by Nora Roberts
the perfect time for you to make some snotty comment.”
“I worked in ER. Saw more blood during that year than a layman does in three lifetimes. Gunshots, knifings, car wrecks. I never panicked. The closest I’ve ever come to panicking was just now, when I saw your blood dripping onto my kitchen floor.”
He looked away from the print and into her eyes. “I’ll mop it up for you.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” She grabbed a swatch of surgical paper to make a sterile field, then paused when he touched his hand to hers.
“I care too.” He waited until she looked at him again. “I care a lot. How the hell did this happen?”
“I don’t know. What do you think we should do about it?”
“It’s probably not going to work, you know. You and me.”
“No.” She picked up the suture. “Probably not. Keep your hand still, Brian.”
He glanced down, saw her slide the suturing needle under his skin. His stomach rolled. Taking another deep breath, he looked back at the painting. “Don’t worry about making it neat. Just make it fast.”
“I’m famous for my ladylike little stitches. Just relax and keep breathing.”
Since he figured it would be more humiliation than he could stand to pass out on her, he tried to obey. “I’m not afraid of needles. I just don’t like them.”
“It’s a common phobia.”
“I don’t have a phobia. I just don’t like people sticking needles in me.”
She kept her head bent so he wouldn’t see her smile. “Perfectly understandable. What was Lexy pestering you about?”
“The usual. Everything.” He tried to ignore the slight tug as she drew the edges of the wound together. “I’m insensitive. I don’t care about her—or anyone else, for that matter. I don’t understand her. No one does. If I was a real brother, I’d lend her five thousand dollars so she could go back to New York and be a star.”
“I thought she’d decided to stay here through the summer.”
“She had some sort of go-round with Giff. Since he hasn’t come crawling after her, she’s gone from the sulky stage—which was our big treat yesterday—to the nasty stage. Are you almost done?”
“Halfway,” she said patiently.
“Half. Great. Wonderful.” His stomach rolled again. Okay, think about something else. “Who was the beach bum?”
“Hmm? Oh, the burn. Tussle with a coffeepot. Says he’s an artist, on his way to the Keys. He may be over at the campground for a while. I never did get his name.”
“What kind of an artist?”
“A painter, I think. He wanted me to pose for him. Damn it, be still,” she said when his hand jerked.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was flattered, thank you very much, but didn’t have time. He made me nervous.”
Brian’s free hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, making her curse. “Only a couple more,” she began.
“Did he touch you?”
“What?” No, it wasn’t fear or pain in his eyes, she realized. It was fury. And that was wonderfully satisfying. “Why, yes, of course, Brian. One-handed, he wrestled me to the floor in a wild burst of lust and ripped off my clothes.”
Brian’s fingers dug in. “I want a straight answer. Did he put his hands on you?”
“No, of course he didn’t. I just got nervous for a minute because the office was empty and he seemed overly interested. Then it turned out he just wanted to sketch my hands.” She fluttered the fingers of her left one. “Angel hands. Now be still before you ruin my work and end up with a nasty scar. Not that your jealousy isn’t flattering.”
“I’m not jealous.” He removed his hand and willed the green haze over his vision to subside. “I just don’t want some beach bum hassling you.”
“He didn’t hassle me, and if he had I could have handled it. One more now.” She tugged, knotted, snipped, then examined the neat line of stitches carefully. “A lovely job, if I do say so myself.” She rose to prepare his tetanus shot.
“How would you have handled it?”
“Handled what? Oh, we’re still on that, are we? With a polite rebuff.”
“And if that hadn’t worked?”
“One good squeeze on that burn and he’d have been on the floor screaming in pain.”
When she turned back, careful to keep the hypo behind her back, she saw Brian smiling. “You would have too.”
“Absolutely. I once cooled the ardor of an oversexed patient by pressing ever so gently on his larynx. He quickly decided to stop making obscene suggestions to me and the nursing staff. Now you want to look at the lilies again, Brian.”
He paled. “What have you got behind your back?”
“Just look at the lilies.”
“Oh, Christ.” He turned his head, then a moment later yelped and jerked.
“Brian, that was the alcohol swab. This’ll be over in ten seconds. You’re going to feel a prick.”
He hissed. “A prick, my ass. What are you using, an upholstery needle?”
“There, all done.” She smoothed a bandage over the needle prick, then sat down to wrap his hand. “Keep this dry. I’ll change the dressing for you when it needs it. In about ten days, two weeks, we’ll see about taking the stitches out.”
“Won’t that be fun?”
