Come Lie With Me (11 page)

“You'd have a hard time doing that,” he sneered.

“You're pretty sure of yourself since you've gotten stronger, aren't you?” she said sarcastically. It made her doubly angry that he'd act like that after what they'd shared earlier. He'd kissed her. Of course, he couldn't possibly know that he was the only man to have touched her since she was eighteen, which had been twelve years before, but still…the injustice of it made her get to her knees on the bed, leaning forward as she jabbed a finger at him.

“You listen to me, Mr. Grouch Remington! I've been driving myself into the ground trying to help you, and you've fought me every step of the way! I don't know what's eating you and I don't care, but I won't let it interfere with your therapy. If I think your legs need
massaging, then I'll do it, if I have to tie you down first! Am I getting through that hard head of yours?”

“Who do you think you are? God?” he roared, his face darkening so much that she could see it even in the dim light that came through his windows. “What do you know about what
I
want, what
I
need? All you think about is that damned program you've mapped out. There are other things that I need, and if I can't—”

He stopped, turning his head away. Dione waited for him to continue, and when he didn't she prompted, “If you can't…what?”

“Nothing,” he muttered sullenly.

“Blake!” she said in utter exasperation, reaching out and grasping his shoulders and shaking him. “What?”

He shrugged away from her grip and lay back down, his expression bleak as he turned his face back to the windows. “I thought that learning to walk again would be the answer,” he whispered. “But it's not. My God, woman, you've been around me for weeks now, running around in almost nothing sometimes, and those see-through nightgowns of yours the rest of the time. Haven't you noticed yet that I can't…”

When his voice trailed off again Dione thought she'd explode. “Can't what?” she tried again, forcibly keeping her tone level.

“I'm impotent,” he said, his voice so low that she had to lean closer to hear him.

She sat back on her heels, stunned.

Once he'd said the words aloud, the rest poured out of him in a torrent, as if he couldn't control it. “I didn't think about it before, because what was there to arouse me? It didn't matter, if I couldn't walk, but now I find that there's an opposite side of the coin. If I can't live
life as a man instead of a sexless gelding, then it doesn't matter if I walk or not.”

Dione's mind went blank. She was a physical therapist, not a sex therapist. It was ironic that he should even mention the subject to
her
, of all people. She was in the same boat he was in; perhaps she'd sensed that from the beginning, and that was why she hadn't been frightened of him.

But she couldn't let this prey on his mind, or he'd give up. Desperately she tried to think of something to tell him.

“I don't see why you'd even think you should be aroused by me,” she blurted. “I'm a therapist; it's totally unethical for there to be any sort of relationship except a professional one between us. I certainly haven't been trying to seduce you, or even interest you! You shouldn't think of me like that! I…I'm more of a mother figure than I am anything else, so I'd think it was odd if you responded physically to me.”

“You
don't
remind me of my mother,” he said heavily.

Again she searched for something to say. “Did you really expect all of your capabilities to return immediately, just because you put your weight on your legs today?” she finally asked. “I would've been surprised if you had been…er, responding like that. You've had a lot on your mind, and you've been in terrible physical shape.”

“I'm not in terrible physical shape now,” he pointed out tiredly.

No, he wasn't. Dione considered him as he lay there, wearing only the bottoms of his pajamas. He'd started leaving off the tops several weeks ago. He was still lean, but now it was the leanness of a hard layer of muscle.
Even his legs had fleshed out some as he gained weight, and thanks to the rigorous program he'd been following, he even had muscles in his legs, despite his inability to command movement from them yet. He was a natural athlete anyway, and his body had responded promptly to the training. His arms and shoulders and chest were showing the benefits of weight lifting, and the hours in the pool had given his skin a glowing bronze color. He looked incredibly healthy, all things considered.

What could she say? She couldn't reassure him that his mind and body would recover and let him respond normally, because recovery hadn't happened yet for her. She couldn't even say that she wanted to “recover.” Perhaps she missed out on a great deal of human warmth by living the way she did, but she also avoided the pain of human cruelty. Until the accident, Blake had led a charmed life. He had loved, and been loved, by more women than he could probably remember. To him, life wasn't complete without sex. To her, life was much safer without it. How could she even begin to convince him of something she didn't believe in herself?

At last she said cautiously, “You're better, yes, but you're not in top physical condition yet. The body is a series of complementary systems; when any part of it is hurt, all the systems cooperate in helping to speed healing. With the therapy program you've been following, you've focused your mind and body on retraining your muscles. It's part of the recovery process, and until you've progressed enough that such intense concentration isn't needed, I think you're being unrealistic to expect any sexual responses. Let things happen in their own time.” After considering him for another minute, she tilted her head sideways. “I estimate that you're at
about sixty-five percent of your normal strength. You're expecting too much.”

