by Lisa Kleypas
I was determined that for once in his life, Hardy Cates was going to have it all.
“And you’re going to keep on seeing him?”
“Yes.”
My father smiled slightly. “Probably a good thing, considering what he told me about you.”
“What? What did he tell you?”
My father shook his head. “He asked me to keep it private. And I’m done interfering. Except . . .”
I gave an unsteady laugh. “Except what? Damn it, Daddy, why do you have to quit interfering when you finally have something I want to hear?”
“I can tell you this much. I’ve had two men approach me about their feelings for my daughter. One of ’em was Nick. And I didn’t believe a word he said. Not because you’re not worth loving. Nick just didn’t have it in him. But Hardy Cates . . . for all that he’s a rascal and a born redneck . . . I believed him today. He wasn’t trying to sell me something. He was just telling me like it was. I respected that. And whatever you choose to do about him, I’ll respect that too.”
TWO HOURS PASSED. I paced, sat, watched TV, and guzzled burnt-tasting coffee flavored with powdered creamer and fake sweetener. When I thought I was going to explode from the tension of not knowing anything, the door opened. A tall white-haired surgeon stood there, his gaze sweeping the room. “Any family for Hardy Cates?”
I shot over to him. “I’m his fiancée.” I thought that might get me more information. “Haven Travis.”
“Dr. Whitfield.”
We shook hands.
“Mr. Cates used up all his luck on this one,” the surgeon said. “The bullet nicked the spleen, but no other organs were damaged. Almost a miracle. I’d have expected the bullet to bounce around a little more, but thankfully it didn’t. After we removed the bullet, we were able to do a relatively simple suture repair on the spleen and salvage it completely. Given Mr. Cates’s age and excellent health, there’s no reason to expect complications of any kind. So I’d say he’ll be in the hospital for about a week, and then it’ll take about four to six weeks more until he’s all healed up.”
My eyes and nose stung. I passed a sleeve over my eyes to blot them. “So he won’t have any problems from this in the future? No gimpy spleen or anything?”
“Oh, no. I’d expect a full recovery.”
“Oh, my God.” I let out a shuddering sigh. It was one of the best moments of my life. No, the absolute best. I was electrified and weak, and breathless. “I’m so relieved, I actually feel sort of queasy from it. Is that possible?”
“It’s either relief,” Dr. Whitfield said kindly, “or the waiting room coffee. Most likely the coffee.”
THE HOSPITAL RULE was that intensive care patients could have twenty-four-hour visitation. The catch was, you could only stay fifteen minutes per hour, except in special circumstances as approved by the nursing staff. I asked Gage to pull whatever strings he could to make sure I could come and go at will. My brother seemed vaguely amused by this, and reminded me about how I had once objected to using power and money to get special treatment. I told him that when you were in love, hypocrisy won out over principle. And Gage said he certainly understood that, and he went and got me special permission to stay with Hardy as long as I wanted.
I dozed in a reclining chair in Hardy’s room most of the night. The problem was, a hospital was the worst place in the world to sleep. Nurses came in hourly, exchanging IV bags, checking the monitors, and taking Hardy’s temperature and blood pressure. But I welcomed each interruption, because I loved hearing about how well he was doing, over and over again.
At daybreak Gage came to the hospital and told me he was going to drive me back to my apartment so I could shower and change. I didn’t want to leave Hardy, but I knew I looked like something the cat dragged in, and it was probably a good idea for me to clean up some.
Hardy had woken up when I came back at seven, and he was not pleased, to say the least, to find himself in a hospital bed and hooked up to monitors. I walked in to hear him arguing with a nurse, demanding that she take the IV out, and categorically refusing the pain medicine that he obviously needed. He didn’t want to be poked and prodded, he said. He felt fine. All he needed was a bandage and an ice pack.
I could tell the nurse was enjoying the argument with the big, blue-eyed male who was at her mercy, and I didn’t blame her a bit. He looked lost, a little anxious, and utterly appetizing.
