But Buck was quicker. “Just call me Cousin Buck.”
The aide shrugged. “Well, then. This way…”
They turned for the wide doors that led to the patient area. The doors whooshed open and shut behind them and all at once, B.J. realized that she was glad, after all, for the warmth and strength of Buck’s hand in hers.
The aide stopped at the door to one of the rooms. “Here we are.” She signaled them in ahead.
B.J. cautiously pushed open the door. The sweet, humid scent of too many flowers enveloped her. Even in the dim light, B.J. could see that every available surface had a flower arrangement on it.
For a moment, the shadowy sight of all those flowers baffled her. But then again…
Of course. People would have sent flowers.
L.T. was widely admired as a man to be emulated: a great hunter, a lover of beautiful women, a success in the truest sense of that very American word. Flowers might not be L.T.’s thing—far from it. But news of his heart attack had made The Times, a column on the fifth page. B.J. had read it for herself during the plane ride home. Millions of others would have read it by now, as well. Flowers would definitely have been sent—a lot of them.
Jessica, in an armchair at L.T.’s side, jumped lightly to her feet and came straight to B.J., holding out her slender arms. “I’m so glad you’re here,” her father’s girlfriend whispered in her ear.
For the first time, as she hugged Jessica, B.J. felt what might be called affection for L.T.’s latest Alpha Girl. The past few days must have been hell, but Jessica had stuck by her man—was still sticking by him, though it seemed the worst danger was past and no one would have faulted her if she’d chosen to spend tonight at the Castle in L.T.’s luxurious king-sized bed.
The aide had already gone. Jessica pantomimed drinking coffee and mouthed, “I’ll be right back.” B.J. gave her a nod. With a bright smile for Buck, who had moved back near the room’s wide picture window, Jessica left them, bracing the door halfway open on her way out, so they’d have enough light to see by.
B.J. turned to her father. L.T., snoring steadily, lay face-up on the bed. They had him hooked to an IV drip and also to a couple of monitors that made slow beeping sounds.
B.J. approached the bed. Up close, she could see the bruises of stress and pain beneath her father’s eyes. His skin had a grayish pallor and seemed loose on the bones of his face.
Smaller, she thought. He looked smaller, somehow—less vital. As if he’d somehow shrunk inside his skin.
His left arm, the one with the IV in it and the monitors attached, lay along his side. His right was bent, the hand resting on his chest. B.J. looked at that hand and considered laying her own on top of it.
She didn’t do it. Partly because she didn’t want to wake him—and partly because there’d never been a lot of touching between them, not since she was six, when he’d told her that she couldn’t sit on his lap anymore. He wasn’t raising any daddy’s girl, he’d growled at her. He wanted her to grow up to be strong and self-sufficient, a woman who stood proudly on her own two feet….
And what to do now? Okay, she’d seen him. He was alive. Should she sink into the chair Jessica had vacated?
Or was it better that she and Buck just go ahead and leave. She could return in the morning, maybe….
She ought to be better at this, she really should.
But all she kept thinking was that she wished he were wide awake and mean as ever. She wished he would open his eyes and yell at her.
And right then, as her wish took form, he granted it—more or less.
His snoring snorted to a stop. His eyes drifted open, unfocused at first. But then he spotted her. He actually managed a scowl.
“It’s about damn time you showed up.” His voice was raspy. He couldn’t quite deliver his usual ear-grating shout.
“Hi, L.T.”
“Where in hell have you been?”
“It’s a long story.”
He grunted. “Fine. Spare me the details. I want you at work first thing tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“So? That never stopped you from working before.”
“You’re right. I’ll check in at the office in the morning.”
“Harumph. Good.” His scowl deepened. “Where’s Jessica?”
“She went to get coffee, I think. She said she’d be right back.”
“It stinks to high heaven in here. Smells like a damn greenhouse. Tell her I want all these flowers out. I told her. But since I’ve been in a weakened condition, she had them all brought in anyway.”
“I’ll tell her, L.T.”
“And get me a cigar.”
“To that I would have to say…ask the nurse.”
“The nurse?” he sneered. “What’s the nurse going to say but no?”
“‘No’ works for me. You’ve had a heart attack, remember?”
“As if I could forget.”
“I’m guessing—though I’m no expert—that you’ll be giving up cigars.”
“Who asked you?—and you’re guessing wrong.”
She decided not to argue the point. There had never been much of a percentage in arguing with L.T.
He lifted his head off the pillow and squinted toward the window, where Buck’s shadowed shape was visible. “Who’s that? Buck?”
Buck spoke up. “L.T. Good to see you.”
“No, it’s not. I look like holy hell—and let me make this perfectly clear. Whatever’s up between you and B.J., keep it in Manhattan from now on.”
“However you want it, L.T.”
A rattling laugh escaped her father. He groaned and pressed his hand to his chest. “Uh. Hurts. They cut me open, sliced me right down the center. Me. L. T. Carlyle. Never thought I’d see the day.” L.T. narrowed his eyes at B.J. again. “And you. I ought to fire your ass.”
