Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics)

by Debbie Macomber

  Awkwardly, she stood and backed away. “Good night, Sloan. Sleep well.”

  Somehow Joy managed to keep from running into her room. By the time she closed the bedroom door, she was trembling. Covering her face with both hands, she paced the carpet, her heart pounding like a trapped fledgling. Either she come to her senses or resign from this case. The matter was simple. She was a professional therapist, sensible and proficient. She knew better than to nurture this powerful physical attraction. In the end she would leave the cripple, not Sloan. But just as she recognized she must rein in her feelings, she knew she couldn’t bear to leave him now.

  The next morning, Joy was in the pool doing laps when Paul brought Sloan to the water’s edge. Once placed on the side of the pool, Sloan could lower himself into the blue depths.

  Treading water at the deep end, Joy waved. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” he shouted back.

  A smile flashed from her eyes, and with even strokes Joy swam toward him.

  “You look bright and cheerful this morning.” Sloan had been up, dressed, and eating breakfast by the time Joy returned from her run. Normally, he delayed starting the day as long as possible. Joy remembered the struggle she had had just to keep his draperies open the first few days after she’d arrived. Sometimes she forgot how far they’d come. But seeing him now, she was reminded how much further they yet had to travel.

  Clara hurried onto the patio. “Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Whittaker Senior is here.”

  A hardness stole over Sloan’s face. “Who does he want to see this time?” The question was barely civil.

  Joy bit into her lip to restrain an angry response.

  Clara wiped her hands on her apron, obviously flustered. “Mr. Whittaker says he wants to talk to you.” She directed her answer to Sloan.

  “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “We can do this later,” Joy inserted eagerly. “I’ll come back—”

  “No.” His angry shout shut her off.

  “Sloan, please,” she whispered.

  “Do as I say, Clara.” He directed his attention to the housekeeper, his dismissal final.

  With a quick bob of her head, Clara turned and hurried toward the house.

  His narrowed gaze swung to Joy. “Was this brilliant idea yours?”

  Joy returned his stare speechlessly. Was Sloan implying that she had sent for his father?

  “Is it?” he shouted.

  “Of course not. What are you suggesting?”

  “I saw the two of you together,” he hissed. “I’m not stupid. You two have something up your sleeves. Let it be known right now. I don’t want any part of it. Is that understood?” The last words were shouted.

  “Something up our sleeves?” Joy echoed incredulously. “Your father is half killing himself to maintain the business. Your company, I might add. He’s dying in stages. In case you’d forgotten, your father’s retired.” Joy paused to draw in a breath. “Are you so self-absorbed that you haven’t stopped to think what his life has been like since your accident? Not only is he worried sick about you, but he’s taken over your position in the company—with all the stress and worries. But you, Mr. High and Mighty, you’re so caught up in self-pity, all you see is yourself.”

  Sloan’s face became sickeningly pale. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you accusing me of lying now, too?”

  “What can you expect me to think? My parents told me Harrison was in charge of the company.”

  “Have you looked at your father lately, Sloan, really looked? Can’t you see what’s happening to him?”

  Sloan went completely still, like a lion alert before the attack. “If what you say is true, it’s Dad’s own fault. He should have given everything over to Harrison the way he said he was.”

  “Are you really so uncaring?” His lack of concern shocked her.

  His blistering-hot gaze swept over her contemptuously. “What do you know of any of this?” he shouted. “Safe and warm in your secure little world, it must be easy to sit in judgment of something you’ll never comprehend.” A muscle worked convulsively along the line of his jaw.

  The desire to tell him was overpowering. “What do I know?” She repeated his question with a half-laugh. “Maybe it’s time you found out exactly what I do know.” She swam to the steps that led out of the pool. “You asked me once about pain. Believe me when I tell you I’m well acquainted with it.” She stood and placed one foot on the painted step. “You told me once you’d lain in a hospital bed wanting to die. I did more than want. I begged.”

