Lone Star Knight

by Cindy Gerard

  Matthew Walker would not think that she was perfect now.

  No one would.

  She raised her head, stared without seeing, as the blackness of night slowly gave way to the pearly gray break of another dawn. Artificial light from the hall behind her shone in through her door, casting the room in half shadows. A call bell pinged softly at the nurses’ desk; a doctor’s page echoed in this sterile, isolated world where the silence spoke of an aloneness only someone who had spent myriad sleepless nights swathed in bandages and morphine and uncertainty could understand.

  She had become accustomed to the night sounds in the burn unit for she had slept too little and thought too much. Now, in the background, the nursing staff moved with quiet efficiency to the soft rustle of crepe-soled shoes and pristine white uniforms.

  She hadn’t rung for their assistance when she’d inched carefully out of bed and eased into the chair by the window. She’d been managing that particular feat by herself for over a week now. The fine sheen of perspiration beading her brow was the only outward indication of the physical cost. The tear that trickled unheeded down her cheek was less a result of the pain than of the growing and grim acceptance that she would never be, would never look, the same again—and that the waltz she had shared with the tall, handsome Texan might have been her last dance.

  Matt scrubbed a hand over his face as he stood like a shadow in the doorway of Helena’s room. He didn’t know if he felt better or worse for the three hours of sleep Justin had insisted he grab. He figured he had to feel better than she did.

  He didn’t much like fighting this constant urge to go to her. Just talk to her. Maybe make her smile as she’d smiled for him one night that now seemed a lifetime ago.

  Her smiles aren’t your concern, though, are they? he reminded himself grimly. Her protection was.

  And yet, she looked so lost as she sat there. So absolutely alone. Nothing like the self-assured, sensual woman who’d shamelessly and skillfully flirted with him on the dance floor at the club. It tore him up, that look, and yet he didn’t want her to know he was there—watching that silken length of pale blond hair fall across her face as she hung her head and battled the tears welling up in her eyes. He didn’t want her to know he was remembering the texture and the scent of her hair trailing across his fingers as they’d danced around the room while he’d smiled into her laughing eyes.

  Pride, he’d discovered this past month, was a quality Lady Helena owned in abundance. She wouldn’t want to know that anyone had witnessed her struggle—or her pain. Neither would she want to know that he’d been holding vigil outside her room. Or that the reason he was here was to protect her from an unknown enemy, with an as-yet-undetermined agenda. He didn’t want her to know it either. She had enough to deal with without adding a possible threat to her life to the list.

  He cupped his palm to his nape, stepped silently away from the door and tried to sort it all out in his mind. He wasn’t exactly up on his cloak-and-dagger etiquette—it had been a while since he’d been called on to draw from his military background—but he’d come up to speed in a hurry. Anyone wanting to get to Helena was going to have to get through him.

  Damn, he didn’t like what was happening. Didn’t like any of it. The only good news unearthed lately was that the investigation into the plane crash had turned up evidence that it had actually been an accident that had caused the emergency landing, not sabotage as they had originally suspected. An engine fire had caused some of the systems to lock up, including the landing gear. On impact, liquor bottles in the bar had broken, the electrical systems inside the luxury charter jet had shorted out and sparks had ignited the flammable liquor. Helena, sitting closest to the bar, had paid the biggest price.

  So yeah, thankfully, they’d ruled out sabotage, but nothing else was resolved. He wished to hell he could get a handle on it.

  “Okay, Walker,” he muttered and sank down on the small sofa by the window in the corridor just outside Helena’s room, “start at point A.”

  Point A, the Lone Star jewels—three precious gems entrusted through generations to the Club members’ keeping—had been stolen. Before this nasty business, he’d never actually seen the jewels. Like every Cattleman’s Club member, he had sworn to protect them as part of Royal’s legacy of prosperity. Like every other Royal resident, he’d known of them through folklore and legend and had, from time to time, wondered if they actually existed. Well, he wasn’t wondering any longer. He’d seen two of them himself after Justin had recovered them at the crash site. The black opal—representing justice—was magnificent. The emerald—representing peace—was dazzling. He’d held both in his hands and damn if he hadn’t felt a dynamic sense of—

  Of what? He shook his head, not wanting to believe that even now, almost two months later, he was still convinced that they’d warmed his palm with energy and heat.

