She forced herself to reach out and put her hands on the paper. He must have realized how hard they were trembling because he didn't let go right away. He merely stood there, and she knew she would remain senseless until he moved away.
"Is it enough?" he asked.
"Yes."
"If you need more—"
"No," she blurted, rather too hastily. "No," she repeated more softly now. "It's more than enough."
He released the paper, and she realized then how much she had needed his extra support. Without it, she almost dropped the batch. When his hand came round to steady hers again, lightly touching hers, she felt heat flood her loins, a sweet burst of sensation she'd never felt before. She almost gasped at the odd mix of pleasure and alarm, and only just managed to prevent herself from doing so.
"Are you all right?" he murmured, his voice washing over her like a caress.
"Yes," she breathed, her nostrils flaring as her heart reared and plunged inside her breast.
"Are you sure?"
She managed a nod.
"Michaela, do you trust me?" he suddenly asked.
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Not yet. Not when he was so near.
"Perhaps just a little?"
"I...." The syllable was more a sob than a word, and she instantly bit it off, embarrassed that it held so much of what she was feeling.
She felt his chest brush against her back, and then he took her by the shoulders and gently turned her to face him. She kept her eyes on the paper she clutched, clutched so tightly that it creased the sides. She couldn't look at him. If he ever found out how she felt about him.... She could never let him know.
"Michaela, I don't want you to be afraid of me. One day I expect you to come to trust me implicitly, and expectation can be a powerful incentive."
One hand remained on her shoulder while the other came up to cup her chin, to lift her face up to his. She raised her eyes to meet his, though still afraid of what he might see there, afraid of drowning in his gaze.
"Trust me, Michaela. Trust me with your memories."
Her pulse quickened. Did he know? Did he suspect? Could he see it in her eyes? She never had been able to lie. She had always been too honest, too open, her face far too expressive.
"I won't let you down."
She almost sagged against him with relief. It was not his intent to ask questions, to force her memory. He was merely trying to reassure her in that way only he could do. She should have known, should have trusted.
She started to speak, but he stopped her.
"Sh." He touched her lips briefly with his forefinger. "I've interrupted your mission. I should let you get back to it."
She stared at him for a moment, not quite sure she knew what to say. He smiled and dropped his hands away from her. She swayed a little, as if it was a shock to her system not to have him near anymore. Fortunately, he didn't notice. He had already turned his back, taken a few steps toward the desk. She felt empty now, drained of every drop of energy she'd had in her body. It was all she could do to maintain her composure while he was near, and she feared she hadn't been entirely successful.
She glanced down at the paper she held, and when she looked back up, she found him watching her, open curiosity in his gaze.
"You don't mind then?" she managed.
"Of course not. Take as much as you like."
She looked away, still embarrassed. She didn't deserve to have the paper. She had already taken enough from him. "It seems an awful lot. I could leave it. I suppose I don't really have to have it."
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course, you must have it. It's what you want."
She looked back at him to gauge his reaction. He was frowning. Her uncertainty seemed to displease him.
"I...suppose I should be more gracious." She ended in an embarrassed little shrug. Lord, she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. She felt like crying, but she didn't dare allow herself to do so in front of him. He would take it all wrong.
He was leaning against his desk now, his arms folded across his chest, contemplating her rather too intensely. She felt compelled to go on. She had to explain somehow.
"It's just that I feel so awkward." She focused her gaze on the paper in her hands. "I have no way of repaying you for everything you've done for me. I'm afraid I'm not even sure how to thank you most of the time. I feel that I'm a bit of a nuisance, and a...a...." She broke off and bit her lip to keep the tears from falling.
"Your appreciation is noted," he answered, so low that she barely heard him. "And you are quite welcome."
She looked up. With a smile, he came to stand in front of her again, his eyes raking her face. She didn't look away this time. She couldn't. He had her trapped in his powerful gaze, a gaze she was compelled to meet. She became so mesmerized that when he broke the connection she felt the familiar flutter in her breast that signaled her disappointment. She was being silly. All these flights of fancy were ridiculous. She was reading him all wrong. Perhaps her own reactions to him clouded her judgment. He couldn't possibly feel anything for her but pity. Certainly not the emotion she hoped for.
"Well, now." He glanced at the storage cabinet still standing open behind her. "I'll be sure and put the paper on a lower shelf so you can reach it more easily."
Michaela wanted to ask him why he was so intent on helping her, but she couldn't bring herself to be so forward.
"No one has ever been so kind to me," she whispered. The moment the words were out, she wished she could take them back. She hadn't meant for that to slip out, hadn't meant to be gazing up at him like he was some sort of beautiful god and she was his awestruck servant, even if that was precisely how she felt.
She dropped her gaze. The look on his face was too intense to hold for more than a short time. At her softly spoken admission, his expression had clouded, as if the very idea that anyone had been unkind to her made him angry.
"As long as you don't think I'm a nuisance."
"No," he said, sounding brusque.
She nodded, still unable to meet his eyes, choosing to stare at her feet instead. They seemed the safest place to rest her gaze.
