by Diana Palmer
He’d made sure that he never gave her any reason to like him. He’d been sarcastic to her during his marriage and viciously hateful toward her after Isadora’s untimely death. He’d been a stranger to her, deliberately.
He stared at the portrait of Isadora on the wall, the one she’d demanded to have done by a famous portrait artist just after their marriage. The eyes, china blue, were as empty of feeling as the wall. The artist had truly captured the essence of Isadora, beautiful and shallow. Ironically she’d loved the rendering.
He poured himself a drink, since he wasn’t on call for once, and sat down in the chair to sip it. Seconds later, the kitten scampered across the carpet and vaulted into his lap, to curl close and purr.
He petted it indulgently, watching the huge green eyes look up at him worshipfully. At least, he thought, the cat liked him.
Miss Plimm came into the room with a glance at the bedroom, from which pleasant laughter issued.
“Shall I ask the cook to put supper back half an hour, sir?” she asked softly.
He sighed. “You might as well. They sound as if they’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“You look so tired, sir,” she said. “Isn’t there something I can bring you?”
He lifted his glass. “I have all I need, thanks.”
She glanced toward the bedroom. “Dozens of blooms,” she muttered, “and her just out of the hospital. Clog her lungs up, they will, but people never think, do they?”
She wandered back toward her own room and Ramon glanced back toward the bedroom. Strange that the thought of Isadora’s lover hadn’t bothered him half as much as Noreen’s friend did. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
It was an hour later that Miss Plimm gently shook him.
“A call?” he asked, blinking as he came immediately awake.
“No, sir, supper,” she said. “Mr. Donaldson’s gone home.”
“Oh.”
She had the bouquet of flowers in her hand. “I’m just going to put these in the dining room,” she said.
“Doesn’t she mind?” he asked coolly.
She frowned at him. “I didn’t ask, sir.” She moved away with her burden.
He went to the bedroom and looked inside. She wasn’t in the bed. He heard the bathroom door open and saw her come slowly out of it, breathless.
“Couldn’t you call for help?” he muttered.
Before she could say a word, he scooped her up and carried her back to bed.
Her stiffness conducted itself right through his jacket. He looked down at her, poised beside the bed, and frowned at the expression in her eyes.
“You’re frightened,” he said at once, and his eyes narrowed again. “Why?”
She swallowed. “Put me down…”
He ignored the nervous request. He was thinking, his gaze reflective and steady. “Shapeless clothes,” he murmured, “no makeup, always backing away. Why?”
“You have no right,” she began.
“But you’ll tell me anyway.”
“I will not,” she asserted.
He sat down on the edge of the bed with Noreen across his lap. He shifted her against his shoulder and his free hand rested against the silky gown, just under her breast.
Her hand had gone to his strong wrist and caught there, pleading. But he didn’t move. His fingers began to spread, very tenderly. And all the time, he watched her face with calculating eyes.
She gasped as his forefinger gently spread against the hard nipple, just enough to make her shiver. Her hand lost its will on his wrist and relaxed. She moaned.
“Querida,” he breathed, and without thought for where they were, for the open door, the past, he pulled the gown down away from her shoulder and his lips pressed tenderly on the soft, warm flesh of her breast that the action exposed.
“Ramon,” she whispered, sobbing as her hands tangled in his black hair, struggling for control that was utterly lost the moment he touched her skin. “Oh…dear Lord…don’t!”
But while her hoarse voice pleaded, her traitorous body arched itself painfully, trying to get closer to his warm mouth and she shuddered with the pleasure his lips gave her body.
She felt his hands on her, gently moving, guiding her down to the bed, to the pillow, while his mouth fed on her. He could feel her breathing under his lips, hear the frantic rush of her heartbeat. His own body was taut, and so hungry that he ached from his head to his toes.
The sound of plates on wood lifted his head. He looked down at the softness of Noreen’s pretty breast where his mouth had pressed so hungrily, past the thin red scar down her breastbone and up the creamy expanse of skin to her wide, shocked eyes.
