Texas Proud and Circle of Gold (Long, Tall Texans #52) - Diana Palmer Page 0,1

down next to her. He was wearing a suit.

“What’s that about dragons?” the man asked, faintly amused.

“Her cane. That way, she says.” He pointed.

The other man made a sound in his throat.

“Look anyway,” the big man told him.

“All right, I’m going.” There was a pause while Bernie sat in the road getting wetter by the minute.

“Well, I’ll be...!”

The other man came back, holding the cane. He was scowling. “Where the devil did you get something like that?” he asked as he handed it down to her.

“Internet,” she said. The pain was getting worse. Much worse. She needed a heavy dose of anti-inflammatories, and a bed and a heating pad.

She swallowed hard. “Please don’t...stare when I get up. There’s only one way I can do it, and it’s embarrassing.” She got on all fours and pushed herself up with difficulty, holding on to the cane for support. She lifted her head to the rain and got her breath back. “Thanks for not running over me,” she said heavily.

The big man had stood up when she did. He was scowling. “What’s the matter with you? Sprain?”

She looked up. It was a long way. “Rheumatoid arthritis.”

“Arthritis? At your age?” the man asked, surprised.

She drew herself up angrily. “Rheumatoid,” she emphasized. “It’s systemic. An autoimmune disease. Only one percent of people in the world have it, although it’s the most common autoimmune disease. Now if you don’t mind, I have to get home before I drown.”

“We’ll drive you,” the big man offered belatedly.

“Frankly, I’d rather drown, thanks.” She turned, very slowly, and managed to get going without too much visible effort. But walking was laborious, and she was gritting her teeth before she’d gotten five steps.

“Oh, hell.”

She heard the soft curse before she felt herself suddenly picked up like a sack of potatoes and carried back toward the limousine.

The other man was holding the door open.

“You put me down!” she grumbled, trying to struggle. She winced, because movement hurt.

“When I get you home,” he said. “Where’s home?”

He put her into the limousine and climbed in beside her. The other man closed the door and got in behind the wheel.

“I’ll get the seat wet,” she protested.

“It’s leather. It will clean. Where’s home?”

She drew in a breath. She was in so much pain that she couldn’t even protest anymore. “Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse. Two blocks down and to the right. It’s a big Victorian house with a white fence around it and a room-to-rent sign,” she added.

The driver nodded, started the engine and took off.

The big man was still watching her. She was clutching the cane with a little hand that had gone white from the pressure she was using.

He studied her, his eyes on the thick plait of platinum blond hair down her back. Her clothes were plastered to her. Nice body, a little small-breasted and long legs. She had green eyes. Very pale green. Pretty bow mouth. Wide-spaced eyes under thick black eyelashes. Not beautiful. But attractive.

“Who are you?” he asked belatedly.

“My name is Bernadette,” she said.

“Sweet,” he mused. “There was a song about Saint Bernadette,” he recalled.

She flushed. “My mother loved it. That’s why she gave me the name.”

“I’m Michael. Michael Fiore, but most people call me Mikey.” He watched her face, but there was no recognition. She didn’t know the name. Surprising. He’d been a resident of Jacobsville a few years back, when his cousin, Paul Fiore of the San Antonio FBI office, was investigating a case that involved Sari Grayling, who later became Paul’s wife. Sari and her sister, Meredith, had been targeted by a hit man, courtesy of a man whose mother was killed by the Graylings’ late father. Mikey had made some friends here.

“Nice to meet you,” she managed. She grimaced.

“Hurts pretty bad, huh?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing. He looked up. Santelli was pulling into a parking spot just in front of a Victorian house with a room-to-rent sign. “Is this it?” he asked.

She looked up through the window. She nodded. “Thanks so much...”

“Stay put,” he said.

He went out the other door that Santi was holding open for him, around the car and opened her door. He reached in and picked her up, cane and purse and all.

“Come knock on the door for me, Santi,” he told his companion.

Bernie tried to protest, but the big man kept walking. He smelled of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, and the feel of his big arms around her made her feel odd. Trembly. Nervous. Very nervous. She had one arm around