  He shrugged that off and concentrated on point B—the missing stone, a rare red diamond. The diamond represented leadership and completed the circle of prosperity upon which Royal was dependent. The big question that remained was where the devil was it? And if it wasn’t found and reunited with the other stones, would Royal’s thriving economy fold like a tower of cards as the legend predicted?

  Since he didn’t have the answers to any of those questions, he moved ahead to point C. Riley Monroe was dead. Riley had been a fixture behind the bar at the Cattleman’s Club even before Matt had been initiated into the ranks. Anger didn’t begin to cover what he felt for the scum who had killed him. And all because they’d wanted the jewels.

  That indisputable conclusion only brought up more questions. How had an outsider actually found out about the jewels’ existence, discovered their hiding place and then stolen them? Why were the opal and the emerald on that plane bound for Asterland? Again, another dead end, another set of unanswered questions.

  Leaning forward, he propped his forearms on his thighs and stared at his loosely clasped hands. Okay. Point D. Milo Yungst and Garth Johannes. Talk about cloak-and-dagger.

  When the four other club members who were in the know on this mission had last met, he’d confided to them his concerns about the pair.

  “I don’t care that Yungst and Johannes are representatives from the Asterland government. I don’t give a good damn that they were sent to investigate the plane crash.”

  He’d looked around the private meeting room at the Cattleman’s Club at Justin Webb, Aaron Black, Sheikh Ben Rassad and Dakota Lewis. “I don’t trust them. And I don’t like their methods. I like even less the interrogation tactics they used on Pamela.”

  He’d seen from the dark scowl on Aaron’s face that he was in agreement. Pamela had been on the plane with Helena and Jamie Morris. Pamela was also Matt’s good friend. He’d given her away the day she’d married Aaron. Now that she was his wife, Aaron had more than a vested interest in Pamela’s welfare.

  And that’s what brought Matt to point E and the reason he was here, outside Helena’s hospital room. It was at that meeting that they’d decided Jamie and Helena needed protection. Ben had been assigned to guard Jamie. Matt had volunteered to watch over Helena—an assignment the five of them had agreed was necessary until they unraveled the mystery and were sure the women were safe.

  At least it had started out as an assignment. Maybe it was fatigue—maybe not—but he was finally ready to admit that somewhere along the line, it had ended up feeling like more.

  Well, he couldn’t afford to let it be more. Couldn’t let her be more. Not to him. And still, it was the more that compelled him to rise and walk back to her room. Shoving his hands in his back pockets, he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and studied the beautiful, tortured profile that had haunted him for as many nights as he’d known her.

  In the diluted light, he looked at her solemn profile. He looked at her damaged hand, at her leg in an immobilizing cast that ran from toe to mid-calf. His mouth set in a grim line, he tried to shake one niggling question. If this was jus
t an assignment, why did he find himself wanting to heal those hurts that her eyes betrayed but that she would never admit to?

  Two

  Helena knew she was dreaming. She knew it because in the dream she was perfect and she was whole. Still…it felt so immediate, so real and oh, so preferable to the nightmare that always concluded with searing flames and brutal pain.

  Oh, yes. She liked this dream so much better.

  In it, she was in the middle of a grand ballroom. A gentle mist drifted at her feet as if conjured by a medieval mage from a swirl of stardust and moonbeams. She floated with the fantasy of it, seeing herself as she’d once been. Her left hand was smooth and pale, a perfect, graceful backdrop for the pearl-and-ruby ring that had been her mother’s and her grandmother’s before her.

  Her dress was the same blue as her eyes. It was also strapless and shamelessly seductive. The parchment-thin, watery silk clung to the full curve of her breasts, nipped in at her waist then hugged her hips to end at mid-thigh and reveal the long, unblemished length of her legs, showcase her slender ankles in three-inch heels.