She caught at her gown, but his hand stayed it. He looked down at her breast again, fascinated by its firm, soft contours, the creamy blush of it in the stillness of the room.
“The cook’s ready to put the food on the table, Doctor!” Miss Plimm called from a room away.
Ramon could hardly breathe normally. His eyes met Noreen’s, steady and relentless as he saw and felt and heard her helpless response to him.
He looked down at her once more, his eyes hungry for her nudity. With a groan, he managed to cover her and stand up, with his back to the bed and the door, apparently staring out the window while he fought the demons of desire that tore at his body. It had been years…
Footsteps came closer. “Doctor?” Miss Plimm called.
“I’ll be right there,” he said curtly.
“Yes, sir. Can I bring you anything, Miss Kensington?”
“No, thank you,” Noreen managed to say calmly.
“Well, if you need anything, just you call!”
“Yes, Miss Plimm, thank you,” she replied.
Her body throbbed from head to toe. She couldn’t even look at Ramon. She was ashamed of her helplessness, her impotence.
After a minute, he moved back to the bed, and the flash of desire in his eyes made her shiver.
She clutched the sheet close, in pain again from the movement of her body and showing it.
Without a word, he opened the bottle of pain capsules and, holding her hand palm up, shook two into it. He guided it to her lips and then held a glass of water to help her swallow it.
He put the glass away, pulling the cover back up to her waist. His dark, turbulent eyes met her embarrassed ones.
He brushed back a few wispy strands of her hair, his expression grim. His head bent and he brushed a kiss against her forehead.
She tried to speak, but his lean fingers over her mouth stilled the words.
“There are in life a few moments so beautiful,” he whispered, “that even words are a sort of profanity.”
She caught her breath at the look in his eyes, even though what he was saying didn’t seem to make sense.
“Go to sleep,” he said gently.
Amazingly her eyes closed, still full of him, her body taut with unfamiliar needs and wants that she had no idea how to fulfill. The pain and shock and weariness slowly took their toll on her. Shortly thereafter, she fell into a deep and profound sleep.
She pretended stubbornly that nothing had happened. But Ramon knew everything he needed to know about her earlier behavior now. The old clothes, the camouflage—it wasn’t because of some dreadful childhood experience, as he’d first suspected. It was to keep him from knowing how easily he affected her, how desperately vulnerable she was to him. The instant he touched her, her body belonged to him. Now he knew it. And she knew, too.
There was a sort of affectionate arrogance in the way he looked at her, as if he’d already possessed her, and knew every inch of her under her clothing. He wasn’t blatant about it, but he knew. She became more uneasy as the days passed, afraid that he was going to do something about it. She was also having more discomfort than ever, soreness and pain in the breastbone, and she couldn’t sleep without pain medication. It was a comfort to have Nurse Plimm nearby, not only because she knew what to do when Noreen was in pain, but also becaus
e she made a nice buffer between Noreen and Ramon. Despite his tenderness of recent days, Noreen didn’t trust him an inch.
Certainly he was sorry that he’d misjudged her reason for leaving Isadora alone, but his grief at his beloved wife’s loss had been very real. And regardless of the contributing factors, Noreen’s absence had been the ultimate cause of Isadora’s death, even if she couldn’t help doing it. Ramon had loved Isadora obsessively. That grief and anger wouldn’t vanish in a haze just because Noreen had heart surgery. This was only the calm before the storm. When she was well again, she had little doubt that Ramon would return to his usual, vengeful self, and she wasn’t giving him any openings. Weaknesses were dangerous. If she let him see how attracted she was to him, might he not use that attraction to his advantage to avenge the loss of Isadora?
These thoughts and fears led to a withdrawing of herself when Ramon was around, to a visible remoteness and formality. Ramon seemed to expect it. At least, he didn’t try to circumvent it.
Meanwhile, Ramon worked himself to the point of exhaustion to keep the memories of Noreen in his arms at bay. She was weak and all too vulnerable in her present condition, and a guest in his house. He had no right whatsoever to take advantage of it.
