Come Lie With Me (14 page)

He was so vitally alive, so masculine, that he deserved a woman in every sense of the word. She might love him, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to satisfy him in the way that was most important to him. Blake was a very physical man; that was a part of his character that became more and more evident with each passing day as he regained command of his body. She wouldn't burden him with the tangle of somber memories that lay just under the calm exterior she presented to the world; she wouldn't make him feel guilty that she'd come to love him. If it killed her, if it tore her to pieces inside, she'd keep their relationship on an even keel, guide him through the last weeks of his therapy, celebrate with him when he finally took those first, all-
important steps, then quietly leave. She'd had years of practice in doing just that, devoting herself body and soul to her patient…no, the relentlessly honest side of her corrected. Never before had she devoted herself
body
and soul to anyone else, only to Blake. And he'd never know. She would smilingly say good-bye, walk away, and he'd pick up his life again. Perhaps sometimes he'd think of the woman who'd been his therapist, but then again, perhaps he wouldn't.

Her eyes were cameras, hungrily catching images of him and etching them permanently into her brain, her dreams, the very fiber of her being. There was the morning she went into his room and found him lying on his back, staring at his feet with fierce concentration. “Watch,” he grunted, and she watched. Sweat beaded on his face, his fists clenched…and his toes moved. He threw his head back, giving her a blinding smile of triumph, and her built-in shutter clicked, preserving another memory; there was the scowl he gave her one night when she bested him in a long-fought game of chess, and he acted as outraged as he had when he'd discovered that she lifted weights. Laughing or frowning, he was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to her, and she watched him constantly.

It simply wasn't fair that one man should be so rich with all the treasures of manhood, tempting her with his strength and laughter, when she knew that he was forbidden to her.

The depths of her fey golden eyes held a world of silent suffering, and though she was very controlled whenever she thought anyone was looking at her, in repose her features reflected the sadness she felt. She was so engrossed with the discovery of her love, and regret for what could never be, that she failed to notice
the sharp blue eyes that watched her in return, read the pain she felt and determined to find the cause.

As the early days of November brought the sizzling Phoenix heat down into the comfortable mid-seventies, the milestone that she had dreaded, yet worked for so determinedly, was finally reached. He'd been on the bars all morning, literally dragging his feet along, and he was so wet with sweat that his dark blue shorts were soaked and clinging to him. Dione was exhausted by the effort of crouching beside him, moving his feet in the proper motions, and she sank to the floor.

“Let's rest a minute,” she said, her voice muffled by fatigue.

His nostrils flared, and he made a sound that was almost a snarl. With his hands clenched around the bars, his teeth bared with determination, he flexed his muscles and bore down with the strain. His right foot moved erratically forward. A feral cry tore itself from deep in his chest and he sagged on the bars, his head falling forward. Trembling, Dione scrambled to her feet and reached out for him, but before she could touch him, he pulled his shoulders back and began the agonizing process with his left foot. His head arched back and he gulped in air; every muscle in his body stood out from the strain he was subjecting himself to, but at last the left foot moved, dragging more than the right foot had, but it moved. Dione stood rooted beside him, her face wet with silent, unnoticed tears as she watched him.

“Damn it,” he whispered to himself, shuddering with the effort it cost him as he tried to take another step. “Do it again!”

She couldn't take it any longer; with a choked cry she hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around his taut waist and burying her face in the sweaty hollow of
his shoulder. He wavered, then regained his balance, and his sinewed arms locked around her, holding her so tightly that she moaned from the exquisite pain of it.

“You witch,” he muttered thickly, burrowing his fingers under her tumbled mane of hair and twisting his hand in the black mass of it. He exerted just enough pressure to lift her face out of his shoulder and turn it up to him so he could see her wet cheeks, her drowning, glittering eyes and trembling lips. “You stubborn, beautiful witch, you all but jerked me out of that wheelchair by the hair on my head. Shhh, don't cry,” he said, his tone changing to one of rustling tenderness. He bent his head and slowly kissed the salty tears from her lashes. “Don't cry, don't cry,” he crooned, his lips following the tracks of her silvery tears down her cheek, sliding to her lips, where his tongue licked them away. “Laugh with me, lady; celebrate with me. Let's break out the champagne; you don't know what this means to me…lady…no more tears,” he whispered, sighing the words against her face, her lips, and as the last one became sound he settled his mouth firmly over hers.

Blindly she clung to him, hearing the tone of his voice, though the words didn't make any sense. His arms were living shackles, holding her to him, his long, bare legs pressing against hers, her breasts crushed into the dark curls that decorated his chest, and she wasn't afraid. Not of Blake. The taste of him was wild and heady, his tongue strong and insistent as it moved into her mouth and tasted her deeply, possessively. Instinctively she kissed him in return, making her own discoveries, her own explorations. He bit gently at her tongue, then sucked it back into his mouth when she began a startled withdrawal. Dione's knees buckled and she sagged against him, which was enough to upset his
precarious balance. He lurched sideways, and they stumbled to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, but not once did he release her. Again and again his mouth met hers, demanding things that she didn't know how to give, and giving her a wild, alien pleasure that set her to trembling like a tree in a hurricane.

Her nails dug into his shoulders and she strained against him, mindlessly seeking to intensify the contact with him. Not once did she think of Scott. Blake filled her world. The sweaty male scent of him was in her nostrils, the slippery texture of his hot skin under her hands; the unbearably erotic taste of his mouth lay sweetly on her tongue. At some unknown point his kisses had slipped past celebration and become intensely male, demanding, giving, thrilling. Perhaps they'd never been celebration kisses at all, she thought fuzzily.