  That there were no scars to hide, no broken bones as yet unhealed, wasn’t even the best part. The best part was the tall, gallant Texan who held her in his arms, his green eyes glittering, his captivating smile an irresistible mix of affable charm and unapologetic interest.

  She laughed at something he said, for he was enchanting, this man whose eyes gleamed with a desire he did not attempt to hide. His arm tightened around her waist as he danced her effortlessly through open French doors and out into a warm, starry night. Even the moon, it seemed, was in league with his not-so-subtle seduction as he waltzed her to an intimate corner of a flagstone terrace made secluded by a vine-draped arbor, fragrantly blooming cactus and whispering crape myrtle.

  When she smiled and backed away from him toward the low stone wall that encompassed the terrace, he let her go with a lingering caress, a brush of fingertip to fingertip, and a meaningful look in his eyes.

  He wanted her.

  Despite the warmth of the Texas night, she shivered in anticipation of the passion those green eyes promised.

  “Is it wise, do you think? For us to be out here? Alone?” she asked, turning away from him and leaning into the low wall. The cool, hard stone pressing against the front of her thighs felt solid and real. Her awareness of the man and the moment sent her pulse rate soaring.

  “Offhand…” his voice was meltingly low, seductively Texan, as he moved up close behind her, “I’d say it’s one of the smarter moves I’ve made lately.”

  He was so close she could feel the hush of his breath, warm and intimate against her bare shoulder, so near she could sense the callused roughness of his hands even before he settled them at her waist and drew her back against him. A ripple of excitement eddied through her blood as he gently squeezed, then in a slow, smooth caress, glided his broad palms, fingers spread wide, possessively down the curve of her hip.

  Her heart jumped to her throat, her breath quickened. “Mr. Walker—”

  “Matt,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to her nape and his hands, in an unmistakable claim, to her outer thighs. “I think current circumstances absolutely dictate that you call me Matt.”

  On a sigh, she let her head fall back against his shoulder, covered his hands with hers. The heat and the hardness of him pressed against her set her on fire.

  “Are all Texans this bold and sure of themselves?” she managed breathlessly.

  “There’s only one thing I’m sure of,” he murmured and with her hands still riding his, covered her abdomen and tugged her snugly against him. His arousal pressed, provocative and brazen, against her hips. “I want you.”

  He turned her in his arms. His eyes smoldered with longing and lust, yet, he smiled slow and heart-meltingly sweet. Clasping her hands in his, he lifted them to his mouth, touched his lips to the fingertips of her right hand and then her left.

  “You’re perfect, Helena.” He met her eyes in the shifting, midnight shadows. “I think I could easily fall in love with you.”

  He kissed her then. There beneath the West Texas moon, with the scent of the desert wafting in the air, the silk of his softly curling hair drifting through her fingers, she kissed him back. As she’d kissed no other man. Wanting him as she’d wanted no other man.

  It was everything a kiss should be. Stirring yet sweet. Hot yet unhurried. And she wanted it to go on forever. Just the two of them. Just this rich savoring of each other’s mouths in the moonlight.

  “Dance with me,” he said against her lips and they began to move as one to the slow rhythm of the night and the hearts that beat in tandem.

  The mist swirled around them, shimmering and cool, enveloping them in yet another realm, a singular world of delicious sensations and softly murmured praise. The magic continued as he waltzed her through the night to a bedroom richly appointed with sensuous satins and gossamer lace. He praised her body as he slowly undressed her. She complied willingly as he laid her naked on a down-draped bed. She invited him into her body without reservation as he whispered her name, covered her, entered her.

  Like silk, he moved inside her. Like life, he gave of himself.

  “You’re perfect,” he murmured against her brow then nuzzled heated kisses across her cheek, beneath her jaw, against the crown of her breast until she was trembling and helpless to anything but him.

  “Perfect…”

  A perfect pain engulfed her. So perfect and so pure she knew in an instant she was no longer dreaming. What she was feeling was real. Excruciatingly real.

