“I had no idea how I was going to haul you into that chair if you didn’t cooperate,” she confided.
“Sweetheart, you should never admit a thing like that,” he warned while awkwardly pulling on his robe. “Tomorrow I just might get it into my head to stand you up for this therapy date, and now I know I can get away with it.”
“Who are you kidding?” she sassed right back. “You knew that anyway. You’re nearly a foot taller than I am and seventy pounds heavier.”
“So you admit to being all bluster.”
“Not exactly.” She gestured toward the door. “I have a very tall, very strong orderly waiting just outside in case my technique failed. He lifts twice your weight just for kicks.”
“Which confirms that you weren’t quite as sure of yourself as you wanted me to believe.”
“Let’s just say that I’m aware of the importance of both first impressions and contingency plans,” she said as she escorted him to the door.
Outside the room she turned the wheelchair over to the orderly, who was indeed more than equal to persuading a man of Frank’s size to do as he was told. “Thanks, Otis. We won’t be needing this after all.”
The huge black man grinned. “Never thought you would, Ms. Michaels. You’re batting fifty-eight for sixty by my count. It’s not even sporting fun to bet against you anymore.”
“Nice record,” Frank observed wryly as they walked down the hall. “I had no idea therapists kept scorecards. I’d have put up less of a fight if I’d known I was about to ruin your reputation.”
“Otis is a born gambler. I’m trying to persuade him that the track is not the best place to squander his paycheck.”
“So now he takes bets against you?”
“I’m hoping eventually he’ll get bored enough to quit that, too. I think he’s getting close.” She peered up at Frank, her expression hopeful. “What do you think?”
What Frank thought, as he lost himself in those huge green eyes, was that he was facing trouble a whole lot more dangerous than the condition of his hands. His voice gentled to a near whisper. “Ms. Michaels, I think a man would be a fool to ever bet against you.”
Her gaze locked with his until finally, swallowing hard, she blinked and looked away. “Jenny,” she said, just as softly. “You can call me Jenny.”
Frank nodded, aware that they were suddenly communicating in ways that went beyond mere words. “Jenny,” he repeated for no reason other than the chance to hear her name roll off his tongue. The name was simple and uncomplicated, not at all like the woman it belonged to. He had a hunch he’d done a whole lot of miscalculating in the past couple of days. It might be fascinating to discover just how far off the mark he had been. “And I’m Frank.”
“Frank.”
They’d stopped outside a closed door marked Therapy and might have stood right where they were, awareness suddenly throbbing between them, if Otis hadn’t strolled past, whistling, giving Jenny a conspiratorial wink. Suddenly she was all business again, opening the door, pointing to a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
Frank stepped into a room filled with ordinary, everyday items from jars to toothbrushes, from scissors to jumbo-size crayons. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this dime-store collection of household paraphernalia. He hooked his foot under the rung of an ordinary straight-back chair and pulled it away from a Formica-topped table so he could sit. He eyed the assortment of equipment skeptically. He suspected his insurance was going to pay big bucks for this therapy, and for what? So he could play with a toothbrush? His spirit of cooperation took another nosedive.
“What’s all this?” he asked derisively the minute Jenny joined him.
“Advanced therapy,” she retorted. “If you’re lucky and work hard, you’ll get to it in a week or two.”
He regarded her incredulously. “It’s going to take two weeks before I can brush my teeth? I thought you were supposed to be good.”
“I am good. You’re the patient,” she reminded him. “Two weeks. Could be longer. The bandages won’t even be off for three weeks. Think you can handle it sooner?”
There was no mistaking the challenge. “Give me the brush,” he said.
“Get it yourself.”
He reached across the table and tried to pick it up. He managed it with both hands, by sliding it to the edge of the table and clamping it between his hands as it fell off. At least his quick, ball-playing reflexes hadn’t suffered any.
“Now what?” Jenny said, all bright-eyed curiosity. The woman was just waiting for a failure. Frank was equally determined not to fail. He was going to set a few recovery records of his own.
