by Gina Wilkins
Thelma's breathing was labored and harsh, punctuated by a hacking cough, her skin hot and dry. Spring wished fervently that she had a cool, wet cloth to wash Thelma's face. Then she reached eagerly for the small handbag hanging from her shoulder and dug into it, coming up with one of the packaged moistened paper napkins provided by some fast-food establishments. For once she was grateful for her habit of saving possibly useful odds and ends. She ripped open the foil package, gratefully breathing in the lemony scent before gently placing it against Thelma's face, talking softly and soothingly. She thought she saw Thelma's eyes open once, briefly, but there was no other sign that she was aware of anything going on around her.
Clay found Spring that way, on her knees beside the mattress, heedless of the dirt being ground into her light-colored jeans, tenderly bathing the face of a sick young woman she'd never laid eyes on before. He was struck by Spring's quiet strength. A lot of women would have run shuddering from the room, afraid to be exposed to whatever germs were rampant here. But not Spring. He moved over beside her, dropping an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sure that feels good to her."
Spring looked around at him. "It was all I had."
"It'll do. The ambulance will be here soon."
"She's barely stirred. Is she...do you think she's in a coma?"
"I don't know, Spring. I don't know what—or even if—she's eaten—since she disappeared nine days ago, I think she's had a friend with her some, but the other kid's even younger than Thelma and not capable of dealing with the situation. She'd promised Thelma not to tell where she was, but she got scared and broke down when Frank questioned her."
The ambulance team arrived then, bearing a stretcher. Spring thought she'd never seen two more beautiful people in her life.
"You okay?" Clay had his arms around her as she stood weakly, watching the medical team going efficiently about its business of saving Thelma's life.
She leaned her head into his shoulder. "Yes. Clay, do you think she's going to make it?"
"I don't know, Spring. I just don't know."
The two paramedics already had Thelma on the stretcher. Together they lifted her, her slight weight giving them little resistance.
"We'll follow them to the hospital," Clay told Spring, leading her to the door with one arm still tightly around her shoulders. "I have to know that she gets there all right."
"Of course." She would have expected no less. She would have allowed no less.
Thelma made it to the hospital alive. The doctors could make no promises that she would remain that way. She was diagnosed as having a severe case of viral pneumonia, complicated by various secondary infections probably caused by exposure and malnourishment. Clay called Thelma's mother, coming back to the waiting room with his face hard and his eyes angry. Spring had never seen him angry. "We'll stay until that...woman gets here," he told her. "Then I'll have to leave. I won't be able to stay in the same hospital with her without losing my cool completely."
It wasn't long before Mrs. Sawyer arrived, loudly blaming her daughter, Clay, Thelma's friends—everyone but herself—for Thelma's problems. True to his word, Clay left the hospital almost immediately, visibly restraining himself from giving vent to his anger. In his car he sat immobile behind the steering wheel, staring out the windshield at the hospital.
"Are you all right?" Spring asked tentatively, wanting to reach out to him but not knowing how. She laced her fingers in her lap, noting impassively that they were dirty.
He inhaled deeply and turned his head to look at her. "Yeah," he answered, "but it makes me so damned mad."
"I know," she told him softly.
Not as shy as she was about reaching out. Clay took her hand, dirt and all, and squeezed it. "You were wonderful. I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't have to," she told him, flushing slightly. "I didn't do it for you."
He smiled, though weakly. "No, you didn't, did you? You did it for Thelma. A kid you don't even know."
Embarrassed by his praise, she looked away. "How long do you plan to stay in this parking lot?" she demanded a bit huskily.
In answer he started the car. Backing out of the parking space, he asked, "Okay with you if we go by my place? I'd like to clean up before I take you back to your sister's. I'm filthy."
Of course she told him that she didn't mind at all, though the thought of being alone with him in his home made her swallow hard. She'd seen a different side of Clay this afternoon, a side she found much too fascinating. And even with dirt streaked across one cheek and smeared liberally on his worn jeans, he was too damned attractive for her peace of mind.
She fell in love with his house. One of the Victorians that added to San Francisco's quaint charm, it sat regal and arrogant, wearing its bright blue paint and funny little stained-glass windows with studied nonchalance. It reminded her a lot of Clay. "It's wonderful," she told him sincerely, even as she found herself wondering how he could afford such a choice piece of San Francisco real estate. He had a doctorate degree in counseling, but he worked in the public-school system, didn't he? Then she told herself that Clay's finances were none of her business. After all, they were only passing acquaintances, she reminded herself sternly.
He smiled broadly, not bothering to hide his deep pleasure at her praise. "You're not the only one who's into restoring old homes," he commented, subtly pointing out another thing they had in common. "I've been working on the inside for a couple of years. It's almost finished."
He led her in and allowed her to look around without asking for comment. She loved it. All the clever nooks and crannies, the elegant, just slightly eccentric antique and reproduction Victorian furnishings that again were so typical of Clay. A shiver coursed down her spine at the strange similarity in their taste in furnishings. Clay had some pieces that were almost identical to ones that were even now residing in her apartment in Little Rock!
