by Susan Crose
"I just don't want to hurt you," he admitted, "ever again."
"You won't." The lie almost caught on her tongue.
"I wish I was as sure as you."
Her heart squeezed as she studied him, his body drenched in sweat, his shoulder balanced precariously against the wall.
As if reading the pity in her eyes, he swore, anger darkening his face. Casting her a disbelieving glance, he limped down the hall to his room and slammed the door so hard that the sound echoed through the old house.
Shawna stared after him. Why couldn't he remember how strong their love had been? Why? Feeling the need to break down and cry like a baby, she steeled herself. In frustration, she reached for the phone, hoping to call her brother or her friend Gerri or anyone to whom she could vent her frustrations. But when she placed the receiver to her ear, she heard Parker on the bedroom extension.
"That's right. . . everything you can find out about her. The name's James—Melinda James. I don't know her middle name. She claims to have been living in Cleveland and that she grew up with Brad Lomax."
Quietly, Shawna replaced the receiver. It seemed that no matter where she turned or how fiercely she clung to the ashes of the love she and Parker had once shared, the winds of fate blew them from her fingers. Dying a little inside, she wondered if he was right. Maybe the flames of their love couldn't be rekindled.
"Give him time," she told herself, but she knew their time was running out. She glanced around the old Tudor house, the home she'd planned to share with him. She'd moved in, but they were both living a lie. He didn't love her.
Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, she turned toward the sink and ran water over the spinach leaves in a colander. She ignored the tears that threatened to form in the corners of her eyes. Don't give up! part of her insisted, while the other, more reasonable side of her nature whispered, Let him go.
So intent was she on tearing spinach, cutting egg, and crumbling bacon that she didn't hear the uneven tread of his footsteps in the hall, didn't feel his gaze on her back as she worked, still muttering and arguing with herself.
Her first indication that he was in the room with her was the feel of his hands on her waist. She nearly dropped her knife as he bent his head and rested his chin on her shoulder.
"I'm not much good at apologies," he said softly.
"Neither am I."
"Oh, Shawna." His breath fanned her hair, warm and enticing, and her heart took flight. He'd come back! "I know you're doing what you think is best," he said huskily. "And I appreciate your help."
She dropped the knife and the tears she'd been fighting filled her eyes. "I've done it because I want to."
His fingers spanned her waist. "I just don't understand," he admitted, "why you want to put up with me."
She wanted to explain, but he cut her off, his arms encircling her waist, her body drawn to his. His breath was hot on the back of her head and delicious shivers darted along her spine as he pulled her close, so close that her back was pressed against the taut muscles of his chest. A spreading warmth radiated to her most outer limbs as his lips found her nape.
"I—I love you, Parker."
His muscles flexed and she silently prayed he would return those three simple words.
"That's why I'm working so hard," he conceded, his voice rough with emotion. "I want to be able to remember everything."
"I can wait," she said.
"But I can't! I want my life back—all of it. The way it was before the accident. Before—"
He didn't say it, but she knew. Before Brad was killed, before Melinda James shattered our lives.
"Maybe we should eat," she said, hoping to divert him from the guilt that ran rampant every time he thought about Brad.
"You've worked hard, haven't you?"
"It's a—well, it was a celebration."
"Oh?"
"Because you're off crutches and out of the brace," she said.
"I've still got that." He pointed to where the cane still lay on the floor.
"I know, but it's the final step."
"Except for my memory."
"It'll come back," she predicted, sounding more hopeful than she felt. "Come on, now," she urged. "Make yourself useful. Pour the wine before I ruin dinner and the candles burn out."
During dinner Shawna felt more lighthearted than she had in weeks. At the end of the meal, when Parker leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers, she thought fleetingly that together they could face anything.
"Thanks," he whispered, "for putting up with me."
"I wouldn't have it any other way." She could feel her eyes shining in the candlelight, knew her cheeks were tinged with the blush of happiness.
