by Raina Lynn
When Garrett finally emerged, the air crackled with his frustration. He wore one pair of the new pants. The other pair and his own were folded haphazardly in his lap. He handed the new pair to the clerk. “Put these back on the rack, please.” Then he handed the man a set of torn-off price tags. “I want four more pairs like those.”
Maggie read the tension lines on his brow. So did the clerk, who apparently knew when not to argue with a customer about wearing the merchandise.
Dr. Kelly assured Garrett that the second surgery to tighten the tendons had gone well. Bandaged from fingertips to elbow and living with painkillers that barely touched the problem, Garrett reserved his own judgment. Maggie had taken the day off to get him to and from the hospital for the outpatient surgery and to get his wheelchair modified. With one arm completely out of commission, he couldn’t handle his wheelchair by himself. They’d discussed everything the day before and, for once, she hadn’t taken over. He found himself appreciative of her efforts, and they got through the whole day without quarreling.
Maggie pulled strings with the medical supply company and got a different type of axle and double hand rims on the left side installed in one day. No small feat apparently. The outer rim still controlled the left wheel. The new inner rim controlled the right. They were close enough together that he could grip both with one hand and propel himself forward in a straight line.
For yet another night, Maggie tossed and turned until she had the covers torn halfway off the bed. She was no closer to finding a way to keep him here permanently than she had been ten days ago when he’d moved in.
It could be years before he adjusted to his limitations. How on earth could she get him to weather the storms together? She didn’t care what he did for a living as long as it wasn’t dangerous. And as badly as he’d reacted to the counselor’s suggestion of his “flying a desk” at the DEA, she was convinced that law enforcement was finally a part of his past.
Giving up on sleep, she hopped out of bed, but now that she was up, she didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with herself. Lying back down, though, held absolutely no appeal.
She wandered through the living room and froze as she passed the downstairs hallway. Despite its being two o’clock in the morning, light shone through Garrett’s open door. The wall switch was six feet from the bed. To a paraplegic six feet might just as well be in the next county. Had he forgotten to turn out the light before he lay down, and then just left it?
Maggie hesitated. Should she see if he needed anything or go on to the kitchen? Her feminine half hated to see him struggle to get from the bed to the wheelchair then back again, but her professional half clucked its tongue in disapproval.
“Get a grip,” she grumbled under her breath. “He doesn’t need tucking in.”
Irritated, she marched to the kitchen and flung open the refrigerator door. The inside light nearly blinded her. Worse, the orange juice was gone. “Swell.”
“Looking for this?” a sexy male voice asked from behind her.
Startled, she whirled around. The refrigerator light illuminated Garrett sitting beside the sink, carton in hand. He glanced upward at the cupboards. “I’d offer you a glass, but my reach is a bit short. If you don’t mind drinking after me, you’re welcome to some.” A humorless, self-mocking smite twisted his square features as he held the carton out to her.
Maggie hated drinking out of cartons, and it was one of the few personal habits Garrett had that got under her skin. An echo of the old, petty quarrel reverberated through her mind. In Garrett’s opinion, if no one but the two of them drank it—Rick detested the stuff—then where was the harm? It saved a glass to wash later. Sensible. Practical. Typical Garrett.
So many serious problems lay between them that the inconsequential old one made her smile. “Mark this date in history,” she said lightly, reaching for the carton. Their fingers brushed, and fire raced up her arm. Then she tipped the carton to her lips.
He watched her attentively, but the glitter in his eyes told her the majority of his thoughts weren’t on orange juice. Or was the desire wishful thinking on her part? A trick of the light combined with his painkillers?
As she finished, Garrett cleared his throat, the sound gruff in the stillness. “We haven’t slept under the same roof but in separate beds since you moved in with Mom and Dad after your eighteenth birthday.”
“Yeah, I was officially out of the foster care program, and your folks made me feel as if I’d been adopted. They didn’t want me out in the cold, cruel world all alone.” She smiled at the tender memories. “Then you promptly moved out.”
“I didn’t trust myself,” he grunted, a melancholy smile on his lips. “Not after the first time you were in my bathroom taking a shower. You almost had company.”
“I wouldn’t have minded.” Need hummed in her veins. “I still wouldn’t.”
He blanched, the passion dying from his eyes. “Good night, babe,” he murmured, then left the room.
The crushing rejection nearly made her cry out. The master bedroom light winked out, and she trudged wearily back upstairs. “Something better give, Hughes, or you’re going to rape that man.”
Chapter 10
The next night, Rick ducked out right after dinner with a mumbled explanation of meeting John at the arcade. Finding a carburetor for that ancient beast had proved more complicated than expected, and he’d come home from the parts house twice with the wrong one.
Alone, Garrett and Maggie barely spoke two words all evening, then went to his room early. She changed into her pajamas, paced the bedroom floor, emotionally drained and wanting Garrett so badly she hurt.
Take a cold shower, Hughes, she grumbled. He doesn’t want you.
So? came an impatient voice. Initiate a little action. So what if he’s always been the aggressor. As we’ve both acknowledged, things have changed. Her hormones gave a sharp nudge.
