by Helen Conrad
He didn’t notice her. He was sitting back along a slanted board, weights strapped to both ankles, and he was trying to lift his bad leg along with the good. Every ounce of strength was concentrated on his task, every bit of mental power.
He was wearing light shorts and a tank top, and she could see the muscles straining, see the slick wash of sweat that made his body shine in the lamplight, hear even above the noise of the music the grunting effort as he used every resource he possessed to try to force the leg to rise to meet his other one.
She stared, stunned. She’d never seen such effort before, never seen such intense will being exerted. The sinews of his neck stood out, as well as the veins of his arms and the long, lean muscles of his good leg. He was in excruciating pain. She could see that. And yet he was denying it.
She’d thought he was halfhearted at the therapy she assigned him. She’d thought he’d given up, that maybe he didn’t really care anymore. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Something tore away inside her, cracked open like an eggshell and released a flow of emotion too strong to bear. She looked at him, at how much he cared, at how much he hurt, and her heart broke.
Suddenly she noticed the bad leg in a way she hadn’t let herself before, saw the ugly, jagged red scars that desecrated it, felt the horror of it as he must feel it every time he saw it, and she drew in her breath sharply, sharing some of his pain.
And that was when he whipped around and saw her.
“Oh, Grant,” she began, starting toward him, her hand outstretched, her heart in her eyes.
But it wasn’t the Grant she knew who looked back at her. The blue eyes were as hard and cold as stone, full of fear and hate and bitterness. They held no welcome, only pain and resentment, and when he spat out hoarsely, “Get out of here, Carrie. I don’t want you here,” she felt as though he’d slapped her sharply across the face.
Her head jerked back under the impact. Something hard, hot, and painful seemed to be lodged in her throat. The room tilted, and she was backing away, searching blindly for the door, desperate to escape those cold, angry eyes, filled with an utter hopelessness. She found the door and turned into the night, once again running away from him.
Disoriented in the darkness, she ran toward the beach instead of up the hill toward her car. She stumbled down the rocky path, and when she reached the cold, damp sand, she kicked off her shoes and ran harder, ran out around the rocks, until she was out of sight of the brooding old house on the cliff.
Breathing so hard that each breath tore at her lungs, she sank down into the sand and closed her eyes, struggling for air and calm. Hot, wrenching sobs forced themselves up her throat, and she cried aloud in a way she hadn’t since she was a child. There was no one to hear her, and she cried out into the booming noise of the surf, her pain mingling with the song of the ocean.
It was over almost as suddenly as it had begun, and she still wasn’t sure what she was crying about. She wiped away the moisture from her eyes and wished that she could wipe away the melancholy that seemed to have seeped through her at the same time. Hugging her knees to her chest, she stared out at the inky black water of the Pacific and attempted to clear her mind and think straight.
But the effort was a failure. She quieted herself, quieted her breathing, and then sat back, sinking into the atmosphere around her, becoming a part of it, mindless and natural.
The moon was a sliver of silver in an El Greco sky. The waves sent showers of lacy foam high into the night air. And she sat,
watching, waiting, her mind a confusion of emotions that refused to sift themselves out so that she could deal with them.
He came around the rock cliff as she knew he would. The moonlight lit his hair with an unearthly glow, but his eyes were hidden in shadows. He stopped a few feet from where she sat and stared down at her. He was still wearing only the stretch Lycra briefs. Almost every bit of his magnificent body was displayed.
“You should have stayed away,” he said softly.
Her chin rose at the challenge implicit in his tone. “Then you should have sent my things to me so that I wouldn’t have had to come back out to get them,” she retorted, her voice surprisingly firm.
He moved one step closer. “Is that all you came for?” he asked, his voice suddenly strange. “Your things?”
She couldn’t even answer that to herself, so she turned the question away with a change in subject. “You’re going to ruin your leg forever with what you’re doing, you know,” she said accusingly. “You shouldn’t be pushing it that hard. You could sustain terrible damage if you keep it up. Damage that might never be reparable.”
He moved restlessly, flexing his shoulders. The moonlight gleamed on his naked flesh.
“I make more progress with that kind of effort than with those useless patty cake routines you want to put me through,” he said. “I’ve got to get myself in shape, and I don’t have another ten years to waste on the effort.”
“You keep on pushing yourself that way and you’ll have all the time in the world to waste,” she shot back. “You’ll be flat on your back for good.”
His head lifted defiantly. “They’ve thrown that threat at me before. It’s never stopped me.”
He was so bullheaded!
“So you’ll push at the edges until they cave in on you, is that it?” She was getting angry now, and tears were burning at her eyes, but she refused to let him see her cry. “You’re a fool, Grant Carrington. You deserve whatever you get.”
He half turned away, looking at the ocean. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. She could hardly make out the words against the roar of the surf.
“You don’t understand,” he was saying. “How could you?” His eyes narrowed, staring at the waves. “I have to get this leg back into working condition,” he said through clenched teeth. “I have to be whole again.”