  She turned to him then, the hideous scars that marked her thighs in full view. When she glanced at him she was prepared for the shocked look, even the repulsion he couldn’t hide. She’d viewed it before, when others saw her scars.

  “Paul,” she yelled, and hurriedly donned her terry-cloth wrap. “Mr. Whittaker wants out of the water.” Unable to bear another minute in Sloan’s presence, Joy turned and ran into the house.

  Chapter Five

  “Joy,” Sloan called after her, but Joy only increased her pace.

  Paul met her halfway to the house. He stuck out a hand and stopped her. “You okay?” His finger brushed a tear from her cheek.

  “Fine,” she lied. “I’m fine.”

  Clara gave her a funny look as Joy came through the kitchen, but she didn’t stop to explain.

  Once in the privacy of her room, Joy slumped into a chair and covered her eyes with one hand. She’d been only sixteen at the time of the accident. A school cheerleader. But she would never be again. The scars were cleverly disguised with the proper clothing, so that no one need ever know. But their ugliness affected her more mentally than physically. She ran, she swam, she played tennis—could, in fact, do almost as much as she could before the accident. She had her father to thank for that, but even he couldn’t force the look of shock and revulsion from people’s eyes when they saw her misshapen thighs for the first time.

  Joy changed back into her uniform and held a cool washcloth over her eyes, hoping the cold water would take away the redness. Tears were the last thing she wanted Sloan to see. He held enough aces in his hand as it was.

  Clara was stirring something at the stove when Joy entered the kitchen. “Mr. Whittaker’s been saying lots of things he doesn’t mean lately,” she commented, her back to Joy.

  “Mr. Whittaker didn’t say anything to upset me, so don’t blame him for something he didn’t do. He’s confused enough without all of us turning on him.” It would be unfair to have the others think Sloan had caused her to cry.

  “I still think Mr. Whittaker had better take a good, long look at himself.”

  Joy pretended not to hear. “Do you mind if I take some of these leftovers to L.J.?”

  “Isn’t that bird well yet?”

  “No. It’ll be a long time before his wing heals completely.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “Thanks, Clara.” She took out bits and pieces of meat and fish she knew the gull would eat.

  Joy spent a good portion of a half-hour with L.J. He allowed her to touch him freely now—a small victory, but one that encouraged her.

  When she came back into the kitchen, Sloan’s lunch tray was ready.

  “Take it in to him while it’s hot.”

  Joy hesitated. She’d rather not see Sloan. He was sure to ask her questions she’d prefer not to answer.

  “Go on,” Clara ordered.

  The door was open, and Sloan appeared to watch her anxiously. Joy was sure a niggling uncertainty showed in her eyes.

  “Set the tray outside today,” Sloan ordered. “I feel like looking at the ocean.”

  Still and silent, Joy did as he asked. He joined her at the round, enameled table on the veranda. He examined his lunch, lifting the warming dome and unrolling his silverware from the linen napkin. “Did Clara forget the pepper?”

  Briefly Joy’s eyes scanned the tray. She was s
ure she’d seen it earlier. “Would you like me to bring it to you?”

  “Please.”

  With obvious reluctance, Joy returned to the kitchen.

  Sloan’s eyes followed her as she came back onto the deck. “Will you have your lunch with me?”

  She focused her gaze on the view of the sky and the sea. A light breeze ruffled her silky, soft curls. Absently, she smoothed the hair from her face.

  “Joy?” he prompted.

  She blinked, forcing herself to look at him. “Not today.”

  “Tonight, then?”

  Joy felt drained. “Why?”

  “I think we should talk.”

  “About what?”

  Sloan expelled an impatient sigh. “There’s no need to be obtuse.”

  She turned around to face him then, hands clenched so tightly that her long nails cut into her palms. “Like everyone else who’s seen my disfigurement, you’re dying of curiosity. What happened? How long ago? Whose fault was it? I’m not a morbid sideshow.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” he said tautly.