She loved it, she thought again. And then she made a deliberate attempt to wipe the word "love" from her mind as she turned back to the handsome blonde tagging at her heels. For some reason it made her nervous. "Beautiful," she summed up succinctly.
"Me or the house?" he demanded cockily, some of his bold self-assurance returning now that they'd put the hospital behind them.
"Both of you," she answered with a sigh. "You said something about cleaning up?"
He wasn't quite sure how to take her unexpected answer, so he ignored it. "Yes, I would like to shower and change. I'll be quick. I could dig you up something to wear if you want to shower, as well."
Spring looked down at her aqua jeans, streaked with greasy dirt from the floor in that little room where she'd knelt by Thelma. Her brow creased into a frown.
"Spring? What's wrong?"
"Are there many kids who live that way?" she whispered, her violet eyes huge behind her smudged glasses. "All that filth..."
Clay released a long, weary breath. "Believe it or not, I've seen worse than what we found this afternoon. The streets are full of runaways, easy prey for every sleaze bag and drug dealer in town. Teenagers with unhappy homes migrate toward California, New York and Florida by the thousands. Too many for the authorities to handle, and the shelters available are sadly inadequate."
"Do you work much with runaways?"
"Some. Mostly I deal with the kids who are having problems at home, before they run. I try to prevent them from turning to the streets."
"I can see why Summer has joined your cause," Spring murmured. "It's heart wrenching to see a child like Thelma was today, when she should be hanging out at McDonald's, laughing and flirting with nice boys her age. It makes me wish there was something I could do to help."
"We can always use another volunteer," Clay told her, watching her more closely than his teasing tone seemed to warrant.
She forced a weak smile. "Maybe I'll look into it when I get back to little Rock. There may be a Halloran House there in need of an optometrist's spare time."
Clay frowned at her mention of
returning to Little Rock. Why the sudden hollow feeling? he asked himself. Surely he hadn't forgotten that she was here for less than two weeks. Without stopping to think about it he reached out and pulled her into his arms, ignoring that both of them were dirty. He hugged her tightly. "I'm glad you went with me," he said huskily.
She stirred restlessly in his embrace, aware of a desire to put her arms around him and return it. "I didn't help much," she protested. "I just did what had to be done."
"Always the brave, responsible big sister," Clay murmured, thinking of things Summer had told him about Spring. "It wasn't easy being the oldest, was it?"
She frowned a little, wondering what her childhood had to do with what had happened that afternoon, what was happening now. "I don't know what you mean."
He chuckled softly, reaching down to lift her chin so that he was gazing directly into her eyes through her smudged glasses. "You do what has to be done," he said simply. "You have this sense of responsibility that seems to give you strength that many people lack. Like this afternoon, you didn't panic when we found Thelma in such terrible shape. You didn't scold me for taking you into that situation or leaving you alone with her while I called an ambulance. You just calmly took care of her."
"I wasn't all that calm."
"No, but you hid your qualms long enough to do what had to be done. Thanks, love."
Love. There was that word again. She reminded herself that Clay was a demonstrative man, to whom such casual endearments were second nature.
Slowly, reluctantly, she eased herself from his embrace. "Yes, well," she faltered, not quite meeting his eyes. "Why don't you go ahead and take your shower?"
"I will. And you? My offer's still open for you to take one, too."
"No, I'll just wash up. I can shower when you take me back to Summer's. Thanks, anyway."
"Okay. The guest bath is down this hall on the left. I'll be in the bath in the master bedroom if you need anything. Or if you suddenly get an urge to wash my back," he added audaciously, wanting to see her smile again.
The smile broke loose despite her efforts to hold it back. "You're a big boy, Clay. I'm sure you can manage to wash yourself."
"Someday, Spring Reed, you are going to offer to wash my back," Clay told her, leaning over to kiss her before he pulled away and headed toward his bedroom.
"Don't hold your breath," Spring shot after him, then wished she'd come up with something more original. She heard his chuckle as he disappeared down the long, wallpapered hallway in the opposite direction of the bathroom he'd indicated for her.
Chapter Four
Spring cleaned up as best she could, washing her face and hands and reapplying a touch of makeup from the items she carried in her purse. She brushed out her hair and twisted it back into its customary knot. Her clothes were still soiled and disheveled, but at least she felt a bit fresher. She wouldn't have been comfortable showering or changing into anything belonging to Clay. Or were there women's clothes hanging somewhere in his house? Perhaps that's what he'd meant by offering to find her something to wear.
She tried to tell herself that she was suddenly depressed only because of all that had happened during the past few hours.
Spring was waiting in the living room when Clay joined her. She inhaled sharply at the sight of him. His hair lay in damp curls around his face, gleaming dull gold and almost crying out to be touched. His skin glowed from his hot shower, and his eyes were brighter and bluer than she'd ever seen them. He had pulled on a pale yellow cotton crewneck sweater and dark brown slacks that hugged his lean hips. Barefoot, he carried brown TOPSIDERS in one hand. "Don't you ever wear socks?" she demanded, because she had to say something and nothing else came to mind just then. Nothing she cared to say out loud, anyway.
"No, I never wear socks. Don't you ever wear your hair down?" he returned, lifting a hand to touch her neatly twisted tresses.
