Donovan's Child (8 page)

Yes, she was tempted to ask Zoe if she would speak with Dax, try to find out from him if he knew that Donovan had had a son. But she didn't. She reminded herself that Donovan was the one she should ask about the child.

If she ever asked anyone at all.

She called Javier to see how things were going with him—and then ended up going on and on about the design for the children's center, about the idea for the facade that still wasn't coming together, about how much she was learning from Donovan. As always, he encouraged her and he asked all the right questions.

By the time she hung up with Javier, it was after ten. She got into bed and turned off the light and told herself that she was glad she'd decided not to hound Donovan anymore about his past, about his secrets, about his private life.

From now on, she would do the job she had come here to do, period. She would be pleasant at dinner, in a thoroughly surface sort of way. And in three weeks, she would leave this house and the solitary man who lived
here. She would build a special children's center and get a great job with a top firm.

And if she ever thought of Donovan McCrae again, it would be with simple gratitude for the opportunity he had given her.

 

Donovan woke at ten after six Monday morning with the facade, vestibule and welcome area of the children's center clear in his mind.

He could see it. He understood it. He knew how to build it. He
had it,
damn it.

He knew how it should be.

He needed to draw it, fast. And then he needed for Abilene to see it. He couldn't wait to show it to her. This was the breakthrough they'd been waiting for.

After today, it was all going to fall into place. And fast. Even faster than it had up till now.

He sat bolt-upright in bed, threw back the covers and swung his legs to the side, unthinking. His feet hit the floor and he leaned forward to stand.

The arrows of shimmering pain brought him up short. He looked down at the deep grooves of scar tissue, scoring his thighs, the flesh over his knees, which were now made of metal and plastic, and lower, to his skinny, wasted calves.

He tossed back his head and laughed out loud.

It was the first time since the fall down the mountain that he'd actually forgotten there was a problem with his legs.

After that, he took it a little slower. But not a lot. He was a man with a mission, and the mission was to get the concept in his head down onto paper, to take what he'd discovered and to show it to Abilene.

What he'd discovered.
Sometimes an inspired design
element felt like that: like a discovery. Not as if he'd created it at all. But as if it had been waiting, whole and ready, for him to finally see it.

He rang Olga and asked her to bring him coffee in the studio. And then he threw on some clothes and wheeled at breakneck speed out of his rooms and down the hall.

In the studio, he turned on some lights to boost what natural light there was from the skylights and the clerestory windows, so early on a gray winter morning. He got out large sheets of drawing paper and soft pencils and he went to work.

It came so fast, he could barely keep up with it, his hand moving, utterly sure, across the paper, every stroke exactly right, no hesitation. Just a direct channel to the idea that was waiting, so impatiently now, to reveal itself.

When he finished, he looked over and saw that Olga had come and gone, leaving the coffee he'd asked for, along with a couple of Anton's killer cinnamon rolls. He took time for a cup, ate half a cinnamon roll.

By then, it was after seven. And there was no way he could wait any longer. Even if Abilene came to the studio early, it could still be an hour before she put in an appearance. Before he could show her what he had.

He couldn't do it, wait that long.

So he gathered the drawings—the one of the facade, the one of the entry interior and the one from the floor of the welcome area, looking up. He rolled them, snapped a band around them, laid them across his thighs and went to find her.

Often she would grab breakfast in the kitchen, so he wheeled there first and stuck his head in. Anton stood at the stove stirring something that made his stomach growl.

“Abilene?” Donovan asked.

“Haven't seen her yet today.”

“Thanks.” And he was off down the interior hallway.

He reached the door to her sitting room and braked sideways to it, gave it a strong tap, called, “Abilene?”

She didn't answer.

He knocked again. Nothing.

Was she still in bed? If so, she needed to get up. Now. She needed to see this and she needed to get herself together and get to work.

He tried the doorknob. It turned.

So he pushed the door inward. “Abilene?”

Still no answer. She must be a sound sleeper.

Too bad. It was imperative that he get her up, that he share with her what he'd found out. She was going to be so happy, so relieved. It was all coming together, and it would be a really fine piece of work, something they could both be proud of.

