“I won’t be here,” Dione said calmly.

“You’re my therapist,” Blake snapped, tightening his grip on her wrist.

She gave a sad little laugh. “It’s normal to be possessive. For months you’ve depended on me more than you have on any other person in your life. Your perspective is distorted. Believe me, by the time I’ve been gone a month, you won’t even think about me.”

“Do you mean you’d just turn your back on me and walk away?” Blake asked in a disbelieving tone.

Dione flinched, and tears welled in her eyes. “It…it’s not that easy for me, either,” she quavered. “But I’ve been through this more times than I can remember. I’m a habit, a crutch, nothing more, and I’m a crutch that you don’t even need now. If I left today, you’d do just fine.”

“That’s not the point.” His flesh was suddenly taut over his cheekbones. “I still need you.”

“Linda Howard knows what readers want, and dares to be different.”

—Affaire de Coeur

LINDA HOWARD
Come Lie with Me

Come Lie with Me

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

The ocean had a hypnotic effect. Dione gave in to it without a struggle, peacefully watching the turquoise waves roll onto the blindingly white sand. She wasn’t an idle person, yet she was content to sit on the deck of her rented beach house, her long, honey-tanned legs stretched out and propped on the railing, doing nothing more than watching the waves and listening to the muted roar of water coming in and going out. The white gulls swooped in and out of her vision, their high-pitched cries adding to the symphony of wind and water. To her right, the huge golden orb of the sun was sinking into the water, turning the sea to flame. It would have made a stunning photograph, yet she was disinclined to leave her seat and get her camera. It had been a glorious day, and she had done nothing more strenuous than celebrate it by walking the beach and swimming in the green-and-blue-streaked Gulf of Mexico. Lord, what a life. It was so sweet, it was almost sinful. This was the perfect vacation.

For two weeks she had wandered the sugar-white sands of Panama City, Florida, blissfully alone and lazy. There wasn’t a clock in the beach house, nor had she even wound her watch since she’d arrived, because time didn’t matter. No matter what time she woke, she knew that if she was hungry and didn’t feel like cooking, there was always a place within walking distance where she could get something to eat. During the summer, the Miracle Strip didn’t sleep. It was a twenty-four-hour party that constantly renewed itself from the end of school through the Labor Day weekend. Students and singles looking for a good time found it; families looking for a carefree vacation found it; and tired professional women wanting only a chance to unwind and relax beside the dazzling Gulf found that, too. She felt completely reborn after the past two delicious weeks.

A sailboat, as brightly colored as a butterfly, caught her attention, and she watched it as it lazily tacked toward shore. She was so busy watching the boat that she was unaware of the man approaching the deck until he started up the steps and the vibration of the wooden floor alerted her. Without haste she turned her head, the movement graceful and unalarmed, but her entire body was suddenly coiled and ready for action, despite the fact that she hadn’t moved from her relaxed posture.

A tall, gray-haired man stood looking at her, and her first thought was that he didn’t belong in this setting. P.C., as the vacation city was known, was a relaxed, informal area. This man was dressed in an impeccable three-piece gray suit, and his feet were shod in supple Italian leather. Dione reflected briefly that his shoes would be full of the loose sand that filtered into everything.

“Miss Kelley?” he inquired politely.

Her slim black brows arched in puzzlement, but she withdrew her feet from the railing and stood, holding out her hand to him. “Yes, I’m Dione Kelley. And you are…?”

“Richard Dylan,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. “I realize that I’m intruding on your vacation, Miss Kelley, but it’s very important that I speak with you.”

“Please, sit down,” Dione invited, indicating a deck chair beside the one she had just vacated. She resumed her former position, stretching out her legs and propping her bare feet on the railing. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“There certainly is,” he replied feelingly. “I wrote to you about six weeks ago concerning a patient I’d like you to take on: Blake Remington.”

Dione frowned slightly. “I remember. But I answered your letter, Mr. Dylan, before I left on vacation. Haven’t you received it?”

“Yes, I have,” he admitted. “I came to ask you to reconsider your refusal. There are extenuating circumstances, and his condition is deteriorating rapidly. I’m convinced that you can—”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” she interrupted softly. “And I do have other cases lined up. Why should I put Mr. Remington ahead of others who need my services just as badly as he does?”

