“You have got to be kidding,” she breathed.
She could not believe her ears.
She just wanted to see his house; it was a heritage estate for goddess’s sake, not the Pentagon. It hardly required two forms of identification.
“She’s right here. She’s hit her head.” The other woman was walking into the room leading two men in green jumpsuits and the men approached Sibyl, carrying medical boxes.
Sibyl felt like the cavalry had just arrived.
“What’s happened here, then?” one man asked in a kindly tone and it took everything Sibyl had not to burst into tears.
She would not let the tall, good-looking madman see her cry. She didn’t care if he was the man in her dream, he was not a dream man by any stretch of the imagination.
“I fell, outside, hit my head,” Sibyl explained.
“What were you doing outside in this storm?” the paramedic asked, gently touching her head.
She turned imploringly towards him. “My dog… it doesn’t matter. I need to go home.”
“What year is it?” he enquired.
She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience and counting to ten. She knew this drill, her sister was in the final years of her residency to be a neurologist and had spent hours regaling the family with information and stories filled with medical jargon, interesting case studies and detailed (and boring) explanations of testing and procedures.
Sibyl told him the year, the month, the day, the president’s name, the prime minister’s name, her name, her address and what she ate for breakfast (granola and fat-free, organic, vanilla yogurt).
“Did you lose consciousness?” he asked with an admiring (albeit slightly flirtatious) smile at her recitation.
Sibyl chanced a look at the man Mrs. Byrne called Mr. Morgan. He was looking now at the paramedic with narrowed eyes and a jaw clenched so hard Sibyl could see a muscle jump.
“Five minutes, at least,” Mrs. Byrne replied helpfully. She’d moved away to let the medic get to Sibyl and now she stood wringing the bloodied cloth in her hands and looking…
Sibyl peered closely at her…
Guilty.
“It’s concerning, you’ll have to be watched.” The paramedic was cleaning the wound. “Put some ice on this immediately and keep it on for as long as you can bear it.” He turned toward the maniac owner of Lacybourne. “I don’t see any reason to admit her to hospital, she seems lucid and hasn’t lost any memory. You’ll have to observe her, make sure to wake her several times in the night –”
“What!” Sibyl shouted. “No! I’m going home.”
“This isn’t home?” The paramedic looked from her to the crazy man and went on bizarrely, “That picture in the hall –”
“This is not her home,” Mr. Morgan’s baritone voice noted drily.
“I’ll take her home,” Mrs. Byrne waded in courageously. “Or, my dear, I know we don’t know each other very well but perhaps you should stay with me tonight. We’ll come collect your car tomorrow. My cats won’t mind a little company.”
“She really should rest,” the other medic was saying while the first one put a bandage on the side of Sibyl’s forehead.
“I’m leaving,” Sibyl insisted.
“You’re staying,” the lunatic put in smoothly.
“She’s what?” the cool brunette snapped, finally losing her arctic composure.
“No I most certainly am not!” Sibyl shouted, making her head pound.
“I’ll not have you leave this house and die in the night from a concussion and open myself up to your American family suing me for every penny I’ve got,” Mr. Morgan noted in a calm, even voice.
“I’m not going to die,” Sibyl snapped.