His Golden Heart
(Formerly published as Change of Heart)
by
Marcia King-Gamble
With much grunting and groaning, they were finally able to get Beau seated again. In the process, Shayna somehow ended up in his lap. She closed her eyes, catching her breath. Every muscle and sinew ached. Her back felt as if a thousand-pound man had been stomping grapes on it, and her neck hurt. She simply couldn’t move, and she needed to get her equilibrium back. She had her arms around his neck, heard Beau’s heavy breathing, and smelled sweat mingling with a spicy cologne. Pinpoints of light flashed behind her closed lids. The room tilted. Her breasts brushed against Beau’s chest. He stiffened. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Beau’s arms circled her waist. He covered her face with kisses.
“No,” Shayna said, trying to get up. But her protest was cut short by another floor-tilting kiss that made her head spin.
His Golden Heart
Copyright © 2014 by Marcia King-Gamble.
Formerly published as Change of Heart by Harlequin Enterprises, Limited
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Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover design by Gilded Heart Design.
Digital formatting by Author E.M.S.
Thank You.
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Chris and Stuart, because…well, because I forgot you the last time around. Chris, thanks for all the magic tips. Your sense of humor keeps me sane and your dedication to each other is proof that real love exists.
My gratitude and thanks to Dr. Rob Sury, a specialist in rehabilitation medicine. Without Rob’s medical expertise, it would have been impossible to write this book.
His Golden Heart
Chapter One
“Beau! Beau! Beau!”
The chanting made Beau Hill feel invincible. He’d taken the lead, and gold was well within his grasp. He was born to be out here, snow under his skis, the crisp winter wind biting into his face, adrenaline pumping. He sensed the competition closing in. This wasn’t just any old downhill run. This was the day America brought home the medal, the day his dreams would come true.
“Go, Beau! Go, Beau!” the crowd shouted, as he zipped by, spurred on by their adulation.
More adrenaline kicked in. He bent his knees preparing to take the turn. His fans loved him and he loved them. That was the only inspiration he needed. The national anthem already played in his head.
“Oh, say, can you see…”
Yes, he could definitely see it. Feel it. Smell it. God knew he’d earned it. All those years of training. Disciplining himself to get up on cold winter mornings when friends were still snuggling in bed. Beau leaned forward, accepting the gold medallion hanging on the end of a red, white, and blue ribbon. In the background the commentator announced his name.
“Beau Hill of the United States, winner of the gold.”
Even as a little boy, he’d visualized this moment. He’d known he was destined to be in the spotlight that he was going to be somebody. Twenty-eight years later, Beaumont Hill was somebody, a champion skier, the USA’s only hope for the gold, and according to the Paparazzi, one of America’s most eligible bachelors. Not bad for a poor black boy born on the wrong side of the tracks.
“Beau, Beau, Beau,” the crowd yelled, egging him on. He couldn’t disappoint his public. Wouldn’t.
Beau’s eyelids popped open. He’d been dreaming that dream again. Except now reality had intruded and with it, the nightmare began. Beau Hill would never ski again. Beau Hill couldn’t walk. Beau Hill was nothing.
“Beau, my love, it’s time for your therapy session,” the too-cheery nurse with the chirpy voice greeted. Sister Mary Jane Immaculata, he’d dubbed her.
“What therapy session?” Beau snarled.
“How soon we forget. Yesterday we talked about it, remember? Your physical therapy. I even said the therapist was cute. She’s going to help you walk again.”
Beau glared at the plump little blonde with the Kewpie-doll face. No matter how nasty he’d gotten, she just became sweeter. Yesterday he’d doused her with a glass of cold water. She’d simply wiped herself off, admonishing him with a “Now, now. Reign in that temper, bad boy.”
“Are those teeth brushed, or do you need help?” she chirped, pretending to cut her eyes at him.
Beau scowled at her. “I’m not your child, princess. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to tell me to brush my teeth.”
But he did. He hadn’t been motivated to brush his teeth at all, though he’d never admit that to her. He’d resorted to gum.
“Temper, temper,” Immaculata said, continuing to smile sweetly.
Her real name was Mary Jane Coppola, and she wagged a finger at him.
Beau tried to sit up but even that small movement caused him pain. He’d survived a broken wrist and back, a fractured tibia, and several cracked ribs. He’d been transferred to the rehabilitation center after three weeks at a hospital and although he kept his drapes closed, the smell of a Colorado spring wafted its way in with every new visitor. People he didn’t want to see.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Sister Immaculata asked, at the ready to assist.
“No, I don’t need help,” he said, mimicking her. “If I wanted help I would ask for it.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’re much too stubborn.”
Mary Jane, during their short acquaintance, had come to know him well. Beau hadn’t always been this foul tempered. This nasty side had emerged since the accident.