“I'm expecting what any normal man expects in his life,” Blake said harshly. “You were bubbling over with self-confidence when you promised me that I'd walk again, but you're not sure about this, are you?”

“I'm not a sex therapist,” she snapped. “But I do have common sense, and I'm trying to use it. There's no physical reason why you shouldn't be able to have sex, so I'd advise you to stop worrying about it and concentrate on walking. Nature will take care of everything else.”

“Stop worrying!” he muttered under his breath. “Lady, it's not the weather we're talking about! If I can't function as a man, what's the use in living? I'm not talking about just sex; there'd be no marriage for me, no children, and while I've never wanted to marry anyone yet, I've always thought that I'd like to have a family someday. Can't you understand that? Haven't you ever wanted a husband, children?”

Dione winced, physically shrinking away from him. He had an uncanny knack of hitting her where she was most vulnerable. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out thickly, “I've always wanted children. And I
was
married. It just didn't work out.”

His chest rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath, and she could feel his gaze searching her face in the darkness. Surely he couldn't see anything more than an outline, since she was sitting out of the dim light coming through the windows, so why did she feel as if he could tell exactly how her lower lip was trembling, or see the sudden pallor of her cheeks?

“Damn,” he said softly. “I've done it again, haven't
I? Every time I say something, I stick my foot in my mouth.”

She shrugged, trying not to let him know how thin her armor was. “It's all right,” she murmured. “It was a long time ago. I was just a kid, too young to know what I was doing.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen. Scott—my ex-husband—was twenty-three, but neither of us was ready for marriage.”

“How long did it last?”

A harsh laugh tore from her throat. “Three months. Not a record-setting length of time, was it?”

“And since then? Haven't you been in love with anyone else?”

“No, and I haven't wanted to be. I'm content the way I am.” The conversation had gone on long enough; she didn't want to reveal any more than she already had. How did he keep chipping away at the wall she'd built around her past? Most people never even realized it was there. She uncoiled her legs and crawled off the bed, tugging her nightgown down when it tried to crawl up to her hips.

Blake said a harsh expletive. “You're running, Dee. Do you realize how long you've been here without receiving a single phone call or a letter, without even going shopping? You've sealed yourself in this house with me and shut the world out. Don't you have any friends, any boyfriends on a string? What is it out there that you're afraid of?”

“There's nothing out there that frightens me,” she said quietly, and it was true. All of her terrors were locked within herself, frozen in time.

“I think everything out there frightens you,” he said, stretching out his arm and snapping on the bedside
lamp. The soft glow drove away the shadows and illuminated her as she stood there in her white gown with her long, black hair streaming down her back. She looked medieval, locked away in a fortress of her own making. His blue eyes seared over her as he said softly, “You're afraid of life, so you don't let anything touch you. You need therapy as much as I do; my muscles won't work, but you're the one who doesn't feel.”

S
he didn't sleep that night; she lay awake, feeling the seconds and minutes ticking away, becoming hours. He was right; she
was
afraid of life, because life had taught her that she would be punished if she asked for too much. She had learned not to ask for anything at all, thereby risking nothing. She had denied herself friends, family, even the basic comfort of her own home, all because she was afraid to risk being hurt again.

It wasn't in her character to deny the truth, so she looked it in the face. Her mother wasn't a typical example of motherhood; her husband hadn't been a typical husband. Both of them had hurt her, but she shouldn't shut everyone else out because of them. Serena had made an overture of friendship, but Dione had backed away from it, doubting the other woman's motives. Those doubts were just an excuse for her own instinctive reaction to withdraw whenever anyone got too close to her. She had to take risks, or her life would be just a mockery, no matter how many patients she helped. She needed help just as much as Blake did.

But facing the truth and dealing with it were two very different things. Just the thought of lowering her defenses and letting anyone get close to her gave her a sick feeling. Even the little things were more than she had ever had, and more than she could handle. She'd never giggled with a girl friend far into the night, never
gone to a party, never learned
how
to be with people in the normal manner. She'd had her back to the wall for her entire life, and self-protection was more than a habit: it was a part of her, branded into her cells.

Perhaps she was beyond changing; perhaps the bitter horror of her childhood had altered her psyche so drastically that she'd never be able to rise above the murky pit of her memories. For a moment she had a vision of her future, long and bleak and solitary, and a dry sob wrenched at her insides. But she didn't cry, though her eyes burned until her lids felt scorched. Why waste tears on years that stretched away emptily for as far as she could see? She was used to being alone, and at least she had her work. She could touch people through her work, giving them hope, helping them; perhaps it wasn't enough, but surely it was better than the sure destruction that awaited her if she allowed someone to hurt her again.

