by Helen Conrad
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he took a step, testing if the exercise had done any fresh damage.
He was through with women like Trisha, he told himself firmly as he hobbled toward the house. Through with the wasted life he’d led for too many years. He hated it all—all but the racing. The other —-the fame, the women, the money—why had it taken him so long to realize that they didn’t mean a thing?
He had to race again, no matter what the doctors said. But the rest was part of his past. Racing was all the mattered. Racing—and winning. But how could he win again with his leg almost useless? No, worse than useless. The damn thing was actually a burden.
Suddenly he remembered what the girl he’d met at the party had said about physical therapy. He’d avoided hiring anyone to help him because he didn’t want to hear more predictions of failure. But he’d taken himself about as far as he could go on his own. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did need a professional. It was something to think about.
Carrie sat behind the desk and looked around. Her very own office. It was small, just a place to use for keeping records and for making appointments; just a desk, three chairs, a file cabinet, a telephone, a planter full of African violets, and a plate-glass window. But it was all hers. Now all she needed were clients.
The shrill ring of the telephone made her jump. She stared at it suspiciously. The caller id merely said “incoming call”. She’d sat here at this very desk every day all week, and only one person had called asking for therapy.
Grant Carrington. He’d called twice, and both times she’d told him that she was too busy to take on his case. If this was Grant again, she’d think about having her number changed.
“Hello?”
“Hi, honey. It’s me. Jerry.”
“Oh.” She sagged with relief. Only Jerry. Then she frowned. That was hardly the way to think of him. “What’s new?”
“A dinner dance at the country club tonight. Can you make it?”
“Well, I don’t know,” she replied airily. “I’ll have to check my schedule. We’re so busy around here. ...”
“Still no customers, huh?” Jerry sighed. “Don’t worry about it, honey. It takes time to build up a practice. People have got to find out about you. Be patient.”
She knew he was right, but that didn’t satisfy her need to get to work. “Maybe so,” she told him wistfully. “But right now I’d sell my soul for one real client to get me started.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when the devil himself walked in her door. Jerry went on talking, but she didn’t hear a word he said. All her attention was riveted on the man who suddenly seemed to fill her office. Her heart was pounding in her throat.
Grant was dressed in denim jeans and a worn soft leather jacket over a white cotton shirt. The clothes had seen better days, but they suited him somehow —tough and careless. His dark hair was windblown, falling over his forehead. All in all, he was gorgeous.
But Carrie didn’t have the chance to dwell on how attractive he was. His face was hard and caustic, and he wasted no time on words of greeting.
Striding to her desk, he took the receiver from her hand, held it to his ear for a moment, said, “Jerry Maxwell?” with one eyebrow raised.
Stunned, she couldn’t do anything but nod. He reached down, pushed a button to put the call on hold, and hung up the receiver.
“He’s not right for you, you know,” he said evenly, staring down at her with narrowed eyes— glittering, hard, and cool. “All he wants is a partner to help him make his beloved ‘deals.’ You deserve more than that.”
The surprise of his visit had taken her breath away, but now she was slowly regaining her composure. He had no right to burst in on her like this, to put Jerry on hold, to make judgments.
“Listen, mister—“ she began rising from her chair.
“No, you listen,” he retorted, pushing her firmly back down with a hand on her shoulder. He sat on the corner of her desk, imprisoning her. “I’ve been trying all week to get you to come and start a program of therapy with me. What’s the problem? Why won’t you do it?”
“I told you. I’m busy.”
He looked around the bare office in disgust. “Don’t give me that. I’ve been by here three times this week. Every time I see you sitting here, staring at the telephone. You don’t have one client, do you?”
She couldn’t answer that and still keep a shred of dignity. “Look, I can take on whoever I want, and I can refuse whoever I want as well. It’s none of your business. You can’t force me to work with you.”
“I need a physical therapist. You need the work. So what’s the problem?”
She avoided his eyes. She’d dreaded this, yet had known from the first call he’d made that it was inevitable. Guilt mixed uneasily with indignation. He needed help. She couldn’t deny that. And by all rights she should jump at the chance to give it to him. But she couldn’t.
“There are other physical therapists in the area,” she noted.
He shook his head. “I want you.”
She felt color flooding her cheeks.
He’d said “I want you,” and she knew all he meant was for therapy . . . and yet his eyes, his voice, his body all said something else, and that was making her lightheaded.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I . . . uh . . . some people just want to get back into shape and some want to regain lost mobility or to heal a broken limb, but you . . . You’re in pretty good shape already, except for your leg, and I think ... I don’t think . . . that you want to hire me—“
He slapped his hand down on the desk, leaning close to her face. “Will you stop speaking gibberish and give it to me straight?” he demanded.
She took a deep breath, then forced herself to look him right in the eye. “I just get the feeling that you want something other than plain physical therapy.”
There. She’d said it. Would he take it, or fight her? Did she really have to ask?
“What?” His tone was incredulous, and she looked up, meeting his icy gaze.
