Together they laid down the thick boards of wood. Paul insisted on wheeling Sloan down, and Joy didn’t argue. She didn’t feel like arguing with Sloan, not today. Her hand throbbed; foolishly, she’d refused anything for pain when Dr. Phelps offered it. Sitting and soaking up the sun sounded far more appealing than a verbal battle with Sloan.
“I suppose this was your idea, Nielsen,” Sloan ground out, as Paul pushed the chair down the wooden planks.
She pretended the wind had blown the words away by cupping a hand over her ear.
“You heard me.”
“Could be.”
Paul glanced from one to the other and chuckled. “He’s all yours. Let me know when you need me.”
“Thanks, Paul.” She watched as her friend headed back to the house.
“You enjoy doing this, don’t you?”
“Doing what?”
“This kind of garbage!” He hurled the words at her savagely, as if venting his anger would lessen his confusion. “You seem to have the mistaken impression that once thrust into the beauty of nature, I’ll forget all my troubles and thank God for the gift of life.”
“No.” She sat in the sand beside him, her bare toes burrowing under the granules. “I thought a little sun might add color to your face.”
“You’re lying.”
“If you say so,” she agreed pleasantly, tilting her face upward and coveting the golden rays. “You know, Whittaker, if you didn’t work so hard at disliking this, you could come to enjoy it.”
“Never.”
“Want me to bury your feet in the sand?”
“No,” he hissed.
“Then be quiet. You’re destroying my peace.”
“Good. I haven’t had a peaceful moment from the day you arrived.”
She ignored him, pretending not to hear his movements.
“Nielsen.”
Opening her eyes, she quirked her head inquiringly. Sloan dumped his sweater over her head. “That’s what I think of your loony ideas.”
“For a cripple, you’re mighty brave.”
“And you’re a sad excuse for a woman. Don’t you wear anything but pants? What’s the matter, are you afraid to let a man see your legs?”
“Legs,” she cried dramatically. “You want legs, I’ll give you legs.” Rolling to her feet, she pulled her pants up to her knees and pranced around like a restless filly. The sight of Paul escorting a tall blonde halted Joy in midstride. Stopping completely, her hands fell lifelessly to her sides and she took a huge breath. “It looks like you’ve got company.”
“Company?” Sloan barked. “I don’t want to see anyone. Send them away.”
“It’s too late for that.” Joy studied the other woman. She would have killed for a figure like this blonde’s. Tall. Willowy. Every brick stacked in the right place. And a face that would stop traffic.
As the two drew closer, the woman’s pace increased. “Oh, my darling, Sloan. No one told me. Oh Sloan.” She fell to her knees and buried her perfectly shaped head in his lap. The delicate shoulders shook with sobs.
Sloan’s hand lifted, hesitated, then finally patted the blonde’s back.
Joy took a step in retreat, not wishing to be a witness to this scene. Sloan’s eyes found Joy’s and cast her an unmistakable look of appeal.
“I’ll leave you two alone.”
“No,” Sloan barked, demanding that she stay.
“Maybe you’d enjoy some iced tea? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Nielsen?” Sloan’s low voice threatened.
“I’ll be right back.” Wickedly, she fluttered her long lashes at him.
Paul carried a lounge chair for her while Joy managed the tray with two tall glasses of fresh iced tea, each with a slice of lemon attached to the side.
Apparently, the blonde had composed herself. Dabbing her blue eyes with a wadded tissue, she stood at Sloan’s side, gazing at him with compassion and sweetness.
“I’m afraid Chantelle can’t stay,” Sloan announced, and his gaze narrowed menacingly on Joy. “Paul, would you kindly escort her to her car?”
In true gentlemanly fashion, Paul placed his arm around the blonde’s shoulders and whispered comforting words to her as he walked her toward the house.
“Nielsen, you do that to me again and I’ll—”
“Do what?” she inquired innocently.