The problem, he mused grimly, was that his feelings for her had been so forcefully repressed over the years that he had to fight now to keep them under control. Not until Noreen’s sudden, shocking illness had he really faced what he felt. Even now, it was hard to admit it, if just in the privacy of his own thoughts.
It hadn’t taken two months of marriage to Isadora to know that he’d made a mistake. But his honor and pride had forced him to make the best of a relationship sanctioned by the Church. Tradition had chained him to his vows. No one had ever known his true feelings, because he’d hidden them so well. He professed lifelong devotion to Isadora, showed the world a true love surpassing the most romantic expectations. But behind the smiles and lies was a cold, lifeless marriage between two totally unsuited people. Isadora’s beauty had blinded him to her true nature, which was exactly the opposite of Noreen’s.
He sipped coffee with a weariness that was unlike him during an all-too-brief break between surgeries, sitting in the hospital cafeteria. Isadora’s death had made him realize how barren their marriage had been. His own guilt about leaving her so often alone had assumed massive proportions then, and it had been convenient to blame Noreen for deserting her cousin. His guilt had fed that blame. Noreen had paid a very high price for Isadora’s death. Now it seemed so futile and heartless, to have heaped such cruelties on the head of a sick woman who could easily have died herself that very night.
The Kensingtons were obviously feeling some of the same guilt that he felt over Noreen. He’d had a call from her uncle at his office, which he had yet to return. Noreen hadn’t professed any desire to see her aunt and uncle since she’d been released from the hospital, and their request to come and visit her had been turned down abruptly and without explanation. They, like Ramon, wanted to start again. Noreen very obviously didn’t.
He finished his coffee and stretched. He wondered exactly how Noreen felt about her friend Brad, who felt comfortable bringing her flowers and sitting with her by the hour. He didn’t like the man, and for no logical reason. To admit the cause was jealousy was more than he could bring himself to do.
With a long sigh, he glanced at his watch and grimaced. Back to work, he thought, and was grateful that he had something to occupy his mind. Lately his thoughts were poor companions indeed.
It was a surprise to find the Kensingtons waiting at his office when he finished at the hospital. They’d made an appointment, at that.
Noreen’s uncle was the first to speak, after they were seated in Ramon’s spartan but luxurious office.
“We want to know what we can do for her,” he told Ramon without preamble.
“Yes,” Mary added quietly. “There must be something—the hospital bill, therapy, her lost salary—”
“She won’t talk to us,” her uncle continued, interrupting his wife in his haste to get the words out. “But we don’t blame her for that, you know. We just want to help. We’ve been very much at fault,” he added uneasily.
“So have I,” Ramon replied grimly. “All of us so easily put the blame on her. She had a mild heart attack that night, or so her physician thinks,” he continued, having told them this before, but uncertain if they remembered. “He sedated her while she was still trying to make him understand about the condition Isadora was in.” He folded his hands on the desk and stared at its highly polished surface. “She feels guilty even about that, and none of us considered her own feelings in the matter. She cared about Isadora, too. She wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, to be part of the family—even to grieve.”
Mary bit her lower lip to stop the tears, and they were genuine ones. She’d loved her daughter so much that she’d pushed her niece cruelly aside. It hadn’t been easy to look back down the long years and see how all of them, especially Isadora, had made such good use of Noreen without caring about her own wishes or hopes. She’d been neglected shamefully, even her health.
“We didn’t know she had a heart condition,” Mary murmured. “We never even bothered to make sure she had a physical before she started college.”
“We didn’t care,” Hal said shortly, his face full of self-contempt. “We never cared. She bought me an eel skin wallet for my birthday this year, you remember, Ramon. It must have cost her a week’s salary and I couldn’t even resist making a joke of that.” He put his head in his hands with a weary sigh. “I feel sick. Just sick. You know, she accused us of coming to see her to stop people from gossiping, and I guess that’s how she feels.” He looked up. “But it wasn’t that. We were genuinely shocked and sorry about what happened to her. We want to see her. Can’t you do something? Talk to her, plead our case? At least, we could help her financially if she needs it.”