He pressed harder to keep the brush from slipping and tried to maneuver it toward his mouth. “Do you have to watch every move I make?” he grumbled, sweat forming across his brow with the taxing effort.
“Yep.”
Irritated by his inability to manipulate the brush and by her fascinated observation of the failure, he threw it down. “Forget it.”
“Maybe we ought to work up to that,” Jenny suggested mildly. There wasn’t the slightest hint of gloating in her tone.
He scowled back at her, but her gaze remained unwaveringly calm. “Okay, fine,” he bit out finally. “You call the shots. Where do we start?”
She sat down next to him, inching her chair so close he could smell the sweet spring scent of her perfume. “We’ll start with flexing your fingers. I’ll do the work this first time, okay? It’s called passive motion.”
Momentarily resigned, he shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
With surprising gentleness, she took his hand in hers. At once Frank cursed his fate all over again. He couldn’t even feel the unexpected caress. His imagination went wild though. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked, if the texture felt like rose petals. He was so fascinated with his fantasizing, in fact, that he barely noticed what she was doing, until she said, “Now you try it.”
“Mmm?” he murmured.
She regarded him indignantly. “Frank, weren’t you paying a bit of attention?”
“My mind wandered.”
If she was aware of exactly where his wayward thoughts had strayed, she showed no evidence of it, not even the faintest blush of embarrassment. She picked up his other hand.
“Try to pay attention this time,” she said as she slowly flexed each finger back and forth. The range of movement was minuscule. Frank couldn’t believe how little she expected or how inept he was at accomplishing it. He needed her to move his fingers for him—and he hated that weakness.
“That’s it?” he scoffed when she stopped. “That’s your idea of therapy? You dragged me all the way down here for that?”
“You could have done it in your room, but we tried that routine yesterday and you didn’t seem to like it. It occurred to me you might take it more seriously if I brought you down here. Just remember there’s an old saying that you have to walk before you can run.”
“It usually applies just to babies.”
Jenny rested her hand on his forearm and regarded him intently. Compassion and understanding filled her eyes. “In this instance it might be wise if you think of your hands as being every bit as untutored as a newborn’s,” she told him. “The instincts are there, but the control is shaky. Right now we’re just trying to assure that the joints don’t stiffen up as you heal and that the skin maintains some elasticity.”
Frank wasn’t interested in baby steps. He wanted desperately to make strides. “All I need is to get these bandages off and I’ll be just fine.”
“You will be if you do the exercises religiously, ten minutes an hour. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Want me to walk you back to your room or send for Otis?”
“Hardly. My legs aren’t the problem.”
“I’ll be in later to check on you.”
Her tone was all business and her gaze was directed at his chart as she scribbled i
n a notation. Frank found it thoroughly irritating that he’d apparently been summarily dismissed now that she’d gotten her way. He was just about to tell her in grumpy detail what she could do with her ridiculous therapy, when the door opened and another patient was wheeled in by the formidable Otis.
The young girl was swathed in bandages over fifty percent of her body. Only one side of her face peeked through the gauze and only one arm remained unbandaged. Even so, she struggled for a smile at the sight of Jenny. Frank felt his heart wrench at the pitiful effort.
“Hey, Pam, how’s it going?” Jenny asked, her own smile warm, her gaze unflinching.
“Pretty good. I just beat Otis at poker. He has to go out and bring me a hamburger and fries for lunch.”
Otis leaned down, his expression chagrined. “I thought that was going to be our little secret.”
Jenny chuckled. “That will teach you, big guy. There are no secrets between therapist and patient. As long as you’re buying, you can bring me a hamburger, too.”
“Women! The two of you are going to put me in the poorhouse,” the orderly grumbled, but he was grinning as he left.
Frank watched the byplay between Jenny and the teenager for a few more minutes, irritated by their camaraderie, the easy laughter. He could feel the pull of the warmth between them and envied it. Feeling lonelier than he ever had in his life, he finally slipped out the door and went back to his room.