“Here.” She reached in the pocket of her smock and took out a Tootsie Pop. “For being such a good boy.”
“I know sarcasm when I hear it, but I’ll take the sucker.”
She unwrapped it for him, stuck it in his mouth. “Take a couple of aspirin,” she advised. “The local’s going to wear off quickly and it’s going to hurt some. You want to get ahead of the pain, not chase it.”
“Aren’t you going to kiss it?”
“I suppose.” She lifted his hand, touched her lips lightly to the gauze. “Be more careful with your kitchen tools,” she told him. “I like your hands just the way they are.”
“Then I don’t suppose you’d object if I moseyed on over here later tonight, wrestled you one-handed to the floor, and tore your clothes off.”
“I don’t suppose I would.” She leaned forward until her lips met his, then with a little sigh lingered there. “The sooner the better.”
Brian glanced over at the examination table, and his grin spread slowly. “Well, since I’m here now, maybe you should give me a complete physical. Haven’t had one in a couple, three years. You could wear your stethoscope. Just your stethoscope.”
The idea made a nice curl of lust slide into her stomach. “The doctor is in,” she began, then came back to earth when she heard the outside door open. “But I’ll have to give you an evening appointment.” She eased back, then stood to remove the tray. “I’ve had a morning full of chicken pox, and that’s my next patient.”
He didn’t want to go, he realized. He wanted to sit there and watch her. He wanted to study her, the competent way she handled her instruments, the brisk and graceful way she moved. So he stalled and did just that.
“Who’s got the chicken pox?”
“Who under ten doesn’t, is more like it. We’re at seven and counting.” She glanced around. “Have you had it?”
“Oh, yeah, the three of us got it at the same time. I think I was nine, so that would have made Jo about six, Lex just under three. I guess my mother went through a couple of gallons of calamine.”
“Must have been great fun for all of you.”
“It wasn’t so bad, after the first couple of days. My father went over to the mainland and brought back this huge box of Lincoln Logs, at least a dozen coloring books, and that jumbo box of Crayolas, Barbie dolls, Matchbox cars.”
Because the memory made him sentimental, Brian shrugged. “I guess he was desperate to keep us all occupied.”
And to give your mother a little peace, Kirby mused. “I imagine three sick kids are pretty hard to handle. Sounds like he had the right idea.”
“Yeah, I guess they worked through it togeth
er. I used to think that was the way it was with them. Until she took off.” Telling himself it didn’t matter, he stood up. “I’ll get out of your way. Thanks for the repair job.”
Because his eyes looked suddenly sad, she framed his face in her hands and kissed him lightly. “I’ll bill you. But the physical we’ve scheduled ... that’s free.”
It made him smile. “That’s quite a deal.”
He turned to the door. He didn’t look back at her, and the words just seemed to come out before he considered them or knew they were there. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Kirby. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that either.”
He walked out quickly, leaving her staring. She eased herself down on her stool and decided her next patient was just going to have to wait another moment or two. Until the doctor got her breath back.
JUST before sunset, Kirby took a walk on the beach. She needed some quiet time, she told herself, just a little space to think before Brian came back.
He loved her. No, he thought he loved her, she corrected. That was a different level entirely. Still, it was a step she hadn’t expected him to take. And one she was afraid of tripping over.
She walked to the water’s edge, let the surf foam over her ankles. There, she thought, when the tide swept back and sucked the sand down under her feet. That was exactly the same sensation he was causing in her. That slight and exciting imbalance, that feeling of having the ground shift under you no matter how firmly you planted your feet.
She’d wanted him, and she chipped away at his defenses until she won that battle. Now the stakes had gone up, considerably higher than she’d ever gambled on before.
She’d been very careful to do the picking and choosing in personal relationships. And she’d chosen Brian Hathaway. But somewhere along the way the angle had changed on her.
He wouldn’t speak of love lightly, not Brian. She could. But not with Brian, she realized. If she said those words, she would have to mean them. And if she meant them, she would have to build on them. Words were only the foundation.
Home, family. Permanence. She would have to decide if she wanted those things at all, and if she wanted them with him. Then she would have to convince him that he wanted them with her.
It wouldn’t be simple. The bruises and scars from his childhood kept anything about Brian from being simple.
She lifted her face to the wind. Hadn’t she already decided? Hadn’t she known in that split second when she saw him bleeding, when fear swept all professional calm aside, that her feelings for him had gone well beyond lust?