Suddenly he removed his mouth from hers and buried his face in the curve of her neck. When he spoke his voice was shaky, but husky with an undertone of laughter. “Have you noticed how much time we spend rolling around on the floor?”

It wasn't that funny, but in her sensitized state it struck her as hilarious, and she began to chuckle helplessly. He propped himself up on his elbow and watched her, his blue eyes lighted by a strange light. His hard, warm hand went to her stomach and slid under the thin fabric of her T-shirt top, resting lightly but soothingly on her bare flesh. The intimate but unthreatening touch calmed her almost immediately, and she quieted, lying there and watching his face with huge, fathomless eyes, in which her tears still glittered.

“This definitely calls for champagne,” he murmured, leaning over to crush his lips lightly over hers, then
withdrawing before the contact could start anew the searing fire of discovery.

Dione was under control again, and the therapist in her began to take over. “Definitely champagne, but first let's get off the floor.” She rolled gracefully to her feet and extended her hand to him. He used his hands to place his feet in a secure position, then placed his forearm against hers, his hand cupping her elbow. She stiffened her arm, and he used the leverage to pull himself up, swaying for a moment before he found his balance.

“What now?” he asked.

Someone else might have thought he was asking about the immediate future, but Dione was so attuned to him that she knew he was asking about his progress. “Repetition,” she replied. “The more you do it, the easier it'll be. On the other hand, don't push yourself too hard, or you could hurt yourself. People get clumsy when they're tired, and you could fall, break an arm or a leg, and the lost time would really hurt.”

“Give me a time,” he insisted, and she shook her head at his persistence. He didn't know how to wait; he pushed things along, impatient even with himself.

“I'll be able to give you a ballpark figure in a week,” she said, not letting him push
her
. “But I'll definitely be able to keep my promise that you'll be walking by Christmas.”

“Six weeks,” he figured.

“With a cane,” she threw in hastily, and then he glared at her.

“Without a cane,” he insisted. She shrugged. If he set his mind to walking without a cane, he probably would.

“I've been thinking of going back to work,” he said, startling her. She looked up and was tangled in the web
of his blue gaze; it captured her as surely as a spider caught a helpless fly. “I could do it now, but I don't want to interfere with my therapy. What do you say about the first of the year? Will I be far enough along that working won't interfere with my progress?”

Her throat clogged. By the first of the year she'd be gone. She swallowed and said in a low but even voice, “You'll be out of therapy by then and can resume your normal schedule. If you want to continue your exercise program, that's up to you; you have all of the equipment here. You won't have to work as hard as you have, because I was building you up from a very low point. All you have to do now, if you want to continue, is maintain the level you're at now, which won't require such intensive training. If you'd like, I'll draw up a program for you to follow to stay in your present shape.”

Blue lightning suddenly flashed from his eyes. “What do you mean, for me to follow?” he demanded harshly, his hand darting out to grip her wrist. Despite her strength, her bones were slender, aristocratic, and his long fingers more than circled her flesh.

Dione could feel her insides crumbling; hadn't he realized that when his therapy was completed, she'd be leaving? Perhaps not. Patients were so involved with themselves, with their progress, that the reality of other responsibilities didn't occur to them. She'd been living for weeks with the pain of knowing that soon she'd have to leave him; now he had to realize it, too.

“I won't be here,” she said calmly, straightening her shoulders. “I'm a therapist; it's what I do for a living. I'll be on another case by then. You won't need me anymore; you'll be walking, working, everything you
did before…though I think you should wait a while before climbing another mountain.”

“You're
my
therapist,” he snapped, tightening his grip on her wrist.

She gave a sad laugh. “It's normal to be possessive. For months we've been isolated in our own little world, and you've depended on me more than you have on any other person in your life, except your mother. Your perspective is distorted now, but when you begin working again, everything will right itself. Believe me, by the time I've been gone a month, you won't even think about me.”

A dark red flush ran up under his tan. “Do you mean you'd just turn your back on me and walk away?” he asked in a disbelieving tone.

She flinched, and tears welled in her eyes. She'd gone for years without crying, having learned not to when she was a child, but Blake had shattered that particular control. She'd wept in his arms…and laughed in them. “It…it's not that easy for me, either,” she quivered. “I get involved, too. I always…fall a little in love with my patients. But it passes…. You'll pick up your life and I'll move on to another patient—”

“I'll be damned if you're going to move in with some other man and fall in love with him!” Blake interrupted hotly, his nostrils flaring.

Despite herself, Dione laughed. “Not all of my patients are men; I have a large percentage of children.”

“That's not the point.” His flesh was suddenly taut over his cheekbones. “
I
still need you.”

“Oh, Blake,” she said in a half sob, half chuckle. “I've been through this more times than I can remember. I'm a habit, a crutch, nothing more, and I'm a
crutch that you don't even need now. If I left today, you'd do just fine.”

“That's a matter of opinion,” he snapped. He shifted his grasp on her wrist and brought her hand up, cradling it to his beard-roughened cheek for a moment before touching his mouth to her knuckles. “You shoved your way into my life, lady, took over my house, my routine,
me
…. Do you think people forget volcanoes?”

“Maybe you won't forget me, but you'll discover, one day soon, that you don't need me anymore. Now,” she said briskly, deliberately inserting cheer into her voice, “what about that champagne?”

They had champagne. Blake rounded up everyone, and between them they drank the entire bottle. Angela received the news of Blake's progress by gently crying; Alberta forgot herself so far as to give Dione a smile of self-satisfied complicity and drank three glasses of champagne; Miguel's dark face suddenly lighted, the first smile Dione had ever seen from him, and he toasted Blake with a silently raised glass, the two men's eyes meeting and communicating as memories flashed between them.