by Diana Palmer
He smiled slowly, his eyes falling to her stomach. "Yes, I can. Maybe not just yet. But in another few weeks, when the fractures and the surgery heal." His face hardened. "Even if I can't dash around, I can make love. So if you stay here, it's going to happen."
"Why?" she asked huskily as she righted her blouse and bra.
"I want my son, Meredith," he said. "If you're pregnant, you're much more likely to stay with me."
Her eyes darkened with pain. "I see."
"No, you don't," he said, his eyes steady and unblinking. "But you will, eventually. In the meanwhile, you and I might get to know each other. Really know each other."
"We never talked," she said.
"I know that." He smiled at her. "We've both changed in six years. I think it might be an adventure, just catching up. If you get pregnant, that's a bonus." His face hardened. "You belong to me. That hasn't changed."
She didn't want to think about that or what he'd threatened. Another child would tie her to him. But his motives still escaped her. Did he only want her? Or did he want Blake, as he'd said, and meant to get him any way he could? She didn't quite trust him, so it was just as well that he wasn't capable of intimacy just yet.
"Would you like some fresh coffee?" she asked, noticing that what she'd brought for them had gone cold.
"Yes. And a steak."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Meredith."
She turned, her hand on the doorknob.
He hesitated, his fist clenching on the bed beside him as he looked at her and tried to picture her as she'd been when she carried Blake. "Nothing."
"I'll be right back," she told him, and quickly left the room.
She sat with him that night. She and Myrna had been taking turns at the hospital, one sleeping while the other kept watch, in case he needed anything or took a turn for the worse. She still didn't feel comfortable in bed while he was in pain. The fractures still hurt, and the physical therapy he endured daily seemed to aggravate his suffering.
In the early hours before daylight, he awoke, moaning as the pain lanced through his back and legs.
Meredith was awake instantly, smoothing back his dark hair over his sweaty brow. "Need something for the pain?" she whispered.
"Yes." His jaw clenched. "Damned exercises."
"They're helping. Here." She handed him the pain capsule and a muscle relaxant that the doctor had prescribed, letting him swallow them down with water.
He grimaced as the agony overwhelmed him, his hands clenching the covers.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Cy, I'm so sorry!"
He opened his eyes and saw the torment in hers. His hand reached up and touched her cheek, almost in wonder, as he realized just how deep her feeling for him went. He'd never considered that before, nor how empty his life had been without her. She made anything bearable, even pain.
"Come here, little one," he said quietly. "Lie with me."
"But your back"
"It can't hurt more than it already does. Let me hold you."
She hesitated, but it was beyond her to refuse him anything in his condition. She eased down beside him, letting him fold her against his powerful body under the sheet and blanket. He was nude, as he always slept, while she was still wearing the jeans and silk T-shirt she'd had on earlier. He molded her body against his with a long, shuddering sigh, his face in the soft hair at her throat.
"Silk against bare skin is very seductive, did you know?" he whispered as he smoothed her breasts against his hard chest. "And you smell of wildflowers."
"Perfume," she murmured. "It's mostly worn off." Her eyes closed and she sighed, drinking in the feel and warmth of him, smiling as she let drowsiness wash over her.
"I've neverslept with anyone," he said slowly. His hand stroked her hair. "Made love, yes. But I never stayed all night. I never wanted to."
"I remember."
"I suppose you slept with him?" he asked, his voice harsh.
"Not all night," she whispered. "We had separate rooms."
She felt him relax, felt some of the tension ease out of him. He kissed her forehead with breathless tenderness and eased her cheek against his hair-roughened chest. He caught her hand and tangled it in the thick hair, pressing the soft palm against his skin.
"Tell me about Blake. Does he play baseball, watch game shows? What is he like?"
"He's all boy," she said proudly, her voice hushed and soft in the darkness. "He likes to play football with Mr. Smith. He watches Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers on TV, he likes to be read to. He's stubborn and he has a violent temper when he can't do something the right way the first time he tries it. He loves cake and chocolate ice cream, and trips to the zoo and picnics."