And he was mine.
“Hardy Cates,” I said, coming into the room, “you behave, or I’ll step on your tube.”
The nurse seemed taken aback by my unsympathetic bedside manner.
But Hardy’s gaze met mine in a moment of bright, hot voltage, and he relaxed, reassured in a way that cooing sympathy could never have done. “That only works if it’s a breathing tube,” he told me.
I went to the tray on the bed-table and picked up the Vicodin tablets the nurse had been trying to get him to take, along with a cup of water. “Take these,” I said. “No arguing.”
He obeyed, shooting a glance at the nurse, whose eyebrows were slightly raised. “She’s little,” he told her, “but she’s mean.”
The nurse left, no doubt wondering why such a hunk hadn’t been able to find a nicer girlfriend. When the door had closed, I fussed over Hardy a little, straightening the covers and readjusting his pillow. His gaze didn’t stray from my face.
“Haven,” he muttered, “get me out of here. I’ve never been in a hospital before. I can’t stand being hooked up to all this crap. All I need is—”
“Surrender to the process,” I told him, “and you’ll get out of here a lot quicker.” I kissed his forehead. “Will you behave if I get in there with you?”
Without hesitation, Hardy maneuvered himself over to the side, grunting in pain at the effort. I slipped off my clogs and climbed in carefully, resting in the crook of his arm. He sighed deeply, a sound of contentment.
I nuzzled gently into his warm neck, breathing him in. Hardy smelled antiseptic, medicinal, like he’d been sprayed with eau-de-hospital. But underneath the sterilized blankness I found the familiar fragrance of him.
“Hardy,” I murmured, stroking his wrist, “why did you take that stupid deal from Dad and T.J.? And why’d you call it off?”
His hand found mine, long fingers folding over my palm. “I went a little crazy after I saw my dad on Friday night.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“I bailed him out and dropped him off at a motel with some money. And I told him to get lost. But what I didn’t tell you . . . I should have . . . is that he and I talked for a few minutes. And he said—” Hardy stopped, gripping my hand more tightly.
I waited as he took a few unsettled breaths.
“He got pissed when I told him what I’d do to him if he ever called Mom again,” Hardy muttered. “He said that was funny coming from me, because . . . I was the reason they’d gotten married. Mom had stopped going out with him, but then she had to go back to him because she was pregnant. It was my fault she ended up with the son of a bitch. Her whole life has been hell because of me. She’s suffered—”
“No. Hardy . . .” I lifted up and stared into his dark blue eyes. My chest ached with sympathy. “You know that’s not right. You know it wasn’t your fault.”
“But it’s a fact that if I hadn’t come along, Mom wouldn’t have married him. And once he got her, her life was ruined.”
I understood Hardy’s feelings even if I didn’t agree with his logic. But his anguish and irrational guilt couldn’t be solved with convenient platitudes. He needed time, and love, to come to terms with the truth. And I had more than enough of both to give him.
Hardy kissed my head. His voice was deep and rough. “I hate being his son. I hate the half of me that’s him, and I can feel it, that part that’s a bad, low, worthless son of a bitch, and when Churchill and T.J. came to me with that deal, I thought why the hell not. I was going to have to leave you anyway. Because I loved you too much to drag y
ou down with me.”
My hand crept up to caress the rigid line of his jaw. “Why’d you change your mind?” I whispered.
“After I calmed down a little and had a chance to think, I figured . . . I love you enough to try and deserve you. I would do anything, be anything, for you. Last night I went to your apartment to beg you to give me another chance. I was shaking in my boots, thinking you might not forgive me for Friday night.”
I flushed as I remembered the long, erotic hours with him in the darkness of his bedroom. “Of course I . . . I mean, there’s nothing to forgive.” My voice lowered to an abashed whisper. “I wanted to do all that with you.”
