She met his dark blue, knowing gaze. Quinn gave herself a mental shake, wishing he hadn’t so easily picked up on her nerves. It was unlike her to be uncomfortable around a patient, even a famous one. But the truth was, she’d spent the remainder of the weekend second-guessing her decision to work with him—that, and keeping an eye out for Jake. At least it appeared Jake had taken her threat about the phone messages seriously. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the rental SUV had roared from the B&B’s driveway on Saturday night.
“I guess I am a little on edge,” she admitted. “I was hoping it wasn’t obvious.”
“We can still call this off, no harm, no foul.”
“I’m afraid you’d like that too much,” she joked weakly, scraping a hand through her hair. “Besides, it’s not just you. I mean…us.”
His eyebrows lifted faintly as he waited for her to continue.
“Coming back here, this unexpected job and getting back into the swing of work—it’s made me a bit off-kilter,” she tried to explain. Quinn forced determination into her voice. “But this is going to work. Things are awkward right now, but we’ll power through it and get used to one another.”
Carter peered at her before answering her question. “The doc in LA left it up to me about the sling. He said to wear it if I need it. It keeps me from jostling my shoulder. The one here hasn’t said much about it.”
Drawing in a breath, Quinn stepped closer and gently manipulated his shoulder, touching him as she would any other patient. She felt his slight flinch as she guided his arm movement. “Is the shoulder pain only at the surgery site?”
“It’s everywhere,” he said, his voice strained. He tensed as she moved his arm into another evaluating position. “That and stiffness.”
“Can you hold your arm in that position for me? How’s your pain tolerance with the meds?”
“I have a feeling I’m going to find out,” he deadpanned under his breath.
Quinn guided him through several more arm movements, using her hand to create resistance for him to push against. Then, lips pressed together thoughtfully, she typed notes regarding his strength level and range of motion into her iPad that she had placed on a nearby credenza. “We have your orthopedics appointment Thursday afternoon. We’ll talk to your specialist, but if he agrees, I’d like to try to go without the sling.”
Carter shifted uneasily on the table. “Is that a good idea?”
“Maybe. When one part of the body becomes atrophied from disuse, it can sometimes affect connected parts. The immobilization may be making things worse—causing what’s called a frozen shoulder.” Quinn forced herself to be direct. “Do you need help taking off your shirt? I…need to see how well you’re healing.”
At her request, his jaw clenched.
“I got myself dressed this morning like a big boy. I can reverse the process.”
Slowly, he began undoing the buttons on his shirt using mostly his left hand. Quinn looked away, aware she had already known he was left-handed, just as she knew his birth date and middle name. Ashton. Things a teenage girl made a point of knowing about a boy. It bothered her that her mind had stored such trivia. She provided aid only when Carter struggled to disentangle his right arm from the garment. As the shirt pooled around his hips, he didn’t look at her, his somber gaze instead focused on a spot outside the window. A weighted feeling inside her, Quinn kept her face impassive as she took in the scarring on his torso, his pectorals and abs still somewhat defined despite the weeks of inactivity.
The long, ribbon-like scar—reddened and puffy, the result of his emergency room open-heart surgery—ran vertically down his chest, nestled in the light matting of chest hair. More elevated, angry tissue marked other healed wounds. Compassion tightened her throat. Quinn thought of the steamy love scenes in his films that had showcased his toned body. Letting her see him like this couldn’t be easy.
“Souvenirs from a night I don’t remember,” he said without inflection, the unemotional comment clearly a smoke screen.
Quinn stepped close to examine the scars on his chest, as well as the smaller one on the side of his neck, which she had noticed before.
“That one’s on me,” he said as she gently turned his jaw to the side so she could get a better look. “ICU psychosis is a real thing, apparently. I ripped out my catheter and created one hell of a mess, I was told.”