"Do you take him on picnics?"
"Mr. Smith and I do," she said. "It's much too dangerous for us to go alone, in Chicago."
He didn't like that. His body tensed. "I don't like the idea of Mr. Smith, necessary or not."
"He doesn't like you, either," she pointed out. "But you'll have to get used to each other, if I stay around here very long, because he's part of my family."
He tugged on a lock of her hair. "What do you mean, if you stay?"
Her nails traced a path on his broad chest. "When you're back on your feet, you might not want me here."
He scowled. Did that mean she wanted to go? Was she only with him out of pity?
When he didn't reply, she assumed that he was agreeing with her, that he only needed her while he was helpless. If Cy Harden could ever be called helpless, she thought in silent amusement. It was like lying in the clutch of a bear, warm but precarious.
She nuzzled closer, refusing to think ahead. "Hold me," she whispered.
His arms contracted obligingly. "You can't be comfortable like that," he whispered. "Ease your leg between mine."
"I can't. I might hurt your back."
"It won't hurt. Do it."
She obeyed him, the soft stuff of her expensive jeans making a quiet noise as her long leg insinuated itself gently and forced his apart. She heard him catch his breath and seconds later felt why.
He laughed harshly. "Easy," he said in a strained tone. "Watch where you move."
"Are you shy?" she teased, deliberately moving her hand so that it brushed his lower body.
He groaned and shivered. His fingers caught her hand and dragged it back to his chest, holding it there. "You witch," he growled. "Stop that!"
Her smile was buried against the crisp hairs on his chest. "You might sound a little more grateful. Now we know you're not impotent."
"Keep in mind that I'm in no condition to prove it."
"Yes," she said sadly. "I'm trying to."
His hands moved to her back, lightly caressing. "Will you give yourself to me when I get on my feet again?"
"Of course I will," she said without hesitation.
"Promise."
"I promise."
His chest rose and fell on a heavy breath. "I'll hold you to that. Turn off the light, honey. Let's try and get some sleep."
She reached up and turned the switch on the bedside lamp, letting him settle her against him before he tucked the covers over her. She felt his mouth against hers for an instant before he lay back and closed his eyes.
"Heaven," he murmured as he sank into sleep.
Meredith barely heard him, but she smiled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
» ^ «
Meredith was sprawled over Cy's body when consciousness seeped into her tired brain at daylight. She felt his big hand at the base of her spine and something uncomfortably blatant against her belly. She moved gingerly, only then discovering that one of her legs had eased its way across both of his, so that she was lying almost completely on him.
"Cy?" she murmured.
"What?" he whispered, his own voice slurred.
"I have to get up," she said. "This isn't good for your back."
"It's great for the other parts of me," he murmured. "Take your jeans off a
nd help me get rid of this," he coaxed, moving her blatantly against him.
She lifted her head and looked down into his dark, smoldering eyes. Her eyes smiled. "No," she said. "Not until you're well."
"What if I don't get well?" he asked curtly. "I can still barely stand without Smith to help me, despite the exercises"
"You have to give it time, Mr. Impatience," she whispered, smiling as she bent down to kiss his mouth. "Now let me up, before you do any more damage to yourself."
Both his hands were behind her now, crushing her down on him. "I need you," he said. "God !"
He shuddered from pain as much as desire, and she felt guilty all the way to her bare feet, but she didn't dare let him do what he wanted. It was too great a risk, and she said so.
"It's beenweeks," he groaned, his face tormented as he looked up at her. "Weeks since I had you. Don't you understand?"
He was a sensual man. He always had been. For him, sex was as much a necessity as breathing, but what he was asking was too dangerous. For his own good, she had to help him abstain.
"I understand very well," she whispered. "But we can't." She eased away, and he let her, with evident reluctance.
She bent, drawing her lips softly over his face, touching them to his closed eyes, his nose, his high cheekbones, his hard mouth.