Maggie pursed her lips, decision made. “I’ve got nothing to lose. It can’t get any worse.” She took a quick shower, changed into the dark emerald satin nightgown that she’d bought on a more hopeful day. Then she went downstairs and stared at the wedge of light that spilled onto the carpet from beneath the master bedroom door.
You’re here. Now what? How does one go about seducing a man? Her courage faltered. “Oh, come on, Hughes,” she muttered under her breath, disgusted. “Get a grip.”
With a quick detour to the kitchen to snag a long-unopened bottle of brandy and a couple of snifters, she marched into the master bedroom.
Garrett lay stretched out on the bed, shoulders propped against the headboard, a police journal lying open in his lap. Pain lines creased his brow as he absently massaged his bandaged right arm.
The sight of the journal made her blood chill, and she tried but failed to force the old fears from her mind. He was home and safe. Would she even consider a reconciliation if he could return to police work? Firmly, she told herself that the entire issue was a moot point, but she knew better. As long as the subject had the power to make her blood run cold, she still hadn’t completely laid it to rest.
The moment Garrett saw her, he stopped rubbing his arm. He took in the brandy, the snifters and her new nightgown, and a wary, remote cast settled over his features. “Did you need something?” he asked, coldly returning to his reading.
This new Garrett, the one who hid behind masks, wasn’t the man Maggie had loved for twenty years, but she was determined not to let him keep shutting her out. She screwed together her resolve and took what she hoped looked like a confident step toward the bed. “Overdid it in the garage today, didn’t you?”
“Some.” He didn’t look up.
She almost made a flip remark about providing a tasty painkiller in the form of a brandy, then suddenly remembered the obvious. Booze and medication were a bad combination. Damn. “Did you take your pills tonight?”
The subtle inflection to the sigh he released clearly indicated he didn’t appreciate the invasion into his pr
ivacy, but she had no intention of cutting him any slack, not tonight.
“Did you?” She stepped closer.
“No, they make me groggy.” His exasperation was thick enough to cut with a chain saw.
Ooooh, better and better. She pursed her lips to keep from grinning.
“Maggie, what do you want?” It was more accusation than question.
With her heart pounding in her throat, she perched on the edge of the bed and set the bottle and glasses on the night table. “I thought I’d pour us both a drink. I’m not much for drinking alone.”
The tactic had to be a step above “what’s a gorgeous hunk like you doing in a place like this?” At least, she hoped so.
Garrett bristled, but she pretended not to notice. The space on the bed between his hip and the edge wasn’t quite wide enough for her bottom, but she made herself at home anyway. Which gave him two choices—move over or let her fall to the floor. Which is it going to be, my heart?
His breathing came deep and labored. Every muscle in his body knotted up. “What are you up to?”
“Lighten up, Garrett,” she said. “Rick’s off with friends. The least we can do is have a quiet drink. Let’s face it. Life has been a real witch lately.”
As she waited for his answer, her own breathing stopped completely, and her heart beat frantically against her ribs. Almost reluctantly, he moved over. Raw feminine power swept over her in an unstoppable wave. Suddenly, the idea of seducing Garrett lost its intimidation.
“I asked you a question, Maggie Jean.”
She nearly laughed out loud. I’ve got you now, my love. The only time you ever call me that is when you’re really furious or off balance.
“I told you,” she insisted. “I’m tired, I’m lonesome, and I could use a little companionship.”
Suspicion and heat smoldered in his face, flaring into anguish before he closed his eyes. “This isn’t a good idea, babe,” he said softly. “It really isn’t.” He flipped to the next page of his magazine.
Maggie had the sinking insight that something more was wrong here than she knew. Well, Hughes, that won’t be a firsl
Deliberately, she rested her hand on his chest, drawn as always to the smooth texture of his skin and the hard warmth of the muscles beneath. He might be forty-two and a paraplegic, but he still had looks men half his age would envy.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shot her a hounded look, and once again turned a page. Faster than she could blink, Maggie snatched the magazine and flung it across the room. It hit the mirrored closet door and crumpled to the floor in a heap.
“I was reading that,” he growled.
“No, you weren’t,” she countered. “You were ignoring me. And not very effectively, I might add.”
The silence pulsed with the heat of passion radiating from him, the sheer intensity unnerving. She sensed primal need warring with intellect, and she waited him out, her body language deliberately projecting a signal she hoped would be interpreted as 1-want-you and I’m-more-stubbom-than-you-sogive-it-up.
“You don’t take hints as well as you used to.”
“Sure I do.” She grinned. “I’ve just gotten more selective about which ones I act on.”
He digested that a moment, self-loathing twisting one side of his sensuous lips. “You’re not going to let up, are you?”
She shook her head, no, and braced for the worst.
He looked off in the distance so long, she wondered if he planned to answer at all. “I’ve always pitied men who had this happen to them, but, like paralysis, I never thought it would happen to me.” He still refused at look at her. “It’s gone, babe. At RPI I thought I had it back, but...”
A sick knowing churned in the pit of her stomach. Had the signs been there and she’d missed them? Or had he been working so hard at masking them behind indifference that she couldn’t have guessed on her own? “Impotence?”