At his words, Quinn briefly laid her fingers against his collarbone in a comforting gesture, then moved behind the table to evaluate the scar on the back of his right shoulder. The tendon attaching the posterior deltoid had been partially lacerated in the attack, requiring a separate surgery. “Your color’s good. You seem to be healing well. Do any of the scars give you pain?”
“Some.” Carter tensed again as she lightly stretched the puckered scar tissue on his shoulder. He paused as Doug rose from his spot on the floor and turned in circles several times before curling back down. “I get numbness and tingling. Especially in my hand.”
“That’s good. That means the nerves are regenerating.” Returning to stand in front of him, Quinn reached carefully for Carter’s right hand, tamping down the involuntary flutter in her belly as she cradled it, palm upward, within her own, smaller one. She examined the scarring on the fleshy pad. There had been a separate surgery there, as well. At one point, his fingers had most likely been badly swollen, but they now appeared normal, long and lean like his body, the nails well cared for. Mercer, she guessed.
“How’s your dexterity?”
“It could be better.”
“We’ll work on that, too. Massage breaks down the scar tissue, which helps build collagen and lets the tendons glide more easily.” Quinn took a bottle of oil from her duffel, depositing a small amount onto his palm. Then, using her thumb, she applied pressure over the scar in a circular motion to show him what he could expect during their sessions. He scowled faintly, but didn’t complain at the discomfort she knew her action created.
“I mentioned some of this might be a little intense,” she said with a small, sympathetic smile. “Everyone’s pain tolerance is different, so you’ll need to tell me how much you can handle. In addition to your shoulder exercises and cardio work, we’ll massage twice daily. We’ll focus on your palm and shoulder, where the scarring is tight.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked a short time later.
Quinn had been concentrating on her task, continuing the massage on his palm, but she looked up at him.
“About the things making you off-kilter,” he clarified in his low rasp. “You didn’t mention it, but I’m guessing your separation from Jake Medero is one of them.”
They stood close, Quinn between his long, jeans-clad legs that dangled from the massage table. She felt her traitorous stomach flutter again. Even in his current condition, even with the bluish hollows forged under his eyes, he remained a remarkably beautiful man—even features and wide, sensual mouth, straight white teeth, his complexion flawless beneath his facial scruff. For a surreal second, she felt like the ingénue in one of his movies, playing caregiver to his wounded hero. But this was Carter. The now-famous version. She had no intention of letting her guard down.
“Thank you,” she said, breaking eye contact. “But no.”
Releasing his hand, she lightly cleared her throat and took a deliberate step away.
“We’ll start your regular cardio work tomorrow, after we’ve completed the walk test this afternoon. You’ve lost weight and some muscle mass, but the excellent physical condition you were in prior to the accident will make our—”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“Of…course not.” He had managed to fluster her. “I’m sorry. It was a slip of words.” Quinn heard the start of a car engine outside, then glimpsed Jolene’s Honda Civic pulling from the rear driveway. “You can put your shirt back on.”
She went to the window to give him privacy, looking out for a time onto the covered pool and lovely landscaped terrace.
“
According to ZMZ, my home’s the number-one stop on the Hollywood Death and Mayhem Tour.” His softly bitter tone broke the silence. “It beat out Cielo Drive.”
Quinn turned to face him again, surprised by the comment.
“My punishment for web surfing last night. It popped up in front of me.” He shook his head, a grim twist to his mouth. “People can be ghouls.”
She recognized the Cielo Drive location—where the first Manson family murders had occurred in the late sixties. Absently, Quinn ran her hands over her upper arms.
“Have you been back?” she asked carefully.
“To my house in LA? No.” Carter struggled with the remaining buttons on his shirt. “Mark went while I was hospitalized, once the medical examiner’s office and police released the scene. He packed some of my things and hired the cleanup crew, then closed the place up.”
Quinn’s lips parted in confusion. “I thought the police took care of—”
“It’s the responsibility of the property owner.”
Her stomach twisted at the thought of Mark witnessing the bloodied bathroom where Bianca Rossi had been murdered, his brother nearly killed.
