House Calls

by Michelle Celmer

  What Man In His Right Mind Would Pass Up A Few Months Alone With A Woman Like Maggie?

  The kind of man who knew that she deserved better—that she would expect it. To her, he was just another damaged human being she could fix.

  But this wasn’t about her. It was about him, and as much as he would have liked to deny it, he wanted his life back. If he did go, and failed, he’d be no worse off than he’d been before. With her help, he’d at least have a chance.

  “If you say no, I’ll have to reduce myself to kidnapping. You don’t want me to commit a felony, do you?”

  An honest-to-goodness chuckle rose in his chest and it felt…good. It had been a long time since anyone had made him feel this way. “You win. When do we leave?”

  MICHELLE CELMER

  HOUSE CALLS

  Books by Michelle Celmer

  Silhouette Desire

  Playing by the Baby Rules #1566

  The Seduction Request #1626

  Bedroom Secrets #1656

  Round-the-Clock Temptation #1683

  House Calls #1703

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Running on Empty #1342

  Out of Sight #1398

  MICHELLE CELMER

  lives in southeastern Michigan with her husband, their three children, two dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing or busy being a mom, you can find her in the garden or curled up with a romance novel. And if you twist her arm real hard you can usually persuade her into a day of power shopping.

  Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her Web site at: www.michellecelmer.com, or write her at P.O. Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017.

  To my children, who never fail to amaze, bewilder, confuse and delight me—and always make me proud.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  One

  At the sound of a car door slamming, Pete Morgan wheeled himself across the library to the window overlooking the circular drive, but he was too late to see the occupant of the dark blue SUV parked there.

  What difference did it make? He’d only gone to the window out of habit. It wasn’t as if he got many visitors these days. Or wanted any, for that matter.

  The flowers and get-well cards had stopped arriving soon after he was released from the hospital, and after weeks of enduring the seemingly endless looks of pity from friends and colleagues, he’d begun turning visitors away. It had taken a few weeks, but people finally got the hint and stopped coming altogether. Now he spent his days alone in his private wing of the house. The solitude it provided suited him just fine.

  He stared out the window, trying to recall when he’d last been outside. The afternoon sun looked warm and inviting and a gentle breeze swayed the trees bordering the ten-acre estate. Occasionally he yearned to get out. He missed the sting of the sun on his back as he sliced across the lake on water skis, the burn of his muscles as he scaled the jagged face of a mountain, the wind in his hair as he biked the trails at Stony Creek State Park. Those had been the days he’d lived for, the days he’d felt truly free.

  Those days were over.

  He stared out the window, remembering all that he’d lost—all that he would never get back. When he heard the door open, it might have been five minutes later or it could have been an hour.

  “Peter?” a voice said stiffly, as though the mere mention of his name caused enormous regret.

  He didn’t bother turning to face her. He knew what he would see if he did—disappointment, pity. He wasn’t in the mood.

  “What do you want, Mother?”

  “Your father and I would like to have a word with you.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that his father stood next to her in the doorway—towered over her was more like it. Charles Morgan, a force to be reckoned with. There had been a time, long ago, when Pete had respected his father’s powerful presence, feared it even. Not anymore. He’d grown immune to him a long time ago. “I’m afraid you’ll have to call my secretary for an appointment. I’m booked solid this afternoon.”

  The pinched, irritated look he received from his father gave Pete tremendous satisfaction.

  “I don’t find your sarcasm amusing,” he thundered. “You will apologize to your mother this instant.”

  “Or else what?” He swiveled to face them. “You’ll ground me? You’ll take away my driving privileges? News flash: I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’ve had enough of your attitude.” A vein pulsed at his father’s temple. “You’ve spent weeks wallowing in self-pity when you should have been working to rehabilitate yourself.”

  “What you think is of no concern to me. If you insist that I stay here, you’re just going to have to learn to live with me this way.” Pete tossed the medical journal he’d been reading on the table next to the couch and spun back to the window. “Maybe I’m happy the way I am.”

  “Nonsense,” his mother said, her voice softer but no less disapproving. “You’re a doctor. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve made a complete recovery.”

  “Has it occurred to either one of you that I may not make a complete recovery? Have you forgotten that my leg was nearly blown off?”

  “Morgans are fighters,” his father replied, as if his word was law. As if that reversed the damage Pete had sustained. Talk about arrogant.

  “You’ll learn to walk again,” his father said. “Starting today.”

  He sensed his mother crossing the room, and in his peripheral vision saw her lift a hand to his shoulder, then pull away before she touched him. Touching had never been a big hit at the Morgan estate. His father had always believed in tough love. Affection hadn’t factored into the program. Obviously that hadn’t changed in the years he’d been away.

  “Peter—” she said gently, before his father’s voice boomed behind her.

  “We’re wasting our time here. He won’t listen.”