“Are they dying?” he asked bluntly.

“Is Mr. Remington? From the information you gave me in your letter, the last operation was a success. There are other therapists as well qualified as I am, if there’s some reason why Mr. Remington has to have therapy this very moment.”

Richard Dylan looked out at the turquoise Gulf, the waves tipped with gold by the sinking sun. “Blake Remington won’t live another year,” he said, and a bleak expression crossed his strong, austere features. “Not the way he is now. You see, Miss Kelley, he doesn’t believe he’ll ever walk again, and he’s given up. He’s deliberately letting himself die. He doesn’t eat; he seldom sleeps; he refuses to leave the house.”

Dione sighed. Depression was sometimes the most difficult aspect of her patients’ conditions, taking away their energy and determination. She’d seen it so many times before, and she knew that she’d see it again. “Still, Mr. Dylan, another therapist—”

“I don’t think so. I’ve already employed two therapists, and neither of them has lasted a week. Blake refuses to cooperate at all, saying that it’s just a waste of time, something to keep him occupied. The doctors tell him that the surgery was a success, but he still can’t move his legs, so he just doesn’t believe them. Dr. Norwood suggested you. He said that you’ve had remarkable success with uncooperative patients, and that your methods are extraordinary.”

She smiled wryly. “Of course he said that. Tobias Norwood trained me.”

Richard Dylan smiled briefly in return. “I see. Still, I’m convinced that you’re Blake’s last chance. If you still feel that your other obligations are more pressing, then come with me to Phoenix and meet Blake. I think that when you see him, you’ll understand why I’m so worried.”

Dione hesitated, examining the proposal. Professionally, she was torn between refusing and agreeing. She had other cases, other people who were depending on her; why should this Blake Remington come before them? But on the other hand, he sounded like a challenge to her abilities, and she was one of those high-powered individuals who thrived on challenges, on testing herself to the limit. She was very certain of herself when it came to her chosen profession, and she enjoyed the satisfaction of completing a job and leaving her patient better able to move than before. In the years that she had been working as a private therapist, traveling all over the country to her patients’ homes, she had amassed an amazing record of successes.

“He’s an extraordinary man,” said Mr. Dylan softly. “He’s engineered several aeronautical systems that are widely used now. He designs his own planes, has flown as a test pilot on some top-secret planes for the government, climbs mountains, races yachts, goes deep-sea diving. He’s a man who was at home on land, on the sea, or in the air, and now he’s chained to a wheelchair and it’s killing him.”

“Which one of his interests was he pursuing when he had his accident?” Dione asked.

“Mountain climbing. The rope above him snagged on a rock, and his movements sawed the rope in two. He fell forty-five feet to a ledge, bounced off it, then rolled or fell another two hundred feet. That’s almost the distance of a football field, but the snow must have cushioned him enough to save his life. He’s said more than once that if he’d fallen off that mountain during the summer, he wouldn’t have to spend his life as a cripple now.”

“Tell me about his injuries,” Dione said thoughtfully.

He rose to his feet. “I can do better than that. I have his file, complete with X rays, in my car. Dr. Norwood suggested that I bring it.”

“He’s a sly fox, that one,” she murmured as Mr. Dylan disappeared around the deck. Tobias Norwood knew exactly how to intrigue her, how to set a particular case before her. Already she was interested, just as he had meant her to be. She’d make up her mind after seeing the X rays and reading the case history. If she didn’t think she could help Blake Remington, she wouldn’t put him through the stress of therapy.

In just a moment Mr. Dylan returned with a thick, manila envelope in his grasp. He released it into Dione’s outthrust hand and waited expectantly. Instead of opening it, she tapped her fingernails against the envelope.

“Let me study this tonight, Mr. Dylan,” she said firmly. “I can’t just glance over it and make a decision. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

A flicker of impatience crossed his face; then he quickly mastered it and nodded. “Thank you for considering it, Miss Kelley.”

When he was gone, Dione stared out at the Gulf for a long time, watching the eternal waves washing in with a froth of turquoise and sea-green, churning white as they rushed onto the sand. It was a good thing that her vacation was ending, that she’d already enjoyed almost two full weeks of utter contentment on the Florida panhandle, doing nothing more strenuous than walking in the tide. She’d already lazily begun considering her next job, but now it looked as if her plans had been changed.