Then she sighed. This was a mistake. She could see it in his face. Suddenly she realized that she’d only been transposing her own reactions and imagining that they were his. Her cheeks flamed even redder, and she felt like a fool.
“Okay, maybe not,” she said quickly.
“Definitely not.” He looked at her as though he couldn’t believe she would say such a thing.
“I’m not so far gone that I have to pay for that sort of thing,” he said, his voice just barely skimming sarcasm. “And I think you know that.”
She did know that, and her feelings were chaotic. He attracted and repelled her at the same time. He was dangerous. She didn’t want to be involved with him in any way.
She couldn’t possibly explain that to him. He had an effect on her no other man ever had before. He’d given her hints of experiences she didn’t think she ought to think about. Instead of telling him the truth she sat back in her chair and gave him an excuse that was as old as the hills.
“I can’t work with you,” she said quickly. “Jerry wouldn’t like it.”
“Jerry!” There was a sneer in his voice. “Why in God’s name would you let Jerry dictate your life for you?”
She tried her best to sound convincing. “We’re . . . very close right now—“
He laughed again. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen you together. You remind me of a couple of dolls, Ken and Barbie, meeting and greeting. There’s no passion between the two of you at all.”
Indignation flooded her face with heat. “There’s no way for you to know that!”
“I know it, all right. There’s no passion in Jerry.”
Her head snapped up, and her eyes glittered with anger. “And I suppose you’re just brimming with it!”
Something about the way she said it, the acid in her tone, stung him. First Trisha letting him know that the rumors about his disability had spread to his libido. Now
this.
No more passion, was that it? Suddenly it became very important to prove that there was still passion in him—if only to himself. But he resisted the temptation to grab her, caveman style. Something told him that wasn’t going to go over so well.
He looked at her again and realized this woman wasn’t like the women he’d been with over the last few years. Those had been fantasyland, playtime, party people. He’d come back to Destiny Bay to find reality again.
Real life. Well, this was it.
She was sweet and smelled like summer fields of wildflowers. He wanted her—he wanted to want her—but why? Was he trying to use her the way he’d used all the rest? A wave of contempt for his own motives swept over him.
“Save your passion for Eleanor Ashland,” she said, her gaze crackling with anger. “I don’t want it.”
“Eleanor Ashland?” He drew back, staring at her. He ought to disabuse her of that fairy tale. But his mind had gone on to other things and he didn’t bother.
More and more he was remembering who he was, who she was, how he’d enjoyed thinking of her fresh, unspoiled beauty. She was Destiny Bay, good and pure, and he was used and tawdry. He had no right to sully what she was. He ought to go.
All Carrie knew was that he was backing away, seemingly fended off by the sound of Eleanor Ashland’s name. She watched wide-eyed as the cold curtain came down to shield his icy eyes.
“I need a physical therapist,” he said coldly. “Will you come or won’t you?”
“No.” She said the word without hesitation, watching for his reaction.
But he surprised her. He shrugged as though it hardly mattered now. “All right. I won’t bother you again.”
Hardly breathing, she watched him walk out of the office, his limp hurting her as much as it must have hurt him, cutting her with knifelike thrusts at his every step. She really did want to help him. But… she just couldn’t.
The door closed. Suddenly she remembered Jerry. She picked up the receiver, closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself, punched the correct button, and found him still on the line.
“What happened, honey?”
What had happened? She wasn’t at all sure. “We got disconnected. Sorry about that.”
“Want me to call a repairman?”
“Oh, no.” She could hardly concentrate on talking. Her hands were shaking. “You know how it is with these newfangled phones. They’re just like computers. You say the wrong thing to one of them and they get all huffy and start shrieking, ‘Error in the system, error in the system.’ “
Jerry answered, but she wasn’t listening.
Error in the system. That sounded like her life right now. Something had gone haywire. Here she’d had everything so neatly set out, and now she’d hit a glitch. There was an error in the system. What was she going to do about it?
CHAPTER THREE: Planning a Wedding
Carrie glanced into the main dining room, sighed, and turned back into the foyer of Salerno’s, one of Destiny Bay’s most exclusive restaurants. For a man who was reputed to be something of a recluse, Grant Carrington sure seemed to get around.
Lately, every time she tried to have lunch in town, there he was. He’d shown up the other day when she was having lunch with the girls. Now she’d come to have lunch with Jerry and his mother, and here he was again, almost as though he knew her plans and was waiting for her.
“Jerry,” she said, dragging her gaze away from where Grant sat near the windows, leaning his dark head over the menu. She turned toward Jerry’s nattily dressed figure instead. “Why don’t we go someplace else? How about Harvey’s Kitchen down on the corner? They have the best burritos. . „ .”
Jerry screwed up his entire face as he looked at her. Suspicion glittered in his eyes.
“What are you talking about? My mother will be here any minute to meet us for lunch.”
Carrie attempted an innocent smile to allay his mistrust. “We could leave her a message. ...”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jerry was losing patience. “You acted funny last night at the country club; now you’re acting even stranger. What has gotten into you, anyway?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, losing hope. “Nothing at all.”
