by Cara Colter
"A few stitches and you'll be just fine," that cheery nurse had told her an hour ago, showing her how to hold the compress until they got to her.
"That is a truly nasty wound," she had noted, in the same cheery voice. "How did you do that?"
It was the question Cynthia least wanted to be asked. She had decided she wasn't telling anyone the truth. Because one truth could not be told without the other…
This afternoon, she had decided to see just what kind of handicap it was to have sight in only one eye. How debilitating could that be? Perhaps knowing that could help her unlock some of Bear's mystery, his reticence about being seen.
So, out of cotton batting and medical tape, Cynthia had made herself a makeshift patch and secured it over her left eye.
Actually, for the first half hour or so, it hadn't seemed that bad. She was rereading a few of her favorite parts of Hot Desert Kisses. She felt faintly disoriented, not tragically handicapped. But after the first half hour she had noticed she she felt dizzy, as if the words were running together on the page and she was straining to make sense of them. She had put the book down and gone to plug in the kettle for tea. She noticed she was not nearly as confident as she would normally be. There was a slightly off-kilter feeling and it took her two stabs to actually insert the kettle plug in the wall.
And then the phone had rung, and she had gone to get it from where she had left it beside her on the sofa in the living room.
That simple.
She had totally missed the coffee table on her left-hand side. It had been completely in her blind spot. She had tripped hard and fallen on the corner of it. For a moment, she had just lain there, stunned. And then she had touched her forehead. The skin was peeled back like a banana and her hand came away red with her own blood.
Her mother did not handle crisis well, and Cynthia had been lying on the floor feeling intensely foolish and debating what to do when her mother had the awful timing to come through the adjoining door.
The blood might have indicated quite a bit more severe an injury than it really was, because the resulting hysterics had brought the island equivalent of 9-1-1.
And a quick trip on La Torchere's private plane into the medical facilities at Fort Myers.
"Why were you wearing that patch over your eye?" her mother said again, sitting beside her in the emergency room, taking her hand and squeezing it.
"I told you. I got something in my eye. It was watering like crazy, so I covered it up."
When had she become such an accomplished liar? Well, maybe not that accomplished, because her mother kept asking the same question over and over again, her tone edged with disbelief.
"But why didn't you just pop over to my place if you had a lash, or something, in your eye? I could have fixed it in just a jiffy. Even if I am the mother from hell, I can still be counted on to—"
"Bluebird, dear, leave the girl alone. She isn't six."
"She may not be six, but she's is acting very strangely these days," her mother said, a trifle defensively. "Being a concerned parent does not make me the mother from hell."
Her mother had latched on to the mother-from-hell title with a kind of fierce fascination. She seemed bent on convincing the world—Cynthia and Jerome—she was completely undeserving of such a name.
"Didn't you say you were thinking of doing a book on the Underground Railroad?" Jerome asked, artfully changing the subject and giving Cynthia a reassuring wink. "Look, here's an article about that very thing."
Thank God for Jerome's steadying presence, and the effortless way he diverted her mother.
But not even he could do anything about the line-up and emergencies far more urgent than hers. Having occupied her mother, Jerome went to find a coffee machine while Cynthia counted the ticking of seconds on the clock.
"We're at the last layer on a cast, and then you're next," the nurse told her, bustling by. Then she stopped and shook her head. Far away Cynthia could hear what she heard.
Sirens.
"You were next," the nurse said with an apologetic smile.
Again, Cynthia had to fight back the wild desire to leap to her feet, throw away the compress they had given her with strict instructions to keep the pressure on, and head out that door. She had an appointment! If she didn't show what would he do? What would he think?
The emergency-room doors flew open and a stretcher went by.
"Gunshot wound," one of the attendants bellowed.
Cynthia groaned to keep from crying.
Rick sat on the deserted beach. He had a white rose beside him, which was looking more wilted by the second. The moments had ticked away, and with them had gone that exquisite tickle of anticipation he had been feeling about seeing her again.
So, she had come to her senses. Cynthia wasn't coming. It was a good thing, really, if he thought about it rationally, not that he'd had a thought that would qualify as rational for some time now.
They were supposed to have met two hours ago. The rational thing would have been to go home.
But no, he sat here in the darkness, feeling an aching hopefulness that kept him glued to his spot in the sand as if it had turned to cement around him. In the city he might have allowed himself to indulge in any number of excuses for her: traffic, an accident, a family emergency.
But all those things seemed as if they could not happen here in this magical place that seemed to be returning him to himself.
Would he wait until dawn? Did he have anything better to do?
He heard the sound behind him and leapt to his feet, startled, and a thorn from the rose bit into one hand. He sucked the drop of blood and watched. She was coming across the sand toward him, emerging from the darkness like a vision. But all did not seem well. Was she staggering?
Was she drunk? Cynthia drunk? No, impossible. She was always composed, in control. Still, he did not move toward her, trying to figure out what was wrong.
"You're still here," she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice and the slur.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Is that rose for me?"
