The Vixen and the Vet (6 page)

When she looked back up at his face,
the corners of his lips tilted upward and his good eye seemed to twinkle with a mixture of surprise and cockiness. He shrugged out of his shirt, and she noticed the harness that extended from the top of the prosthetic arm and crisscrossed his back.

She swallowed. “Don’t wear this for me. Not anymore.”

“Okay,” he said softly.

As he shrugged out of the harness
, the muscles of his chest and upper arms moved in ways that mesmerized her as he freed himself. She watched as he reached over, pulling on the silicon arm until it detached with a quiet pop, and he turned to place the arm and harness on the table behind him. He reached up to where a white sleeve with a bolt hanging from the bottom was still attached to his arm. He tugged until it gave, and he laid it beside the harness. Then he turned to her, probably feeling more naked than he’d ever felt in his entire life as her eyes drifted to the oval stump of smooth flesh under his elbow.

She started to reach out, but then her eyes
darted back up to his. “May I?”

Staring at her in wonderment, he nodded
. Her fingers trembled they touched down gently on the stump of skin under his elbow, as she learned the textures and contours of his mangled flesh.

“It’s so smooth,” she
said.

He
sucked in an audible breath.

“I’m hurting you?”
she asked.

“No,” he
murmured. “Never.”

“Is there
still feeling?”

“
Some,” he said honestly. “Mostly phantom sensations.”

As her fingers continued to brush gently over his stump, h
er breasts rose and fell higher and faster than before. She caught him as he lowered his eyes to them, staring hungrily before looking back into her eyes. She raised her eyebrows, feeling heat pool in her tummy, her awareness of him and of her and of them off-the-charts as he stared at her.

T
he door opened and she yanked her hand away.

“Oh, I see we’ve
all
gotten a little more comfortable,” said Miss Potts, bustling into the room with the silver tray carrying coffee and scones. “What a good idea.”

Savannah moved quickly away from Asher, trying to breathe normally as she made her way to the left wingback chair in front of the stained glass windows. Once there, she pressed her palms to her hot cheeks, trying to figure out what was happening between them, trying to convince herself that whatever it was, it was a very bad idea. Asher plopped down in the chair beside her, clearly perturbed by Miss Potts’s inopportune intrusion, but Savannah had to admit she was relieved.

Not only was Asher several years older than she—which wasn’t actually a deal breaker for Savannah—but he had baggage galore, he was a veritable hermit, and, most important, he was her subject.
Good Lord, Savannah. First a source, now a subject. Try conducting yourself with an ounce of professionalism, for goodness’ sake.

She numbly accepted the cup of coffee from M
iss Potts, determined not to be distracted by Asher Lee’s amazing chest, amazing voice, amazing sense of humor, amazing, amazing, amazing … anymore. No, she’d be the hard-hitting journalist she was trained to be.

By the time Savannah headed home
, at six o’clock, she was feeling much better. The rest of the afternoon had proceeded without incident, Asher answering her questions without reaching for her hand or any other extended physical contact. Their fingers brushed once as they replaced their coffee cups at the same time, but they continued talking without a blip. It had, in fact, been an informative session. Not only had they discussed Asher’s grade school and high school years, but they’d been able to cover his childhood feelings about Danvers, about being a Lee, and about losing his parents so tragically.

She’d been
especially tempted to reach over and touch his hand as he related this part of his history, but she held herself back. If they kept distracting each other with their blossoming personal relationship, she’d never get the article done.

Wait,
she thought, as she turned the key in the ignition.
Or would she?

This was supposed to be a human interest piece, right? What would be more human than the unlikely friendship between a down-on-her
-luck reporter and a hermitlike war veteran? First-person narrative. Two people who provoked sympathy. She hit the steering wheel once with glee. That was it. The article would be about how she lost her job because of a bad source. How he lost his hand and injured half of his face. How he came home, and she came home, and two misfits found comfort, found friendship, found something that resonated in each other.

She knew, instinct
ively, that the gritty editor would love it, and as soon as she got home, she typed up a quick e-mail detailing the new angle and submitting a piece, complete with poker tips, called “Asher Lee: An All-American Story.”

Savannah paced her small childhood bedroom over the next hour, trying to distract herself without success as she waited for
Mr. McNabb’s reply. Scarlet poked her head in at one point.

“Come to the club for dinner and dancing tonight.”

Savannah shook her head no. “Sort of waiting for an important e-mail, Scarlet.”

“I’ll cancel on Trent. Dinner and a movie. Just you and me?”

“Tomorrow?” asked Savannah. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate on a movie until her story angle had been approved anyway.

“I’m holding you to it. You’re supposed to be my maid
of honor, and we’ve barely done any wedding stuff together. I know it’s not your thing, Vanna, but the least you can do is spend some time with me before I’m a Mrs.”