Carter grimaced as he put the sling back on, declining Quinn’s offer of help. Then he rose stiffly from the table and reached for his cane. “Speaking of Mark, we’ll be seeing him soon enough. I’m tired. I’m going upstairs to rest before we go to the hotel.”
Quinn had more testing to take him through, as well as a pain questionnaire she needed him to complete, but she agreed he should rest before that afternoon. After such a long period of inactivity, the walk test would be a challenge.
“Samantha called as I was driving over,” she mentioned, halting his departure. “She said she came by earlier and left lunch for both of us in the fridge.” Her voice gentled. “You really should eat, Carter.”
He gave a pained smile. “You just want to fortify me for this six-minute torture test you’re planning.”
“I can make you a protein shake, if you prefer. I noticed a Vitamix on the counter—”
“No, I’ll eat something.”
Carter had initiated the subject, but uncertainty made Quinn hesitate. “Your medical files indicated retrograde amnesia. You really don’t remember anything at all?”
He fell silent, and she feared the question had been too invasive. Finally, though, he answered.
“It’s funny you ask. I…had a dream last night. I can’t stop thinking about it, actually.” He leaned on the cane, his gaze inward. “I was at my home in LA, trying to break down the bathroom door. It was locked from the inside. I kept calling to Bianca, trying to get her to open it.”
He frowned. “I’ve been dreaming a lot. Mostly crazy stuff, but this one seemed so real. I’ll see you upstairs,” he said quietly, then made a slow retreat from the room.
Dreams were a common side effect of the pain medication. But as Quinn collected her things, she couldn’t help but think about the other unsettling possibility.
She wondered if some of Carter’s memory might be returning.
Chapter Nine
“How’d he do?” Mark asked in a hushed voice. He had slipped into the St. Clair ballroom and now stood with Quinn, who was using one of the hotel podiums as a makeshift desk, typing notes into her iPad following her evaluation of Carter’s post-test heart and respiratory rates. A pulse oximeter and mechanical lap counter she had purchased that morning in Charleston lay on the podium’s top, as well.
“It’s not really a pass-fail situation,” she explained. “The walk test evaluates aerobic ability and endurance. It gives us a starting point to improve on.”
Carter rested in a chair on the other side of the ballroom, near a line of soaring French windows hung with heavy velvet drapes. Olivia and Ethan were with him, keeping him occupied. Her small grandson in tow, Olivia had stopped by the hotel after learning of Carter’s presence, although Quinn had requested they wait in the hall until testing was completed.
“He has a way to go,” she said, knowing she hadn’t given Mark the answer he was looking for. “We’ll be working daily on rebuilding his stamina and lung capacity.”
Carter had been instructed to cover as much ground in the six minutes as he could, using the thirty-meter lap course Quinn had marked with orange pylons borrowed from the hotel’s valet service. Chairs had been placed at intervals to be used for breaks, as needed.
“Emily had an after-school program today,” Mark said. “She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
“I have a dinner date with her on Friday, actually. I talked to Samantha this morning, and she said it’d be all right.”
He nodded. “Of course. Did you get inside okay? I was tied up when you arrived.”
“Richard was very helpful.” The hotel’s assistant manager had led them in by way of the kitchen, which had a service door to the high-ceilinged ballroom with its tiered chandelier and inlaid-wood flooring. The route had limited Carter’s exposure to staff and the lighter number of guests during the winter season.
Mark peered again at Carter. “He looks beat, so I guess he’s actually cooperating.”
Quinn noticed Ethan had taken possession of Carter’s cane. The dark-haired child bounced about with it, wielding it like a sword. Despite their distance away, she could hear Olivia talking about a new, multiscreen cineplex being built in town.
“I asked him to rate his exertion level on a scale of six to twenty,” Quinn said, referring to the Borg Scale used for sports and exercise testing. “He said sixteen, so I think he gave it a real effort.”
