Raphaela's Gift (7 page)

The room shrunk into a claustrophobic one-foot by one-foot space.

Her reaction to him confused her, angered her.

"Would you like to go for a walk? I'd like to talk to you, but it's pretty stuffy in here," he said.

"Sure." At least there would be space. Fresh air.

He motioned for her to go first. She set down the antacid, which she'd forgotten she was holding, and took fast strides to the door. Fresh air and space, yes that was exactly what she needed to clear her head.

What was her problem? This guy was not only a jackass, he was totally off-limits.

"Should I lock the door?" he asked from behind her.

"No. We'll only be gone a few minutes." She skipped down the steps a little too quickly and tripped as she reached the bottom. Her ankle twisted, sending a wave of pain up her leg. "Shit!" She dropped onto the step and gripped it.

"You okay?" He towered over her as she sat, making her feel small and vulnerable. Yet, at the same time, she felt strangely protected. He stood behind her, and her back rested against his shins. The normally innocent contact between her body and his sent her heartbeat into double-time. She stared at the pine needle and acorn strewn ground--rich brown earth, cool, calm--and chastised herself for doing what she'd criticized her friend, Frankie, for doing, falling prey to the charms of a jerk.

Brushing past her, he descended the stairs and stooped down before her. "Would you like me to take a look at it?"

She lifted her gaze.
Damn!
His eyes were riveted to hers. And there was that disarming smile again. She couldn't help admiring his stunning features: his stubble-covered jaw, the mole on his cheek, the curls beckoning her with promises of silky softness. She could imagine tangling her fingers in their thickness.

And then she did exactly what she'd imagined--reached for him, touched his cheek, then followed the hollow of his cheekbone until her hand found the silken softness of his hair. A curl spiraled around her fingertip, and a wave of heat rushed through her body as she realized he was moving closer. His mouth was so close his breath cyclically warmed and cooled hers. Their breaths mingled. Her eyelids fell heavy over her eyes, and she lingered in soothing darkness and surging need, waiting for the moment his mouth met hers.

As she tensed the muscles of her neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. Then her conscience jolted her, like lightening, breaking the spell. She yanked her hand away and fell back against the step.

Shocked, bewildered, she scrambled to stand. "All better. My ankle, that is. Thanks." Had she really done what she thought she had? Had she just touched a client? Practically kissed him. And not only was he her client, but he was a man who had treated her like shit for the past two days.
Oh my God!

She wanted to run, despite the throbbing ankle. Run away from him, and from herself. She'd never acted like that before. Never, never, never. If someone had told her yesterday she'd impulsively grab Garret Damiani, a famous psychiatrist with an ego the size of Texas, she would have laughed in their face. Well, maybe not in their face, but she would have laughed nonetheless.

She was a professional, for God's sake. An intelligent woman, with a Masters degree and over thirty years of life under her belt. When had she become so impulsive and stupid?

He stood and smiled at her, but his smile wasn't as warm and genuine as it had been only moments ago. Something faded its brilliance, most likely shock, and confusion.

"I'm--God, I'm so sorry. I don't know why I did that. I wasn't thinking straight, after that thing with Mr. Roberts, I suppose..." She toyed with the bow of her dress, wrapping the ribbon around her wrist and pulling it tight, all the while wishing she were wrapping it around her neck.

"It's okay. I've done worse to you."

"Are you sure you want to go for a walk with me? I mean, after the way we've been treating each other?" Knowing better than to look at him, she stared straight ahead, down a shaded, narrow pathway into the woods. Brush crowded the trail on both sides and rays of sunlight sluiced through the spray of leaves overhead to set glittering dapples upon the mud and wood bark path.

The setting was perfect. For romance.

"Absolutely."

That wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. Or was it? Where were her anger and self-preservation when she really needed them? "What about Raphaela?"

"She's in the playroom with Marian. They need the time together. They'll be locked in there for at least a couple of hours."

Despite a concentrated effort to find one, a reasonable excuse to bow out eluded her. Defeated, she said, "Okay. I suppose we could use the time as a casual therapy session."

"Sure. That's a great idea!"

His response was a little too eager and exuberant for her comfort. What was she doing? What had she done?

More importantly, what was she going to do?

Something tickled Garret's leg. He leapt from his seat on a fallen tree trunk and reached to the back of his thigh. With a flick of his finger, he sent the offending critter flying through the air.

Faith's face lit with amusement for the first time since they'd left her office, and he found the expression dazzling, nearly as breathtaking as the stunning backdrop behind her. She sat on a gray boulder, her dress taut over her drawn-up knees, her eyes wide. A ray of sunlight blazed gold in her hair.

Suddenly speechless, he forced his gaze to the gorge behind her. They sat high atop a steep cliff, a crevasse at least a couple hundred yards deep below them. A wild river rushed down its center, sending the sound of water pounding against rock and the scent of damp earth into the air. Trees, lush with their full summer foliage, fringed both sides of the gorge.

"I think it bit me," he said.

"Pardon me?"

Hazarding a look at her, he felt like an awkward kid all over again. Maybe he had made a mistake by coming here with her after all. He'd thought he could handle it, thought he'd reassure her he intended on cooperating from this point on, even if he wasn't sure he could follow through. At least he would try.

For Raphaela's sake.

But for some reason, the only thing he could think about right now was that damn moment outside of that crummy shack, when they'd nearly kissed. She was obviously feeling guilty. Sure, he was her client, and some might think her impulsive action unprofessional, even though they hadn't actually kissed. But he couldn't bring himself to fault her for it. Actually, he suspected he'd encouraged her.

