pregnancy scare, and Nancy’s inept delivery of the news about the IgA, I’ve got an excess of adrenaline flooding my system. Still, I somehow manage to fall asleep.
When I wake hours later, sunshine is streaming through the windows, and Declan is sitting in the chair beside my bed.
Staring at me with a strange, unwavering intensity.
Yawning, I prop myself up against the pillows and squint at him. “You okay?”
He makes a noise of disbelief and shakes his head.
“What?”
“You’re the one in the hospital bed, and you’re asking me if I’m okay.”
“Because you’re the one with a face like someone just told you your grandma died. What’s up?”