Still observing Carter, Mark slowly shook his head. “I still can’t believe this.”
Quinn gave a knowing sigh. “He…told me you were the one to go to his house afterward.”
“I’m surprised he mentioned it. He’s been pretty closemouthed.” Hesitating, Mark appeared somber. “It seemed like every photographer in LA who wasn’t camped at the hospital was outside that big house of his, like buzzards waiting for death. The doctors had prepared us.”
Quinn touched the sleeve of his dress shirt. Mark had seen too much tragedy.
“I regret how long Carter and I were estranged,” he said. “Something like this brings home how much time we wasted.”
She thought of the rift that had been caused by Carter and Shelley’s high school fling, something that had begun behind Mark’s back while he was away at college.
“You two weren’t always so close,” she agreed softly. “With good reason.”
“And you and Carter were closer than I ever realized.” His subtle but pointed comment caused her face to heat.
“He finally told you.” Focusing on her iPad, she gave a small, dismissive shrug. “It was a meaningless, one-time thing.”
“You should’ve come to me, Quinn. You were too young, and you should’ve been way off-limits.” He sighed regretfully and pushed his hands into his pockets. “You should know Carter feels bad about what he did.”
She tried to make light of it. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure there’re worse things than having your first time be with a future People magazine Sexiest Man Alive.”
“I’m serious. Knowing what I do now, you’re an even better person than I thought for taking this on.”
“Don’t give me so much credit. I’m more mercenary than that. I needed a job.” Uncomfortable with the discussion, Quinn fidgeted with the lap counter as she searched for a change of subject. “Maybe I’m overstepping, but has Carter mentioned anything to you about the dreams he’s been having?”
“No.” Mark looked at her. “About the attack?”
She relayed what Carter had told her about his dream, about the bathroom door in his home being locked and him trying to get to Bianca Rossi, unresponsive on the other side.
The fine lines at the corners of Mark’s eyes deepened. “That doesn’t make sense. There’s no way she could’ve locked the door with a mortal injury like that. She would’ve collapsed immediately.”
Like pre
tty much everyone, Quinn had heard the excerpts from the 911 recording, which had been released to the media. The tape had ended with Carter, distraught, following the operator’s instructions to help the dying actress until he, too, was stabbed. Thinking of the audio, she felt a chill. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s probably just some crazy, medicated dream.”
Mark blew out a breath. “I hope so. What happened that night…he’s better off never remembering.”
He peered again at Carter, who had reclaimed his cane from Ethan. Carter ruffled the child’s hair, then slowly stood. He bent his tall frame toward Olivia, who kissed his cheek. His weary gaze met Quinn’s.
“I’m surprised, but I’m glad he’s talking to you,” Mark said. “He needs to open up to someone.”
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time Carter and Quinn entered through the rear of the beach home, then took the elevator up to the main floor. His strength depleted, Carter leaned heavily on his cane. Quinn stood beside him, holding a package that had been left in the parcel box at the home’s gated front. It was addressed to Craig Staten—the alias he used during times when he needed anonymity, such as when he had rented the house. He could tell from the Burbank address it was the script Elliott had sent by express mail over the weekend. Elliott had mentioned it that morning during their phone call, claiming it was the best he had read in years.
As the elevator doors opened, they were met with the clicking of nails over the hardwood flooring. Doug danced in happy greeting.
“It doesn’t look like he destroyed anything.” Quinn looked around, sounding relieved as they entered. She laid the package on the coffee table and removed her coat.
“Told you he’d be fine.”
Carter shrugged free of the leather bomber jacket draped over his shoulders to accommodate the sling. Then he sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace while Quinn went around the room, turning on lamps and filling the space with light.
“You’re exhausted,” she said, returning to him.
“You should be pleased.” He discarded the baseball cap he’d worn to try to conceal his identity, then ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Torturing of the prisoner accomplished.”
Low Tide: Rarity Cove Book Two Page 8