Whole again. The phrase cut through her. She wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, but she knew he didn’t want that. Twisting her hands together in her lap, she tried to think of the right words, but she failed.
“I do understand that,” she said helplessly. “But the way you’re going about it, you’ll end up in worse shape. Please believe me.”
He turned back to glare down at her. “I wasn’t getting anywhere with your ideas.”
She spread her arms wide, palms up, begging him to accept her time-tested wisdom. “You haven’t given them enough time to work. I told you from the beginning that I had no miracles for you. No one can change your leg overnight.”
The anger in him burned like a live fire. He didn’t have the patience for all that. He wanted results.
“Don’t you see that I can’t stand it? That I can’t go on living this way?”
The words were torn from a hurt deep inside him, and they touched her.
“Of course I do,” she cried, rising and reaching toward him but letting her hands drop back to her sides before they touched him. “I . . . I understand.”
He stared at her for a long, long moment. She searched his gaze for a softening, for even the slightest doubt. But there was none. He was a hard man, and she knew he felt he’d already revealed too much weakness as it was. So she was shocked at what he said next.
“Carrie,” he murmured, and suddenly he was moving closer. “Carrie, I need you. Will you come back?”
She wanted to cry again—with relief as much as anything. “Oh, I ...” She didn’t have the words to express what she was feeling.
The ocean breeze blew her hair across her face, and Grant reached to brush it back. Emotion welled up inside her, and she grabbed his hand, pressing it to her face, pressing the palm to her lips.
“Oh, Carrie,” he said, groaning as though in pain, pulling her into his embrace. “What am I going to do with you?”
Love me. She didn’t dare say the words aloud, but surely he could feel them, surely he could tell. He’d asked if she would come back.
Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he
tell? She was dying to come back. She hadn’t realized it until now. Yes, yes, she would come back in a heartbeat. She would do anything he wanted.
She drew more tightly into the hard, strong protection of his arms, and deep inside, her heart sang. She wasn’t going to spend any more time trying to think of what was wrong and what was right. She needed him. He needed her. That was all there was.
He held her to him, his eyes closed and he knew this was wrong. The cold wind, the pounding of the surf on the rocks, the feel of her softness in his arms, everything was conspiring against him.
He’d almost done the honorable thing, for once in his life. He’d almost cut all ties to her. Now here she was, back again, and he was aching for her, hungry to feel the warmth of her mouth beneath his, hungry to have all of her. He would ruin her if this went on. Angry at himself, he pushed her back away from him.
“I can’t do this to you,” he said, the turmoil inside him just short of explosion. “I’m no good for you.” He held her shoulders and glared into her startled face. “Carrie, you should run as hard and as fast as you can to get away from me. You should get into that car and drive out of my reach—and never look back.”
She didn’t understand, but she knew he was talking nonsense. “No,” she said simply. “I can’t. It’s too late for that.”
With a wrenching groan he pulled her back against his chest and held her crushingly close. She lifted her face to his, lips parted, and his kiss came down-to quench the thirst that burned in her. Raising her arms to cling to his neck, she knew she was his now, and that knowledge set off a rocketing joy that sizzled through her.
“Oh, Grant!” she gasped, but his hot, sweet mouth smothered her words and sent her spinning into a wave of pure emotion and sensation. Suddenly his hands slipped beneath the cloth of her jeans, sliding down to pull her hips up into the cradle of his. She groaned as she felt the hard, strong thrust of his arousal, excited as she’d never known she could be.
She arched against him, all modesty forgotten, her hunger as alive as his. This was what she hadn’t wanted to face, this overwhelming need for him, this physical compulsion that was as strong and irreversible as the tide. She’d sensed it from the first, and it had scared her. But now she was beyond fear. In this moment she was his and he was hers, and she was eager for the ultimate expression of that truth.
Her face was pressed to his naked chest. She could feel the urgent beating of his heart against her cheek. She slipped her hands across his hard, muscular body, abandoning herself to the seduction of his masculinity.
But even as she let herself fall into total surrender, he was drawing back.
“Carrie,” he murmured into her wild hair. “I want you.”
“I know,” she whispered back, never so sure of anything before.
“But, Carrie ... I can’t . . .” Tortured by a nagging conscience, he struggled with conflicting urges.
She looked up at him, startled. “You can’t?” she echoed. What did he mean? Wasn’t she what he really wanted, after all?
“No.” He took her by the shoulders and held her away from him, hoping that she couldn’t feel how he trembled at the denial of his natural needs. “It would be better if we stopped this right here, before it goes too far.”
Too far? She stared at him, devastated. Didn’t he know that she’d already gone all the way? That she’d already committed herself fully?
“We’d better go back,” he said gruffly, turning his face away so that she couldn’t see the torture written all over it.
Numbly she went along with him, her feet dragging in the sand. They hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he turned to her suddenly. “Stay with me tonight,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “I’ll fix up a spare bedroom.”
She tried to see his face in the gloomy light. “Can’t I sleep in your bed with you?” she whispered.