  “Don’t lie to me. You’re no different. Did you think you could hide the revulsion? Don’t you realize I’ve seen abhorrence often enough to recognize it?” she accused, in a choked voice.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, spare me.” Joy shook her head, not wanting to argue.

  As she walked away, Joy could almost feel a dagger penetrate her back. Sloan was angry. She had watched as he’d struggled to control his temper. For the first time in her memory, he’d succeeded.

  Joy waited until Paul came for Sloan after lunch before she returned his tray to the kitchen. He’d hardly touched his lunch. But then, neither had she.

  Adjusting a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head, she took a well-constructed straw basket and headed for the beach. On several occasions she’d wanted to go beach walking to look for seashells, but she had yet to bring back more than one or two. The need to explore, to escape, to get away, was stronger today than ever.

  When she stopped to check L.J. she noted he was quickly finding his protective home a prison and she decided to bring him with her. Readily, the bird hobbled behind her when she opened the fence gate.

  Her first find was an unbroken sand dollar, and she bent over to retrieve it from the wet shore. As she did, L.J. came to her side. He pecked away at grass, eating bugs and things she decided she’d prefer not to know. The two of them were content and happy. Two against the wind, two against the sea. Two cripples against the world.

  The day was perfect, as only a California springtime can be, and when Joy turned back to the house, she noticed the figure in a wheelchair coming toward her.

  She paused, her feelings undecided. One half of her was demanding that she run the other way. Avoid him as much as possible, cast his curiosity and pity away. But the other half of her yearned for the comfort and understanding that could come only from another facing like circumstances.

  There was irony here. None of her other patients had ever known. But she had never worked with anyone like Sloan Whittaker. His effect on her was far more powerful than anyone else’s, which made him dangerous in ways she still hadn’t fully comprehended.

  With L.J. hobbling behind her, Joy slowly sauntered toward Sloan.

  “How’d you get out here?” she questioned, when they met. Her eyes refused to meet his.

  “You’re a smart girl. Figure it out.”

  Hoping to display a lack of concern, she lightly shrugged her shoulders.

  “Is it so dark and horrible that you can’t tell me?” The question was issued so softly that for a moment Joy wasn’t sure he’d spoken.

  “It happened a long time ago. Some things are best forgotten.”

  “What you mean is the painful memories.”

  “I’m not going to argue, if that’s what you want.”

  “It’s not.”

  She stood stiffly at his side.

  “Show me what you found,” he requested gently.

  Joy didn’t know how to deal with him when he was kind or tender. She felt far more comfortable dealing with his pride and anger.

  When she didn’t immediately respond, Sloan took the basket out of her hand and fingered the assortment of shells and rocks she’d collected. He lifted his eyes and his frowning gaze studied her. “You didn’t want me to know, did you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “You would never have told me if it hadn’t been for my fight with my father.”

  Joy’s eyes met his. Was that pain she heard in his voice? “Probably not.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She angrily threw the word back at him. “You like perfection, especially in your women. I saw Chantelle. The china-doll face, with the figure a woman like me would die for. She’s perfect, right down to the mascara on the tips of her lashes and the uniformly shaped fingernails.”

  Her words seemed to anger him. “You’re not like Chantelle.”

  “That’s just what I said,” she concurred.

  “Not in the ways that matter.”

  Her voice quivered as she struggled not to reveal the hurt his words inflicted. “I can’t tell you how many times kindhearted people with good intentions told me that it didn’t matter if I was scarred because it was what was on the inside that counted. I don’t need to hear it from you.”

  “Now you’re twisting my words.”

  She shook her head and pinched her lips together.

  “You are the most incredibly beautiful woman I know.”

  Joy released a short, disgusted sound and stormed away. His rolling laughter stopped her. “What’s so funny?” she demanded, swiveling around, hands on her hips, feet spread in a defensive stance.