Savannah held her arms out to her sister. “I’m sorry, hon. I’ve been really distracted. If this story gets approved, it could mean a fresh start for me.”

“In Phoenix,” said Scarlet, glumly.

“Phoenix. New York. What the difference? You’ll still be the belle of the ball here in Danvers, and I promise I’ll come home more regularly to bounce Trent and Scarlet
Juniors on my old-maid aunt knees.”

Scarlet pulled out of her sister’s arms, sitting down on the bed. “This is the happiest you’ve been in weeks, you know.”

Savannah had a brief flashback to Asher’s arm around her and felt her cheeks flush with heat.

“I didn’t mean to make fun of Asher at breakfast
,” Scarlet said.

“It’s okay. Just don’t do it again, Scar
let. He’s a pretty amazing guy.”

“Is he?” she asked, and Savannah was too caught up in images of Asher to hear the warning note in her sister’s voice.

“Yeah. He’s smart and sophisticated. He’s really well-read. He’s a bona fide war hero. He makes me feel … feel …”

“What? What does he make you feel?” asked Scarlet.

“I don’t know. Different. Better. His name means ‘happiness.’”

“
Vanna, he’s lived up in that old house for as long as I can remember. Never comes to town. Never has anyone up, except you. People say all sorts of things about him.” She paused. “His hand … and his face …”

Savannah narrowed her eyes, biting her lower lip to keep herself from lashing out at her sister’s small-mindedness. “I’ve hung out with him three times.
Three times
, Scarlet. And I swear to you, I barely notice it anymore. Is it pretty? No. But there’s a lot more to him than some facial scarring. He’s … remarkable.”

Savannah’s phone started buzzing
, and she reached across her sister to answer it. “Mr. McNabb?”

“Carmichael. Great stuff.”

“Really?” She looked up in time to see Scarlet standing in her doorway, a worried expression on her face. Savannah covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Dinner and a movie tomorrow,” and Scarlet nodded before turning away.

“Yup. I really like it. Not to mention, I’m going to do pretty well in my standing
poker game tonight.” He laughed. “When can I have the next installment?”

“I see him on Mondays, Wednesdays
, and Fridays.”

“Send me something else next Friday. I’ll figure out then if I’m going to serialize it or hold onto the installments for one big piece. You’re a good writer, Carmichael.
Jones was right about that.”

“Thank you so much, sir. I’m going to knock your socks off!”

“You do that. Bye.”

“Bye,
sir.”

Savannah hit End
and threw herself on her bed, kicking her feet with abandon as she shouted, “I’m back, I’m back, I’m back!” until she finally quieted, staring at the ceiling and feeling lighter than she’d felt in weeks. Only one thing would have made it better: to share the news with Asher. To watch his face brighten with approval as she told him that she’d figured out the angle.

It was then
, and only then, that she realized she had a whole weekend and much of Monday to endure alone before seeing him again.

Contemplating an entire weekend without Savannah’s company made Asher feel more needy and more churlish than he’d felt since he started getting his act back together two or three years ago. He strongly considered going on a bender to pass the weekend in drunken numbness, but he hadn’t worked on his body strength for the past few years just to toss it to the side because he was missing a girl. As soon as she left, he put his hair in a ponytail, changed into workout clothes, and headed downstairs to his state-of-the-art home gym, where he spent two hours lifting weights to keep building solid muscle mass in his chest, good arm, and good leg. Then he did all of his rehabilitation exercises on his injured leg. Twice. He was sweaty and tired when he came upstairs at eight o’clock, but he didn’t miss her any less.

“Dinner’s ready,” Miss Potts informed him, when he appeared at the top of the stairs.

“I’ll take a quick shower.”

“It’ll get cold,” she said. “Anyway, since when do you shower before dinner?”

In just the week he’d been spending time with Savannah, his social graces and manners were returning at a clip. But Miss Potts was right. He could eat dinner now and shower later, when the memory of his recent experiences with Savannah and his general longing for her would be assuaged only by a blast of freezing water.

He sat down at the dining room table, grinning at M
iss Potts over the steaming slices of meat loaf and pile of mashed potatoes, both covered with brown gravy, with green beans on the side.

“My favorite,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Glad you’re asher, Asher,” she said, and he grinned at the old joke his grandmother used to make. She sat across from him, fidgeting with her hands on the table. “I have to tell you something.”

He knew that confessional tone
, and his grin disappeared as his fork changed course halfway to his mouth.

“I made an appointment for you. You can cancel it if you want to.”

“Where? With whom?”

“
At Walter Reed.”

His fork clattered on his plate. “I’m not going.”