  He sensed her pause, as though she might actually defy her husband and speak her mind for the first time in her life, but her hand dropped to her side and she backed away. Their retreating footsteps told him the conversation was over.

  “Suppose I don’t ever walk,” he said aloud, wheeling back to the window. “What then?”

  “Suppose you stop acting like a big baby and at least try.”

  The comment came from neither of his parents and Pete swung around, startled to find that he wasn’t alone. “I beg your pardon?”

  She stood across the room, her back to him, a compact little package of luscious curves and softness poured into a snug pair of blue jeans and a clingy red shirt. She gazed up at the bookcases spanning the north wall. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books in one place.” She laughed to herself. “I mean, I’ve obviously seen lots of books at the library and the bookstore, but not in someone’s house. I wonder if they’ve all been read?”

  She pulled a leather-bound copy of The Hobbit from the shelf, running a hand over the worn binding. That had been one of his favorites. He’d read it so many times he was sure if he gave it some thought, he could recite it word for word from memory.

  “I love the smell of paper and leather, don’t you?” She raised the book to her nose and inhaled. “Hmm, it reminds me of weekends at my grandfather’s house. He owned lots of books, too. But not this many.”

  Pete wheeled himself closer, mesmerized. Something about her was so familiar, yet he
hadn’t even seen her face. “Who are you?”

  She carefully returned the book to its place on the shelf. “Considering that little tantrum you just pulled with your parents, I suppose you could say I’m your worst nightmare.”

  As she turned to him, Pete had to remind himself to breathe. Worst nightmare? Hardly. She looked more like a wet-dream fantasy. Short dark hair hung in soft ringlets around a lovely heart-shaped face—

  Lovely? Good God, where had he dredged that up from? He wasn’t the kind of man to use a word like lovely, though he had to admit the description fit. She was sharp, too. He could clearly see the spark of intelligence in her eyes. They were round and dark and shone with a cockiness he used to see when he looked in the mirror. She also looked very familiar.

  “Do I know you?”

  “You know that taking your anger out on your parents isn’t very constructive,” she said. “You should channel those emotions into your recovery.”

  He frowned. “What are you, a shrink?”

  “God, no,” she said with a short burst of silvery laughter. “I’m going to teach you how to use that new knee. I’m Maggie Holm, your physical therapist.”

  Maggie followed her newest patient as he wheeled himself out the door, amazed by the speed with which he made his getaway. He sure could move fast when he had something to run from. It had been difficult not to exhibit the surprise she’d felt at the drastic physical changes since she’d last seen him in the hospital cafeteria line. At that time, they’d only said a brief and perfunctory hello. But throughout her lunch break she’d sneaked glances at him every so often, at the meticulously sculptured physique he must have worked years in the weight room to perfect. He was, in every sense of the word, a hunk.

  And nice. He’d never carried himself with that air of authoritative arrogance so common to doctors. Pete was friendly and easygoing. There was hardly a time when he hadn’t been smiling.

  He wasn’t smiling now. Today, if she’d seen him on the street, she might not have recognized him—sort of like he hadn’t recognized her. Not that many men had given her a second glance back then. Not with the spare forty pounds she’d been hauling around. They’d both changed considerably.

  His changes weren’t necessarily for the better.

  The Pete who sat before her today wore a wrinkled T-shirt and loose sweatpants, and his wavy dark hair was more than a little shaggy around the ears. Absent was the perpetually cheerful demeanor she remembered and the larger-than-life aura he’d once radiated like a beacon. Deep lines creased his forehead and brow, making him look years older than thirty-one.

  She followed quietly behind him, gauging the amount of muscle mass he’d lost in the four months since the shooting. Though his physique was still above average on a normal scale, he’d lost more than a few inches in his upper body alone. That had to be a blow to his ego. She nearly cringed at the thought of what the inactivity had done to his legs, and at the grueling work ahead. Even worse—given his rotten attitude—she had to determine the proper method of motivation.

  A cattle prod came to mind.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her and smirked. “Are you still here?”

  She regarded him with a pleasant smile. “I’m sorry, did you want me to leave? I thought you were giving me a tour of the house.”

  He stopped and turned. “Look, I appreciate that you have a job to do, but you’re wasting your time here.”

  “I disagree,” she said.

  “You do?” His eyebrows quirked up and for a second she saw a glimpse of the old Pete, the one hiding behind the sarcasm. Phew. At least he was still in there somewhere. Now she just had to find a way to draw him out, to turn his anger around and use it constructively.

  She chuckled to herself. She did sound like a shrink, didn’t she?

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “I’m going to get your stubborn behind out of that chair.”

  His jaw tensed. “Suppose I don’t want to walk?”

  She shrugged. “That’s never stopped me before.”

  He wheeled around and continued down the hall.