“No,” he said roughly. “I don’t want that.” He stared at her, searching for a way to explain but not finding it. “You’re not right for me, Carrie,” he said at last. “You’d only complicate my life.”
She turned away. He didn’t want her, after all. She could have sworn that he’d responded with as much intensity as she had. Was she really so naive? Was she really so . . . unattractive to him?
That must be it, she thought miserably as they climbed the cliff. Elegant, experienced women like Eleanor were what appealed to him. He’d kissed her and held her and realized just how inexperienced Carrie was. And now he was having second thoughts.
A lump rose in her throat. She’d fallen in love with a man who didn’t want her. How could she have let this happen? And what would she do now?
CHAPTER SIX:
Just Stay
Golden shafts of early-morning sunlight came angling in through Grant’s country-kitchen windows. With one handful of freshly cut cosmos, Carrie rummaged through the cupboards, searching for a vase. The best she could do was an old Mason jar she found in the bottom of an otherwise empty drawer, so she filled it with water from the tap and shoved the flowers in. They looked splendid. Happily she placed the centerpiece on the table she’d already set with a checkered tablecloth and yellow napkins, then went looking for the silverware.
She’d hardly slept at all in the little bedroom Grant had fixed up for her, so it had seemed perfectly natural to get up before dawn and walk out into the yard to pick flowers and listen to the birds. A hot wind was blowing off the desert, blowing all the fog and clouds far out to sea, and the day was crystal-clear. A good sign.
“A new beginning,” she whispered to herself.
The refrigerator was well stocked. She pulled out eggs and sausages and found the ingredients for biscuits. While the sausages simmered in the frying pan she mixed the dough, rolled it out using a glass as a cutting tool, and dropped each disc onto a large cookie sheet before popping it into a well-heated oven.
Grant came down the stairs from his bedroom and walked slowly toward the smell of coffee and sausages. At the doorway to the kitchen he stopped for a moment and watched her before she noticed that he was up. She’d changed into one of his old T-shirts, a bright yellow one that fell halfway down to her knees, making her look even more young and innocent than ever.
“Good morning.”
She turned her face toward him, and he had to wince, as though he’d looked into the sun.
“Good morning,” she answered, flashing him a bright smile.
He wanted nothing so much as to take her up in his arms and hold her, kiss her—but he was going to have to exert self-discipline. Once he started touching her he wouldn’t be able to stop. He was going to keep his hands off her, if that was at all possible.
Avoiding her eyes, he glanced around the kitchen.
“Well, what do you know,” he said. “And here I thought you were a liberated woman.” He sank into a chair and looked at the food she was setting before him, eyebrows raised. “I thought women didn’t cook breakfast for men anymore.”
She laughed. There was a feeling of such happiness surging inside her, she didn’t want to stop to analyze why, for fear it would evaporate under scrutiny.
“Liberated means free to make your own choices,” she said lightly, slipping into a chair across the table from him. Her grin was impish. “Free to choose the man you want to cook for, if you feel like cooking,” she added, wondering if she’d said too much.
She wasn’t at all sure just how seriously to take this new feeling between them, and she certainly didn’t want to test it now. But nothing changed in his face, and she relaxed.
“Would you like me to turn on your music?” she asked him. The speakers were set up to pipe music from the stereo into any room.
He considered for a moment, putting jam on a biscuit. He usually had the music playing in the morning. He’d forgotten all about it. Suddenly he realized that he didn’t need it when she was there.
“No,” he said. “Just stay where you are and talk to me.”
She was to
o happy to eat, so instead she leaned her elbows on the table and caught her chin in the upturned palms of her hands. “What do you want to talk about?”
His blue gaze flickered over her, amused. “You.”
Her eyes widened. “Me?”
He nodded, watching her as he ate. “Who you are. Where you come from.”
And so she told him, hesitantly at first, and then more and more, about her father’s little store and growing up near the beach and going away to school.
“Why haven’t you ever married?” He took a sip of steaming coffee and waited for her answer, watching steadily.
“The standard answer. I’ve never met the right man.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you finally admit that Jerry’s not the right man.”
She should have seen that one coming. Frowning, she looked away. “I don’t want to talk about Jerry.”
Reminding her of Jerry was reminding her of the real world, the world away from this lonely house on the cliff, the world she would have to go back to when she no longer had Grant.
“Anyway, how about you?” she countered defensively. “You’ve never been married, either, have you?”
“Me?” His face was a comical reflection of horror. “I’m not the type.”
“What type does it take?”
“I don’t know. Marriage is for idealists. Maybe I’ve seen too many people at their worst. It’s hard to believe in goodness and commitment and virtues like that when you’ve lived too long among people who follow their appetites instead of their consciences.”
“Or their hearts?”
She said it softly and he didn’t act as though he’d heard her. She shrugged and looked up at a picture on the wall just across from where she sat. In the kitchen, as in every other room she’d seen in the house, framed pictures of his racing days were everywhere.
“Tell me what it’s like,” she said.
He looked at her questioningly, then followed her gaze to the picture of him emerging from a smoldering car.