Christopher stared at the top of her bent head. It was a bit sad really, that a woman who had so much to offer in the way of intelligence and caring hadn't been shown enough appreciation and kindness herself. It made him want to shower her with attention, to give her everything her heart desired. If only to show her that she was worthy, to show her that not everyone in the world was out to hurt her. For surely that's what she felt, that everyone she'd ever cared for had hurt her.
Except perhaps, dare he think, himself? He'd only been kind to her. Yet, in a moment, it could turn on him, on her. On all of them. They would all have to be careful. Human emotions were not something to be taken lightly. Too much was at stake. He had to be strong to avoid running the risk of hurting everyone he cared for. He didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all his son, his own blood. He still wasn't certain how deep Gerald's feelings went, but it was a surety that his son adored Michaela, as she adored him in return.
"I suppose I should go," she murmured.
Christopher didn't answer, just continued to stare down at her. God, he wanted to drag her into his arms and hold her, absorb her pain, take it away from her, will it to never return. But he couldn't. He could only stand there watching her, forcibly distancing himself from her.
"Thank you. Again," she said, then turned on her heel and started for the door. She didn't even look at him again. She seemed too preoccupied with getting away from him.
"Michaela," he called, making her pause halfway to the door.
She turned, her gaze seeking his, and the look in her eyes was almost too much to bear. He could read it all there in her expression. Everything she felt. Confusion, gratitude, anxiety, uncertainty, and something else. Something like.... Was that merely respect, or was it....
He jolted himself out of the ridiculous meandering of his thoughts and, feeling rather ine
pt and bumbling, lifted his hand toward her. Her eyes followed the motion and caught on the pencil he held out for her.
"You did require this?"
"Yes." She stepped forward and took it from him, felt the heat spread through her the moment their fingers touched. His skin was so warm, so giving. It made her want to wrap her arms around him, beg him to hold her, to take away all her pain, never to let her go. He had become a fortress for her, the only person in the entire world who had ever been interested in her well-being, the only person who had ever cared whether she liked bread with her soup. The only person to give her a chance before she'd even proved herself worthy. He had become her wings. She never wanted to leave this house, never wanted to leave his side. This was her haven, her escape from all that was bad in the world. She knew that as long as she was under his roof she was protected.
Just that simple act of offering her a pencil to go with the paper, the knowledge that he even understood she had come for that as well, was enough to make her heart swell. It seemed so symbolic of his acceptance of her, whatever she was, whoever she was.
"Thank you," she said.
For the first time since she'd laid eyes on him, his mouth softened, the frown between his brows eased, and there was actually an expression other than highly disciplined determination in his eyes, just as unreadable but strangely more open. She was seeing a glimpse of the real Christopher Standeven. The Christopher Standeven he kept hidden from everyone except his son.
His eyes never leaving hers, he teased, "Unless, of course, you would like a pen instead."
She almost laughed. He seemed downright boyish now, as though he too felt a bit uncertain.
She shook her head. Reluctant to leave him but knowing that she must, she started to turn away. She didn't want to go. She would much rather stay with him, gazing into those eyes, listening to him talk.
"Michaela."
She halted and stood there waiting, her eyes turned back to his.
"When you recover your memory, you will come to me?"
It was the first time she'd ever heard him ask for anything, the first time she'd heard the hint of something like a plea in his voice, or as close to a plea as a man like Christopher Standeven would allow himself. It made her heart clench with something both bitter and sweet, something sad yet wonderful. She didn't even attempt to try and understand the conflicted emotions. It was best left unexplored, for the sake of all.
"Do you remember anything? Anything at all?" he pressed. "I thought perhaps when the police were here you might have remembered something."
She turned nervous eyes away from him.
"Michaela, it's important to your health. I've been speaking with a—" He stopped short of telling her about the psychologist. He didn't want to alienate her. "You must try to remember."
She shook her head. "It was awful. I can't speak of it. It haunts my days and...my nights." She briefly closed her eyes against the pain. "Please. Somehow find it in your heart to forgive me, but I can't speak of it. I just can't," she whispered.
"I don't mean to press you. Perhaps it's more important to me than it is to you," he said.
His admission came as a surprise. Was he confessing an interest in her other than just benevolence?
"When you feel that you can talk about it...." He left the sentence hanging between them. He didn't need to finish it. She already knew what he wanted of her.
She nodded, bit back a tear, and turned away.
His voice followed her to the door. "You don't have to ask, Michaela. You don't ever have to ask for anything that I can provide for you."
Tears burned her eyes. She had waited so long for someone to care about her. She couldn't help but yearn for more. She managed a shaky "thank you" and then hurried out the door and off down the hall, clutching the paper to her bosom like a shield. The encounter had been so intense that she'd almost forgotten why she wanted the paper to begin with, and all she could think about was getting to her room and giving in to the tears without the threat of prying eyes.
Christopher stared at the empty doorway for a long time. Something had happened here, something paramount. Something he'd never experience before. There was no mistaking it, no mistaking its import. He only wondered if he dared explore it.