After opening the envelope she held up the X rays one by one to the sun, and she winced when she saw the damage that had been done to a strong, vital human body. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been killed outright. But the X rays taken after each successive operation revealed bones that had healed better than they should have, better than anyone could have hoped. Joints had been rebuilt; pins and plates had reconstructed his body and held it together. She went over the last set of X rays with excruciating detail. The surgeon had been a genius, or the results were a miracle, or perhaps a combination of both. She could see no physical reason why Blake couldn’t walk again, provided the nerves hadn’t been totally destroyed.

Beginning to read the surgeon’s report, she concentrated fiercely on every detail until she understood exactly what damage had been done and what repairs had been made. This man would walk again; she’d make him! The end of the report mentioned that further improvement was prevented by the patient’s lack of cooperation and depth of depression. She could almost feel the surgeon’s sense of frustration as he’d written that; after all his painstaking work, after the unhoped-for success of his techniques, the patient had refused to help!

Gathering everything together, she started to replace the contents in the envelope and noticed that something else was inside, a stiff piece of paper that she’d neglected to remove. She pulled it out and turned it over. It wasn’t just a piece of paper; it was a photograph.

Stunned, she stared into laughing blue eyes, eyes that sparkled and danced with the sheer joy of living. Richard Dylan was a sly one, too, knowing full well that few women would be able to resist the appeal of the dynamic man in the photograph. It was Blake Remington, she knew, as he had been before the accident. His brown hair was tousled, his darkly tanned face split by a rakish grin which revealed a captivating dimple in his left cheek. He was naked except for a brief pair of denim shorts, his body strong and well muscled, his legs the long, powerful limbs of an athlete. He was holding a good-sized marlin in the picture, and in the background she could make out the deep blue of the ocean; so he went deep-sea fishing, too. Wasn’t there anything the man couldn’t do? Yes, now there was, she reminded herself. Now he couldn’t walk.

She wanted to refuse to take the case just to demonstrate to Richard Dylan that she couldn’t be manipulated, but as she stared at the face in the photograph she knew that she would do just as he wanted, and she was disturbed by the knowledge. It had been such a long time since she’d been interested in any man at all that she was startled by her own reaction to a simple photograph.

Tracing the outline of his face with her fingertip, she wondered wistfully what her life would have been like if she’d been able to be a normal woman, to love a man and be loved in return, something that her brief and disastrous marriage had revealed to be impossible. She’d learned her lesson the hard way, but she’d never forgotten it. Men weren’t for her. A loving husband and children weren’t for her. The void left in her life by the total absence of love would have to be filled by her sense of satisfaction with her profession, with the joy she received from helping someone else. She might look at Blake Remington’s photograph with admiration, but the daydreams that any other woman would indulge in when gazing at that masculine beauty were not for her. Daydreams were a waste of time, because she knew that she was incapable of attracting a man like him. Her ex-husband, Scott Hayes, had taught her with pain and humiliation the folly of enticing a man when she was unable to satisfy him.

Never again. She’d sworn it then, after leaving Scott, and she swore it again now. Never again would she give a man the chance to hurt her.

A sudden gust of salty wind fanned her cheeks, and she lifted her head, a little surprised to see that the sun was completely gone now and that she had been squinting at the photograph, not really seeing it as she dealt with her murky memories. She got to her feet and went inside, snapping on a tall floor lamp and illuminating the cool, summery interior of the beach house. Dropping into a plumply cushioned chair, Dione leaned her head back and began planning her therapy program, though of course she wouldn’t be able to make any concrete plans until she actually met Mr. Remington and was better able to judge his condition. She smiled a little with anticipation. She loved a challenge more than she did anything else, and she had the feeling that Mr. Remington would fight her every inch of the way. She’d have to be on her toes, stay in control of the situation and use his helplessness as a lever against him, making him so angry that he’d go through hell to get better, just to get rid of her. Unfortunately, he really would have to go through hell; therapy wasn’t a picnic.

