She awakened groggy, her throat on fire. The room was dim and utterly quiet, disorienting her. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she saw that the curtains had been drawn. The bright afghan her mother had crocheted years before had been tucked around her.

Groaning only a little, she tossed it aside and stood up. Steady, she thought with some satisfaction. You couldn’t keep a Stanislaski down.

But this one needed about a gallon of water to ease the flames in her throat. Rubbing her eyes, she padded into the kitchen, then let out a shriek that seared her abused throat when she spotted Zack bending over the stove.

“What the hell are you doing? I thought you were gone.”

“Nope.” He stirred the contents of the pot on the stove before turning to study her. Her color was back, and the glazed look had faded from her eyes. It would take a great deal longer for the bruises to disappear. “I had Rio send over some soup. Do you think you can eat now?”

“I guess.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. She was starving, but she wasn’t sure how she was going to manage getting anything down her throbbing throat. “What time is it?”

“About three.”

She’d slept nearly two hours, she realized, and found the idea of her dozing on the couch while Zack puttered in the kitchen both embarrassing and touching. “You didn’t have to hang around.”

“You know, your throat would feel better sooner if you didn’t talk so much. Go in and sit down.”

Since the scent of the soup was making her mouth water, she obliged him. After tugging the curtains open, she sat at the little gateleg table by the window. With some disgust, she shrugged out of her stained jacket and tossed it aside. As soon as she’d indulged herself with some of Rio’s soup, she would shower and change.

Obviously Zack had found his way around her kitchen, Rachel mused as he came in carrying bowls and mugs on a tray.

“Thanks.” She saw his gaze light briefly on the jacket, heat, then flatten.

“I pawed through some of your records while you were out.” It pleased him that he could speak casually when he wanted to break something. Someone. “Mind if I put one on?”

“No, go ahead.”

Watching the steam, she stirred her soup while he put an old B.B. King album on her stereo. “And they said we had nothing in common.”

Relieved that he wasn’t going to bring the incident up, she smiled. “I stole it from Mikhail. He has very eclectic taste in music.” Once Zack was seated across from her, she spooned up soup and swallowed gingerly. Sighed. It soothed her fevered throat the way a mother soothes a fretful child. “Wonderful. What’s in it?”

“I never ask. Rio never tells.”