He gritted his teeth, hoping the pain didn’t show. “Can we get this over with?”
She helped him into the wheelchair, settling a blanket over legs that were useless, and smiled at him.
“There, there.”
There, there, what? He couldn’t walk, much less ski. Life was meaningless. He might as well be dead. Screw the physical therapist and the entire team that had decided to make him their project. He was sick to death of the psychologist, nurses, occupational therapist, and now this damn physical therapist they insisted he see. Screw what everyone said. His life was over.
A flurry of activity at the door got his attention. Chandra, his fiancée, had arrived. She sailed in behind a huge bouquet of red roses and a cloud of expensive perfume. Beau scowled at her. As always, she was impeccably dressed and made up to perfection. Chandra’s supermodel status came with such perks as getting to keep the designer outfits she modeled.
She unclipped one of those getups, a cape, and folded it over her arm. “How’s my African-American stallion doing?” she purred, blowing him a kiss and setting the flowers down on a chest of
drawers to join several other vases.
“How the hell do you think I am?” Beau snorted. “I’m trapped in this blasted chair. My body is useless. My legs don’t work.”
“Would it help if I kissed you and made you feel better?”
Sister Immaculata chuckled. “Maybe that’s just what he needs. I think this is my cue to exit. Don’t forget your therapy session.” She left, closing the door of the private room behind her.
No sooner was she out of sight than Chandra unbuttoned the top three buttons of the elegant silk blouse she wore. As usual she went braless. Two firm breasts the color of golden melons were tilted his way. “These need attention, baby,” she said, cupping them.
It was her lack of inhibition that had gotten his attention in the first place. On their first date she hadn’t worn panties and, boy, had she let him know it.
Beau turned his face away. Those perfectly shaped lobes, tantalizing as they were, needed to be left alone.
Why start something he couldn’t finish?
“What can I do to make my baby feel better?” Chandra asked, raising her skirt an inch.
Beau closed his eyes. “Button yourself up and stop acting like a fool.”
Chandra managed to look hurt “Okay, used-to-be stud, if you don’t want them someone else will.”
That one hurt. She was right. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want a beautiful, rich and intelligent model? Temperamental though she was. Those qualities had once excited him. There had been a time when he would have leaped at her invitation. But how could he now, when he wasn’t even sure if the equipment worked though he was much too proud to tell her that. Their relationship had never been based on conversation but on some deep level he understood her, even cared.
Chandra now gave him her full attention, making sure her assets were still in full view, inches from his face. In slow motion, she buttoned her blouse.
“Be that way,” she said.
“We’re late,” Immaculata yodeled, sticking her head through a space in the door. “Oops. Would you like me to put those in water?” She pointed to the roses.
“Take the flowers home with you,” Beau muttered, ignoring Chandra’s thunderous glare. “They’re just about setting my allergies off. Looks like a funeral home in here anyway.”
“I couldn’t do that. Enjoy your flowers. I’ll get a vase.”
“I want you to take them. There’s no space.”
“Fine.” Mary Jane placed her palms on the handles of his chair. “You’re already fifteen minutes late for your therapy session. We need to go.” To Chandra she said, “You’re welcome to wait, but this will take at least an hour.”
“I’ve got a luncheon appointment,” the model said, picking up her cape. “I’ll try to stop by later.” She blew kisses at Beau.
He flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Later.”
As soon as she had exited Immaculata started in. “Ready to take off, bad boy?”
Beau grunted at her. “Might as well. I have nothing else to do.”
* * *
Five floors down in Denver Rehabilitation Center, Shayna DaCosta tapped an impatient foot. She hated to be kept waiting. Time was money. She’d heard this new patient was a bear, and she wasn’t looking forward to working with him. Forget his superstar status. It was common knowledge Beaumont Hill was known to throw food and tantrums. Rumor had it he’d gone through a dozen nurses at Denver General, and in the few days he’d been there he’d already upset a few. She wasn’t about to put up with his nonsense.
Ever since his accident, Beau Hill had apparently undergone a rapid personality change. Denver’s darling had grown fangs and now bit. Beau had been the all-American boy, a successful athlete who’d never forgotten his roots. He’d pumped money earned from endorsements into numerous charities and had even funded a recreation center in his hometown. Hill Of Dreams provided a place for the poor and troubled to meet, play, and eat.
Would the real Beau Hill do his photos justice? Shayna wondered. He’d endorsed everything from ChapStick to a popular cologne. That sexy smile, white against ebony, had set more than one Denver female’s heart aflutter. It should be a crime to look so good.
“Your patient’s here,” Mary Jane Coppola yodeled in the chirpy voice Shayna had come to recognize and love. “Now see, didn’t I tell you she was cute?”