  She followed him. “I’ve seen your file. Total knee replacement. You’ve lost bone, making your left leg slightly shorter than the right, and you’ve suffered some minor permanent nerve damage. I’ve seen worse. I’ve had sixty-year-old women with both knees replaced and you can hardly tell. Don’t tell me you have less stamina than a sixty-year-old woman.”

  His back straightened just a little at the jab. “This is not about stamina. I’m never going to have full use of my leg.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  He glanced back at her, a look of surprise on his face.

  “What? Did you think I was going to lie and say you would make a total recovery? I’m a good therapist, doc, but I’m not that good. Not to mention that your attitude sucks.”

  He hung a right into a large suite at the end of the hall. She sidled in behind him before he could slam the door in her face. She was sure that was exactly what he had been planning to do.

  Gazing around the room, her eyes widened. Yow! What a spread. The sitting room alone was larger than her entire apartment. Hell, it was probably larger than the entire first floor of her parents’ house. The room was extravagantly decorated in rich shades of green and mauve, ostentatious Oriental rugs covered the polished wood floors and heavy velvet drapes hung in arched windows that kissed the peak of the cathedral ceiling. It was a bit on the gaudy side—as in gag-me-with-a-fork gaudy—and she couldn’t help thinking how out of place Pete looked there. She’d pictured him in something a little less…well, ugly.

  She wandered toward the adjoining bedroom and peered in. It was even worse. The same ugly drapes were drawn, making the room dark and foreboding, like an oversized tomb. The cherry furniture looked antique, with the exception of the hospital bed that stuck out like a sore thumb. It sat low to the ground with a bar overhead to help him lift himself in and out.

  Completely unnecessary, she thought. His legs were probably stiff and weak, but there was no good reason why he couldn’t use them to hoist himself in and out of bed.

  She glanced over and saw that Pete was watching her. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the bedroom.

  “Would it do me any good to try and stop you?”

  “You could try,” she said. “But I’m pretty fast.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what you expect to find in there.”

  Neither did she. But it wouldn’t hurt to look.

  She stepped inside. As far as she could see, no personal effects had been set out to give the room character. In fact, it reminded her an awful lot of a hotel room. That alone spoke volumes about his frame of mind. Though he showed no interest in getting on with his life, he lived in an environment that looked awfully temporary.

  She checked the bathroom next. Every conceivable amenity had been added to make it wheelchair-friendly. The sink and counter were wheelchair height and a shower seat sat in the stall. The whole suite would be just dandy for a paraplegic, or a man who’d had both legs amputated. Pete was neither.

  By trying to make his life easier, his parents had given him no incentive to fight.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t uncommon. Parents, no matter how good their intentions, just seemed to have a way of messing their kids up.

  Like her parents’ approach to dealing with their fat, out-of-control daughter. The disapproving looks when she reached for that second roll at dinner. Allowing her half the food they let her thin older sister pile on her plate, then wondering why she would sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night and gorge herself. The lone bag of raw vegetables and bottle of water she’d find in her school lunch every day when the other kids had peanut butter and jelly with chips and granola bars.

  The absolute worst, most humiliating form of torture her parents had dished out had been the summers spent at fat camp. She used to dread the end of the school year, knowing she would be shipped off to that horrible place. And the
n there was the even more ghastly experience of coming home at the end of summer and seeing the disappointment on her parents’ faces when she hadn’t magically become thin and beautiful like her older sister Molly.

  “Another five hundred down the drain!” her mother would bluster in front of God and everyone. “Margaret Jane, I swear you’re going to be the death of me.”

  She felt a familiar jab of resentment and knocked it back down. Now was not the time to mentally rehash her very dysfunctional childhood.

  She walked out of the bedroom, and Pete was sitting by the window with a faraway, almost yearning look on his face. His parents were right about one thing—he wouldn’t be happy until he was up and moving again. He just had to learn to accept his disabilities, to accept himself as imperfect. For a man like Peter, a man who had once personified perfect, that could be difficult.

  She stepped up behind him, gazing out upon a picture-perfect garden. A cobblestone path wound its way through lush flower beds exploding with vibrant color; trees swayed lazily in the gentle summer breeze amid acres upon acres of rolling green grass.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “I guess.”

  “Do you get out there much?”

  “The path is too narrow for the chair.”

  “I noticed a pool on the other side of the yard. Swimming would be good for your leg.”

  He looked up at her, his expression blank. “Seen enough?”

  “Of what?”

  He spread his arms out toward the room. “Of this—my life. If you’re finished, you can go. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s time for my nap.”

  “You don’t mean to be rude? Isn’t that exactly what you mean to be?” she asked, and he shrugged. “Knock yourself out, doc. I’m pretty tough.”

  He glared up at her, eyes like daggers. “Get out.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “Okay, tough guy. Make me.”

  Two