“Ah, Mr. Maxwell.” The maitre d’ always acted as though Jerry walked on water.
Usually it amused Carrie, but today, for some reason, she found it extremely annoying. He bowed and scraped, Jerry lapped it up —and Carrie bit her lip and looked the other way.
“You honor us, sirr with your presence. Please allow me to escort you and Miss Harlow to the best table in the house.”
“Let’s just hope it’s far from the windows,” Carrie thought, studiously avoiding looking in Grant Carrington’s direction as they passed the table where he sat, alone. And totally secluded from the rest of the dining room.
The table they were offered was lovely, engulfed in a sea of flowers that would hide them well. More than satisfied that luck was with her, Carrie smiled at Jerry as he pulled her chair out, then looked up, only to find herself with a clear view of Grant Carrington. Every time she looked up, she had to look right at him.
She groaned and was just about to ask for a change of seats when Jerry’s mother came hurrying up.
“Oh, hello, you two lovebirds,” she said, fluttering and kissing cheeks before she sat down. “What a lovely day, isn’t it? I could just burst into song, I’m so happy.”
Carrie tried to smile. She’d suddenly realized that she hated women who fluttered.
Mrs. Maxwell was in a cheerful mood, and fluttering was her way of showing it. She made cute jokes and smiled lovingly at each of them in turn. She was stylishly dressed in a peach-colored raw silk suit with a cream-colored blouse that looked chic and classic. It was obvious that she spent a lot of time and money on her appearance. Carrie looked ruefully down at her own cotton sundress and sandals, feeling suddenly like a country mouse at a city celebration.
They ordered and settled down to sip white wine while awaiting their food. Mrs. Maxwell chattered on, and Carrie tried hard not to look at Grant. Jerry scowled, not liking the way she was acting at all.
“Did you two have a good time at the club last night?” Mrs. Maxwell asked.
“Yes, we certainly did,” said Carrie politely.
“No, we certainly didn’t,” Jerry said, obstinately contradicting her.
“Why, whatever is the matter, dear?” his mother asked, patting his wrist.
“This one here,” he said, gesturing at Carrie, his face as resentful as that of a spoiled child, “refused to have a good time. And she’s lying if she says she did.”
“Jerry!” Carrie looked at him in horror. She’d known he was annoyed with her, but she hadn’t realized that it had become this serious to him.
“Well, it’s true. You were a drag last night. What is wrong, anyway?”
“Nothing. I . . . I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit out of sorts.”
“I know what it is.” Jerry slammed his hand down on the table, making the water glasses jump and jiggle and glared at her. “I’ll bet I know.”
Carrie’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t possibly. Involuntarily she glanced up and found herself staring right into Grant’s gaze. He’d finally noticed their unique vantage point to one another. Not smiling, he slowly raised a glass of wine to her. She swallowed hard, forced her gaze away, and tried to look back at Jerry.
“It’s that business of yours, isn’t it?” Jerry accused, sounding sulky. “I’m beginning to think that you should just give that up and get a normal job.”
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Maxwell chimed in, her shrill voice setting Carrie’s teeth on edge. “Jerry does have a point, you know.”
Jerry was frowning at her, his mother was tsk-tsking at her, Grant had her in his sights, and Carrie felt as though she were overloading.
“There are going to be other things you’re going to have to consider in the days ahead,” Mrs. Maxwell went on, lecturing
sternly.
Carrie’s smile was stiff. She could tell that this conversation was going in a direction she didn’t want to follow. For some strange reason Jerry’s family was all in favor of his plans to marry Carrie. Perhaps, she thought resentfully, they thought she was such a silly little thing, they could mold her into anything they wanted.
“I just adored the party the other day, Mrs. Maxwell,” she said in a desperate attempt to steer things away from marriage to Jerry. “It was terrific. You have the most interesting wine cellar I’ve ever been locked in.”
“What? You were locked in the wine cellar?”
“Oh, just for a few moments.”
“That door does catch. I’ve been meaning to have Herman, our handyman, take a look at it.”
Jerry was watching her narrowly. “Were you down there all by yourself?”
“Yes, most of the time.”
“What do you mean, most of the time? Who else was down there with you?”
She hesitated, not wanting to do anything to set Jerry on the trail. “Grant Carrington,” she said at last. “The race-car driver. We both wandered in at different times, and the door wouldn’t come open, so we just . . . sat around and talked a little.”
Jerry frowned, his fingers pulling restlessly at his tie. “What did you talk about? What could the two of you possibly have in common?”
“Oh”—Carrie took a sip of wine and waved a hand airily—“we talked about his leg, about physical therapy,” she said defensively. “He’s had quite a bad injury, you know.”
“Oh, of course.” Jerry’s face cleared, and Carrie felt relief. There was certainly no reason for her to feel guilty, but that was just how she felt. If Jerry had actually accused her of anything specific, she might have blushed and given everything away.
Everything? What was she thinking of? There was no “everything”! Taking another long sip of her wine, she tried to get hold of herself.