His body had turned so warm, I wondered if he was blushing too. “I thought it might have been too much for you. I pushed you too hard. And after what you’d been through with Nick . . . well, I was afraid you wouldn’t want me in your life anymore. So I was coming to your apartment to tell you how sorry I was. How gentle I would be from now on. And even if you don’t want me now, I wish you’d just . . . let me be near you, at least. In case you ever need me for anything.”
I had never heard him so utterly humble, never imagined it was possible. I guided his face to mine until our noses almost touched. “I need you for a lot of things, Hardy. A lifetime’s worth of things.”
He kissed me with surprising strength, his mouth warm and demanding.
“I love you,” I whispered. And it was a testament to the man’s considerable vigor that in spite of blood loss, drugs, and a distinctly unromantic hospital setting, he put some serious moves on me.
“Don’t,” I said with a shaky laugh as his free hand wandered boldly over my front. “We’ll set off the cardiac monitor. And they’ll kick me out for compromising your recovery.”
But Hardy paid no attention, of course, doing exactly as he pleased.
“You know,” I said, arching a little as he kissed my neck, “I told the hospital staff I was your fiancée, so they’d let me stay in here with you.”
“I’d hate to make a liar out of you.” Hardy smoothed my hair back. “But after what happened last night, you’re feeling grateful, and I don’t want to take advantage. So tomorrow, when the gratitude’s worn off . . . I’ll probably ask you to marry me.”
“I’ll probably say yes,” I told him.
Hardy brought my forehead to his, and I was lost in the brilliant blue depths of his eyes.
“Soon?” he whispered against my lips.
“As soon as you want.”
IT OCCURRED TO me in retrospect that I probably should have been nervous about getting married again, in light of my past experiences. But everything was different with Hardy. His love came with no strings attached, which I thought was the greatest gift one human being could give to another.
“You know,” I told him on our wedding night, “I’m just as much me when I’m with you, as I am without you.”
And because Hardy understood what I meant, he pulled me into his arms, against his heart.
EPILOGUE
HE’S ON THE PHONE, MRS. CATES,” HARDY’S SECretary says. “But he said to send you in as soon as you got here.”
I’m at Hardy’s high-rise office on Fannin, an aluminum and glass building that looks like two puzzle pieces put together. “Thanks,” I tell the secretary, and I go to my husband’s door and let myself in.
Hardy is at his desk, his suit jacket tossed carelessly over a chair. His tie is loose and his shirt sleeves are rolled up over heavy-muscled forearms, as if he’s tried to make himself more comfortable in the confining business attire. Roughneck, I think, with a pang of possessive pleasure.
We’ve been married for nearly a year, and I still can’t get used to the fact that he’s mine. It’s nothing like the marriage I had with Nick in any way, shape, or form. Nick is no longer a threat to me or anyone, having been convicted of two counts of aggravated assault and sent to Texarkana. And Vanessa Flint ended up leaving Houston. The last I heard, she was the assistant manager at a fertilizer company in Marfa.
I don’t spend much time dwelling on the past. One of the blessings human beings take for granted is the ability to remember pain without re-feeling it. The pain of physical wounds is long gone for both Hardy and me. And the other kind of hurt, the damage done to our spirits, has been healed. We are careful with those scarred places in each other. And we delight in a marriage that the two of us are creating, deepening, every day.
“. . .want you to pin ’em down on exactly what kind of fluid they’re planning to pump into that crack,” Hardy says.
I bite back a grin, thinking by now I should be used to the filthy-sounding oil business lingo.
“. . .I’m less concerned with the flow rate than the additives they use.” Hardy pauses to listen. “Yeah, well, I don’t give a damn about stimulation technology secrets. It’s my ass the EPA will come after if there’s ground water contamination, and—”
He breaks off as he sees me, and a slow, dazzling smile crosses his face, the one that never fails to make me a little light-headed. “Let’s finish this later,” he says into the phone. “Something’s come up. Okay.”
