Dangerous Curves

by Pamela Britton

  “You really need to get over your fear of coming to the racetrack,” Lance said out of the blue. “Everyone keeps asking when you’re dropping by.”

  And Cece, who just the day before had asked Blain to take her to that week’s race in Michigan, had stared at Lance, dumbfounded.

  “I mean, we all understand why you’d be a little afraid—it’s not like garages have handicap access—but you gotta know how much the team wants you there.”

  Cece watched him take another bite of the chocolate chip cookies she’d made. Cooking. That’s about all she had to entertain her anymore—that and physical therapy, because Cece was determined to walk.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Lance asked, his boyish face filled with dismay.

  “No, Lance,” she said, her mind replaying her conversation with Blain. She’d been very clear about going. There was just no way he could have misinterpreted what she’d said.

  “I’m tired,” Cece explained, seeing Lance stare at her with concern. “Blain got home from the track so late last night.”

  “Did he?” Lance asked in obvious surprise. “Funny, we made good time from the racetrack.”

  Had they?

  Cece looked away, and even though she told herself not to feel hurt that Blain had spent yet another late evening at the office in order to avoid her, she did. Lance must have seen that disappointment, because he quickly reassured her. “He must have gotten hung up at the shop. Never seen an owner work as hard as Blain.”

  Cece nodded blankly, Lance little realizing that that was the problem. More and more, Blain sought the shelter of his shop rather than her arms. But she couldn’t really blame the man. How loverlike was it to lie down with a woman whose legs flopped around like a fish?

  Lance stood up, bending down to place a kiss on her cheek. “Try to make it this weekend.”

  “I’ll try,” she told him, a part of her screaming inside. She inhaled deeply, hoping it would keep her from crying in front of Lance. It did, but only barely. The moment the door closed, Cece felt the pressure build, felt her chest expand as she tried not to lose control. But suddenly, it was all too much. For weeks she’d held herself together, forced herself to deal with her situation in as pragmatic a way as possible. Blain had been there for her, and for that she’d be forever grateful, because when she thought about it, he didn’t have to be so nice. Yeah, he’d declared his love, but love could change, go in a different direction. To be honest, she didn’t blame him for pulling back.

  So when she heard his car turn into the circular drive, she wheeled herself outside. He’d made her a ramp off the back of the deck that led to a path she could take to the edge of the lake, and that was where she went. The moon that night was perfectly full, its shimmering white light turning the water quicksilver gray and the aluminum frame of her wheelchair chrome. It was near midnight, and Cinderella’s slipper had finally fallen off. The fair prince had let her go. Time to ride the carriage back home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  BLAIN KNEW SOMETHING was wrong the moment he entered his house. Normally, Cece shut off the lights before she went to bed, leaving the house quiet as a tomb. But tonight the lamps in the family room still glowed, the kitchen lights reflected off the polished marble of the entryway. And for a second he had the same horrible fear he’d had the first few weeks after bringing Cece home. Had she taken her own life? Her therapist had warned him to watch for signs of depression.

  He rushed to his converted dining room. The bed they’d placed in the corner was empty. He checked the bathroom off the kitchen next. Nothing. But a glance outside the window revealed the glowing surface of the lake—the waters completely still.

  No, not still. Something moved out there. Cece. He saw her silhouette. Her blond hair glowed in the moonlight, and what looked to be a white sweater was thrown over her shoulders. He made his way toward her, wondering what she was still doing up. She should have been in bed hours ago. She needed her rest.

  “Cece?” he said, the word a question.

  She didn’t look at him, just continued staring out at the lake.

  Adrenaline caused by fear made his pulse leap. “Cece, what’s wrong?”

  “You mean other than being in a wheelchair?” she said. Then she huffed a bit, and Blain relaxed. Funny. She was trying to be funny.

  “You should be in bed.”

  She shook her head. Blain squatted down next to her and for a moment was struck by how beautiful she looked in the moonlight. Her accident hadn’t changed that. If anything, it had softened the angular edges of her face. A face that had been beautiful before looked even more stunning now, her blond hair longer and, more often than not, left hanging down her back, as it was now. Green eyes he’d once called the color of coolant seemed bigger, the lashes darker—or maybe that was the moonlight.

  “Blain, why are we still pretending everything is normal?”

  The words made him rock back. Those green eyes met his own. And for the first time he saw sadness in them, and resignation, and even a hint of fear.

  “What do you mean, pretending?”

  She looked away. He saw her straighten her shoulders. “I’m not a pet, Blain. You shouldn’t keep me around because you feel obligated. I can take care of myself now. If being around me makes you uncomfortable to the point that you’re trying to avoid me with late nights and long days at the racetrack, then I’ll just go.”

  “Long nights—” He found himself incapable of words, but only for a moment. “Cece, that’s not it at all.”

  She faced him again, a blond brow lifted. “Isn’t it, Blain?”

  “No,” he said, trying to make her see the honesty in his eyes. “I’m not avoiding you because I feel guilty, or pity you, or can’t stand to look at you, or any of the other reasons you might have come up with. I’m staying away because you’re still just as beautiful to me as ever and I’m having a hell of a time keeping my hands off you.”

