Her Favorite Temptation (14 page)

Now he was facing the prospect of never being able to play again. Of never again having that sublime, transcendent connection with his music.

He must be devastated. No matter how grateful he was to be alive and to have learned his tumor was benign, to have lost the ability to do something that was so close to the core of who he was... He must be reeling.

Her chest swelled with emotion. She wanted to weep for him. She wanted to punch a hole in the wall. She wanted to do something to hurt the vultures who had taken his private business and blasted it across the front page of the paper.

But most of all she wanted to comfort him. To do anything and everything she could to help him.

For a long moment she stood, her head bowed. Then she straightened, took a deep breath.

She wasn’t a neurologist, not by a long shot. But she was good at learning, fantastic at research and tenacious as all hell. She might not be part of Will’s inner circle, but she could offer him the one thing she did best: she could offer him her smarts.

Galvanized, she went in search of her phone. She had some calls to make.

CHAPTER TEN

W
ILL
SAT
IN
the chair beside his bed, gazing out the window at the roofs of other people’s houses. He’d been moved into a private room the moment he’d come out of ICU, but he would be glad to see the back of the Alfred when they released him this afternoon.

He’d had enough of being woken by people—nurses, doctors, aides, orderlies—coming into his room at all hours. He wanted his own things around him, wanted the sound of the beach, and the privacy to let his guard down and feel the way he felt without worrying that he’d come across as self-pitying or pathetic.

His hand was screwed. There were no two ways about it. He’d had physiotherapy twice a day since being moved onto the general ward, but there had been precious little change in his hand in that time. His leg had improved. He could walk slowly, if he really concentrated, by lifting his leg and bending his knee more than usual to compensate for his weak foot. But his hand had remained stubbornly resistant to therapy, and even his physiotherapist was starting talk in terms of “probable gains” and “compensating strategies.”

His mother had brought his guitar into the hospital, hoping to spur him on, but he’d asked her to take it away again after a couple of days. There was no point aspiring to something that was so completely out of reach. At this stage, he’d count himself lucky if he could grip a toothbrush firmly enough to brush his teeth.

He kept telling himself he was lucky, that he should be glad to be alive, that even if this was the end outcome, he’d gotten off lightly compared to many tumor sufferers. It didn’t make his frustration and grief any easier to bear. Losing the ability to make music was a blow, and he wasn’t about to lie to himself about that fact.

He hadn’t even begun to get his head around all the effects of his condition. He and Mark had talked of touring the States early next year, and they’d made tentative plans to start working on their fourth album after that. Will had always composed on the guitar.
Always.
He was a passable piano player, and knew he could probably find some way to compose one-handed on a keyboard, but it wouldn’t be the same. Galahad Jones wouldn’t be the same.
He
wouldn’t be the same.

He heard the scuff of footsteps and suppressed a jolt of anger. It would be really freaking awesome if he could have ten minutes to himself. He glanced over his shoulder, ready to mouth whatever platitude it would take for whoever it was to bugger off—and stilled when he saw it was Leah.

“Hi,” she said, offering him a small smile.

Her hair was caught up on top of her head, and she wore jeans and an orange cardigan with a white T-shirt underneath. She looked good—beautiful and subtly sexy.

“Hi.” Instinctively he shifted his defective hand inward, closer to his body.

She noticed the movement and he knew instantly that she’d read this morning’s paper. Anger spiked through him, red-hot and raw, closely followed by a chaser of shame.

“Come to offer your condolences, have you?” He could hear the anger and bitterness in his voice. A part of him recognized how completely undeserved and inappropriate it was, but he’d been sitting on a cauldron of impotent emotion ever since he’d seen the paper.

He and Mark may have been on the media’s radar in earnest for only twelve months, but he’d had his fair share of bullshit press in that time. This morning’s exercise in public humiliation, however, had taken the cake. Easily.

“No. I came to give you this.”

She pulled a book out of her bag and approached him, handing the book over. He got distracted by her perfume and the soft outline of her breasts beneath her top now that she was closer. He liked her in jeans, liked the way the denim outlined her long, lean legs.