"The bug...or whatever it was. I think it bit me."

She chuckled, the sound as sweet and musical as the birdcalls symphonizing through the forest. "It was a caterpillar."

"Some caterpillars bite--don't they?"

"I don't think so."

"Leave it to Kentucky to have mutant biting caterpillars."

She laughed, harder this time, mirth frolicking over her features, making her eyes flash with the same intensity as the sun-kissed white water in the river.

Speechless again, he scanned the jagged rock wall on the far side of the gorge. Besides easing her guilt, why had he suggested this walk?
Oh, yeah. I wanted to apologize.
"I'm sorry I've been so hard on you and Mountain Rise. I've been nothing but a pessimistic ass since I arrived here."

"You already apologized for that."

Where is my brain?
"Oh, I did, didn't I? Well, I meant it. I want to help my daughter." When she didn’t respond, he added, "And thanks for bringing me out here. The view is really something."

"Not a problem. Did you want to talk about anything else? After all, this is your time, remember?"

"Yeah, my time. There isn't anything in particular. Can I ask you a question, though?"

She shrugged her shoulders and brushed some fallen leaves from the flat boulder top. "Fire away."

"Why art therapy?"

She looked at him. "Does my career bother you that much?"

He hesitated.
Did it? Maybe. Okay, yes.
Even if it made no sense.
"No, I was only wondering."

"What else could I do with a dual major--fine arts and psych?"

"Oh yeah?" He stared at her left hand as she toyed with a stick. No ring. Why hadn't he thought to look earlier? Then again, why did it matter? Why did the absence of a tiny band of gold make his lungs inflate easier and his heart rate slow--instead of quicken?

She shook her head. "Actually, there's more logic to my choice than that. My first love is art. I used to love to paint, spent hours at the easel. But painting's so--so self-involved. Outside of the few people my pictures might reach, it doesn't serve humanity in any meaningful way." She furrowed her brows, as she looked him in the eye. "Does that make any sense?"

Serve humanity?
How many people think about serving humanity? Did he? Maybe, at the beginning of his career, after he'd received his license. Ready to cure mankind of all evil, he'd set up his practice and taken every patient who'd managed to stumble through his door. "Yeah, actually it does. But do you really think art is self-serving? What about all the great masters? Haven't they done more than that?"

"Yes, but their work is in the Louvre and other galleries. It touches tens of thousands of lives every year."

"But if one of your paintings gives one person a measure of happiness, then you've accomplished something good, haven't you?"

"That's not enough. Not for me. Besides, I don't paint anymore."

"Why not?"

She scowled. "Are you analyzing me, Doctor Damiani?"

"Sorry, it's a hard habit to break." He stepped closer her, but something flashed in her eyes. Trepidation? He moved past her, toward another boulder and took a seat.

She followed his movements with her eyes. "My turn. Now that you've worked with Raphaela in the therapeutic playroom, what do you think of our methods?"

"You want my professional or personal opinion?"

"Both."

"Okay. Professional first. I'd say the program is treading on thin ice, setting itself up for possible litigation. The methods are in many ways contradictory to standard treatments, and I think they could, with certain individuals, worsen their condition."

"That bad? Then why haven't you withdrawn Raphaela?"

"I would. Actually, I wanted to--" He stopped. Why hadn't he? What the hell was he doing there now, trying to force himself to cooperate with a program he didn't believe in? It made no sense. "Marian was so damned insistent, I didn't have the heart to do it," he lied. When he'd made the decision to stay, he hadn't given a damn about Marian's pleas, but he didn't have a better answer.

"So, Marian feelings are more important than what is best for your daughter?" she asked, her eyebrows rose in surprise.

"No. I didn't say that. I would never say that."

"So why haven't you taken Raphaela home?" she challenged. Her tone annoyed him, and his anger flashed anew.

"In Ella's case, I think the risk of worsening her condition is minimal. She's profoundly autistic." He clamped his mouth shut. Had he just said that? Admitted something so painful he hadn't spoken the words in three years?

Faith dropped her gaze from his and with a twig etched something in the dust coating the boulder. He wished he could read her mind. Wished he could take back what he'd just said. Did she know the significance of his last statement?

"What about your personal opinion?" she asked.

"Personally, I find the techniques intriguing." That admission caught him by surprise as well. Why was he being so damned honest with this woman?

She nodded.

Silence. He hated it when yawning silence swallowed up a conversation. Especially when he'd revealed so much. He needed to fill the silence, change the topic, and move to safer territory. "I heard your argument with Mr. Roberts."

Wide blue eyes shot up, her gaze meeting his own. "What?" she whispered, her reaction taking him by surprise.

"I heard your discussion with Mr. Roberts. I was outside the door," he explained, trying to figure out why it bothered her.

She stared at him for a moment, chewing her lip. "Look, we're here to talk about you and Raphaela and Marian. If I decide I need a therapist, I'll let you know."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything--"

"It's okay. Let's stick to you and your family, if that's all right with you." She smiled, but it was a strained expression.

He forced his regard back to the river thrashing the rocks below.
I guess the compliments will have to wait.
"So what do you want to know about me? I'm really an uninteresting guy. Not much depth."

"For some reason, I don't believe that."

"Really. What you see is pretty much what you get."

Their gazes locked again, until Garret looked away, followed the rough-barked trunk of a nearby tree to outstretched branches, finally losing the green-cloaked limbs overhead where they tangled with the branches of other trees.