First rule of dealing with her father: never let him see he’s hit the mark. “Go for it.”
He let his head drop back to the pillow. “You watch yourself from here on in—or I just might.”
Twenty-Two
Buck went home to B.J.’s apartment with her.
They were barely in the door, their suitcases piled all around them, when he took her in his arms. He kissed her. Gently, with no heat—at first. A reassuring, I’m-here-don’t-worry kind of kiss.
Nice. Comforting…
At first.
But no kiss the two of them shared could stay merely nice for long. Heat bloomed, a night flower of longing and hunger, between them.
It was good, so good. To forget the rushed trip home from their mountain retreat, and her father, so weak and old-looking…
She backed up against the door, dragging Buck with her, kicking off her Jimmy Choos, unzipping her favorite curve-hugging Chloé jeans and shimmying them down. She lifted one leg, got it free of the jeans, then bounced to the other, kicking, sending the jeans flying, along with her blue satin thong.
Buck unzipped his fly.
And then he lifted her and settled her onto him. She wrapped her legs around his hard waist and locked her arms around his neck and felt him pressed all the way inside her, so deep and so good…
So good…
She rode him until they both cried out with sweet, mind-shattering release.
Once it was over they sagged against the door. He pressed his forehead to hers, whispered the name she let only him say, “Bits…” And then he straightened, gathering her drooping, tired body against him. “Bedroom?”
She whispered the way.
He carried her in there and set her, so carefully, down on her bed. Then he undressed her. She lay there, letting him do everything, too drained to argue that she could undress herself.
He took off his own clothes and pulled back the covers. “Scoot over.” With a sigh, she rolled onto the cool, clean sheet. He slid in beside her and settled the covers over them both.
“Sleep,” he whispered. “It will be all right…”
She cuddled in close to him, sighing, vaguely aware that, once again, they hadn’t thought to use a condom—as they hadn’t that time at the Sierra Star, and several times more during their stay at the cabin.
He never mentioned the lapses.
Then again, neither did she.
B.J. was up at six the next morning. She kissed Buck goodbye and headed for the hospital to check on her father.
L.T. was awake and ornerier than ever. She stayed with him for half an hour or so, listening to him complain about everything from how bad his incision itched to how much he wanted a cigar to how she had let him down big-time by disappearing out there in the sticks, making herself unavailable in the event of a crisis—like, for instance a heart attack or worse.
At eight, she escaped him, leaving him in Jessica’s patient, tender care. She went to the office, which was empty—no full-lipped Melanie to greet her; no Giles, no Arnie. She spent six hours tackling her twin in-boxes: the one on her desk, where a mile-high pile of papers had magically formed during her absence, and the cyber-one; over a thousand e-mails waited for her attention. She also had a raft of messages in voice mail—Monday, for those.
She stopped in again at the hospital before going home. L.T. was madder than he’d been in the morning. They’d unhooked him from the IV and the beeping monitors. But they were keeping him until tomorrow, just to be on the safe side.
L.T. didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to go home.
He told everyone that. Loudly and repeatedly.
For an hour or so, B.J. joined Jessica—a saint, that Jessica—in a pointless and thoroughly frustrating effort to soothe him. Then B.J. gave up and went home.
Buck wasn’t there. Not that she’d expected him to be. He’d told her that morning he would go back to his place, to get things together there after the trip.
B.J. unpacked her suitcases, put half the stuff away and the other half in a pile for the cleaners. She sorted her mail and paid a few bills. She glanced guiltily at her Stairmaster in the corner of her bedroom, but didn’t have the energy to put it to use.
At about six, she stretched out on the couch and wished Buck was there and thought about what she would do for dinner. She must have fallen asleep.
Because she woke to the wonderful feel of soft lips against hers.
“Umm.” She opened her eyes. Not a dream. The real thing: Buck. She kissed him some more. When he lifted his head, she said, “I’m so glad I thought to give you a key—and I could almost swear I smell pizza.”
“Maybe because you do.” He pointed at the pizza box on the coffee table beside them.
“I think you’re my ideal man.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
“Just hand me a pen.”
On Sunday, they let L.T. go home. Both B.J. and Jessica hoped that getting out of the hospital and back to his own private castle would improve his attitude.
It didn’t.
Langly Titus Carlyle was good at many things. Convalescing wasn’t one of them.
He bristled at the very mention of how he had to change his lifestyle—stop smoking cigars, cut down on the cocktails and the red meat—or he’d be headed straight for another coronary. He hated the fact that he had to be taken care of, hated that he wasn’t well enough to keep up with things at Alpha. He despised having to take medication. He said the drugs they had him on messed with his brain.
Every day, B.J. felt more grateful for Jessica, who bore the brunt of L.T.’s fits and rages. Serene and uncomplaining, Jessica treated him with tenderness and honest concern.
“How do you do it?” B.J. asked the sweet-natured blonde one evening in mid-week, when she and Jessica were alone in the front hall as B.J. was leaving.
“I love him with all of my heart,” Jessica said in that small, breathy voice of hers.
“So…what’s to love?”