“I really want you to read Chapter five. There’s some fantastic stuff in there about neuroplasticity that you need to know.”

He glanced at the book title—
The Brain That Changes Itself
, by Norman Doidge.

“Until fairly recently, medical science believed that brain cells didn’t and couldn’t regenerate, and that brain injuries were pretty much a life sentence. This guy—” Leah indicated the book “—went around the world talking to people in various fields about the successes they were having disproving that theory. There are some amazing stories in there, Will, but Chapter five deals with stroke victims and a doctor in the States who is having fantastic results helping patients regain function via constraint-induced movement therapy.”

He opened the cover, flicking through a few pages. “I’m not a stroke patient.”

“No, you have brain trauma, from both the pressure of your tumor and the resection. But there are people out there applying the science of neuroplasticity to all types of brain injuries. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think this offered some hope.”

He stared at her. Her gaze was direct, and there was a peculiar tension in her body, as though she was waiting for him to say or do something. The need to touch her was so powerful he actually lifted his arm.

His bad arm.

He glanced at it, then let it fall into his lap.

Leah surprised him then, dropping to her knees in front of him and taking his bad hand in hers.

“Read the book, Will, okay?”

Her hands were warm, her fingers tangling with his unresponsive ones. He looked into her eyes, searching for pity, but all he saw was bright, fierce intelligence and determination.

“You’ll get excited, I can almost guarantee it. And you’ll have to hold on to that excitement, because constraint-induced movement therapy is exhausting and demanding, repetitive and dull. You are going to be ready to bang your head against a brick wall by the time you’re done.” She smiled. “But people get great results from this, Will. And you are an excellent candidate. You’re young and fit and healthy. Most important, you’re highly motivated.”

He studied the way her fingers were interwoven with his. He’d always loved her hands, how slim, elegant and strong they were.

Safe hands.

“So, is this something the hospital offers, or would I have to go to a special rehabilitation clinic?” he asked, meeting her gaze again. Terrified to let himself hope, yet unable to stop himself, too.

If he could beat this, if he could play again...

“I’m looking into that for you. There’s a clinic in the U.S. that originated this style of therapy, but I suspect your doctor won’t want you flying anytime soon. I’m not sure what the availability is locally. As I said, it’s intense—six hours a day for at least two weeks.”

“They’re sending me home tomorrow.”

“I know. Give me a couple of days, and I’ll call you with any information I can find, okay? In the meantime, read the book.”

She started to slide her hand free, but he managed to tighten his grip enough for her to understand he didn’t want to let her go. Not yet.

She stilled, uncertainty showing on her face for the first time since she’d entered his room.

“You’re not angry with me?” he asked.

Because he’d been so sure she would be.

“Should I be?” Her golden-brown eyes were as luminous as honey.

“I lied to you.”

“True, you didn’t tell me something that many people would consider pretty bloody germane to our relationship. But I understand why you did it.”

“Are you letting me off the hook, Dr. Mathews?”

“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.” She tightened her hand around his. “I’m really glad you’re okay, Will,” she said softly.

He released her when she tugged on her hand this time.

She stood. “I’ll call you when I know more.”

He stood, too, because he wanted her to know he could.

“Thanks for coming in. And for the book. I appreciate you thinking of me.”

She glanced away quickly. “Look after yourself, Will.”

She headed for the door, fussing with her handbag every step of the way. He was pretty sure she was crying. He turned away, unable to witness her grief on his behalf. Unable to handle the notion that he was a victim, worthy of tears and pity.

Sitting in his darkened apartment the night before his surgery, he’d written and rewritten his letter to her half a dozen times, her scent still on his skin, burningly conscious of the fact that she was only meters away, naked and sated, her body marked by his teeth and whiskers, mouth and hands.

There had been so many things he’d wanted to say to her, but he’d held back, aware that there was an intensity to his situation that might be exaggerating and magnifying his feelings for her. That maybe he was mistaking undeniable sexual chemistry and mutual admiration for something else.

Something important, life changing and forever.

He hadn’t trusted himself, or the situation—and he would be grateful for the rest of his life for the impulse that had stayed his hand that night, because everything had shifted now. Everything.