"Let's finish this—" he said, holding the wine bottle by its neck, "—in the gazebo."
A dimple creased her cheek. "The gazebo?" she repeated, and grinned from ear to ear as she picked up their wine glasses and dashed to the hallway where her down coat hung. Her heart was pounding with excitement. Just two months earlier, Parker had proposed in the gazebo.
Hand in hand, they walked down a flagstone path that led to the river. The sound of water rushing over stones filled the night air and a breeze fresh with the scent of the Willamette lifted Shawna's hair.
The sky was clear and black. A ribbon of silver moonlight rippled across the dark water to illuminate the bleached wood and smooth white rocks at the river's edge. On the east bank, lights from neighboring houses glittered and reflected on the water.
Shawna, with Parker's help, stepped into the gazebo. The slatted wood building was built on the edge of Parker's property, on the ridge overlooking the Willamette. The gazebo was flanked by lilac bushes, no longer fragrant, their dry leaves rustling in the wind.
As Shawna stared across the water, she felt Parker's arms slip around her waist, his breath warm against her head, the heat from his body flowing into hers.
"Do—do you remember the last time we were here?" she whispered, her throat swollen with the beautiful memory.
He didn't say anything.
"You proposed," she prodded.
"Did I?"
"Yes." She turned in his arms, facing him. "Late in the summer."
Squinting his eyes, fighting the darkness shrouding his brain, he struggled, but nothing surfaced. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his night-darkened eyes searching hers.
"Don't apologize," she whispered. Moonlight shifted across his face, shadowing the sharp angles as he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.
Gently, his fingers twined in her hair. "Sometimes I get caught up in your fantasies," he admitted, his lips twisting cynically.
"This isn't a fantasy," she said, seeing her reflection in his eyes. "Just trust me."
He leaned forward again, brushing his lips suggestively over hers. "That's the trouble. I do." He took the wine and glasses and set them on the bench. Placing his palms on her cheeks, he stared into her eyes before kissing her again. Eagerly she responded, her heart pulsing wildly at his touch, her mouth opening willingly to the erotic pressure of his tongue on her lips.
She felt his hands quiver as they slid downward to rest near her neck, gently massaging her nape, before pushing the coat from her shoulders. The night air surrounded her, but she wasn't cold.
Together, they slid slowly to the weathered floorboards and Parker adjusted her down coat, using its softness as a mattress. Then, still kissing her, he found the buttons of her blouse and loosened them, slipping the soft fabric down her shoulders.
Slowly he bent and pressed his moist lips against the base of her throat.
In response, she warmed deep within, stretching her arms around him, holding him tight, drinking in the smell and feel of him.
"Shawna," he whispered.
"Oh, Parker, love," she murmured.
"Tell me to stop."
"Don't ever stop," she cried.
He shuddered, as if trying to restrain himself, then, in one glorious minute, he crushed his lips t
o hers and kissed her more passionately than ever before. His hands caressed her skin, tearing at her blouse and the clasp of her bra, baring her breasts to the shifting moonlight. Slowly he lowered his head and touched each proud nipple with his lips, teasing the dark peaks to impatient attention.
"Ooh," she whispered, caught up in the warm, rolling sensations of his lips and tongue as he touched her, stoking fires that scorched as they raced through her blood and burned wantonly in her brain.
Reckless desire chased all rational thought away.
Her breath tangled with his and his hands touched her, sweeping off her skirt until she was naked in the night. Her skin was as white as alabaster in the darkness. Despite the cool river-kissed wind, she was warm deep inside, as she throbbed with need for this one special man.
His moist lips moved over her, caressing her, arousing her, stealing over her skin and causing her mind to scream with the want of him.
She found the hem of his sweater and pushed the offending garment over his head. He groaned in response and she unsnapped his jeans, her fingers sliding down the length of his legs as she removed the faded denim until, at last, they lay naked in the tiny gazebo—his body gleaming with a dewy coat of sweat, hers rosy with the blush of desire.