  That made her eyes widen. He could see the way her lashes flickered, even in the moonlight.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I want to make love to you, only I’ve been afraid to try. Afraid to ask. Afraid you might say no.”

  Those wide eyes of hers never blinked as she stared at him. And then she looked away, and he could see the disbelief in her face.

  “I thought you were avoiding me.”

  “I am avoiding you,” he admitted with a smile. “But not for the reasons you think.”

  “Geez-oh-peets,” she said with a small huff of laughter.

  He grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “Cece, I love you. I want to be with you…in all the ways that a man and a woman can be together.”

  “Then why won’t you take me to a race with you?”

  “Because you’re not ready for it,” he said simply and honestly. “It’s too much. Physically, you’re not ready.”

  “Yes, I am, Blain. I’m a lot more ready than you think.”

  “No, you’re not. Being out in public, the stress of being in a large crowd again.”

  She laughed. “Blain, I go out now, which, if you were around a little more often, you would see for yourself. Crowds don’t bother me.”

  “Being in a garage is different.”

  “No it’s not, Blain. So if that’s the real reason, you’re being ridiculous. And I’m putting my foot down. I’m going to Darlington with you.”

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  Why not? “I told you—you’re too fragile.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’m perfectly fine. Actually, I’m in better-than-average health for someone without the use of her legs.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said.

  “Don’t say what? That I’m paralyzed? I am, Blain. I’m a paraplegic. A ‘D’ classified, incomplete, lower extremity paraplegic, which means I have a better than average shot at walking again. And I am going to walk, Blain. I can promise you that.”

  “Of cou
rse you are,” he said, shifting a bit so he could brush her face with his thumb.

  “No. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” he said in exasperation.

  “With pity. With commiseration. As if you’re humoring me.”

  “That’s not it at all—”

  “Why are you with me, Blain?” she asked again. “Why have you stuck it out with me?”

  “Because I love you,” he said. “Because even though you’re in a wheelchair, you’re still the same woman who stole my heart.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He drew back.

  “If that was true, you’d never want to leave my side.”

  “I told you, I’m worried about your health—”

  “So worried that you take off first thing Friday morning with nothing more than a kiss?”

  “You need your rest.”

  “So worried that you stay late at the office every night?”

  “We’re making a push to win the championship this year.”

  “So worried that you never take me out, not to dinner, not shopping, not anything?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, I worry about you being around so many people. The doctor told us you’ll be more prone to illnesses—”

  “Bullshit,” she said again, her left hand hitting the edge of the wheel. “Don’t kid yourself, Blain. You’re not trying to protect me, you’re trying to protect yourself.”

  “What?”

  Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. Her hands clutched the wheels of her chair as if she were poised to take flight. “You’re afraid if you start treating me like a normal person, I’ll leave.”

  “What?” he said again.

  “It’s true,” she accused. “And then where would you be? No way to assuage your guilt. No more taking care of Cece to make yourself feel better. No more treating me like a damn dog you accidentally ran over with that damn Hummer of yours, a dog you have to take care of now because you feel responsible.”

  “Cece, I don’t feel responsible.”

  “Don’t you, Blain? Didn’t you tell Lance that this was all your fault? That if you hadn’t gone to the track, I wouldn’t be in a wheelchair?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You did. Just like you once told me you accepted how dangerous my job was. And that you loved me anyway. For better or for worse. Is this the ‘for worse’ part, Blain?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then make love to me. Make love to me right now. Right this minute. Because while I’m flattered that you still find me attractive, I don’t really believe it. Prove it to me.”

  So he tried to, rising up so he could bend over and kiss her, and to his relief the desire he felt for her sprang instantly and unmistakably to life. He loved her. He wanted to make love to her.

  He did. He could feel his erection grow, could feel the way just tasting the familiar essence of her stirred his soul. He would lift her up, take her to the bedroom and do what he’d been wanting to do with her for weeks.

  But he didn’t.

  She broke off the kiss, her chest heaving as she looked him in the eyes and said, “Go ahead, Blain. Take me inside.”

  He reached for her.

  And just as quickly dropped his arms to his sides.

  “Afraid you’ll hurt me, or afraid you’ll find out making love to me will be different?”

  He didn’t know. And, damn it, he should know. He should just pick her up. Carry her away. Do what she’d challenged him to do.

  But he didn’t.

  And there were tears of sadness in her eyes when she looked up at him. “You can’t do it, can you?”

  He could. Yes, he could, damn it. He’d prove it to her.

  But he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him?

  “And I don’t blame you, Blain. I really don’t. It takes a special man to overlook this.” She patted her legs, a bitter, halfhearted smirk tipping up one side of her mouth, all the more poignant for the resignation it contained. “I prepared myself for the fact that you might not be that kind of man.”

  But he wasn’t that type of man. He’d been wanting to make love to her for weeks.

  Hadn’t he? Or was the desire he felt only present during those moments when the wheelchair wasn’t around, those moments when she sat on the couch or lay on the bed? Those moments when she looked like a normal person?