Her speech was off. What on earth was wrong with her?
"Yes, for you."
She took it and regarded it solemnly. "Innocence and beauty." She remembered, but there was a hazy edge to her voice.
Then she dropped the rose, flung herself against him and wept.
He held her for a long time, allowing himself to feel simple gratitude because she had come. He let her warmth seep into him, making him aware of how cold he had become. Not just tonight. His life had become cold, and Cynthia promised warmth, drawing him like a moth to a flame. But would the end result be just as disastrous?
He took her shoulders, tipped her away and looked into her face, knowing he would see her better than she could see him. Her eyes had a glazed look. And then he saw the white bandage, underneath the fringe of her hair.
"What on earth is going on, Cynthia?"
When she didn't answer, he gently pried up the edge of the bandage. There was a huge lump on her head, and it was crisscrossed with stitches.
She swayed against him.
"They wanted to keep me in the hospital," she wailed. "They thought they should watch for a concussion."
"You've had an accident?" So much for La Torchere being out of the reach of the real world, a valuable lesson for him. Bad things happened here, too.
"A small mishap," she agreed sadly.
"You should be in the hospital, and you're here?"
"Nothing could have kept me from being here."
Flattering as that was, he was furious with her. She had jeopardized her personal safety for a clandestine meeting on the beach with a man who was so unworthy?
"What happened?" he asked her sternly.
"I fell. Bumped my head."
The girl was swaying on her feet! He dealt with the anger he felt at her putting herself at risk like this by scooping her up in his arms.
"You are going straight to bed," he snapp
ed.
She missed the impatience entirely! "You're so masterful," she said groggily.
"Have you been reading romance novels?" he asked sternly.
She giggled helplessly.
"Are you on something?"
"No, no. Just a little morphine."
"Just a little morphine," he muttered. "And a little head injury. You can barely walk and barely talk and you're out traipsing around in the dark? Are you insane?"
"I think I might be," she admitted. "Feels so good."
She rubbed her cheek sleepily on his shirt. That felt pretty good, too.
He sighed. "Cynthia, you should have stayed at the hospital if that's what the doctor wanted."
"I didn't want you to think I wouldn't come. I couldn't let you think that!"
"Ah, Cynthia." He could feel the fury melting out of him as she cuddled in closer. Her body was limp and relaxed, and the delicious warmth of her was like a drug.
"What did you do to yourself, sweet lady?" And what are you doing to me?
"Dumb," she mumbled. "I stumbled, hit my head on the coffee table. Split my forehead wide open. Look like Frankenstein's monster, now."
"You couldn't look like Frankenstein's monster if you dyed yourself green and your head was held on with screws."
"Frankenstein's bride, then," she said stubbornly. "You won't want to go to the wedding with me."
Now didn't seem like a particularly good time to tell her he had decided not to go, anyway. And it wasn't that he didn't want to go. It's that he wanted it too much. He wanted every thing and every moment she was prepared to give him.
And that in itself was a good enough reason to say, no, let's back off a bit, let's give it a rest.
But did she really think he was that shallow? That he would refuse to be seen with her because of the way she looked?
He, of all people, knew how that felt. To be rejected, thrown back, because of scars or imperfections.
"Did you forget my rose?" she asked as he strode toward her apartment.
"Yes. Never mind. I'll get you another one."
"I want that one," she said in a small voice. "Please?"
He swore under his breath, which she thought was masterful, again. She kissed his chest. He went back for the rose, nearly broke his back hanging on to her and bending over in the sand to retrieve it, then stuffed it unceremoniously in his pocket.
"Doesn't that hurt?" she asked.
"Yes," he said as the thorns stabbed him.
Cradling her weight carefully, and trying to ignore the rose jabbing him, he made his way to her door, looked around carefully and opened the handle. It was unlocked, more uncharacteristically reckless behavior on her part.
He set her down carefully, not wanting to trip over the coffee table. It was even darker in here than outside, which was plenty dark. Even so he noticed an adjoining door, sensed the threat of interruption.
"Where does that go?"
"Mommy dearest," she said with a cackle.
"That's what I was afraid of." He went through the blackness and locked the door.
She mewed approvingly. He hoped she wasn't getting any ideas about what it meant, because he was not so callous that he would seduce a woman under the influence of morphine.
Surely they didn't use morphine for a few stitches? But there was no sense pursuing it. It was obvious she didn't have a clue what they had used or why.
He took her hand and then her shoulders and guided her through the darkness to her bedroom. The bedroom was a mirror image of his. So why did hers seem so different? Feminine and sensual and like a siren calling a sailor to the rocks?
He set her on the edge of the bed. In his imagination, in weak moments, it was true, he had thought of this moment. Only it hadn't been anything like this! He had been taking her lips in his, thrusting her back on the quilt…
Don't go there, he ordered himself firmly and pulled back the bedclothes like a nanny getting a child ready for bed. "Come on, in you go."