“Okay. Have it your way.”

“
I swear, Miss Potts—”

“
Don’t swear. The appointment’s for tomorrow.” She shrugged. “Sort of thought you might want something to do. You know, to pass the time.”

Sly thing. She knew he’d be stalking around for the next three days waiting for Savannah
to return on Monday. Damn her, but she knew his weaknesses and zeroed in on them like a tactical missile.

“Then again, you could always pick up the phone and
ask to see her this weekend. You don’t
have
to wait until Monday.”

“That would be presumptuous. She agreed to Mondays, Wednesdays
, and Fridays. I don’t have a right to ask for more.”
Yet.

“Then you’re free to go to Maryland. I also booked you a room at the Naval Bridge Inn & Suites
for Saturday and Sunday nights.”

Miss Potts knew as well as he did that he’d never consider staying in a civilian hotel
, where people would stare and gawk at his injuries. At the military-associated Naval Bridge, no one would even blink as he checked in or ate a quiet meal alone at the restaurant. In fact, at the Naval Bridge, he was likely to run into other injured vets, or at least get respectfully saluted by younger, whole men who had yet to survive a deployment.

“Why
Sunday
night too?”

“First consult is on Saturday afternoon for your hand. Second is on Monday morning for your
leg and face.”

“Damn it, Miss Potts.”

“Don’t you swear at me, Asher Sherman Lee,” she said, her face reddening. “You don’t like it? Cancel it.” Then she stood up indignantly and left the room in a huff.

Asher sighed,
then picked up his fork and took another bite of meat loaf.

Bethesda.
He hadn’t been in years. Not since he’d gotten his present, and wildly outdated, prosthesis fitted five years ago. Lately he’d been reading about new attachments that somehow sensed your brain waves and sent signals down the arm to the hand. Bionic arms. He couldn’t deny that he’d been intrigued, if not excited, by the new developments.

I’ve noticed that you barely ever use your other arm.

But maybe he would, if it wasn’t just a useless piece of silicon for appearances. He’d be able to keep holding her hand while his prosthetic hand turned a doorknob.

Asher, enough!

But his mind was already reeling with possibilities.

He’d be able to pick her up in his arms and carry her to bed, touching her with his good hand, while he took off his clothes with the other.
He’d be able to hold her tightly against him while his good hand traced the lines of her face. He’d be able to wrap both arms around her …

The oil heater in the basement kicked on
, and Asher was so lost in his fantasies that he jumped. Damn it, he had to stop thinking like that. He wasn’t involved with Savannah. She didn’t belong to him. They were becoming friends. That’s all.

But he remembered how her body felt pressed against his in the library
, and his heart started racing.

“Fine, Miss Potts,” he bellowed. “I’ll go to Maryland tomorrow.”

Without missing a beat, she swung back into the dining room through the kitchen door, a pleased smile brightening her wrinkled face.

“Wonderful. I knew you would.”

***

By Sunday afternoon, Savannah considered swinging by Asher’s house
, but she couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse, and besides, he’d committed to being interviewed only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Sundays were his private time for reading or exercising that surprisingly hard, toned body, she mused, feeling a little swoony.

The toe of her shoe dangled off the
porch swing, the rubber squeaking against the hardwood floor as she stared at the pitcher of lemonade on the coffee table in front of her.

A sleek, dark
-green Jaguar pulled up to the curb and parked, and she watched as Trent Hamilton’s coiffed blond head emerged from the car. He winked at Savannah as he opened and closed the front gate and jauntily made his way up the front walkway.

“Got an extra glass?” he asked, leaning against the porch railing.

“Sure,” she said, pulling one from a stacked pile and filling it for her future brother-in-law.

“How’s the story coming? About
’Ole Asher Lee, the weird war hero?”

Savannah rolled her eyes. “He’s a veteran, Trent. Show some respect.”

“Ain’t good for a town to have some old creep livin’ like the hermit of the hills.”

“Relax. He
’s a perfectly nice guy. And he gives Danvers character.”

“
Some
character.”

“You know how he sustained his injuries? He was
headed into a warzone to drag an injured soldier to safety. An IED went off right near him. Blew off his hand and scarred his face and leg.” She didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but she couldn’t help it. “What have you done lately for the good of humanity, Trent?”

He finished off his lemonade and set down the glass slightly harder than necessary. “How you and my Scarlet are sisters
…”

“She got the soft. I got the hard.”

“You ain’t kiddin’. Hey, how about I stop makin’ fun of Asher Lee, and you don’t tell Scarlet I got you all riled?”

The thing Savannah would always like best about Trent was how much he loved her sister. Somehow it made everything okay. She stuck out her tongue at him. “Deal.”