Suddenly a memory of Scott flashed into her mind and she almost cried out, her hands rising in the dark to push him away. The sickness in her changed to pure nausea, and she had to swallow convulsively to control it. For a moment she wavered on the edge of a black abyss, memories rising like bats from a rancid cave to dart at her; then she clenched her teeth on the wild cry that was welling up in her and reached out a trembling hand to turn on the lamp. The light drove away the horrors, and she lay staring at the shadows.

To combat the memories she deliberately pushed them aside and called up Blake's face as a sort of talisman against the evils of the past. She saw his blue eyes, burning with despair, and her breath caught. Why was she lying there worrying about herself, when Blake was teetering on the edge of his own abyss?
Blake
was
the important one, not her! If he lost interest now, it would wreck his recovery.

She'd trained herself for years to push her personal interests and problems aside and concentrate entirely on her patient. Her patients had reaped the benefits, and the process had become a part of her inner defenses when things threatened to become too much for her. She used it now, ruthlessly locking out all thoughts except those of Blake, staring at the ceiling so intently that her gaze should have burned a hole in it.

On the surface the problem seemed to be simple: Blake needed to know that he could still respond to a woman, still make love. She didn't know why he couldn't now, unless it was because of the commonsense reasons she'd given him just a few hours before. If that were the case, as his health improved and he gained strength, his sexual interest would reawaken naturally, if he had someone to interest him.

That was a problem Dione chewed on her lower lip. Blake obviously wasn't going to start dating now; his pride wouldn't allow him to be helped in and out of cars and restaurants, even if Dione would allow him to disrupt his schedule so drastically, which was out of the question. No, he
had
to stay in therapy, and they were just now getting into the toughest part of it, which would require more time and effort, and pain, from him.

There simply was a shortage of available women in his life right now, a necessary shortage, but there nevertheless. Besides Serena, Alberta and Angela, there was only herself, and she automatically discounted herself. How could she attract anyone? If any man made a move toward her, she reacted like a scalded cat, which wasn't a good start.

A frown laced her brows together. That was true with
all men…except Blake. Blake touched her, and she wasn't frightened. She had wrestled with him, romped on the floor with him…kissed him.

The idea that bloomed was, for her, so radical that when it first entered her consciousness she dismissed it, only to have it return again and again, boomeranging in her mined. Blake needed help, and she was the only woman available to help him. If she could attract him…

A shudder rose from her toes and flowed upward to shake her entire body, but it wasn't from revulsion or fear, except perhaps fear at her own daring. Could she do it? How could she do it? How could she possibly manage such a thing? It wouldn't do Blake any good if he made a pass at her and she ran screaming from the room. She didn't think she would do that with him, but just the thought of trying to attract a man was so foreign to her that she couldn't be sure. Could she tempt him enough to prove to him that he was a man?

She couldn't let the situation progress into anything concrete; she knew that not only was it something she wasn't ready for, but an affair with a patient was totally against her professional integrity. Besides, she wasn't Blake's type, so there was little chance of anything serious happening. She tried to decide if he would find her so lacking in expertise that she wouldn't appeal to him at all, or if his isolation for the past two years would blind him to her inexperience. He was fast leaving behind his morose preoccupation with his invalidism, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to fool him for long. Every day he became more himself—the man in the photo that Richard had shown her, with a biting intellect and a driving nature that swept everyone along with him like the force of a tidal wave.

Could she do it?

She trembled at the thought, but she was so shaken by what he'd said that night that she didn't push the idea away as she would have before. For the first time in her life Dione decided to try to attract a man. It had been so long since she'd cut herself off from sexual contact with anyone that she had no idea if she could do it without looking obvious and silly. She was thirty years old, and she felt as inexperienced and awkward as any young girl just entering her teens. Her brief marriage to Scott didn't count at all; far from trying to attract Scott, after her wedding night she'd gone out of her way to avoid him. Blake was a mature, sophisticated man, used to having any woman he wanted before the accident had robbed him of the use of his legs. Her only advantage was that she was the only available woman in his life right then.

She just didn't know how to arouse a man.

That unusual problem, one she'd never thought she'd face, was the reason she was standing hesitantly before the mirror the next morning, long past the time when she usually woke Blake. She hadn't even dressed; she was staring at herself in the mirror, chewing on her lower lip and frowning. She knew that men usually liked the way she looked, but were looks enough? She wasn't even blond, as Blake preferred his women to be. Her thick black hair swirled over her shoulders and down her back; she'd been about to braid it out of her way when she'd paused, staring at herself, and she still held the brush in her hand, forgotten, as she intensely surveyed the ripe figure of the woman in the mirror. Her breasts were full and firm, tipped with cherry nipples, but perhaps she was too bosomy for his tastes.
Perhaps she was too athletic, too strong; perhaps he liked dainty, ultrafeminine women.