He wheeled over the threshold and into her private space. The bedroom door, in the far corner to the left as he entered, was wide open, so he went for it, rolling the length of the sitting room and then into her bedroom.

The blinds were drawn against the morning light, the bed unmade. And empty. The bathroom door, directly across from the door to the sitting room, stood open. The light was on in there. And he could hear the unmistakable sound of the shower running, feel the moisture in the air…

He backed and turned, approaching the bed. He saw the black dress she'd worn the night before, laid across the bedside chair. Saw her cell phone on the nightstand, beside a half-full glass of water, and a framed snapshot
of a bunch of good-looking, smiling people. He picked it up, that picture, for a closer look.

Her family. They stood out in the country somewhere, in front of a weathered cabin. Father and mother. Seven broad-shouldered brothers. Abilene—but younger, her face a little rounder than now. And another girl who resembled her.

Carefully, he set the picture back exactly where he'd found it.

He knew where she had to be, of course. Had known when he saw the light from the bathroom, heard the sound of the water running in there. He knew he should wheel around, roll into the sitting room, and on out the way he had come.

But he didn't wheel away. All he could think was that she had to see what he had to show her.

He backed up, turned his wheels toward the sound of running water, and rolled on through that open bathroom door.

S
he was in there, as he had known she would be.

In the shower. The doorless, open shower.

Wearing nothing but the slim, smooth perfection of her own skin, facing away from him, her head tipped up to the shower spray, eyes closed, soap and water sheeting down over her pink-tipped breasts, her concave belly, her gently curving hips, her perfect bottom, her long, lean thighs.

He stopped the chair without a sound.

And he watched as she turned her body in a gentle, side to side swaying motion, rinsing herself, letting the spray carry the bubbles away. He saw her from the back, and then in profile, and then full front.

At first, it was the same as when he watched her in the pool. A pure appreciation of something so beautiful, so smooth—her skin flushed, steamy; the secret shadow
beneath her arm as she slicked her wet hair back. The soft, round curve of the side of her breast.

But in seconds, everything changed. It became more than just about the perfect picture she made, more than the slim, womanly shape of her, more than the frothy dribble of bubbles sliding down sleek, youthful skin.

He saw her as a woman.

Desirable to him.

More than desirable.

Wanted. Yearned for. Craved.

The reality of the situation became all at once blindingly clear. He had been lying—to her, and more than to her, to himself. He'd treated her callously, cruelly.

Because she stirred him. She…excited him. From their initial meeting, in the studio, when Ben brought her to him on that first day, he had felt it—the brisk wind of change on the air.

Felt a sense of possibility, of promise. As if she had marched into a darkened, stuffy room on those long, strong legs of hers, run up the shut blinds, and thrown the windows wide.

He'd been blinking and whining and sniping against the light ever since. Like some cranky old man.

Yes. Like an old man. An old man awakened abruptly from a long, fitful sleep. He'd been digging at her, taunting her, trying to get her to give up and go, to leave him in peace—but at the same time he couldn't help but be drawn to her.

She was not only a joy to look at, she had an incisive intelligence. She questioned everything, wanted to see beneath the surface, to understand the deeper truth. And beyond looks and brains, she possessed a kind and generous heart.

She was pretty much perfect. His ideal woman.

And he had met her too late.

All this came to him in an instant—the instant before she turned beneath the spray and opened her eyes.

She let out a shriek, blinked fiercely against the water that still ran into her eyes, blinding her—and looked again. “Donovan? What in the…?” She turned, twisted the knob to cut off the water, at the same time as she groped for the towel on the rack outside the shower stall.

He spun the chair to face the door, giving her the chance to cover herself, at least. And then he just sat there, the rolled drawings he'd
had
to show her waiting in his lap, feeling not only reprehensible, but shamed beyond bearing.

Was she wrapped in a towel yet? She was absolutely silent behind him. All he heard were the final hollow drip-drip-drips of water on slate from the shut-off shower heads.

And he couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Sorry was not going to cut it. And as for trying to justify what he'd just done? There was no justification. None.

She spoke then, her voice low and tight. “Would you just leave, please?”

It was the permission he'd been waiting for. She had released him. He didn't look back at her. He kept his gaze straight ahead as he wheeled out of the bathroom, across the dim bedroom, down the empty sitting room and out through the open hallway door.