His hand sliced the air dramatically. “Couldn’t you have done something? I thought you were my self-appointed rescuer. Well, rescue me! The minute I really need you—off you fly with the excuse of getting iced tea.”
“What in the Sam Hill did you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“No,” she snapped back, then started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“You! Think about it. It’s a sad commentary on your life when you want me to rescue you from the arms of a beautiful woman.”
A poor facsimile of a smile came and went. “Couldn’t you see she was throwing herself all over me, oozing pity?”
“Women like to cry,” she explained patiently, and sat down in the sand, cross-legged. She took a tall glass and handed him the other. “It gives us a reason to appear feminine.”
“And Chantelle knows how good she looks with tears clinging to her lashes. Her big, blue eyes staring into mine.”
“You sound like you’ve made lots of women cry.”
“Hundreds,” he returned sarcastically.
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Joy laughed lightly.
“What about you?”
“I don’t know of any women who’ve cried over me,” she teased, the wind blowing her soft brown curls across her high cheekbones.
“You know what I mean.”
Staring into her tea, she shrugged lightly. “Only one.”
“Who?”
Joy swallowed around the tight lump that formed in her throat. “My father.”
They were silent after that.
“Tell me about your family,” Sloan said after a long time.
“My father was a senior-high music teacher and band director; my mother was a stay-at-home mom. There’s only my brother. He’s two years older, lives in Santa Barbara, has a wife and two children.”
“Is he as gutsy as you?”
“Doug? Yes, only in a different way. He’s a policeman.”
“You said your father drowned.” The words were issued softly. His voice inflection made it a question.
Arms wrapped around her knees, she stared out at the waves gently lapping the shore. “He died in Mexico, three summers ago. Mom and Dad flew down to celebrate their anniversary. Two little boys, about eight and ten, tourists from Texas, got trapped in the undertow.” She paused, reliving the horror of that summer again. “Dad managed to save one. He died with his arms around the ten-year-old. My mother looked on from the beach, helpless.” Even blandly stating the facts brought tears to her eyes, and she touched her forehead to her knee, not wishing him to witness her distress. Once her breathing had returned to normal, she lifted her head. “My father was a wonderful man.”
“I already knew that,” Sloan murmured, and, reaching out a hand, lightly stroked her hair. His touch was gentle. Joy hadn’t expected his comfort and expelled a whispering sigh at the warm sensation that cascaded over her from the touch of his hand to her head.
“What about you?” she asked, to purposely change the subject.
“There’s only me. I think my parents wanted a larger family, but my mother had a difficult pregnancy and the doctors advised her not to get pregnant a second time.”
“Were you always …”
“Rich?” he finished for her.
“That’s not the word I would have used, but yes.”
“The company’s been in the family for three generations. This summer house is a new acquisition.”
“This is your summer home?” Her gaze flew over her shoulder to the magnificent structure behind her. The idea tha
t it was a summer home shocked her. This was the sort of place anyone would dream about living in all year long.
“Usually I live in a condo in Palm Springs, but I have apartments in Switzerland and New York. Had,” he corrected, on a bitter note.
Her mouth dropped open and she widened her eyes and swallowed. “Oh.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t go all goo-goo eyed on me.”
Joy forced her mouth closed.
“Actually, this house belongs to my parents. Does that make you feel any less intimidated?”
“Yes.” She gestured weakly with her hand. “Sure.”
“Does that shocked look mean I’m going to get a little respect?”
“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “It means I’m asking for a raise. I hope you realize I’m still paying off a government loan for my college education.”
He chuckled then. The rich, clear sounds were carried with the wind. Joy tossed her head back and smiled at him. This moment was one she would treasure when it came time for her to go; Joy was sure of it. The sun. The sand. The sea. And the sound of Sloan’s full laugh.
Jumping to her feet, she took off toward the sea.
“Hey, where are you going?” he called after her, his brow creased in thick lines.