Her phone vibrated in her back pocket, surprising her, and she waved for Trent to go inside.

“Hello?”

“Savannah, dear, it’s Miss Potts.”

“Miss Potts! Hello!” Suddenly her heart seized. Why would Miss Potts be calling her? Could something have happened to Asher? “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yes, dear. It’s just that Asher was called out of town. He won’t be back until very late on Monday night, so I’m afraid he’ll have to cancel your session.”

The disappointment Savannah felt almost winded her. She
scooted back on the swing, curling her legs under her. She’d been counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until Monday at four o’clock. Finding out she’d have longer to wait made her feel so desperate, so unhappy, she swallowed over the lump forming in her throat.

“Called out of town?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But he’ll be back late on Monday?”

“Very late.”

“Oh.” Savannah stared forlornly at the pitcher of lemonade, watching droplets run down the side like tears. “I didn’t know he
…”

“Took off now and then? Well, dear, he’s a
man
. Of course he does.”

Savannah sat up straight as she perceived Miss Potts’s meaning. Of course. He
’s a man. With
needs
. He was out of town getting those needs met. Someone—some awful, two-bit, floozy who couldn’t possibly share Savannah’s appreciation for his mind—would be running her dirty fingers over his rock-hard chest all weekend long. She winced.

“I see,” said Savannah,
working hard to keep her voice level.

“I knew you would. See you on Wednesday?”

“Sure,” she answered, feeling her nostrils flare and her eyes burn with … with what? Anger? Check. Betrayal? Not that she had a right to it, but check. Jealousy? Check. Sadness? Oh Lord,
check
.

“Wonderful. Good-bye, dear.”

Miss Potts hung up, and Savannah sat stock-still, her heart pounding uncomfortably as she tried to sort through her feelings. Asher Lee. Crippled, disfigured Asher Lee was getting his rocks off somewhere with someone while she sat at home pining for him, imagining him all alone in his brown house on the hill, pining for her in turn. But no. No. That wasn’t the case at all. Clearly his schedule was much busier than hers.

She had no right to the sharp way her heart ached, but it did.
And inconvenient that, because it told her something important that she’d suspected all weekend long: Asher Lee wasn’t just a subject to her anymore, and he wasn’t just a friend either. In a very short time, Asher Lee had become much more to her foolish heart, and she hated herself for just assuming somewhere in her head that he’d be hers for the taking if she crooked her little finger.

“Savannah,” her mother called
from the dining room. “Suppertime.”

She hefted herself off the swing,
feeling miserable, bracing herself for fabulously happy Mr. and Almost-Mrs. Hamilton sitting across from her while her own brief dreams of someone special went up in smoke.

***

It was a satisfactory weekend
, thought Asher, speeding west toward home.

The appointments on Saturday and Monday had gone well, and Asher had learned a lot about his options. If he wanted to be fitted for the
i-Limb “bionic” hand he’d read about, he’d need to schedule an appointment for the casting and another for the training, but they estimated he could be up and running by August. As for his face, some new developments in facial reconstruction meant that they could build a prosthetic right ear for him based on the shape and size of his left ear. He would need a quick operation to imbed magnets into the place where his ear used to be, and remove any ancillary tissue. Then the artificial ear could be fitted. They said he needed a few straightforward operations to remove areas of scar contractures and replace the damaged skin with healthy skin grafts, and another procedure to smooth out his jawline with silicone implants. They’d even be able to reestablish the normal contour of his right eye and smooth out some of the burns too.

He’d require one mo
re consult, and then the surgeries could be scheduled for the summer and fall. Probably four to seven procedures in all. The news wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be, and it had certainly given him a great deal to think about.

As for his leg, that’s where he ran out of luck. T
here were procedures to replace the bones, but the bones were sound. It was the muscle, cartilage, and skin that had been so badly injured, and the only thing that would improve function was his adherence to daily physical therapy. Asher committed to himself to do more, to do better, to lose as much of the limp as possible.

And h
e’d even run into an old friend from Afghanistan, so he hadn’t ended up eating alone on Sunday night, after all. Turns out he owed Miss Potts some thanks because it was a far more productive trip than he’d anticipated, and he felt buoyant as he made his way home to Danvers.

H
ell, home to Savannah.

He’d thought of her all weekend long. At every available moment, she was on his mind, in his heart, his feelings for her growing with alacrity as he considered these improvements as a way to make himself more appealing to her. Truth
be told, he’d never have considered them at all without the possibility of Savannah in his life. At the thought of her body, warm and pliant in his arms on Friday afternoon, he’d sink into the bliss of fantasy, wondering what it would be like to kiss her lips, to touch his tongue to the curve of her neck, to run his fingers over the sensitive skin of her breasts and watch her eyes close in pleasure.