  She opened her eyes, jolted cruelly from the dream to predawn light, to sterile white walls, the scent of antiseptic and the awful awareness that she had been thrashing in her sleep and had slammed her left hand against the gunmetal-gray headboard of her hospital bed.

  Biting back tears, she cradled her hand against her ribs and waited for the pain to subside. When, at long last, it did, she waited for sleep to reclaim her. For the magic of the dream to take her.

  But sleep didn’t come. Neither did the magic. Magic was for dreamers and dreamers were merely fools who found reality too difficult to bear.

  “Do you have any questions about Dr. Harding’s or Dr. Chambers’s discharge instructions, Helena?”

  Sitting up in her hospital bed, Helena smiled at Justin Webb. Not for the first time in the two months that she’d known him, she thought how lucky his new bride was to have found him. The good doctor, in addition to being handsome, had kind blue eyes. She met them steadily as the soft inflections in his voice told her his major concern had less to do with her questions than with his—specifically, the ones he didn’t ask anymore because he’d given up on getting a straight answer.

  A game smile in place, she shook her head. “No. I think I’ve got it. Watch for infections, do my mobility exercises, have a nice life.”

  He smiled patiently. “Helena, I’m all too familiar with the trauma a burn victim suffers when faced with the scarring and the inevitability of future reconstructive surgeries. Despite that brave front you hide behind, you’re not fooling me, sweetie.”

  Helena’s mind locked on one word and wouldn’t let go. Victim. The word raced through her head like a brushfire that would consume her if she let it. She would not be a victim. She would not be perceived as a victim, and yet, when Justin eased a hip onto the corner of her bed it was all she could do to meet his eyes.

  “The infection set you back, but you’re healing well now. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean any of this is easy.”

  For the barest of moments, she felt moisture mist her eyes. She looked quickly away before he could see it and know how right he was. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy to know that while she would walk, she might never ski again, or ride her favorite mount—or dance with a beautiful green-eyed Texan who had haunted her dreams almost as often as the memory of the crash. But those were her problems to deal with. No one else’s.

  Quickly composi
ng herself, she smiled the smile she’d perfected over the years for both the paparazzi and the public. “Justin. Darling.” She patted his hand. “You worry too much. It’s a—how do you Americans say it?—a piece of pie.”

  His grin was both indulgent and exasperated as he gently corrected her. “I believe that’s piece of cake. And you’re ducking the issue. Again.”

  She dismissed his concern with a wave of her uninjured hand. “I’m alive. I’m in one piece. And as you said, I’m healing. I’m a lucky woman. Now, I know it’s part of your bedside manner to fuss, but stop it, would you? I’m fine. Really,” she insisted when his grave look suggested that he suspected otherwise. She was fine. She was. And if she repeated it often enough, maybe she’d start to believe it.

  “There are support groups,” he offered after a long moment.

  “Oh, please.” She shook her head, smiled her most brilliant smile. “Justin. You are a kind and gifted physician. And I am a strong and healthy woman. So I’ve got some scarring—and this bothersome broken ankle. So I may never ski Mount Orion again. Life goes on. I’ll adjust.”

  “I have no doubt, Helena, that you will adjust—in time. But if you would talk with someone it might speed the process. If not a support group, your family—?”

  “My family,” she interrupted, her smile disappearing, “must not be bothered by this. On that point, I insist. They are not to be made aware of my condition until I’m ready to tell them.”

  “How can they not be aware? You’ve been front-page news for two months.”

  “They are not aware because they chose to believe me when I phoned to inform them that the American press is littered with sensation-seeking bottom-feeders who fabricate those horrible stories about me because they sell papers and magazines. Honestly, do you believe everything you read in the paper?”

  She tossed her hair behind her shoulder—a purely aristocratic gesture of dismissal. “No. Of course you don’t. So, of course they’re not aware. My parents are on an extended tour of the Orient for their thirtieth wedding anniversary and I will not have their vacation interrupted.