She’d had difficult patients before, people who were so depressed and angry over their disabilities that they’d shut out the entire world, and she guessed that Blake Remington had reacted in the same way. He’d been so active, so vitally alive and in perfect shape, a real daredevil of a man; she guessed that it was killing his soul to be limited to a wheelchair. He wouldn’t care if he lived or died; he wouldn’t care about anything.

She slept deeply that night, no dreams disturbing her, and rose well before dawn for her usual run along the beach. She wasn’t a serious runner, counting off the miles and constantly reaching for a higher number; she ran for the sheer pleasure of it, continuing until she tired, then strolling along and letting the silky froth of the tide wash over her bare feet. The sun was piercing the morning with its first blinding rays when she returned to the beach house, showered and began packing. She’d made her decision, so she saw no need to waste time. She’d be ready when Mr. Dylan returned.

He wasn’t even surprised when he saw her suitcases. “I knew you’d take the job,” he said evenly.

Dione arched a slim black brow at him. “Are you always so sure of yourself, Mr. Dylan?”

“Please, call me Richard,” he said. “I’m not always so certain, but Dr. Norwood has told me a great deal about you. He thought that you’d take the job because it was a challenge, and when I saw you, I knew that he was right.”

“I’ll have to talk with him about giving away my secrets,” she joked.

“Not all of them,” he said, and something in his voice made her wonder just how much he knew. “You have a lot of secrets left.”

Deciding that Richard was far too astute, she turned briskly to her cases and helped him take them out to his car. Her own car was a rental, and after locking the beach house and returning the car to the rental office, she was ready to go.

Later, when they were in a private jet flying west to Phoenix, she began questioning Richard about her patient. What did he like? What did he hate? What were his hobbies? She wanted to know about his education, his politics, his favorite colors, the type of women he had dated, or about his wife if he were married. She’d found that wives were usually jealous of the close relationship that developed between therapist and patient, and she wanted to know as much as she could about a situation before she walked into it.

Richard knew an amazing amount about Mr. Remington’s personal life, and finally Dione asked him what his relationship was to the man.

The firm mouth twisted. “I’m his vice-president, for one thing, so I know about his business operations. I’m also his brother-in-law. The only woman in his life who you’ll have to deal with is my wife, Serena, who is also his younger sister.”

Dione asked, “Why do you say that? Do you live in the same house with Mr. Remington?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Since his accident, Serena has hovered over him, and I’m sure she won’t be pleased when you arrive and take all of his attention. She’s always adored Blake to the point of obsession. She nearly went insane when we thought he would die.”

“I won’t allow any interference in my therapy program,” she warned him quietly. “I’ll be overseeing his hours, his visitors, the food he eats, even the phone calls he receives. I hope your wife understands that.”

“I’ll try to convince her, but Serena is just like Blake. She’s both stubborn and determined, and she has a key to the house.”

“I’ll have the locks changed,” Dione planned aloud, perfectly serious in her intentions. Loving sister or not, Serena Dylan wasn’t going to take over or intrude on Dione’s therapy.

“Good,” Richard approved, a frown settling on his austere brow. “I’d like to have a wife again.”

It was beginning to appear that Richard had some other motive for wanting his brother-in-law walking again. Evidently, in the two years since Blake’s accident, his sister had abandoned her husband in order to care for him, and the neglect was eroding her marriage. It was a situation that Dione didn’t want to become involved in, but she had given her word that she would take the case, and she didn’t betray the trust that people put in her.

Because of the time difference, it was only midafternoon when Richard drove them to the exclusive Phoenix suburb where Blake Remington lived. This time his car was a white Lincoln, plush and cool. As he drove up the circular drive to the hacienda-style house, she saw that it looked plush and cool, too. To call it a house was like calling a hurricane a wind; this place was a mansion. It was white and mysterious, keeping its secrets hidden behind its walls, presenting only a grateful facade to curious eyes. The landscaping was marvelous, a blend of the natural desert plants and lush greenery that was the product of careful and selective irrigation. The drive ran around to the back, where Richard told her the garage area was, but he stopped before the arched entry in front.

