THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

25
     
    BY THE TIME Delano made it back to the penthouse roof, dawn was less than twenty minutes off. Odd not to feel any urgency to seek shelter in the face of the coming day. Odder still not to feel his limbs filling with lethargy as the immutable demand of the day-sleep asserted itself. He was free to stand here and watch the sun rise over Montreal’s urban skyline, risking nothing more than the pain that witnessing such beauty again would surely cause him.
    Except while he was free of his vampiric nature, he wasn’t free of duty. There was far too much to be done to linger here to watch a sunrise.
    Lifting the radio, he called downstairs for the other pilot — the one whose throat he’d injured — to be brought to the roof for transport to the clinic he’d just left.
    Ten minutes later, after his wounded partner had been loaded on board, Hitchman said, “Thanks for doing this, man. We both know my former boss would not have been so gracious if Robertson there was your man.”
    That, Delano thought, was the understatement of the century. “Just get your friend taken care of.”
    Hitchman gave him a salute — a genuine, crisp military-style salute — then climbed aboard the idling chopper. As the craft powered up and lifted off, Delano joined his waiting men by the door. They escorted him inside and down the stairs, one on either side as though they thought he might need assistance. Which wasn’t far from the truth. He was exhausted and hungry and parched, not to mention his chest felt like it had been trampled by a very large horse.
    Ainsley greeted him at the door, and Shalvis and Ross melted away discreetly.
    “How is Geoff? Did you get a feel for his prognosis before you left him?”
    Geoff? Oh, she must mean Bartlett. He smiled. The guy had worked for Delano for the last four years, and he’d never once used the guy’s first name. Leave it to Ainsley.
    He wanted to reach out, pull her into his arms and hold her against him. He wanted to feel the in and out of her breath stir against his skin, feel the beat of her heart against his chest. It was so strange not to be able to hear the surge of her blood in her—
    “Delano?”
    He blinked.
    “Geoff Bartlett? How is he?”
    “Right. Sorry. His prognosis is not bad, all things considered, but he’s going to have the rehab from hell.”
    “Thank God! I’ve been worried sick.”
    She flipped her hair off her nape and he braced for the heated scent of her to invade his senses. Then blinked when all he got was the faintest whiff of her shampoo. This was going to take some getting used to.
    He cleared his throat. “How about our patients? How’s everyone doing?”
    “Devon hasn’t stirred. As you promised, she’s sleeping like a newborn babe. No nightmares, no anguish, not even the hint of a frown on her forehead.”
    Thank God he’d had enough power left — barely — to give her that gift. “Good. And Mrs. Michaels?”
    “Believe it or not, she’s sleeping, too. Well, with the aid of a little sedative, and with one arm wrapped around Devon.”
    “And Eli?”
    “Hard at work, managing everything from his sickbed via the radio.”
    Delano grinned. “That sounds like Eli, all right. Speaking of whom, I’ve got some tests to do to make sure he doesn’t run into trouble.”
    Before he could turn away, Ainsley grabbed his arm. “Everything’s downstairs in your lab and ready for you, but the tests will wait a few more minutes. I’ve made you something to … that is … I mean, I thought you might be hungry.”
    His stomach growled by way of reply. “I guess you have your answer,” he conceded wryly. “The question is, what do you start with after 168-odd years?”
    “I’ve been giving that some thought. Follow me.” She turned and headed for the kitchen.
    As instructed, he followed, touched that she had anticipated the potential difficulties.
    “You’ve been drinking water?” She threw the question over her shoulder.
    “Lots of it, with no trouble.”
    “Okay, I figured you can’t go wrong if you start bland, and avoid anything fatty, spicy, fibrous or acidic. But then I thought, maybe it should be clear liquids.” She gestured to the table, where she’d assembled about a dozen possibilities. “As you can see, I couldn’t quite make up my mind.”
    Delano regarded the assortment of foods. Soda crackers, what looked like plain noodles, applesauce, bananas, and some other unidentifiable mushy thing, not to mention a