Hidden Riches

flower shop in here, I figured you wouldn’t need any more posies.”
    “You can never have too many.” She reached for the fussy bow, then sat back again. “Give me a hand, will you? I have a little trouble using my arm.”
    He didn’t move, but his eyes were eloquent. “They told me there wouldn’t be any permanent damage.”
    “Right.” Her mouth moved into a pout. “Like a scar isn’t permanent damage. I’m never going to look the same in a bikini.”
    He couldn’t handle it, simply couldn’t. Turning abruptly, he strode to the window and stared blindly out with the heavy scent of roses tormenting him.
    “I should have been there,” he managed after a moment. “You shouldn’t have been alone.”
    His voice was so angry, his shoulders so stiff, that Dora waited for the storm. When it didn’t come, she plucked at the bow with her good hand. “From what Brent tells me, Finley slipped right through LAPD. Nobody had a clue he’d left California. I don’t see how anyone could have imagined he’d waltz right into my apartment and shoot me.”
    “It’s my job to know.”
    “So, it’s going to your head already. What do they call that super-cop thing—the John Wayne syndrome, right?” She’d managed to pull and tug the ribbon off and was lifting the top off the box when he turned. “Well, pilgrim,” she said in a very poor Wayne imitation. “You just can’t be everywhere at once.” Though her arm was beginning to throb, she dug happily into the tissue paper. “I love presents, and I’m not ashamed to say so. I don’t particularly care to get shot to . . . Oh, Jed, it’s beautiful.”
    Stunned, really completely stunned, she lifted out the old wooden-and-gesso box, delicately painted and gilded with figures from mythology. When she opened the lid, it played “Greensleeves” softly.
    “It was hanging around in storage.” He dipped his hands into his pockets and felt like a fool. “I figured you’d get a kick out of it.”
    “It’s beautiful,” she said again, and the look she sent him was so sincerely baffled he felt even more foolish. “Thank you.”
    “It’s no big deal. I figured you could put junk in it while you’re stuck in here. I’ve really got to take off. You, ah, need anything?”
    She continued to run her fingers over the box as she looked at him. “I could use a favor.”
    “Name it.”
    “Can you pull some strings, get me out of here?” It shamed her to feel tears pricking at her eyes. “I want to go home.”
     
    It took him several hours, and a great deal of negotiation, but Dora finally laid her head down on her own pillow, in her own bed.
    “Thank you, God.” Dora closed her eyes, sighed deeply, then opened them again to smile at Mary Pat. “Nothing against your workplace, MP, but personally, I hated it.”
    “You weren’t exactly the ideal patient either, kiddo. Open up.” She stuck a thermometer in Dora’s mouth.
    “I was a jewel,” Dora muttered.
    “A diamond in the rough, maybe. Very rough. But I’m not going to complain; a few days of private duty suits me just fine.” Efficiently, she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Dora’s uninjured arm. “Right on the money,” she announced when she took the thermometer out to read. But Dora caught the quick frown over blood pressure.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing that quiet and rest won’t fix.”
    “I’ve been quiet. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I’m tired of being in bed.”
    “Live with it.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mary Pat took her hand—and her pulse. “I’m going to be straight with you, Dora. You’re going to be just fine with the proper rest and care. But this wasn’t any skinned knee. If Jed hadn’t gotten you in when he did, you wouldn’t be here to complain. As it was, it was close.”
    “I know. I remember it all a bit too clearly for comfort.”
    “You’re entitled to moan and bitch. I won’t mind a bit. But you’re also going to follow orders, to the letter, or I’ll report you to the captain.”
    Dora smiled a little. “You nurses have ranks?”
    “I’m talking about Jed, dimwit. He’s financing this operation.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean you’ve got round-the-clock home care for as long as you need it, courtesy of Captain J. T. Skimmerhorn.”
    “But—I thought insurance was arranging it.”
    “Get real.” Chuckling at the thought, Mary Pat plumped the pillows, smoothed the sheets. “Now, get some