"I will always love you," she promised as he lowered himself over her, twisting his fingers in her hair, his eyes blue lusting flames.
"And I'll always love you," he vowed into her open mouth as his hands closed over her breasts, gently kneading the soft, proud nipples, still wet from his kiss.
Her fingers moved slowly down his back, touching firm smooth muscles and the gentle cleft of his spine.
Though her eyes wanted to close, she willed them open, staring up at him, watching the bittersweet torment on his face as he delved inside, burying himself in her only to withdraw again and again. Her heart slamming wildly, her blood running molten hot, she arched upward, moved by a primitive force and whispering words of love.
Caught in her own storm of emotion and the powerful force of his love, she lost herself to him, surrendering to the vibrant spinning world that was theirs alone. She felt the splendor of his hands, heard him cry out her name.
In one glorious moment he stiffened, his voice reverberating through the gazebo and out across the river, and Shawna, too, convulsed against his sweat-glistened body.
His breath was rapid and hot in her ear. "This . . . could be dangerous," he whispered hoarsely, running a shaking hand through his hair.
Still wrapped in the wonder and glow of passion, she held him close, pressed her lips to his sweat-soaked chest. "Don't talk. For just tonight, let's pretend that it's only you and me, and our love."
"I'm not much good at pretending." Glancing down at her plump breasts, he sighed, then reached past her to a glass on the bench. Swirling wine in the goblet, he said, "I don't think we should let this happen again."
"I don't think we have a choice."
"Oh, Shawna," he whispered, drinking his wine and setting the empty glass on the floor before he reached behind her, to wrap the coat over her suddenly chilled shoulders before holding her close. "This isn't a question of love," he said.
Crushed, she couldn't answer.
"I just think we both need time."
"Because of Melinda's baby."
"The baby has something to do with it," he admitted, propping himself against the bench. He drew her draped body next to his and whispered against her neck. "But there's more. I don't want to tie you down."
"But you're not—"
"Shh. Just listen. I'm not the man you were in love with before the accident. Too much has changed for us to be so naive to think that everything will be just as we'd planned, which, for the record, I still can't remember."
"You will, " she said, though she felt a gaping hole in her heart.
Parker slid from behind her and reached for his clothes. He'd never intended to make love to her, to admit that he loved her, for crying out loud, but there it was—the plain simple truth: He loved her and he couldn't keep his hands off her.
"I think I'll go for a drive," he said, yanking his sweater over his head and sliding with difficulty into his jeans.
"Now?"
"I need time to think, Shawna. We both do," he said abruptly. Seeing the wounded look in her eyes he touched her cheek. "You know I care about you," he admitted, stroking her hair. "But I need a little space, just to work things out. I don't want either of us to make a mistake we'll regret later."
"Maybe we already have," she said, clutching her coat over her full breasts. She lifted her chin bravely, though deep inside, she was wounded to the core.
Just minutes before he was loving her, now he was walking away!
"Maybe," he groaned, then straightened and hobbled to the door.
Shawna watched him amble up the path and shuddered when she heard the garage door slam behind him. He was gone. It was that simple. Right after making love to her for the first time, he'd walked away. The pain in her heart throbbed horribly, though she tried to believe that his words of love, sworn in the throes of passion, were the only real truth.
❧
Brittle night wind raced through the car as Parker drove, his foot on the throttle, the windows rolled down. He pushed the speed limit, needing the cold night air to cool the passion deep in his soul. He was rocked to his very core by the depth of his feelings for Shawna. Never would he have believed himself capable of such all-consuming physical and mental torture. He wanted her—forever. He'd been on the verge of asking her to marry him back in the gazebo and damning the consequences.
"You're a fool," he chastised, shifting down, the car squealing around a curve in the road. Lights in the opposite lane dazzled and blinded him, bore down on him. "A damned fool."