He was damn curious about the paper. It seemed like such an insignificant little thing, yet somehow it seemed monumental to her.
He shook his head and turned away. Perhaps he would never really find the key that would release Michaela's heart from the fetters that bound it.
Dinner was subdued that evening. Michaela joined them a few minutes late. She was usually so punctual, but tonight she seemed preoccupied. There was even an air of happiness about her, and Christopher found himself largely ignoring his meal to watch her.
Gerald was full of information about his trip to the college. Michaela plied him with questions, from the layout of the campus to the enrollment process. She always seemed eager to hear about almost any subject, anything that dealt with far away places or education. Christopher had never met a woman who was so fascinated with talking about such varied topics. Gerald had even once engaged her in a conversation about the internal combustion engine. And she listened intently whenever Christopher spoke of politics, the conversation almost all women dreaded, not just to please him but because she was truly interested and wanted to understand and learn. She absorbed information as though she was starving to learn about anything that she didn't already know.
Very curious indeed. While most women were contemplating the state of their fingernails, Michaela was busy analyzing anything and everything. She was most decidedly a contradiction.
Christopher slogged through the meal. He couldn't wait for it to end. He was feeling edgy, a bit restless. All the unanswered questions about Michaela were beginning to affect him. He had become quite disturbed and perplexed by the fact that she was not actively trying to regain her memory. Rather, she seemed perfectly happy simply being for the moment. Not that he wanted to press her. He just wasn't sure how to deal with his own entanglement anymore.
The close proximity of their bedrooms had created another problem, not altogether separate from the waking ones. He thought of her constantly when he lay awake in his big, empty bed, sleeping so close, yet so far. As hard as he tried, he couldn't get her out of his thoughts.
And something Michaela had said to him continued to disturb him.
"They haunt my nights."
Just last evening he had heard a soft cry in the night, a cry of alarm, the sort that one suffered upon awakening from a particularly distasteful dream. Certain it had come from Michaela's room, he'd gone out into the hall to investigate. At her door, he heard her softly weeping inside, but as much as he wanted to, he hadn't been able to bring himself to go inside and comfort her. Damn the British rigidity. He'd been afraid to go inside, afraid of holding her in his arms, afraid that for once in his life he would lose control of his emotions. He wasn't even certain that she would invite his intrusion, his comfort.
He'd grown soft in middle age, so damnably unlike himself.
One thing was glaringly apparent. Michaela was in pain, and it was his responsibility to ease that pain. Now that he was aware of it, ignoring her distress was unforgivable. He'd been remiss in not seeing to her absolute welfare. He should have called a psychologist in long ago, even back in New Orleans. It was for her ultimate good. However much he'd dawdled over the decision, it was clear now that she needed treatment for the trauma she had suffered at the hands of that heathen who had raped her.
The moment dinner was finished, he left Michaela with Gerald and went to his office, automatically reaching for the phone and dialing the university. He knew he was taking a risk, sensed that it would put an irreparable rift between himself and Michaela, but he had to do all he could to make his young charge well again.
Michaela felt shunned by Christopher's abrupt departure. Still, she forced herself to return her attention to Gerald, to the conversation
she'd heard so little of. She'd been far too aware of Mr. Standeven brooding over his meal, sitting so close. The agony of her attraction for him had kept her from even looking at him all evening.
She felt ridiculous for even thinking about it. She should stop being such a ninny about Christopher Standeven. Her feelings were growing far too complicated and precarious to allow them free reign. She must get hold of herself. She simply must.
But that kiss the other day when he'd touched his warm lips to the back of her hand. She could still feel it burning into her skin, all the way to her heart and soul. She had remembered the particular feel of it when she'd been in his study this afternoon, when he'd been standing so close. She longed for him to repeat it. Such a misguided notion.
The back of her hand began to tingle where his lips had been, and, try as she might, she couldn't force the thought from her mind. The memory seemed always to be with her now, plaguing her with a restlessness that couldn't be tamed, an emptiness that was painfully unfulfilled, a heart that ached for something she didn't know how to provide, something she couldn't possibly appease. That single kiss had done something to her, something both wonderful and painful. Something she should forget. After all, nothing could ever come of her desires. She was a fool to even contemplate the possibility. It would only lead to heartache. And more confusion.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Christopher stood outside the closed doors of the library, his ears finely attuned to any stirring sound that might come from within. Michaela had been sequestered with the psychologist for the better part of an hour, and still he'd heard no sound. Just silence. The wondering was killing him. He wasn't at all assured that Dr. Woodard was the right man for the job. Christopher had done his utmost to secure a psychologist of the highest integrity, and Dr. Woodard was held in unmitigated high esteem by the university, but he wasn't certain the man would understand how very fragile Michaela was. Would he understand that he needed to be delicate with her, gentle? He seemed like such a no-nonsense individual, and Christopher didn't like the idea of the doctor handling Michaela with anything less than the respect and consideration she deserved. She didn't need to be persuaded. She simply needed to be coaxed.
The Whisper Of Wings Page 16
