Instinctively she followed as he started up the long ramp that ran sideways across the front of the warehouse from ground level up to the front door. She felt the pull of the incline in the muscles of her legs, but Dar wheeled up the slope as if it were level ground. She wondered suddenly if anyone less fit than he could make it up this ramp, and had a sudden vision of all the wheelchair ramps that had been added to buildings as afterthoughts being useless to the average person who needed them, no doubt designed by someone who had never had to use one.
She watched the flex and play of his muscles in quiet admiration. She'd seen male models who worked out hours a day who didn't have muscles like this; the man was an athlete, no matter that he happened to be on wheels. How could anybody look at him and not see that? Was this why he chose the chair over the prostheses that made it possible for him to better blend with the rest of the world? She thought she could see the appeal. In the chair he moved swiftly and easily; on his feet, he had to concentrate to maintain a semblance of a normal gait. She wondered if that was the only reason he chose the chair.
It's none of your business, she told herself sternly, trying to quash her too-active curiosity. And you're not going to ask, either.
When he reached the level section of the porch, he looked back over his shoulder at her.
"There are steps, you know."
God, the man was prickly. "I know," she said in very polite tones. "But I didn't want to be rude."
Something flickered in his eyes then, the faintest bit of brightness in the dark depths.
"Touché," he said, so softly she knew she hadn't been meant to hear it. Then he turned back and rolled up to the door, shoved it open and disappeared inside. She hesitated, then stepped in after him.
The inside of the warehouse was cool and airy, with high ceilings and an open spaciousness emphasized by the lack of walls and the oddly wide spacing of what little furniture there was. Cassie looked around with interest. At the far end of the large room was what looked like a workshop; there was a tall, complicated-looking piece of machinery whose purpose she couldn't even guess at. She could see what appeared to be designs tacked up on the wall, along with a photograph that appeared to be a duplicate of one Sean had of Dar and Katie. Scattered about were several mysterious parts and pieces she could only assume had something to do with the racing wheelchairs he designed. She'd heard Sean say once that a Cordell chair was the Indy car of the wheelchair racing world, the heaviest model topping out at an amazing fifteen total pounds in weight, and that he had more orders than he could keep up with. And she had to admit, the three-wheeled designs she could see looked more like drag racers, low and sleek and rakish, than wheelchairs.
Off to one side stood a set of weights on a rack, a padded bench and a cross-country ski machine that looked oddly out of proportion until she realized it had been modified, with the upright shortened and the ski bindings adapted for his use with what was left of his legs. Beyond it, what looked like a retractable partition came out of one side wall, shutting off one corner of the main room. In the opposite corner was a compact kitchen, looking like a ship's galley, with counters set unusually low atop recessed cabinets.
A sound drew her attention, and she turned to see Dar shuffling through a small pile of papers on a low table in front of the couch, which sat across from a big-screen TV and a powerful-looking stereo. And in that moment she realized the reason for the spacing of the furniture; it was to allow him to wheel his chair freely between the pieces she now wondered if he ever used himself. And the kitchen was adapted, too, she realized, with its counters and cabinets set up for wheelchair access.
"This is a really nice place," she said.
His head came up sharply when she spoke, and she saw his eyes narrow as if he were examining her words for some hidden meaning. Then, with an effort that was visible, she saw him force himself to relax. Still, his voice sounded slightly stiff when he spoke.
"I like it."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Three years." It was just as stiff as before, and the effort again visible as he added, "Almost."
"It must be quiet out here most of the time."
"Yes."
Cassie sighed. "Are you always this talkative, or is it just me?" Her mouth quirked. "I almost think I prefer you laughing at me."
"Laughing at you?" The dark brows lifted; she'd startled him with that.
"Like you did at Sean's wedding."
"Lady," he said, in unmistakably wry tones, "no man in his right mind would ever laugh at you."
Well, she'd gotten a full dozen words out of him that time; that was worth something, she supposed.
"Especially in that dress," he added.
She was the one startled then. And, she admitted to herself, flattered. He'd remembered. She'd known she looked good that day, but it hadn't seemed to get her anywhere with this man.
But recalling that day, and her behavior, still embarrassed her. "Look who's talking," she muttered. "You're prettier than I am."
His mouth twisted in wry amusement. "Hardly."
She just looked at him, thinking that what she'd said was more than true.
"Then what were you laughing at?" she asked finally.
His amused expression faded abruptly. "Me," he said shortly, and went back to the papers on the table.
He'd been laughing at himself? When every unattached woman—and some of the attached ones—had been buzzing about him, speculating madly? She wanted to ask what he meant, but something in his tone told her she wouldn't get an answer.
She slowly walked over to him, watching as he found the page he'd been looking for, tore off a corner and copied a phone number down. He held out the piece of paper. She took it, conscious of having to lean down slightly; her five-foot-nine height had never seemed so tall before. He made no effort to make it easier, in fact looked up at her with that hooded expression, as if daring her to even notice.
She took the piece of paper, glanced at the number written there in a bold scrawl, nodded, then threw caution to the winds and asked what she'd been wondering.