"What are you doing?" he murmured.
"Kissing you better. Do you mind?"
He smiled under the brush of her lips, and his eyes opened, dark and soft as they met hers. "No. I don't mind."
She nibbled at his mouth, his chin, letting her lips drift down to the rough surface of his chest.
"Here," he said, guiding her lips to a hard, flat male nipple.
She smiled against his skin as he shivered, remembering how it had always excited him when she did that. Playing with fire, she thought dimly, knowing that she should stop, before she aroused him even more.
She sat up slowly, her eyes warm and loving as they smiled down into his. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've made it worse."
His chest rose on a shaky breath. "It couldn't get much worse." His body shifted and he winced. "I need something, honey."
"I'll get you some fresh water." She got up to fill a glass in the bathroom. She handed him his medicine and waited until he'd swallowed it before she put the glass on his bedside table. He was pale and drawn, and she wondered worriedly if the pain was a bad sign.
He opened his eyes, looking up at her. "Don't look so worried," he murmured. "I won't die."
"I hate to see you in pain," she said.
He smiled. "A likely story," he mused. "I told you what I needed, but you wouldn't do it."
"Your back isn't up to it."
"I guess not." He arched, grimacing, a hand going to his lower spine.
"I'm sorry," she said miserably. She brushed back her disheveled hair. "Can you eat something, or do you want to wait until the medicine takes effect?"
"Bacon and eggs," he murmured. "Butter me a biscuit to go with it, and sweeten and cream my coffee."
"That's a change," she said.
He laughed through the pain, his dark eyes sweeping over her. "Oh, I've changed," he agreed. "For the first time in my life, I've got my priorities straight." He caught her hand and pulled until she sat down beside him. He brought her palm to his lips. "You slept in my arms," he said huskily. "It's the first good night's sleep I've had since this happened. I woke once and saw you next to me. I wanted to wake you and make the sweetest kind of love to you in the dark."
She blushed a little and averted her eyes to his chin. "You can't manage that kind of exertion yet."
"My mind can." He rubbed her knuckles against his hard cheek, where a day's growth of beard rasped the soft skin. "How am I going to work in this condition?" he asked suddenly, his face going hard.
"Get on the telephone and give your board of directors hell for letting me walk off with those proxies," she said, deliberately reminding him that she was trying to take his company.
He glared at her. "I'll get them back," he threatened.
"I'm counting on it." She smiled, tracing the stubble on his chin. "Oh, Cy, you're more of a man without the use of your legs than most men are with them, don't you know that? But it isn't going to happen. You're getting stronger every day. Exercise is helping."
"Are you going to stay until I heal?" he asked shrewdly.
"Yes." She said it without hesitation, without even thinking of the consequences.
"What about your own company? Your obligations?"
"Don is handling things. I'll keep up with the rest with the phone and the fax machine. Otherwise, I'm taking a few weeks off."
"You look as if you could use it," he said quietly. "Mother said that you haven't left me since I landed in the hospital."
She shrugged. "I didn't have anything else to do, and you needed watching. Your mother couldn't do it alone."
"I won't forgive her," he said doggedly.
"Yes, you will." She bent and kissed his stubborn mouth. "Now, lie there and heal. I'll get your breakfast."
He caught her arms, pulling her down so that he could reach her mouth. He kissed it hotly, with feverish need. "I want you," he said harshly.
"I want you, too. Now close your eyes and try to rest."
He let her go with an audible sigh. "I thought it might diminish a little over the years," he said, tracing her body with his eyes. "It gets worse."
"Addictions do, until you take the cure," she said lightly, trying not to react to the wounding the words caused. It was always physical with Cy. It had never been anything else.
"You aren't an addiction," he said shortly. "You're everything."
The way he said it brought a scarlet blush to her face. She wouldn't look at him. He was hurt and she was looking after him. It might be nothing more than misplaced gratitude. The past had taught her not to trust him. She couldn't relent now.