"Not very often. It gets in my way."
"Then why haven't you cut it short, the way Summer wears hers?"
"Because I look funny with short hair," she answered with a shrug.
He laughed softly. "Or could it be that inside that practical, responsible exterior is a secret romantic who likes long hair?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she replied, annoyed. "Would you mind taking me back to Summer's now? I would really like to change into clean clothes."
"I offered you some of mine."
"I doubt that you would have anything my size," she said, her words a challenge.
"About the best I could offer is a sweatshirt and sweatpants," he agreed. "They'd be clean, but I can't guarantee fit. Afraid I don't keep women's clothes around." His words answered her challenge.
"Yes, well, I'll be fine until I can change into my own clothes," she muttered, suddenly uncomfortable. She picked up her purse and tucked it under her arm.
"Wait a minute." Clay slid his feet into his shoes, then walked toward her, stopping only a few inches away from her. "I wanted to thank you again for what you did this afternoon."
She shifted on her feet. "You've already thanked me. Repeatedly."
"Not properly," he murmured. Very deliberately he removed her glasses, folded them and dropped them into the outside pocket of her purse as she stood watching him, making no effort to move away. "Let me thank you properly, Spring." And he lowered his mouth to hers, slowly, giving her plenty of time to draw back.
She stayed where she was, her lips parting just as his touched them. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of his devastating face, blocking out reason, locking in sensation. His kiss was that of an experienced lover, thorough and deep and sure. She was trembling when it ended, and he had touched her with no more than his mouth. He drew back only an inch or so, took one long look at her expression, then groaned and pulled her into his arms.
The second kiss was just as thorough, just as deep, but not quite as sure. For some reason Spring thought that Clay seemed less polished this time, guided more by passion than practice. She could feel the unsteadiness of his arms around her. It would have been hard to resist him before. It was impossible now.
Neither of them noticed when her purse hit the floor at her feet. They both noticed when her arms went around his neck, pressing her full length against him. Their moans were simultaneous, aroused. Spring allowed her head to fall back, deepening the kiss. Clay swept her slender body with his hands, learning her curves, seeking out the hollow of her spine, finally pressing inward to hold her against his thighs.
Hard. He was so hard—his arms muscled from whatever sport he regularly played, his chest solid and plated where her breasts were flattened against it. Hard where his arousal boldly made itself felt against her abdomen. Yet his mouth over hers, the golden hair at his nape where her fingers burrowed were soft. So soft. She wanted to explore every inch of him, to kiss every soft spot, stroke every hard one. She wanted him.
Emotions that were already strained from the stress of the afternoon flared into desire so hot, so intense that it shook both of them. Clay didn't know whether the shudder had been hers or his or mutual. He only knew that he wanted her, needed her, as he'd never wanted or needed before. Her fiery response to his kiss was driving him mad. How could he have known that such demanding passion smoldered beneath her proper, almost prim appearance? He was delighted with the discovery. He wanted more.
"Spring," he muttered, raising his hands to cradle her face as he continued to caress her with slanting, nibbling kisses. Nothing more. Just her name. He had needed to say it.
"Oh, Clay," she breathed without opening her eyes, her hands sliding around to rest against his chest. Her fingers splayed, then curled, kneading the taut skin beneath the soft sweater.
"Look at me. Spring."
Almost shyly her lashes fluttered upward. Even slightly blurred by her myopia, his face was so beautiful. "It's not fair," she murmured, speaking to herself.
"What's not fair, sweetheart?"
"That you should look like this," she ans
wered incautiously, touching her fingertips to his tanned cheek. "That you should make me feel this way."
"I could say the same about you," he replied, nuzzling her cheek. "You're so lovely. And you make me crazy."
"Oh, God, what am I doing?" She dropped her hand and stepped back, crossing her arms at her waist in unconscious defensiveness. "Take me back to Sausalito, Clay."
"The only place I want to take you is upstairs to my bedroom," he told her unsteadily. "I want to make love to you for hours, until you're too weak to move. And then I want to start all over again."
Her heart pounded, her mind filled with tantalizing images, but she held tightly to reason. "No, Clay."
He exhaled gustily, shoving fingers that were still not quite steady through his rumpled hair. "Okay, we'll wait until you're ready. But the time will come, Spring. It's inevitable."
"No, it won't," she returned with admirable confidence. "I won't let it."
He wanted to argue, to demand her reasons for holding back when they both knew she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He wanted to pick her up in his arms and sweep aside all her objections in a flurry of kisses. But he only reached down to retrieve her purse from where it had fallen on the tapestry carpet and hold it out to her. She had her reasons. She would share them with him when she was ready. He had to make sure she was ready soon, before she left California and the opportunity to make love with her was lost.
He stayed only a short time at the Anderson home, just long enough to tell Summer what had happened and thoroughly embarrass Spring with his lavish praise. He left with the excuse that he was going to see what he could do for Thelma. Just before he walked out, he gathered Spring into his arms and kissed her hard, right in front of Summer and Derek. Her face was stained a vivid scarlet when he left her with a cocky grin and a promise to pick her up the next evening for their date.