Ramon stared at them for a moment. “Let me think about it for a few days,” he said solemnly. “I’ll try to find a way. Hopefully, one for all of us.”
Chapter Eight
But if thinking about a way to approach Noreen was easy, putting the thought into action wasn’t. Since Ramon had kissed her, she’d withdrawn into a very thick shell. Miss Plimm noticed Noreen’s sudden shyness and apprehension about Ramon, and she’d spoken to him one evening.
“At her age, despite the weakness and pain, she should be picking up better than this,” Nurse Plimm said bluntly. “She’s very much on edge. I’ve noticed that it accelerates when you’re around her.”
He sat down in his burgundy leather recliner and leaned back, weary from a long day at the operating table.
“I’ve noticed it, too,” he replied quietly, motioning her to a seat on the black leather couch across from him. “You’re aware that Noreen and I have had our misunderstandings over the years?” he asked with keen eyes on her face.
She folded her arms. “She said that.”
“It was mostly my fault, for accepting that she left my wife alone in a critical condition and permitted her to die.” He held up his hand when she started to speak. “Please, let me finish. I know now that Noreen was in no way to blame for what happened. I have been very much in the wrong, as have her aunt and uncle, and we acknowledge this. But Noreen has become so remote that we find it impossible to approach her.” He spread his hands. “We’ve reached an impasse. None of us knows what to do. I don’t blame her for the way she feels, you understand. But we want to make our peace. And she won’t let us.”
“She’s still in a good deal of pain,” Nurse Plimm replied, “and you know, yourself, sir, that a period of confusion often follows such radical surgery.”
“I know it,” he agreed. “It’s just that I’ve never experienced it on such a personal basis.”
“She needs time to adjust,” she continued. “That’s all. Be patient.”
“That isn’t one of my better qualities, I’m afraid, except in s
urgery,” he replied with a faint smile. “But I’ll try.”
She got up from her chair. “And by the way, sir, I’ve told Mr. Donaldson not to bring any more flowers,” she added. “It isn’t healthy, especially not just after surgery. He should know that.”
His eyes narrowed. “He’s been back recently to see her?”
Now she really looked uncomfortable. “He comes every other afternoon, sir,” she replied. “I thought you knew.”
He dismissed her and sat brooding, with eyes like black steel in a drawn face. No, he hadn’t known about Brad’s visits. It angered him that the man kept coming here. Noreen was his business now, not Donaldson’s. Well, he’d arrange to be at home the next time Noreen’s caller arrived, and he’d put the man straight about visiting!
It never once occurred to him that he was being unreasonable. Not until he opened the door to Donaldson the following Friday and told him that Noreen wasn’t up to so many visits just yet.
“Why?” Donaldson asked shortly.
The older man just stared at him. He was actually speechless, because there wasn’t really a good reason for his objection to Donaldson’s visits.
“I’m careful not to tire her,” Donaldson continued, trying to placate Ramon, who looked formidable with his black eyes flashing. “I know how frail she is.”
Frail. Yes, she was frail, Ramon thought, almost fragile. She’d been that way for a long time, but her independence and spirit had blinded him to it.
He leaned against the door frame wearily. “She’s not healing as quickly as I expected her to,” he said after a minute. “She doesn’t sleep at night, despite the pain medication, and she’s constantly restless.”
Donaldson’s chin lifted. “Perhaps it’s the environment,” he said, and added, “not that you can help the way you feel, sir, I realize that. But even hidden hostility certainly doesn’t help. She’s tense all the time now.”
That was a blow, but Ramon had the grace to accept it without exploding. He’d been hostile to Noreen for so long that everyone around him knew how he’d felt about her. Now, he’d installed her in his apartment and he expected her to warm to him immediately. In fact, he was resentful because she hadn’t. He must have been out of his mind to expect so much, despite the fact that she’d melted in his arms. Even that might have seemed like a threat to her, an underhanded way to play on her vulnerability and hurt her. He wouldn’t do that now, but she wouldn’t know it. He was the biggest obstacle in her recovery. Amazing, he thought, that it had taken an outsider to point the fact out to him.