"So tell me," she said casually, "why do you prefer the chair?"
She wouldn't have thought he could have gotten stiffer, but he did.
"I know," she said, "it's none of my business, it's a rude question, and probably politically incorrect, to boot. But I figured you already hate me, so what did I have to lose? And I was curious."
For an instant he looked taken aback, although she couldn't begin to guess if it was at the words themselves or her breezy tone. But when he spoke there was no sign of surprise in his voice, just an edge that told her his defenses were up in full force.
"Curiosity," he said slowly, "can be lethal."
"I've been warned before," she said with a shrug.
"But coming from me it doesn't scare you?"
She looked at him consideringly. "No. Chase wouldn't trust you if you were really a bully."
Again he looked taken aback, and this time she was sure of it; her answer hadn't been what he'd been expecting. She wondered if he'd really thought she wouldn't feel threatened because he was in a wheelchair. He couldn't be that touchy, could he? She met his gaze and hastily amended that assessment. He certainly could. Around her, anyway.
"I'm in this chair for a lot of reasons," he said, after she'd given up expecting an answer, "but mainly because I have no desire to help the world pretend I'm not what I am. Or that people like me don't exist."
His voice was sharp, his words abrupt. Cassie had a gut-level feeling that there was much, much more to it than that, but she also knew this was all he would admit to, a reason born in pride and anger, a thumbing of his nose at a world that too often did just that—pretended that people like him didn't exist.
"I just wondered," she said quietly, knowing he'd expected her to be hurt by his tone or embarrassed by his words, "how you dealt with a world that judges people so much by what they look like."
He blinked, and
for the second time color tinged his cheeks.
"Thanks for the number," she said, weary of doing battle with this too-contrary man. "I'll go find a phone somewhere else and … leave you to yourself."
"I…" His voice trailed off and he lowered his gaze. Cassie found herself staring at the thick, dark sweep of his lashes. That and his mouth were the only signs of softness in him, although she supposed he had every right to be as hard as he was, as hard as the world—and fate—had made him.
"Use mine," he said after a moment, gesturing toward the phone on the coffee table.
Cassie shook her head. "I think I've worn out what little welcome there was."
His head came up then. "I … didn't mean to make you feel that way. I just … I don't get company here very often."
"And you like it that way?" she suggested softly.
His gaze narrowed. "Yes," he said flatly.
He was looking at her almost challengingly, as if daring her to comment on his unsociable attitude. She merely shrugged.
"People can be awful, whether they stare at you or through you. I don't blame you for not wanting most of them around." She held up the piece of paper. "Thanks for the number."
She headed for the door, refusing to let herself look back. He never said another word, and she pulled the door quietly shut behind her. Dar Cordell, she thought as she headed for her car, using the steps this time, could give temperament lessons to a junkyard dog. Except the dog would probably be, unlike her, smart enough to keep his distance.
* * *
Chapter 3
«^»
People can be awful, whether they stare at you or through you.
"Stare at you or through you," Dar muttered under his breath as he watched the little red convertible drive away along the road beside the lagoon. He never would have expected her to understand something like that. Not her. What did she know about being gaped at as if you were a sideshow, or about being looked through as if you were invisible, not even there? When people looked at her, they saw the perfect woman, the ideal of feminine beauty. Didn't they?
And if they did? His thoughts continued to tumble as he stared at the faint stirring of dust on the now-empty road. How was that to live with, knowing the world looked at you and saw perfection? Was it really any different than when they looked at him and saw only what wasn't there? Was she ever allowed to be anything less than as perfect as her looks? To be human?
He felt a little shell-shocked. As she had the day of Sean's wedding, Cassie Cameron—Cassandra, he amended wryly—seemed to throw him at every turn. Every time he thought he had her figured out, thought that he could predict her reactions, she danced off in some totally unexpected direction that somehow managed to thoroughly rattle his hard-won calm.
She should have stormed out of here in a snit. Most people would have; he'd learned early on how to drive people away, and he didn't think he'd lost his knack, especially with women. Even Sean, with whom he'd felt an unexpected and immediate kinship when he'd first met him at their mutual prosthetist, had had to batter down walls he'd once laughingly called the Cordell Fortress.
So why had she stayed, when he'd been at his obnoxious best? Why hadn't she been hurt, or at least embarrassed by his blunt words? Instead she had accepted them calmly, with an insight he would never have expected.
I just wondered how you dealt with a world that judges people so much by what they look like.
His eyes widened as the slight emphasis on the pronoun suddenly made sense to him. Cassie knew exactly how it felt, he thought in stunned realization. She lived in a world that judged people by appearance more than almost any other. She made her living in a business that valued looks above all else, where if you had the right kind of looks at the right time, you could become a superstar. You could become the darling of millions. You could stop being Cassie and become Cassandra.
Just like you could get hit by a train and go from being the darling of the sports media, that new young baseball phenom who'd been signed straight into AAA ball, to just a guy in a wheelchair, missing a couple of parts. A guy who didn't look right anymore, who didn't have what was necessary to become that superstar anymore.