She groaned aloud, twisting around to study herself from the back. So many ifs! Maybe he was a leg man; she had nice legs, long and graceful, smoothly tanned. Or maybe…Her bottom, covered only by wispy, pink silk, was curvy and definitely feminine.

Her clothes were another problem. Her everyday wardrobe consisted mostly of things that were comfortable to work in: jeans, shorts, T-shirts. They were neat and practical, but not enticing. She did have good clothes, but nothing that could be worn while working and be practical, too. Her dresses weren't sexy, either, and her nightgowns were straight out of a convent, despite Blake's comment about her “running around in see-through nighties.” She needed new clothes, things that were sexy but not transparently so, and definitely a real see-through nightie.

She was so preoccupied that she hadn't heard the sounds of Blake in his bedroom; when his rumbling, early-morning voice broke into her thoughts with an ill-tempered, “Lazybones, you overslept this morning!” she whirled to face the door as it swung open and Blake rolled his wheelchair through the doorway.

They both froze. Dione couldn't even raise her arms to cover her bare breasts; she was stunned by the shock of his entrance, so lost in her thoughts that she was unable to jerk herself back to reality and take any action. Neither did Blake appear capable of moving, though good manners demanded that he leave the room. He didn't; he sat there with his blue eyes becoming even bluer, a dark, stormy expression heating his gaze as it raked down her almost naked body, then rose to linger over her breasts.

“Good Lord,” he whispered.

Dione's mouth was dry, her tongue incapable of moving. Blake's intent look was as warm as a physical touch, and her nipples shrank into tiny points, thrusting out at him. He sucked in an audible breath, then slowly let his eyes dip lower, down the curve of her ribcage, the satiny smoothness of her stomach; his gaze probed the taut little indentation of her navel and finally settled on the juncture of her thighs.

An unfamiliar curling sensation low in her stomach frightened her, and she was finally able to move. She whirled away from him with a low cry, belatedly raising her arms to cover herself. Standing rigidly with her back to him, she said in a voice filled with mortification, “Oh, no! Please, get out!”

There was no obedient whir of an electric motor as he sent the wheelchair into motion, and she knew that he was still sitting there.

“I've never seen anyone blush all over before,” he said, his voice deep and filled with an almost tangible male amusement. “Even the backs of your knees are pink.”

“Get out” she cried in a strangled voice.

“Why are you so embarrassed?” he murmured. “You're beautiful. A body like that just begs for a man to stare at it.”

“Would you please just leave?” she begged. “I can't stand here like this all day!”

“Don't hurry on my account,” he replied with maddening satisfaction. “I like the back view as well as I did the front. It's a work of art, the way those long legs of yours sweep up into that perfect bottom. Is your skin as satiny as it looks?”

Embarrassment finally turned to anger and she
stomped her foot, although it was largely a wasted effort, as the thick carpet muffled any sound her bare foot might have made. “Blake Remington, I'll get back at you for this!” she threatened, her voice trembling with anger.

He laughed, the deep tone vibrating in the quiet morning air. “Don't be such a sexist,” he taunted. “You've seen me in only a pair of undershorts, so why be shy about my seeing you wearing only panties? You don't have anything to be ashamed of, but you have to know that already.”

He evidently wasn't going to leave; he was probably enjoying himself, the wretch! She sidled around until she could reach her nightgown, where she had thrown it across the bed. She was careful to keep her back to him, and she was so fiercely preoccupied with reaching that nightgown that she didn't hear the soft whir of the wheelchair as it came up behind her. Just as she touched the nightgown a much larger hand appeared from behind and anchored the garment to the bed.

“You're beautiful when you're angry,” he jibed, returning the teasing compliment she'd given him the day he'd become enraged when he had discovered that she lifted weights.

“Then I must be the world's most beautiful woman right now,” she fumed, then added, “because I'm getting madder by the minute.”

“Don't waste your energy,” he crooned, and she jumped as his hard hand suddenly swatted her on the bottom, then lingered to mold the round, firm cheek with his long fingers. He finished with an intimate pat, then removed his hand from the nightgown.

“I'll be waiting for you at breakfast,” he said
smoothly, and she heard him chuckling as he left the room.

She wadded up the nightgown and threw it at the closed door. Her face felt as if it were on fire, and she pressed her cold hands to her cheeks. Furiously she considered ways of paying him back, but she had to stop short of physical harm, and that left out all the most delicious schemes she could imagine. It would probably be impossible to embarrass him in return; since he was in so much better condition now, she doubted if it would bother him if she saw him stark naked. In fact, from the way he'd acted that morning, he'd probably enjoy it and proudly let her look all she wanted!