Jessica fluttered her long eyelashes. “Aside from being brilliant and funny and handsome and bigger than life? Not much, I guess.”
“You forgot to mention that he’s also a massive pain in the—”
Jessica giggled. “Yes. There’s that, too.” Her gorgeous smile faded. “He needs someone like me. And you know what? I’ve never been so happy as since I’ve been with him.”
B.J. figured that maybe Jessica did love L.T. She found that truly astonishing. B.J. herself kept fantasizing about walking out the Castle’s front door and never coming back.
L.T. just refused to let up on her. She visited or spoke on the phone with him daily. He would demand to know everything that was going on at Alpha—and then he’d yell at her for wasting his time with minutiae.
Her days were truly packed just keeping up with the magazine and her ill-behaved convalescing father. By the end of that week, she was ready to kill someone. Preferably L.T. But he was a sick old man and she didn’t feel right about yelling back at him when he started in on her.
And yes, maybe she was a little afraid that if she got into it with him, something bad would happen. He’d get more worked up than usual. He’d have another heart attack and it would be all her fault. She’d have to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that, not only had she not been there for his first heart attack, she’d caused the second one.
As the days ground slowly by, B.J. grew more fragmented and distracted. The morning sickness she’d thought she’d left behind put in a reappearance. More than once, she had to race to the bathroom down the hall from her office. Her coworkers gave her strange looks. She pretended not to notice.
Giles suggested that maybe she ought to see a doctor for that stomach problem of hers.
She told him to mind his own business.
He shook his head, gorgeous golden hair flying out. “See, that’s what I like about you. So tough, so mean. Such a rotten attitude. That’s a lot to admire.”
Personal time was at a minimum. She rarely saw Buck. They did make a date on Wednesday for Thursday night.
Thursday, things went late at the office and she was stuck in a meeting with Arnie until after seven. It completely slipped her mind that she was supposed to join Buck at that new Italian restaurant in Tribeca at seven-thirty—and she’d turned off her cell for the meeting, so she missed his call when he tried to reach her.
She was in the cab on the way to her place when she remembered their date. Appalled at herself—B. J. Carlyle never broke a date or missed an appointment. Ever—she gave the cabbie a new destination, called Buck with gushing apologies and went to the restaurant.
Buck was understanding about the mix-up, but when they got back to her place for coffee, he said he was worried about her.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, wearing yourself out.”
She admitted, “Yeah. Okay. I’m tired. L.T. is on me constantly. And my job is as stressful as it’s ever been—and by the way, Arnie wants to know where the Christmas feature is.” They’d been back from California almost a week and Buck had yet to turn in the story.
“You’ll get it. Soon. And the story isn’t the point.”
“Buck. Come on. The December issue goes to press in six days. I have to have it.”
“Forget the story for a minute.”
“Buck—”
He cornered her against the jut of counter that marked off her kitchen from the dining alcove, one hand to either side of her, holding her in place. “The real problem isn’t your job, is it?”
“Buck. Listen…”
“No. You listen. I think if L.T. would cut you a little slack you’d be fine. He’s causing you a world of stress, ragging on you constantly. He’s pissed because you escaped his sphere of influence for a couple of weeks—and had a terrific time doing it. He’s possessive, pure and simple, and he needs to get over that and let you have your own damn life. Tell him to back off.”
And that did irritate her. “He’s a sick man. I can’t just—”
“He’s out of hand and out of line. You know he is. Back him off. Or I’ll do it for you.”
&n
bsp; She put her hands on his chest and pushed—steadily, not a shove, exactly, but a clear indication that she wanted him out of her personal space. “You back off.”
He did, but then he turned on her. “Damn it. You can’t go on like this. It’s not good for…” The sentence died unfinished. He swallowed, tried again. “It’s not good for you.”
Why the hesitation before the word, you? she wondered. But only in passing. Right then, she was too caught up in her frustration at him to put much attention on an odd quirk of phrasing.
She drew herself up. “Don’t tell me what’s good for me. And don’t you dare intervene with my father. Just stay the hell out of what doesn’t concern you, okay?”
He answered, so quietly, “No. It’s not okay. Not okay in the least.” He snagged his jacket off the back of the chair where he’d left it when they came in. “Good night, B.J.”
“Buck—”
He put up a hand. “Look. If I stay, I’ll say some things you don’t want to hear.”
So she let him go, figuring that was better than an ugly argument—she let him go and she missed him like hell. She wanted him; she cared for him. A lot. But her doubts about the two of them did nag at her.
Here they were, back in the real world. And the easy closeness they’d shared in California had all but evaporated.
B.J. knew the new distance between them was her fault. She had a problem and she’d always had it. She was just one of those women who didn’t do well with a man on any kind of long-term basis.
Around midnight, unable to sleep for thinking of him, she called him. They made up, more or less, and set another date for the next night at a restaurant they both liked in SoHo.
Friday was a madhouse at Alpha. Arnie called her in at five to rag on her about the Christmas feature. She vowed she’d get it out of Buck by Monday.
Then Arnie broke the big news.
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