No, not unfamiliar. I felt it on the plane the day that air hostess got all touchy with Raoul. And now here he languishes after not answering my calls, getting himself blown up, and letting some slutty nurse feel him up?
No. Oh, hell no! Not on my fucking watch!
I march across the room, ignoring the woman squawking behind me.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, you can’t go through there.”
Screw that.
I barge through the privacy curtain just in time to see the curvaceous blonde leaning down over Raoul’s chest. From the angle she’s presenting, I have no doubt he’s getting a clear view straight down her cleavage.
I’ll rip his fucking eyes out.
“Oy! Bitch!” That voice can’t be mine. I’m not a raging psychopath. But when the woman spins to face me, her eyes fly wide, and she straightens abruptly.
“Get your hands off my motherfucking husband before I rip them off at the elbow!” I snarl.
And there it is. I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
Chapter 5
Raoul Caraldi
That’s my girl!
I feel a curious surge of emotion as Emma storms in and has twittering nurses scattering like skittles.
“Ma’am! Ma’am!” The matron tries to stop my little ball of fury. “You can’t just—!”
“I am Emma Caraldi. I am here to see my husband, Raoul Caraldi,” Emma looks down her nose at the woman, then turns a withering glare at the nurses around me. “What are you gawking at?” she snaps. One of the younger ones gulps hard and backs off cautiously.
Smart move. My Buttercup’s got teeth.
“Are you dead?” Emma snaps at me. I grin and shake my head.
“Just a scratch. Nothing a little bit of TLC won’t fix.” I bob my brows. She glares at me, though I can see something shift in her expression. It’s relief. She was worried about me.
Awww…
“TLC, huh?” she huffs, glaring around at the nurses, who’ve managed to dwindle to just two.
“Uh… Mr. Caraldi’s dressings…” the buxom blonde starts to say.
“I’ll take care of that,” Emma snaps, practically elbowing the woman out of the way. For a minute, I half wonder if they’re about to wrestle over the bandages. It would be an unmatched battle. Emma fights dirty.
The next pair of hands smoothing gauze over my bare chest belongs to my wife.
Just as it should be.
Emma lifts a swab and stares down at the doctor’s handiwork on a gash across my gut.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she mumbles, slipping back into that Irish lilt she reverts to when she’s not talking posh. “What the fuck did they do to you?”
“It’s just a flesh wound. No big deal.” I reach for her hand, stroking my fingers over her smooth skin.
“Flesh wound? No big deal?” Her eyes are huge, the color seeping from her face. “There must be two dozen stitches there!” She sways slightly, and I grab her forearm. There’s no way I’m going to tell her the number’s closer to thirty. It looks like she’s about to collapse.
“A chair!” I call sharply. “My wife needs to sit!”