Beau Hill appeared to be assessing her. He was dark in complexion and had that lean and hungry look some women found endearing. A gold stud glistened from one lobe. He had that bad boy thing going on and hair that was shorn close to his skull. He reminded her of the football player, Jason Taylor, except he was much better looking. Shayna would hazard a guess his hospital stay had caused him to lose at least twenty pounds. That weight loss only made him seem more mysterious.
It was his slate-gray eyes that got to her, filled with hostility and brimming with hurt. Beau Hill had taken a beating mentally and physically. She sensed he needed repair. Shayna recognized that look of defeat. Smelled his fear. She’d been there, boy, had she been there. It had been an uphill battle to recovery but she’d been determined to survive.
“Cute is as cute does, my mother used to say,” Beau Hill answered, bringing her firmly back to the present.
His deep, throaty voice, inspired chills. It reminded her of a cool winter’s wind blowing against her cheeks. Biting, yet at the same time invigorating. It was the kind of voice a woman wanted whispering in her ear when the temperature soared, and even air-conditioning wasn’t enough. When it was just you and him.
What on earth had gotten into her? Beau Hill looked nothing like the sex symbol he was purported to be. He was unshaved, unkempt, and wasn’t even gracious.
“Hi, I’m Shayna,” she said, squatting her under five foot body to his level, making sure to keep her hands off his wheelchair.
“Immaculata already told me who you are,” Beau snarled. “Can we get down to business?”
“Who’s Immaculata?”
“That would be me.” Mary Jane smiled at her from her spot off to the side. “I’m off. See you two later.”
“As for getting down to business,” Shayna continued when Mary Jane had left, “that depends on you.”
He was an unpleasant man. Who could blame him? At twenty-eight he’d been one of the oldest skiers on the US team. Money had been bet on him. He was a certainty to bring home the gold. One unfortunate accident had cost him that medal. Except for the grace of God he might have died.
“You look about sixteen,” Beau continued rudely, letting his gaze linger on her, making her flush. “Hardly old enough to do this type of work.”
“I assure you I am a lot older than I look,” Shayna answered, her words measured. No need to tell him she would be twenty-seven in a few months. “Even more important is that I’m experienced. I have a long list of successes behind me.”
She would not let him bully her. He was used to lots of attention. Getting his way. People fawning over him. Not her. She knew his type. Didn’t particularly like it.
“Go ahead, work your magic on me, princess. I need a whole lot of whatever you’re smoking.”
Beau’s gray eyes searched hers, his jaw tightened. Not a hint of a smile to be found.
Wound like a spring, Shayna thought, understanding his bitterness. Back then, when she’d had her accident, she’d been young, optimistic, and full of dreams. Naive, some would call it. Things had turned out all right, but at the time, she’d thought her whole world had ended. And in some ways it had. Now she’d learned to adjust to her new life, even enjoyed it.
Beau Hill was still staring at her.
“Is something wrong?”
“You look familiar.”
“Do I now?”
Shayna never volunteered personal information. When she’d been a gymnast she’d worn her hair in a sleek top knot. Today it was natural and cut close to her scalp. She’d gained a good twenty pounds these last few years. Now she tipped the scales at barely one hu
ndred. Two Olympics ago, she’d been one of America’s most promising athletes, a talented gymnast, slated to take the world by storm. Her face had smiled from popular cereal boxes. She’d competed against the best. Been the best.
“Shall we begin?” Shayna asked, glancing at his chart and frowning. He should have been further along in the recovery process, a sure indicator that his mental state was not good. Shayna had planned on putting him through a series of exercises. Now she abandoned that plan. Beau Hill would have to let go of that anger or they weren’t going to get anywhere.
“Do you read?” she asked.
Beau snorted. “Read? Hate it. “
“What do you do all day?”
He slanted his eyes at her, his inner dialogue evident. He must be thinking she was one crazy chick.
His laughter was ugly. Bitter. “What does a man with a broken back, wrist, and fractured tibia do all day? Lie on my back, watch television, and eat. Recount memories. Hopes. Dreams.”
She heard the bitterness in his voice. The smile he flashed her way didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“How about you start reading? I have a list of books I can recommend. They might help pass the time.”
“What does reading have to do with my therapy?” He eyed her warily. “I thought we were here to work, get these legs functioning again.”
“Before we can do that, I need to get to know you, and you need to get in touch with the person you used to be. The real Beaumont Hill.”
“Pure mumbo jumbo. I already have one head doctor, I don’t need another.” Beau spat a crude epithet at her. With some difficulty he managed to wheel himself over, closer to her.
He smelled of hospital, but even so, the scent of man was evident. His heady musk titillated her senses and fed her imagination.
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