He turned back to her. She was still on the edge of the bed, but she had her shirt half on and half over her head. She looked as if she was hopelessly stuck.
"Ouch, that hurts. Forget my head," she said, from somewhere inside the tangle of that shirt.
"Yeah, well, I seem to be losing mine, too."
She had fully exposed the lace of her bra, the gentle swell of her breasts mounding over those exquisite lace cups. Her skin looked like silk, and he could smell the delightful feminine fragrance of her.
He gently pulled the shirt back down. Trying not to touch, yearning to touch, he finally got the shirt back where it belonged.
"I need my pajamas," she told him mutinously.
"I'll pull off your shoes. No pajamas."
"No pajamas?" she said with slurred wickedness.
"Lord, have mercy," he said with feeling. "I didn't mean it like that. You can sleep in your clothes tonight."
"Want you to see them."
"What?" he asked, the panic evident in his voice. "You want me to see what?"
"Pajamas."
"Not a good idea." He watched her mouth form the most adorable little pout and tried to placate her. "Maybe I did see them once. Bunnies?"
"Not those ones."
"That's what I was afraid of. Cynthia, be a good girl, and get under the covers."
"Tired of being a good girl."
"Well, your timing couldn't be worse." He was trying so darned hard to be a good guy, to be worthy of her, to act like a gentleman and not the kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
She really didn't have much fight in her. She was further gone than she wanted to admit. It took only the slightest shove to lie her down. He pulled the blankets over her and tucked them under her chin. It was way too warm in here for that kind of covering, but either she was going to be too warm or he was.
And she didn't even know what universe she was in at the moment.
"Okay. You're all settled. Need anything else? A glass of water? An aspirin?"
"Don't go," she said, her eyes huge on his face. For a minute he wondered how well she could see him, but decided if it was that well she certainly wouldn't be asking him to stay.
"Uh, I can't stay." She was really asking a little much of him. But he made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned closer and looked at her wound. Her eyes were shut and gentle little sputters were starting to emerge from her lips.
He was amazed she had made it to the beach in this state, even more amazed it had mattered enough to her.
Which is why he could not go to that wedding. She would be disappointed. He did not want to hurt her. She already appeared to care way, way too much.
She drifted, and then her eyes fluttered open. She started awake and gave a small shriek.
In the darkness he must look like a dark huge figure looming over her.
"It's me," he said, and felt anew his shame for deceiving her about who he was.
But even without a name, the sound of his voice seemed to soothe her.
"Oh," she said, "you." And then she reached up and touched the patch over his eye with exquisitely tender fingers. "It's so hard, isn't it? Only seeing with one eye?"
"I think it might be harder than most people imagine."
"I know it is," she said vehemently.
"How would you know that?" he asked, humoring her.
"I tried it. I wanted to know how it felt for you. So I made a patch for my eye. And fell over the coffee table."
For a moment he could barely understand what he had heard, and when it did register, he could barely speak for the lump in his throat, the tightness in his chest.
"You wanted to know what it was like for me?" he repeated, incredulous.
She nodded solemnly, drew his hand to her lips, kissed his fingers. "It's very hard being you," she informed him.
And she didn't know the half of it! But had one other person on the entire face of the earth ever showed such empathy for him?
Had one other person ever c
ared about him like this? And he was betraying her. He knew who she was, and she didn't have a clue about their shared past. That kind of deception did not a good foundation for a relationship make.
Should he tell her? Or should he back away and not come back?
It occurred to him he was not the only one in over his head. She was in over her head with him.
He needed to stop it.
"Will you come to the wedding reception with me?" she asked groggily. "I wasn't going to go. I changed my mind. I was going to ask you to do something else with me, instead. But I can't remember why. And I so want to see them. Parris and Brad. In love."
That would be as good a place as any to stop it. Right here. Right now. She was talking dreamily about people in love. It was downright scary!
But he found he couldn't refuse her.
She had worn an eyepatch to see what it was like to be him.
And all she wanted was for him to go to a wedding party?
He became aware of feeling he would die for her, if that was asked of him. So, why wouldn't he live for her?
Confusion washed over him. Did he love her? It was turning into a very scary night, and not because she looked even vaguely like Frankenstein's bride. In fact, he wished she did!
"The wedding?" she asked.
The word no formed in his mind, firm and hard.
But the word yes supped from his lips. "I'll meet you there."
"Thank you, Bear."
"It's Rick," he said softly.
"Rick," she said. "Oh, I love that name."
"You do?"
"I knew a boy named that once."
Temptation reared its ugly head. How nice it would be to hear how she felt about that boy she had once known.
But it would be one more deception that would be nearly impossible to explain when the time came. If the time came.
"I have to go," he said.
"Please, no," she mumbled, and her hand tightened around his.
He looked down at her again, her hair scattered across the pillow, her eyes closed, her lashes so thick and long they cast small shadows on her cheeks.
She'd had a head injury. You didn't leave people alone who had sustained head injuries. They had to be checked for possible concussion every few hours.