Setting the phone aside, Hardy walks around the desk. He half sits, half leans on the edge, and reaches to pull me between his thighs. “Brown-eyed girl,” he murmurs, kissing me.
“Stimulation technology?” I ask, looping my arms around his neck.
“Ways of getting hard-to-reach oil out of low permeability reservoirs,” he explains. “You inject fluids into the wellbore hole until they widen underground cracks enough to let the oil out.” His hands coast over my sides and hips. “We’re working with a new hydraulic fracturing group.”
“You could have finished your conversation,” I tell him.
“I wouldn’t want you to be bored.”
“Not at all. I love hearing you talk about business. It always sounds so risqué.”
“I don’t know exactly what risqué means,” Hardy returns, his hand wandering down to my bottom, “but I think I’ve done it a few times.”
I mold myself against him. “Suggestive of sexual impropriety,” I explain. “You’ve been risqué your entire adult life.”
His blue eyes sparkle. “But now only with you.” He kisses me slowly, as if the point needs demonstrating. “Haven, sweetheart . . . how did the appointment go?”
We’ve been talking lately about the possibility of having a baby. Hardy seems willing but cautious, while I’ve been feeling what must be a biological imperative. I want a baby with him. I want our own family. And whatever life has in store for us, I know we’ll deal with it together.
“The doctor said I’m perfectly healthy and good to go,” I tell him. “Now the rest is up to you.”
He laughs and grips me closer. “When do we start?”
“Tonight?” I tilt my head back languidly as his lips slide along my throat.
“How about lunch hour?”
“No way. I want mood music and foreplay.”
I feel the curve of his smile against my skin. But as he lifts his head and looks into my eyes, his grin fades. “Haven . . . I don’t know if I’m going to be a good father. What if I don’t do it right?”
I am touched by Hardy’s concern, his constant desire to be the man he thinks I deserve. Even when we disagree, I have no doubt that I am cherished. And respected. And I know that neither of us takes the other one for granted.
I have come to realize you can never be truly happy unless you’ve known some sorrow. All the terrible things Hardy and I have gone through in our lives have created the spaces inside where happiness can live. Not to mention love. So much love that there doesn’t seem to be room for bitterness in either of us.
“I think the fact that you’re worrying about it at all,” I say, “means you’ll probably be great at it.”
Hardy smiles and pulls me safe and secure into the shelter of his body. He holds me tightly, and it feels good. It’s what I need. “That does it,” he says, his voice muffled in my ha
ir. “It’s going to be lunch hour for you, honey. Get your purse. We’ve got time for foreplay, but not for mood music. Unless you can find something on the car radio on the way to the apartment.”
I turn and find his lips, and discover that it’s nearly impossible to smile and kiss at the same time. I have no intention of arguing. “Who needs mood music?” I say.
And a few minutes later, we’re heading home.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Friends,
As I researched Blue-Eyed Devil and contemplated the personal journey of my heroine Haven Travis, I became amazed by how widespread the issues of abuse and narcissistic personality disorder are, and how seldom they are discussed in the media. I think part of the problem is that victims of verbal and emotional abuse—which can occur at home, in the workplace, or in any kind of relationship—are so accustomed to what they think of as “normal” behavior, they aren’t aware of what “normal” really is.
No person has the right to bully, slander, or control someone else. No person has the right to diminish or harm another person in any way.
I have found a few Web sites that I think are very informative about abuse and personality disorders. They contain links, articles, and resources for anyone interested in finding out more about these problems.
www.abusesanctuary.blogspot.com
www.controllingparents.com
www.narcissism.101.com
There is also a National Domestic Violence Hotline, which has a Web site as well as a phone number.
(800) 799-SAFE
www.ndvh.org
Also, I would like to encourage anyone who has long hair and is thinking of getting a short cut, like Haven Travis did, to check out the Locks of Love program. It is a wonderful nonprofit organization that gives hairpieces to children suffering from medical hair loss.