 

Abilene's first thought, once she heard him shut the outer door behind him, was that she needed to go. She needed to get her stuff packed, throw it in her car and get out, go home, back to San Antonio where she belonged.

Really, she couldn't stay here anymore. She just couldn't.

She traded the hastily grabbed towel for the robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door. Her hair hung in snaky coils, still dripping wet, and she left a trail of droplets across the bedroom floor as she pulled back the door to the walk-in closet, went in there and grabbed an empty suitcase, the largest one of the three she had brought with her.

She hauled it back into the bedroom, tossed it on the bed, got hold of the zipper tab and ripped it along the track until she had it undone. Then she flipped the top back, spreading it wide.

After that, she just stood there, staring into the empty space within, still dripping on the bedside rug, feeling overwhelmed and awful and foolish.

And also numb, somehow.

She shook herself. Then she turned on her bare heel and marched back into the closet, where she grabbed a bunch of stuff, hangers and all, and lugged it back to the open suitcase. When she got there, she flung the whole pile into the yawning interior.

Bracing her hands on her hips, she stared down at the tangle of shirts and light jackets, knit tops and cardigan sweaters.

“What a mess,” she whispered, to no one in particular. “What a stupid, crazy mess.”

She turned, sank to the edge of the bed and gazed blindly toward the open door to the closet and thought how, if she was going to go, she shouldn't be just sitting here, staring off into space. She needed to finish packing, to put on some clothes, to dry her hair.

But she didn't get up. She continued to sit there. By then, she was thinking that she didn't really want to go.

She wanted to finish the design for the children's center. She wanted her chance to see it built.

And still, the yearning remained within her, to understand what was going on with Donovan, to…talk to him, or
not
to talk. Just to be with him the way they had been at dinner the night before. To enjoy spending time with him. Without having to be constantly on guard against his sudden, inexplicable cruelty.

She wanted to be able to laugh with him, to speak openly. Honestly. Without fear of emotional ambush or petty retaliation.

With a heavy sigh, she got up, scooped the tangle of clothing and hangers into her arms, carried them back to the closet, and hung them up again. She returned to the bedroom, shut the suitcase, zipped it tight and put it away.

She was just emerging from the closet when she heard the polite tap on the sitting room door.

What now?

“It's open,” she called, and then went over and sat on the long, rustic bench at the end of the bed.

She heard the outer door open. A moment later, Donovan appeared in the bedroom doorway.

He stopped the chair there, hands tight on the wheels, and waited, his fine mouth a grim line, his eyes bleak.

She was still naked under the robe and her hair hung on her shoulders in wet clumps. But so what? He'd already seen everything anyway.

Carefully, she smoothed the robe on her bare knees. Then she drew her shoulders back and aimed her chin high. “You have something you want to say?”

He nodded. And then, finally, with obvious difficulty, he said, “An apology seems ridiculous. It's not as though I have any excuse for my behavior.”

She said nothing. If he had some kind of explanation to make, well, let him go for it.

He didn't waver, didn't look away. “Ridiculous,” he repeated. “But nonetheless necessary.” His eyes were dark right then, haunted. Gunmetal gray. He drew in a slow breath. “And so I do, I apologize. For what that's worth, which I know is not a lot.”

She fiddled with the tie of the robe, nervously. And realized the action betrayed her. So she let it go and wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. “These rooms are the one thing I have here, for myself, in this house. The one place I don't have to be on guard, ever. The one place you are not allowed to be.”

“You're right. I know.” He let out another careful, pained breath and lowered his golden head. In shame, she hoped.

Because he
should
be ashamed.

She accused, “And now you've not only invaded my space, you've wheeled on into my bathroom and watched me in the shower.” She waited until he lifted his head and met her eyes. And then she gave him a look meant to sear him where he sat. “I turned around and you were…just sitting there, watching me. Why?”

“There's no excuse,” he muttered low.

“No argument there. I'll ask you again. Why?”

It took him a long count of five to answer. “Because you're beautiful—or at least, at first, that was why.”

She scoffed, “What? I should be flattered now?”