  “You are!” he shouted, the wind carrying his words. “Don’t you remember how you said it was a sad commentary on my life if I needed you to rescue me from beautiful women?”

  “I remember.” She didn’t lessen the distance separating them.

  “I tell you how beautiful you are and immediately you act like I’ve given you the biggest insult of your life.”

  “I am not beautiful,” she shouted back.

  “Then why do I have to struggle not to kiss you? Why do I lay awake at night and wish you were in bed with me?” The violence in his voice stunned her.

  Joy flinched at his words. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “You’re right. Not only am I a cripple, but I’m weak in the head.”

  “You won’t get an argument out of me about that.” A gust of wind nearly lifted the hat from her head. Joy caught it just before it flew off. Long John squawked, diverting her attention, and when Joy looked at Sloan he had his back to her and was slowly progressing along the beach.

  Unwilling to join him, but equally unwilling to leave him on his own, Joy sat and waited. She lay back in the sand and rested her eyes. Could it be possible that Sloan was attracted to her? The thought was heady enough to cause her heart to beat wildly. Sloan Whittaker was more tempting than any man she had ever known. But she would never fit into his world. Sloan was best left in the hands of women like Chantelle. The two of them belonged together. She was a physical therapist who would pass in and out of his life in short order. A year from now he’d have trouble remembering her name. Joy couldn’t afford to lose sight of that.

  She must have drifted into sleep. The next thing Joy knew, Sloan let out an angry curse, and she sat up, surprised.

  “You can call off your attack bird.”

  “Long John,” she yelled. Sloan was sucking the side of his index finger.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And you always suck your finger?”

  “I do when it’s bleeding.”

  “Let me see.”

  “No.”

  “My, my, aren’t we brave,” she murmured, coolly aloof.

  “If you saw this cut, you’d think so in earnest.”

&n
bsp; “Sloan, please. Did L.J. hurt you?”

  “Only my pride. It seems your feathered creature doesn’t make friends easily.”

  Joy gave a frustrated sound and fell to her knees at his side. “For heaven’s sake, quit acting like a child and let me have a look at it.”

  His hand cupped the side of her face, raising her eyes to meet his. A heavy sensual awareness rippled through her, and it was all Joy could do not to place her hand over his and close her eyes. She was tampering with fire, and she knew it.

  “It … it doesn’t look bad.”

  “I told you it was only a scratch.”

  “I wouldn’t want …”

  “What wouldn’t you want?” His voice was low and seductive as his hand cupped the other side of her face. “I can’t help this,” he whispered huskily. “Hate me later.” His mouth gently kissed her chin, her eyes, the end of her nose, and caressed her cheek before softly parting her lips.

  She should have stopped him. It wasn’t him she’d hate later, but herself. Her arms slid around his neck; her fingers stroked the hair that grew thick there.

  Sloan’s mouth sought hers, and she moved her face against his until finally, when their lips met, Joy was beyond coherent thought.

  The kiss was hard and demanding and showed an expertise she had only rarely experienced. The tip of his tongue outlined her lips. Joy thought she would die from the pure pleasure as his mouth crashed down over hers.

  His hand slid down her nape, his thumb moving in a slow, rhythmic circle against her sensitized skin. He pushed the neckline of her blouse off one smooth shoulder, his mouth blazing a trail of soft kisses that led to the scented hollow between her breasts. When Joy emitted a small protesting sound, Sloan tightened his hold and raised his mouth to the nape of her neck.

  “Don’t say it,” he ground out in a fierce whisper. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You couldn’t possibly know.”

  “For once in your life, don’t think. Feel.” His mouth was on hers. The kisses became longer, more languorous, as he pressed their upper bodies as close together as possible.

  “No … no …” She dragged her mouth from his. Stiffening, she pulled away. At first Sloan didn’t want to let her go; Joy could sense as much as he tightened his grip. But after the first sign of struggle, he released her.