He wheeled abruptly away from the window, but the image of Cassie, and the look on her face when she'd said that about people staring through you, stayed in his mind. As did the realization that she, too, dealt with the world's perceptions—and its misperceptions—in a very personal way. He didn't like the thought. It made him vaguely uncomfortable, and he didn't know why.
But he wasn't about to sit here trying to figure it out, he told himself. He had work to do. Maybe Sean was right, and he was bored. If so, work was the answer, not idle and useless speculation about the likes of Cassie Cameron.
* * *
"That Mr. Willis called again. And he sent more roses."
Cassie's stomach knotted, and her hands tightened around the telephone receiver. "What did he say?"
"Just asked where your next shoot was going to be, like always. Of course I didn't tell him anything. You'd think he'd learn by now it's our policy not to give out information like that."
Cassie heard the undertone of concern in Bonnie's voice; Charlie's young assistant knew she was worried about the man, even though he seemed innocuous enough.
"Yes, you'd think he would. That's part of what bothers me."
"Do you really think he's … dangerous?" Bonnie asked. "He seems harmless. Even kind of sweet sometimes. Almost … fatherly."
Cassie let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I know. He looks that way, too. But his showing up in Denver made me nervous."
"But he didn't do anything, did he?"
"You sound like Charlie," Cassie said wryly. "No, he hasn't done anything, except send me sweet notes and flowers. He hasn't threatened me, and that was the first time he'd actually followed me on a shoot."
"Maybe he's just a real fan. He even says he worries about you working too hard." Bonnie gave an audible sigh. "But I guess you can't take a chance, can you?"
Cassie found herself echoing Bonnie's sigh. "I don't like living that way," she said, "but…" Her voice trailed off.
"I know. It's scary out there. And you're a prime target."
For now, Cassie muttered inwardly. But I don't have to stay that way.
"If he calls again, tell him you don't know where I am."
"Well, that's true enough. Where are you?"
"If you don't know, you don't have to lie, do you?"
Bonnie chuckled. "No, I guess not. What do you want me to do with the roses?"
"You keep them. Tell Ron you got them from a secret admirer," Cassie said, wondering if Bonnie and her on-again, off-again boyfriend were on or off at the moment. "Maybe it will do him good."
"Maybe it will," Bonnie said, laughing now. "You take care. And check in, will you? Charlie's already going crazy."
"Maybe that will do him good," Cassie retorted.
She hung up with Bonnie's laughter echoing in her ear. But her own smile rapidly faded. Was she being silly, to be worried about this man? Was he just a well-intentioned fan?
A grim memory of another model, and photographs of her face, brutally slashed with a razor, which had been splashed across newspapers and the nightly news for days, sent a shiver down her spine.
Trying to shake it off, she got to her feet. As she had been doing before she'd called the office, she paced across the floor, aware of how unsettled she was, because even the bright, sunny airiness of her brother's house couldn't seem to ease her restlessness. Chase had designed the house years before he'd built it. And years before he'd met Stevie, the woman who had made him want to build it. Yet even the feeling of love and safety that usually wrapped around her when she visited here wasn't enough today.
Cassie stopped in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the skylight in the entry, hoping its warmth would rid her of the chill that had her rubbing at her arms.
This was silly, she told herself.
It wasn't like some wild man was going to suddenly appear on the doorstep, looking for her.
Maybe she needed to get out into that sunlight, she thought. She'd promised Chase she'd check the office for mail and messages now and then while he was gone, so Sean could have more time with Rory. Maybe she'd do that now. Then she'd take a drive, maybe along the coast, watch all the people enjoying the beautiful day, and try to forget that some of the most normal looking of them were probably hiding twisted, sick minds.
Before she could change her mind and go back to simply wearing a groove in the tile floor, she borrowed one of Stevie's caps from the rack near the door, tugged her hair through the back into a ponytail and grabbed her purse and keys. Glad to be doing something, anything, she yanked open the front door.
And stifled a startled shriek when she nearly collided with Dar Cordell.
"I was about to knock," he said, looking up at her. His mouth quirked oddly. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"I… You didn't."
"Then you always scream when you open the door? Or is it just me?"
"No, it's not you," she said hastily. She glanced out to where his van stood in the driveway, wondering uneasily why she hadn't even heard him drive up. "I didn't expect anyone, and … I'm just a little edgy."
One dark brow rose. "Something wrong?"
"I—" She broke off, catching herself on the verge of blurting out exactly why she was nervous. Dar Cordell didn't care, and she'd only embarrass herself more than she already had with this man if she were to confide in him. "Nothing."
He looked as if he didn't believe her. She tried to think of something to distract him, and—as usual around him, it seemed—the first thing that occurred to her popped out.
"What are you doing here?"
His expression changed abruptly, and she realized what her question had sounded like.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound sharp. I … I'm … more on edge than I thought. I only meant that Chase and Stevie and the kids are gone, and I know you didn't come here to see me—"
THE MORNING SIDE OF DAWN Page 3