And he would burn in hell before he tried to bind Leah to him with ties of obligation and pity.

* * *

L
EAH
WAITED
UNTIL
she was in the stairwell between floors before she stopped and allowed herself a moment to breathe. Seeing Will again had been...too much.

He’d been so pale. The wound on his head was healing well, but it was only the second time she’d seen him without his hair and it had been strange and disorienting. Everything had been off—the way he looked, the way he held himself, his self-consciousness. As though someone had taken her version of the world, of Will, and shifted everything out of whack.

He nearly died.

That single stark thought had echoed inside her head the whole time she was talking with him. He had nearly died, and she’d nearly lost him.

Funny how it had hit her hardest now, so long after the fact. As though it was only now that she really knew for certain the danger had passed that she could allow herself to confront what might have been.

He didn’t die
,
though.
He’s fine.
And he’s going to get better.

Her chin came up. She was being maudlin and overly dramatic. Will had been incredibly lucky. He was about to get luckier, because she had another five weeks of free time before she started her new training, and she intended to devote every freaking second to finding out as much as she could about rehabilitation programs for brain trauma.

The ache in her chest eased as her brain kicked in. She needed to get her A-game on and stop this weepy bullshit. This was serious business.

Accordingly, she descended to the next level and went in search of the physiotherapy department. The Alfred was a big hospital, and it took her fifteen minutes to navigate to the right floor of the right building. As she’d half expected, there was only an administrative person in the department, the rest of the staff being out on the wards delivering treatments, but she was able to get the details for the woman handling Will’s rehab and make a time to meet with her for coffee later that morning.

Melissa was initially skeptical about the benefits of C.I.M.T. for Will, explaining it was suitable for only a narrow range of patients and that it was a demanding therapy, with patients often dropping out after only a few days. Leah had read enough to understand why. Essentially, Will would have to wear a mitt on his good left hand for 90 percent of his waking hours for two weeks, the theory being that constraining the patient’s strong arm forced him to use his weak arm for everything, stimulating the brain to form new neural pathways and work around any damage to restore function to the weakened limb.

“This is also a therapy that requires a huge commitment from the patient’s family,” Melissa pointed out. “It’s so labor-intensive someone in Will’s life would have to take ownership of his therapy once they’ve been shown what to do.”

“I don’t think money is an issue,” Leah said. “Will could probably afford to have a therapist on call for however long it took.”

“Good luck finding a qualified physiotherapist or occupational therapist who can drop all his or her other clients to concentrate on one person for two weeks solid at short notice. It’s not just about the expense.”

After Melissa had confirmed that Will had the range of movement to qualify for C.I.M.T., Leah looked for Will’s parents. She was lucky to catch them at the apartment, packing their bags in preparation for the trip home tomorrow morning. She explained what was going on, and while both were more than happy to take on the challenge of “owning” Will’s therapy, it soon became clear that it required some major reshuffling of their schedules. Both Reg and Denise still worked—Reg owned a boat maintenance business, while Denise worked as an administrator at the shire council—and there was no way they could free up an extra two weeks’ leave in the near future without major stress and disruption, both of them having already taken leave to be with Will this week. His sisters were the next on the list, but Vanessa had small children, while Izzy had just received an important promotion and was working long hours to prove herself to her boss.

“Maybe we can patch something together between all of us. Or find someone who could work with Will every day, like a nurse or someone. Aren’t there agency nurses who do private work in people’s homes when required?” Reg suggested.

“There are.” Leah bit her tongue to stop herself from verbalizing the thought circling her mind.

She had time on her hands, after all. She was more than qualified. And she was highly invested. Perhaps too much so.

The question was, would Will want her hanging around for two weeks while he fought to regain what he’d lost? They’d had sex, they’d laughed, they’d shared pizza, he’d mopped up her tears, but the sort of intimacy C.I.M.T. demanded was a whole other ball game. It was possible Will would prefer a stranger to a former lover taking on the role of his therapist.

She wouldn’t know until she asked, but she didn’t want to raise the possibility until she’d spoken to Will.

“Let me make some inquiries before you widen the net,” Leah said. “I might be able to sort something else out.”