The car in the oncoming lane passed, and memories crashed through the walls of his blocked mind. One by one they streamed into his consciousness. He remembered Brad, passed out and unconscious, and Melinda crying softly, clinging to Parker's shoulder. And Shawna—Lord, he remembered her, but not as he saw her now. Yes, he'd loved her because she was a beautiful intelligent woman, but in the past, he hadn't felt this overpowering awe and voracious need that now consumed him.
He strained to remember everything, but couldn't. "Give it time," he said impatiently, but his fingers tightened over the wheel and he felt a desperate desire to know everything.
"Come on, come on," he urged, then realized that he was speeding, as if running from the black hole that was his past.
With difficulty, he eased up on the throttle and drove more cautiously, his hot blood finally cooled. Making love to Shawna had been a mistake, he decided, though a smile of satisfaction still hovered over his lips at the thought of her ivory-white body stretched sensually in the gazebo, her green eyes luminous with desire.
"Forget it," he muttered, palms suddenly damp. Until he remembered everything and knew she loved the man he was today, not the person she'd planned to marry before the accident, he couldn't risk making love to her again.
And that, he thought, his lips twisting wryly, was a crying shame.
Chapter 10
"He's pushing too hard," Bob Killingsworth, Parker's physical therapist, admitted to Shawna one afternoon. She had taken the day off and had intended to spend it with Parker, but he was still in his indoor pool, swimming, using the strength of his arms to pull himself through the water. Though one muscular leg kicked easily, the other, the knee that had been crushed, was stiff and inflexible and dragged noticeably.
"That's it!" Bob called, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting at Parker.
Parker stood in the shallow end and rubbed the water from his face. "Just a couple more laps."
Glancing at his watch, Bob frowned. "I've got to get to the hospital—"
"I don't need a keeper," Parker reminded him.
"It's all right," Shawna whispered, "I'll stay with him."
"Are you sure?"
"I am a doctor."
> "I know, but—" Bob shrugged his big shoulders. "Whatever you say." As Bob left, Shawna kicked off her shoes. "Joining me?" Parker mocked. "I just might." The tension between them crackled. Since he'd left her the night they had made love, they had barely spoken. With an impish grin, she slid quickly out of her panty hose and sat on the edge of the pool near the diving board, her legs dangling into the water.
"That looks dangerous, Doctor," Parker predicted from the shallow end. "I doubt it."
"Oh?" Smothering a devilish grin, Parker swam rapidly toward her, his muscular body knifing through the water. She watched with pride. In two weeks, he'd made incredible strides, physically if not mentally. He'd always been an athlete and his muscles were strident and powerful. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad and corded. His abdomen was flat as it disappeared inside his swimming trunks to emerge again in the form of lean hips and strong legs— well, at least one strong leg. His right knee was still ablaze with angry red scars.
As he reached the deep end of the pool, he surfaced and his incredible blue eyes danced mischievously. He tossed his hair from his face and water sprayed on her blouse. "What's on your mind?" she asked, grinning. "I thought you were coming in." "And I thought I'd change first." "Did you?" One side of his mouth lifted into a crafty grin.
"Oh, Parker, no—" she said, just as she felt strong hands wrap over her ankles. "You wouldn't—"
But he did. Over her protests, he gently started swimming backward, pulling her off her bottom and into the pool, wool skirt, silk blouse, and all.
"You're despicable!" she sputtered, surfacing, her hair drenched.
"Probably."
"And cruel and . . . and heartless . . . and—"
"Adorable," he cut in, laughing so loudly the rich sound echoed on the rafters over the pool. His hands had moved upward over her legs, to rest at her hips as she hung by the tips of her fingers at the edge of the pool.
"That, too," she admitted, lost in his eyes as he studied her. Heart pounding erratically, she could barely breathe as his head lowered and his lips brushed erotically over hers.
"So are you." One strong arm gripped her tighter, so fierce and possessive that her breath was trapped somewhere between her throat and lungs, while he clung to the side of the pool with his free hand. "Oh, so are you."