Late into the night, long after he probably should have been asleep, he struggled to move his fingers just a fraction of an inch. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to prove something to himself…or to Jenny.
Chapter Three
Jenny had met some tough, self-defeating patients in her time, and Frank Chambers ranked right up there with the worst of them. Right now he was suffering more from wounded pride than he was from his physical injuries. A man like Frank, used to doing for others, according to his family, would hate being dependent, even temporarily. And she could tell that he was going to fight with her every step of the way, try to hide his unfamiliar weakness. She had to make him see that it took real strength to admit the need for help.
She’d once heard a burn therapist from Miami say that a patient who was a winner in life before his injury would be a winner afterward. Despite his initial surliness, she could tell that Frank Chambers was a winner. She just had to remind him of that. She had to get him past his anger and fears and on to more practical things that could speed his recovery. Sooner or later his intelligence would kick in, and he’d realize that his attitude was only hurting.
Fortunately Jenny was by nature a fighter. She’d fought her own personal demons in this very hospital, and she’d learned from the humbling experience. Sometimes that enabled her to reach patients other therapists wanted to abandon as lost causes. Knowing how easy it was to slip into despair strengthened both her compassion and her determination to keep that self-defeating slide from happening.
Yesterday, by threatening to force Frank into a wheelchair, by hinting he was worse off than he was and allowing him the victory of proving her wrong, she had won the first round. Yet it was a shaky, inconclusive victory. Today was likely to be more difficult. He was going to be expecting miracles, and if he hadn’t improved overnight, he’d consider the therapy a failure and her an unwelcome intruder.
She considered sending the massive, intimidating Otis after him, but decided it would be the cowardly way out. She did take along the wheelchair though, just in case Frank needed a little extra persuasion.
Jenny breezed into the room just in time to see his breakfast tray hit the floor. She grabbed an unopened carton of milk in midair and guessed the rest. He’d gotten frustrated over his inability to cope with the milk and the utensils.
“Hey, I’ve heard hospital food is lousy, but that’s no reason to dump it onto the floor,” she said, keeping her expression neutral as he made his way from the bed to the window.
“I wouldn’t know,” he muttered, his rigid back to her as he stared outside. His black hair was becomingly tousled from sleep and his inability to tame it with a comb. She was touched by the sexy disarray and poked her hands in her pockets to avoid the temptation to brush an errant strand from his forehead. The shadow of dark stubble on his cheeks was equally tempting, adding to a masculine appeal she was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.
“You could have asked for help,” she said mildly.
“Dammit, woman, I am not a baby. I don’t need to be fed.”
“You may not be a baby, but at the moment you’re acting like one. You’ve been burned, not incapacitated for life. There’s nothing wrong with accepting a little help until you can manage on your own.”
He whirled on her. “And when in hell will that be? I’ve been doing your damned exercises.”
“Since yesterday,” she reminded him.
He ignored her reasonable response, clearly determined to sulk. “Nothing’s changed. I still can’t even open a damned carton of milk.”
She regarded him with undisguised curiosity. “Do you actually like lukewarm milk?”
“No,” he admitted. “I hate the stuff.”
“Then what’s the big deal?”
He scowled, but she could see a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes before he carefully banked it and returned to his study of the foggy day outside. “It’s the principle.”
“Pretty stupid principle, if you ask me.”
“Who asked you?”
“Call me generous. I like to share my opinions.”
“Share them somewhere else where they’re appreciated. I’m sure there are a dozen places on this corridor alone where Saint Jennifer’s views would be welcomed.”
The barb struck home. It wasn’t the first time she’d been accused of being a Pollyanna, of nagging where she wasn’t wanted. It came with the job. Even so, she had to swallow the urge to lash back. Forcing a breezy note into her voice, she said, “You probably wouldn’t be nearly this cranky if you’d had your breakfast. Come on. If you don’t squeal on me, I’ll treat you to a couple of doughnuts and a cup of coffee in the therapy room. I guarantee there won’t be anything you have to open. And the doughnuts are fresh. I stopped at the bakery on the way in.”