  Oh, God, that couldn’t be it, could it?

  “Goodbye, Blain.”

  “What?”

  She looked up at him, tears glittering on her lashes. “I’m going back to San Francisco.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You’re overreacting. Just give me some time to adjust. We can work this out.”

  “No, Blain, we can’t.”

  She didn’t move, not for a few seconds at least, and when she did drop her hands to the tires, he found himself saying, “Cece, wait.”

  “No, Blain. I’m not waiting. I’m tired of waiting. Life should always be lived to the fullest. You and I both know that hasn’t happened in a while. And if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit I’m doing us both a favor.”

  She turned away, her wheels oddly soundless as she moved from the edge of the lake.

  If you’re honest, you’ll admit I’m doing us both a favor.

  The worst of it was, he was afraid she might be right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  IT SUCKED BEING OUT on her own. It sucked doing it all alone, because Cece flatly refused to take other people’s charity—and there were plenty of offers. Bob volunteered to take her in, but Cece declined. He was her boss, after all, not family. She had no family—just a bunch of friends from the San Francisco office who tried to help her out, but whom Cece turned away. She couldn’t take their pity.

  So Cece paid someone to deliver the furniture she’d put in storage, then called a volunteer organization to help her set it up. And Blain never called. Well, he tried, a few times, but it had been so awkward and miserable, Cece had asked him not to call again. He had anyway. So she’d order caller ID. That took care of that.

  She threw herself into her new life, trying desperately to keep the faith. But it was hard. She constantly found bruises on her legs from bumping into furniture, bruises she never felt happen. And then there were the battles with everyday living. Transportation. Shopping.

  Breathing.

  But she survived, although not without a few tears along the way. She ignored the looks of pity. Ignored the expressions of surprise that turned into embarrassment when people bumped into her chair. Ignored the bright, cheery smile people gave her—too bright, too solicitous. Children were the worst. They hadn’t learned the art of duplicity. Their stares were brutal, honest and open. It was through their eyes that she saw herself: Cece, an object of pity.

  But her lowest point came the day she got herself wedged in a doorway. It sounded funny, sure, but it wasn’t when it happened. She’d been trying out a new grocery store, one of those small, neighborhood joints a few blocks from her apartment. Someone had come to her rescue. To be honest, it wasn’t the first time she’d gotten herself in such a fix. But as two men helped her out, Cece had felt tears behind her self-deprecating laughter. And when she’d immediately turned to go home, she’d felt those tears fall free. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She’d swiped them away. And then she’d pushed herself home, groceries forgotten. Only, when she arrived she stubbed her toe on her way through the front door. Only, see, she couldn’t feel it, and that started her laughing, laughter that turned almost hysterical.

  She must have freaked out one of her neighbors, because she heard a knock on the door, someone asking, “Are you okay?” And Cece had wanted to yell at him, “No, you stupid idiot. I’m in a wheelchair. I’m not okay.” Instead she’d called out, “Fine.” And then added, “I just stubbed my toe.” Which made her laugh all the more because her neighbors all knew she couldn’t feel her legs, whi
ch made Cece laugh even harder, especially when she envisioned the look on his face.

  She’d lost her mind, Cece admitted. Truly lost it.

  She’d caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, wheeled herself over to it without thought. And since she’d lost her mind she could stare at herself objectively.

  Oval face. Long blond hair. Eyes red from her brief flirtation with tears. Pathetic.

  Someone knocked. The face in the mirror didn’t even flinch.

  “Really, I’m okay,” she called out, though a tear had started to fall down the woman’s cheek.

  “Cece,” she heard from the other side, a woman’s voice.

  The eyes in the mirror blinked. Hands clenched the wheels of the chair.

  “Cece, if you don’t open up, I’ll get the manager to do it for me.”

  Bob’s wife, Lorna. It had to be. She was one of the few people Cece hadn’t scared away yet. Terrific. Just what she needed.

  Cece wrenched open the door.

  Bill’s widow stood there.

  Cece’s legs didn’t work, but if they had, she would have wilted to the floor. As it was, she sank farther into her wheelchair. “Kate,” she said.

  “You look like crap.”

  Cece wanted to laugh, but it would have been hysterical laughter again because she couldn’t just couldn’t believe the woman was here. After all these years. And at one of the worst possible moments of her life. What was her dead partner’s widow doing here?

  “You look…” Cece eyed her up and down. Nothing had changed about Bill Taylor’s wife. Oh, she looked a bit older, maybe a bit worn, but that was it. The blond hair was still the same, as were the crystal-blue eyes. “Good,” Cece finished. “You look good.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Actually, this is a bad time.” I’m thinking of committing suicide. Well, not really, but it’s tempting—

  “Good. Thanks,” Kate said, pushing past her, which was quite a feat given Cece’s wheelchair.

  “Hey, I’m a little busy here,” Cece said.

  Kate stopped in the middle of her “family room.”

  “Lord, Cece, if I’d known you were this bad off, I’d have come by sooner. Don’t you have someone to clean up after you?”