"I'll be back in a few minutes."
She left without another word, and Cy clenched his fist and hit the mattress in impotent rage. She wouldn't give him an inch. She was her own woman now, so self-possessed and confident that she made him nervous. Once, he could have reduced her to begging when he touched her. Now, she could walk away from him without even looking back. It made him less confident, less sure of her. She wanted him. But he wanted more than that. He wanted to be her world, as she'd long ago become his. The years without her had been hellish, anguished, lonely. Even under the circumstances, it was heaven to have her back. Her, and the child she'd given him. He groaned silently, hating the years he'd missed because of his mother. Why had she done that to him? His own son didn't know him, had another man's name, had called another man Father. Meredith would have spent her life as Kip Tennison if her husband hadn't died so unexpectedly. All that, because Myrna Harden hadn't thought Meredith was good enough for her son. How ironic that it was Meredith who'd given him the one chance he had of being able to walk again. Meredith, whom Myrna had discounted as of no importance. And now she could buy and sell the Hardens and most other people.
He could have cheerfully thrown his mother off the roof. But she seemed different since his accident. Less cold and haughty, less arrogant. Since the child had been in the house, she laughed. She was a changed woman.
As he considered that transformation, he considered the change in Meredith. She was everything he wanted. He couldn't let her get away again. He had to keep her here, whether or not his back healed, because he wasn't sure he could live without her.
But he might have nothing to offer her. Despite Smith's help with physiotherapy, he was barely walking. He cursed until his throat hurt. He wouldn't be an object of pity. He'd blow his damned brains out first. His heavy brows drew together. Of course, if he did that, he'd certainly never see Meredith or his son again. So much for easy ways out, he thought ruefully. Going down into the dark without the hope of eternity with her hurt him. He'd just have to walk again, he told himself. That was all there was to it.
&nb
sp; Meredith walked down the hall to the kitchen, where Blake and Mrs. Harden and Mr. Smith were all working to get breakfast together.
"Cook's day off," Mrs. Harden said with a smile. "Meredith, can you make biscuits?"
"Of course." She set to work while Mr. Smith fried bacon, Mrs. Harden scrambled eggs, and Blake placed napkins on the table.
"Isn't this fun, Mommy?" Blake asked excitedly. "This lady says I can play with her son's toy soldiers after breakfast."
"Cy used to have some metal ones," Myrna explained. "They're in a case. I thought, if you don't mind, he might have them."
"I don't mind," Meredith said. Impulsively she handed Blake a napkin and fork. "Would you like to take that to Cy?"
"To the man in bed?"
"Yes."
"Okay." He ran out of the room.
Myrna glanced at Meredith, her face worried.
"Trust me," Meredith told the older woman. "It's all right."
She sighed heavily. "He's said very little about Blake."
Meredith smiled. "He's curious about him. I want Blake to know his father, Myrna."
"You're going to tell him, then?" she asked, trying not to sound too anxious.
Meredith nodded, her eyes quiet. "He has the right to know the truth. I can't deny him his heritage."
Myrna bit her lip, and Meredith could see anguish in those dark eyes, in the lines of her face. Something tormented her.
Mr. Smith, ever sensitive to tension, finished the bacon and took it up. "I have to get gas. You and the boy be all right until I get back?" he asked.
"Yes. I promise," she said, smiling at him.
He chuckled, nodding toward Mrs. Harden as he left the two women alone.
"What is it?" Meredith asked. "Can you talk about it?"
Myrna laughed coldly. "You're very perceptive." She wrung her hands, finally sinking onto a chair. "How ironic that I should be able to talk about my problems to you, when I'm the cause of most of yours."
"Ancient history," Meredith said, sitting down in front of the other woman. "Come on. Talk."
Myrna hesitated. She lifted anguished eyes to Meredith's. "I have to tell you why I made you leave."
Meredith didn't speak, but she knew her face mirrored her surprise. Amazing that Myrna was actually willing to discuss something so personal with her. It was a milestone.