He turned finally and regarded her warily. “Are you trying to bribe me into coming back to therapy?”
“I’m trying to improve your temper for the benefit of the entire staff on this floor. Now come along.”
Blue eyes, which had been bleak with exhaustion and defeat, sparked briefly with sheer devilment. “Do I have a choice?” he inquired, his voice suddenly filled with a lazy challenge.
“You do, but just so you know, the wheelchair’s right outside.”
“And Otis?”
“He’s within shouting distance, but I didn’t think I’d need him today.” Her gaze held a challenge of its own. She could practically see the emotions warring inside him as he considered his options. She pressed a little harder. “So, are you coming or not? I have jelly doughnuts. Or chocolate. There’s even one that’s apple-filled.”
Temptation won out over stubbornness. She could see it in the suddenly resigned set of his shoulders. Apparently she’d hit on a weakness with those doughnuts.
“You are a bully,” he accused, but he followed her from the room.
“Takes one to know one. What’s it going to be jelly, chocolate or apple?”
“Jelly, of course. You could probably see my mouth watering the minute you mentioned them.”
“I did sense I had your attention.”
“Why do you do this?” he asked as they walked down the hall.
“Buy doughnuts?”
The evasion earned a look of disgust. “You know what I meant.”
“They pay me to do it.”
“So you’ve said. I’m more interested in why someone would choose a profession that requires them to put up with nasty-tempered patients like me.”
“Maybe I’m a masochist.”
&nb
sp; “I don’t think so. What’s the truth, Jenny Michaels?”
There was a genuine curiosity in his eyes that demanded an honest response. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “sometimes I can make a difference.”
He nodded at once with obvious understanding. “Quite a high, huh?”
She grinned at the way he mirrored her thoughts. “Quite a high.”
He glanced sideways at her. “I’d guess the lows are pretty bad, though.”
Jenny sobered at once, thinking of the patients who struggled and lost against insurmountable odds. “Bad enough.”
Inside the sunshine-bright therapy room, she put two jelly doughnuts on a plate and poured a cup of coffee for Frank as he nudged a chair up to the table with some deft footwork. She sat beside him and encouraged him to talk about himself. As he did, almost without him realizing, she broke off bits of the doughnuts and fed them to him. More than once her fingers skimmed his lips, sending a jolt of electricity clear through her. He seemed entirely unaware of it, thank goodness.
“So you worked odd jobs from the time you were a kid and helped your mother raise all of those handsome characters I’ve met,” she said.
“You think they’re handsome?” he asked, watching her suspiciously. “All of them?”
She nodded, playing on the surprising hint of vulnerability she detected. “One of them is a real charmer, too. What’s his name? Tim?”
“He’s a little young for you, isn’t he?” he inquired, his gaze narrowed, his expression sour.
Jenny chuckled at his obviously suspicious response to her teasing. “Who are you looking out for? Him or me?” She decided not to mention the third alternative, Frank himself.
“You. Tim learned to take care of his own social life long ago. It’s very active.”
“And yours?”
He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Not so active, at least not lately.”
“Why not?You’re the best-looking one in the bunch,” she said. She wasn’t above using flattery to get her way, but in his case it wasn’t necessary. Frank Chambers had a quiet strength and serenity about him when he wasn’t raging at the universe. He seemed like the kind of man a woman could depend on. And everything she’d heard about him from his adoring family confirmed that. Plus, his slightly crooked nose, the firm, stubborn line of his jaw and the astonishingly blue eyes gave his face a rugged appeal. She’d always preferred that type to the polished professionals in their designer shirts, designer watches and phony smiles. In Frank’s case the internal strength and diamond-in-the-rough exterior added up to a potent and very masculine combination.
Dream Mender Page 3