His haunted gaze flicked to the far side of the room. “Loaded word, isn’t it?”
She slid her hand around his ribs into a tight embrace and rested her forehead against his shoulder. He held his body so rigid, that it was like embracing a statue. Neither spoke for long moments, but at least he didn’t push her away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked finally.
“Male vanity.” He snorted. “I believe you call it testosterone poisoning.”
Tears clogged her eyes. Defiantly, she blinked them back.
“Babe, you walked in with that bottle of brandy and scared me to death. It’s a hard thing for a man to face knowing he can’t finish what he wants to start.”
She leaned back enough to look into his embittered, anguished eyes. “But you were fine.”
His bark of laughter wasn’t at all encouraging, but he explained what had happened—or more accurately what hadn’t happened—in the kitchen that night. “And nothing has worked since.”
“Garrett, your body suffered multiple major traumas. Almost fifteen hours of surgery. The resulting three cardiac arrests. You should be dead. From a strict medical standpoint, you’re still recovering.” She shook her head. “And while we’re at it, human sexuality is staggeringly complex.”
“Which means what?” he snapped. “That it’s going to be Russian roulette for the rest of my life? Today, I’m a man? Tomorrow, I’m not?”
She mulled that over. She’d read his charts so many times, she had them memorized. It was possible that the problem was organic, but she doubted it. If she had to make a guess, it would be along the lines of his no longer viewing himself as a man. Therefore, his subconscious proved it to him in the most devastating way it could. “Have you considered that it might be stress induced?”
A vicious expletive erupted from his lips. “That’s even better. I’ll bet you and Blake know the perfect shrink for me, too. Well, why not? I’ve got every other kind of doctor working on what’s left of me.”
Dear God, he’s so fragile. Help me to help him. “Counseling may not be necessary.”
He gave her a condemning look. “How reassuring.”
“Cut yourself some slack. You’ve always been a takecharge man.”
“Used to be.”
“You still are.” She took hold of his beard-shadowed chin and turned his face toward her. “The context has changed. That’s all.”
“Look, babe, I appreciate the pep talk.” He peeled her fingers from his face. “However, my ‘context’ isn’t all that rosy, so take the booze and go.”
Not on a bet. A shot of brandy and a rubdown always mellowed you out when a tough case ate at you. There’s no reason to believe it won’t help now, too. She kept the grim determination from showing on her face. Besides, heart of mine, there’s more to making love than intercourse. I’ve taught countless patients the importance of cuddling, of touching, of just being together. And you’re about to get a lesson infinitely more personal than a confidential chat and a suggested reading list.
“I asked you to leave.”
“I heard.” She poured them both a brandy, held his out to him, then swirled it gently and stared him down. He glanced at the generously filled snifter and cast her a sour look. “I came in here because I wanted to be with .you, maybe watch a movie together. If we can’t make love, I’m disappointed, but I’ll live.” She held her breath, waiting for him to accuse her of lying—which she was—but he didn’t. So far, so good.
He eyed her suspiciously.
“Look. That room upstairs gets so quiet, I can hear my hair grow.” She swirled his brandy again and jiggled her eyebrows at him. “Besides, there’s no TV up there.”
He glowered at her for long moments, then sighed in defeat. “You and your movies.”
Gotchal
He took the snifter, careful not to let his fingers touch hers, and she raised her glass in wordless toast.
Her movie collection overflow was stored in a cabinet below the TV in the bedroom. Rummaging through it would be best accomplished by kneeling
on the floor. Sooooo, she bent over straight-legged, knowing full well that the short, satin gown rode up in the back, nicely outlining her bottom and giving him an eyeful of bare thighs.
He cleared his throat and coughed.
That sounded a bit strangled, my heart. Knowing he couldn’t see her face, she grinned evilly. Men are such visual creatures. Poor things.
“Found it,” she purred. “One I’ve only seen once.”
“What is it?” His voice sounded more strained.
Maggie kept her back to him as she loaded the cassette into the VCR and pushed all the right buttons. “It’s a documentary on an archaeological dig. in Peru.”
“I don’t know, babe. Don’t you have anything else? Something with a plot?”
She turned and gave him an innocent smile. “Oh, but this is just what I’m in the mood for. It’s quiet and relaxing.” And guaranteed to bore you to tears.
The opening music blared, and she hopped onto the end of the king-size bed and crawled to him, her gaping neckline giving him an unobstructed view of her naked body from breasts to knees.
He whipped his gaze chastely to the door. “Maggie, wouldn’t you be more comfortable wearing a robe or something?”
She snuggled in next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “Shhh, I don’t want to miss any of this.” She stared back at the TV as if completely engrossed by the opening shots of the soaring emerald-and-gray cliffs.
“But you’ve seen it before,” he snarled. “Now go put on a robe.” He swallowed hard. “Or what about your pink sweat suit?”
“Thanks, but it’s dirty.” She’d never played dumb in her life and found the whole game exhilarating. Striving to appear unaware of her actions, she draped an arm across his abdomen and idly twirled the dark springy hair just above his waistband. His stomach muscles spasmed.