It scared her. She was afraid she would indeed trip over that step. And more, she was afraid to commit to taking it. Better to take it slow, she decided. To be sure of her footing. She handled things better if she was calm and clear-sighted. Certainly something as important as this should be approached with caution and a cool head.
She ignored the little voice snickering inside her head and turned back to walk home. The glint far across the dunes made her frown. The second time it flashed, she realized it was the setting sun’s reflection off glass. Binoculars, she thought with a shiver. With a hand shielding her eyes, she could just make out a figure. The distance made it impossible to tell whether it was male or female. She began to walk more quickly, wanting to be inside again, behind closed doors.
It was foolish, she knew. It was just someone watching the beach at sunset, and she simply happened to be on the beach. But the sensation of being watched, of being studied, stayed with her and hurried her steps toward home.
SHE’D spotted him, and that only made it more exciting. He’d frightened her, just by being there. Chuckling softly, he continued to frame Kirby in the telephoto lens, snapping methodically as she rushed along the beach.
She had a beautiful body. It had been a pleasure to watch the wind plaster her shirt and slacks to it, outline the curves. The sunlight had glowed on her hair, turning it a rich, burning gold. As the sun had dipped lower at his back, all the tones and hues had deepened, softened. He was pleased that he’d used color film this time.
Oh, and that look in her eyes when she’d realized someone was there. The lens had brought her so close, he’d nearly been able to see her pupils dilate.
Such pretty green eyes, he thought. They suited her. Just as the swing of blond hair suited her, and that soft, soothing voice.
He wondered what her breasts would taste like.
She’d be a hot one in the sack, he decided, snapping quickly before she disappeared around the dunes. The small, delicate types usually were, once you got them revving. He imagined she thought she knew all there was to know about anatomy. But he figured he could show her some tricks. Oh, yes, he could show the lady doctor a few things.
He remembered an excerpt from the journal that seemed to fit the moment and his mood. The rape of Annabelle.
I experimented, allowing myself full range to do things to her that I have never done to another woman. She wept, tears streaming down her cheeks and dampening the gag. I had her again, again. It was beyond me to stop. It wasn’t sex, was no longer rape.
It was unbearable power.
Yes, it was the power he wanted, the full scope of it, which he had not achieved with Ginny. Because Ginny had been defective, he reminded himself. She had been whore instead of angel, and a poor choice.
If he decided to—if he decided he needed just a little more practice before the main event—Kirby, with her pretty eyes and angel hands, would be a fine subject. She would work out just fine.
Something to think about, he mused. Something to consider. But for now he thought he’d wander toward Sanctuary and see if Jo Ellen was out and about.
It was nearly time to remind her he was thinking about her.
EIGHTEEN
AS Giff drove up the road to Sanctuary, he saw Lexy. She stood on the second-floor terrace, her long legs prettily displayed in cuffed cotton shorts, her hair bundled messily on top of her head. She was washing windows, which he was sure would have her in one of her less hospitable moods.
As appealing a picture as she made, she would have to wait. He needed to talk to Brian.
She saw Giff park his pickup but barely spared him a glance. Her smile was smug as she polished off the mixture of vinegar and water with newspaper until the windowpane shone. She’d known he would come around, though it had taken him longer than she’d expected.
But she decided to forgive him—after he crawled just a little.
She bent to soak her rag again, turning her head a bit, slanting her eyes over and down. Then sprang straight up when she saw Giff was heading not toward the house and her but toward the old smokehouse, where Brian was painting porch furniture.
Why, that rattlesnake, she thought, slapping the cleaning solution on the next window. If he was waiting for her to come to him, he was going to be sorely disappointed. She’d never forgive him now. Not if she lived to be a thousand years old. He could crawl over hot coals, she thought, furiously polishing the window. He could beg and plead and call her name on his deathbed and she would laugh gaily and walk on.
From this moment on, Giff Verdon meant less than nothing to her.
She picked up her bucket and moved three windows down so she could keep an eye on him.
At the moment, Lexy and her moods weren’t at the forefront of Giff’s mind. He caught the oversweet smell of fresh paint, heard the hiss of the sprayer. He worked up a smile as he rounded the stone corner of the smokehouse and saw Brian.
Little dots of sea-blue paint freckled his arms to past the elbows, and polka-dotted the old jeans he wore. An army-green tarp was spread out and covered with chaises and chairs. Brian was giving the old glider a second coat.
“Nice color,” Giff called out.
Brian moved the nozzle slowly back and forth another stroke before disengaging it. “You know Cousin Kate. Every few years she wants something different—and always ends up going with blue.”
“Freshens them up nice, tho
ugh.”