“No. Of course not. I'm just trying to explain myself. Not that anything I say is going to make it okay. But
you should know that at first, it was a totally objective appreciation.”

“Objective?” She let out a harsh laugh. “As in detached?”

“I suppose so.”

“And is that supposed to ease my mind somehow? That you broke into my rooms, rolled into my bathroom and looked at me—
stared
at me without my clothes on—and you felt nothing?”

“I didn't say I felt nothing—I said I saw you…I don't know, without heat, I guess.”

What was he telling her? She had no idea. She should leave it alone, send him away.

But she didn't. “You looked at me coolly? Dispassionately. Is that it?”

“No. There was passion. But it wasn't personal. It was more the way I would admire good art.”

“Good art.” She shook her head. “I have to tell you, Donovan. This is one strange conversation.”

He wheeled a fraction closer—caught himself, and wheeled back to where he'd been before. “There's more. You should know the rest of it. There should be honesty between us, at least.”

Honesty. Well, okay. She agreed with him about the honesty. She
wanted
honesty.

She wanted that a lot.

“What else then?” She looked at him sideways, needing the truth, yes. But contrarily, not really sure she wanted to know whatever he might reveal next.

He revealed it anyway. “I watched you swimming, too.”

Her cheeks were suddenly burning. She pressed her palms to them. “Oh, great. And I need to know that, why?”

“Because it's the truth. It's what I did. And I don't want to lie to you, by omission or otherwise, about what I did. I owe you that much, at least.”

She had no idea how to answer that. So she simply sat there, waiting, for whatever he would say next.

He went on, “And it was the same, when I watched you swimming, as it was at first a little while ago, in there.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “There was appreciation. Admiration. A vague, faraway sense of longing, I guess you could say.”

She sat forward, curious in spite of herself. “Longing for…?”

“I don't know. For the man I was once. For the past. For the present and the future, too. But not as they are and will be. As they
might
have been.”

She thought of his child then, of the little boy. His lost son, Elias. She longed to ask him about Elias.

But no. Bringing up Elias now would only send them spinning off in another direction entirely. They needed, right now, to stay with the subject at hand.

The painful, awkward, weird—and thoroughly embarrassing—subject at hand.

She raked her fingers back through her soggy hair. “So. You felt appreciation. Objective appreciation.”

“Yes. When I watched you swimming. And today, too. At first. But then it changed.”

Her throat clutched. She gulped hard, to make it relax. “Changed?”

“That's right. It became…something more. I found I was attracted. To you. As a man is attracted to a woman. It stopped being objective. I realized I want you. And I haven't wanted anything or anyone since before the accident on the mountain—a long time before.”

I want you.
Had he actually just said that out loud?

Okay, she truly was not ready to be having this conversation. Maybe she would never be ready. To speak of desire, of attraction, of
sex
with Donovan McRae.

That wasn't why she'd come here, worked her butt off, put up with his antagonism and his ruthless remarks. She was here for the work, and only the work. She had absolutely no interest in…

She caught herself up short.

Who was she kidding?

She did have an interest in Donovan, as a man. She had a serious interest.

He had captivated her from the beginning. From the first time she saw him, as a dewy-eyed undergraduate, one in hundreds in the audience on that long-ago evening when he came to speak at Rice.

And since she'd been here, in his house, it was pretty much a toss-up over which fascinated her more: the work she'd come out here to do, or the man in the wheelchair across the bedroom from her.

In the end, it was pretty simple. Much simpler than either of them were allowing it to be. She wanted him. And he wanted her.

They should start with that. See where it led them…

But really,
how
to start?
That
was not simple. Not with a man like Donovan.

She rose and walked past him, crossing to the French doors. She opened the blinds. The winter sunlight spilled in, filling the room, gray and cool. Outside, the wind found its way into the courtyard, ruffled just slightly the glassy surface of the pool.

He said her name, “Abilene.”

She turned to look at him again.

His gaze didn't waver. He sat absolutely still at the threshold of her bedroom, waiting.

She asked, “But why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why did you come in here in the first place? I mean, it's one thing to look out a window and see me in the pool. It's another to wheel right into my bathroom when you can hear the shower running and have to be reasonably certain you'll find me stark naked in there.”