“To look for seashells.” Swinging her hands high at her sides, she walked backward, taunting him. “Want to come?”
“Yes!” he shouted, surprising her. “Bring one of those pieces of wood forward. Once the chair gets on wet sand, you can push me.”
“Push you?” Her laugh was musical. “Wheel yourself, bub.”
His dark eyes sparkled. “All right, lazy. I’ll do the heavy work.”
Joy did as he suggested, dragging the wood around until they managed to manipulate the chair close to the water.
“Come on, I’ll race you.”
Sloan quirked his mouth to one side. “Trying to take advantage of a cripple, are you?”
“I was going to even the odds,” she added, with an offended look.
“Sure you were.”
“No, honest.” She crossed her heart with her index finger and burst into peals of laughter at the look on his face. “Okay, okay, I’ll run backward.”
“And hop on one foot?”
“No. That’s too much.”
“All right. On your mark, get ready, go,” Sloan shouted.
Joy paused, hands on her hips, looking on helplessly. His arms worked furiously as he rotated the large wheels.
“Hey, I wasn’t ready,” she shouted at him.
“Tough.” The wind brought the lone word back to her. She watched as the muscles of his upper arms flexed with the effort.
Serious now, Joy turned around and began to jog backward. Within a minute she was even with him. “Let’s negotiate,” she protested, gasping for breath.
“Do you concede?”
“Anything.”
Sloan stopped and swiveled the chair around so that he faced her.
Soft laughter rose within her, and until she regained her breath Joy leaned forward and rested her good hand on her knee. “You cheated,” she chided him. “I wasn’t ready.”
“You looked ready to me.”
Her back was to the ocean, and she heard Sloan’s shout of warning just as the wave crashed against her legs, hitting the backs of her thighs.
Sloan dissolved into fits of laughter at the shocked look that came over her.
“You did that on purpose,” she gasped, in outrage.
“I didn’t, I swear it.”
Flinging her hand forward, she managed to catch enough water to spatter him with a few drops. Not to be deterred, she waited until the next big wave came in and scooped as much water as her cupped hand would hold. Giggling and breathless, she ran toward him, stumbled, and fell forward.
In a split-second response, Sloan reached out to catch her, breaking the impact of the fall. But to her horror, Joy pulled him out of the wheelchair and took him with her to the ground.
He lay partially on top of her. “Joy.” His voice was urgent. “Are you all right?”
“Disgraced, but otherwise unruffled. And you?” Her back was pressed against the rough sand.
He didn’t answer her. Their eyes met, and a flood of warmth swept through her. The laughter was gone from his gaze, and she stared back wordlessly, almost afraid to breathe. Joy knew she should break away, do something, anything, to stop what was happening. But the hunger in his look held her motionless. She didn’t blink.
Slowly he lowered his head, blocking out the sunlight. Their breath mingled as his lips hovered a hair’s space above her own. No longer could she see his face. Her heart was crying out to him, begging him to stop and at the same time pleading with him to continue and kiss her. It was no use fighting her clamoring sensations, and she closed her eyes.
Very gently, as if in slow motion, Sloan fit his mouth over hers. At first his lips barely skimmed the surface, as if he didn’t want this but couldn’t help himself.
But when Joy slid her hands around his neck, his mouth crushed hers, forcing her lips to part. Fiercely, he wrapped his arms around her, half lifting her from the sand.
Abruptly, he released her and rolled to the side so that they lay next to each other on their backs. Joy felt the cold air and kept her eyes closed. She shouldn’t have let this happen. It could possibly undermine everything she had struggled to build in this relationship.
“You asked for that,” he said bitterly. “You’ve been asking for it all day. Are you satisfied now? How does it feel to be kissed by a cripple? Or is this one of the extra services you provide for all your patients?”
Chapter Four
“Mr. Whittaker’s breakfast is ready,” Clara announced, as she set the tray on the kitchen counter. The older woman studied Joy. “You want me to take it in to him?”
For a moment the offer was tempting. But Joy couldn’t. Sloan would know why, and he must never guess the effect his kiss had had on her. How stupid she’d been to let it happen. Now she must pay for her foolishness.
“Air’s been a mite thick between you two,” Clara mumbled, as she set a pan in the sink and filled it with tap water.
“What do you mean?” Joy glanced up guiltily.
“I don’t suppose you’d think ol’ Clara would notice. But things got real quiet after you and Mr. Whittaker were on the beach yesterday. Mr. Whittaker didn’t eat dinner, and neither did you. Then, later, you didn’t play that clarinet the way you have most nights.”
“Flute,” Joy corrected. “You’re right. I didn’t play. My … my hand was hurting.”
Unconcerned, Clara hummed a soft tune. “You want me to take him breakfast?”
“No,” Joy said with a forced smile. “I’ll do it.”
Balancing the tray on her knee, Joy knocked loudly on Sloan’s door twice. Purposely, she’d avoided him for the remainder of the day yesterday, hoping that if she put some distance between them after what had happened on the beach they could both look at it with perspective. But the nagging questions persisted. How could anything that felt so good, so right, be a mistake?
“Come in,” Sloan growled.
Forcing a smile, Joy opened the door. “I can see you’re in your usual good mood this morning.”
“What’s so good about it?” Sloan demanded, and pivoted his chair around so that he faced her. “It’s just like any other morning for a cripple.”
“You’re not a cripple.” Her eyes focused away from him as she placed the tray on the desk.
His laugh was short and derisive. “But isn’t that what you’re so fond of calling me?”
Joy inhaled a calming breath. “I call you one to get a rise out of you. You’re a smart man; I’d have thought you had that figured out by now.”
“Not many men I know roll around in one of these things,” he challenged, and his hand patted the large wheel of his chair.
“It’s true that you and that chair are constant companions.” Joy wasn
’t going to argue with him. “But in your mind you’re running free.”
“How do you know what’s in my mind?” he protested, his eyes darkening.
“It’s not so difficult,” she returned thoughtfully, her back to him.
“Oh?” Again, his voice was thick with challenge.
“What is this? An interrogation?” Joy whirled around and leaned against the desk, her hands behind her. “Remember, it’s Monday morning. You’ll have to make allowances for me on Mondays. It takes my heart ten minutes to start beating once I crawl out of bed.”
“You ran this morning.”
Joy turned around and lifted the silver warming dome off the breakfast plate and set it aside. “How’d you know that?”
“I watched you.”
“Oh.” It was crazy, the effect this information had on her. Joy’s hands felt clammy and her face warm. She didn’t want him invading her life this way. When the time came for her to leave, it would only make matters more difficult. And when she left, Joy vowed, she would walk away from Sloan Whittaker intact. Whole. She wouldn’t leave this man her heart.
“What’s that?” Sloan’s words cut into her musings.
“What’s what?”
“That.” He pointed to the breakfast tray.
“Oatmeal, toast, and juice.” She looked at him with a blank stare.
“I hate oatmeal.”
“Rolled oats are good for you,” she countered, with a smile.
“Yes, but have you ever asked yourself what they rolled them with?”
“No,” she admitted, with a small laugh, “I can’t say that I have. Do you want me to have Clara cook you something else?”
He looked up at her, his eyes wide and disbelieving. “Nielsen, you’re mellowing.”
Joy’s nerves suddenly felt threadbare. The need to escape was overpowering. “Maybe I am,” she agreed. “But don’t count on it,” she murmured, and made her exit from the room.
Her hands were trembling as she leaned against the wall in the hallway. She needed its support. With a determined lift of her chin, she straightened and returned to the kitchen. This wasn’t like her, but there seemed to be a lot of things she didn’t understand about herself anymore.
“Problems?” Clara questioned, her large brown eyes watching Joy with concern.
Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) Page 5