When she walked into the enormous foyer Dione thought she’d walked into the garden of paradise. There was a serenity to the place, a dignified simplicity wrought by the cool brown tiles on the floor, the plain white walls, the high ceiling. The hacienda was built in a U, around an open courtyard that was cool and fragrant, with a pink marble fountain in the center of it spouting clear water into the air. She could see all of that because the inner wall of the foyer, from ceiling to floor, was glass.

She was still speechless with admiration when the brisk clicking of heels on the tiles caught her attention, and she turned her head to watch the tall young woman approaching. This had to be Serena; the resemblance to the photo of Blake Remington was too strong for her to be anyone else. She had the same soft brown hair, the same dark blue eyes, the same clear-cut features. But she wasn’t laughing, as the man in the photo had been; her eyes were stormy, outraged.

“Richard!” she said in a low, wrathful tone. “Where have you been for the past two days? How dare you disappear without a word, then turn up with this…this gypsy in tow!”

Dione almost chuckled; most women wouldn’t have attacked so bluntly, but she could see that this direct young woman had her share of the determination that Richard had attributed to Blake Remington. She opened her mouth to tell the truth of the matter, but Richard stepped in smoothly.

“Dione,” he said, watching his wife with a cold eye, “I’d like to introduce my wife, Serena. Serena, this is Dione Kelley. I’ve hired Miss Kelley as Blake’s new therapist, and I’ve been to Florida to pick her up and fly her back here. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going because I had no intention of arguing over the matter. I’ve hired her, and that’s that. I think that answers all of your questions.” He finished with cutting sarcasm.

Serena Dylan wasn’t a woman to be cowed, though a flush did color her cheeks. She turned to Dione and said frankly, “I apologize, though I refuse to take all of the blame. If my husband had seen fit to inform me of his intentions, I wouldn’t have made such a terrible accusation.”

“I understand.” Dione smiled. “Under the same circumstances, I doubt that my conduct would have been as polite.”

Serena smiled in return, then stepped forward and gave her husband a belated peck on the cheek. “Very well, you’re forgiven,” she sighed, “though I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. You know that Blake won’t put up with it. He can’t stand having anyone hover over him, and he’s been pushed at and pounded on enough.”

“Evidently not, or he’d be walking by now,” Dione replied confidently.

Serena looked doubtful, then shrugged. “I still think you’ve wasted your time. Blake refused to have anything to do with the last therapist Richard hired, and he won’t change his mind for you.”

“I’d like to talk to him myself, if I may,” Dione insisted, though in a pleasant tone.

Serena hadn’t exactly stationed herself like a guard before the throne room, but it was evident that she was very protective of her brother. It wasn’t all that unusual. When someone had been in a severe accident, it was only natural that the members of the family were overprotective for a while. Perhaps, when Serena found that Dione would be taking over the vast majority of Blake’s time and attention, she would give her own husband the attention he deserved.

“At this time of day, Blake is usually in his room,” Richard said, taking Dione’s arm. “This way.”

“Richard!” Again color rose in Serena’s cheeks, but this time they were spots of anger. “He’s lying down for a nap! At least leave him in peace until he comes downstairs. You know how badly he sleeps; let him rest while he can!”

“He naps every day?” Dione asked, thinking that if he slept during the day, no wonder he couldn’t sleep at night.

“He tries to nap, but he usually looks worse afterward than he did before.”

“Then it won’t matter if we disturb him, will it?” Dione asked, deciding that now was the time to establish her authority. She caught a faint twitch of Richard’s lips, signaling a smile, then he was directing her to the broad, sweeping stairs with his hand still warm and firm on her elbow. Behind them, Dione could feel the heat of the glare that Serena threw at them; then she heard the brisk tapping of heels as Serena followed.

From the design of the house, Dione suspected that all of the upstairs rooms opened onto the graceful gallery that ran along the entire U of the house, looking down on the inner courtyard. When Richard tapped lightly on a door that had been widened to allow a wheelchair to pass easily through it, then opened it at the low call that permitted entrance, she saw at once that, at least in this room, her supposition was correct. The enormous room was flooded with sunlight that streamed through the open curtains, though the sliding glass doors that opened onto the gallery remained closed.

The man at the window was silhouetted against the bright sunlight, a mysterious and melancholy figure slumped in the prison of a wheelchair. Then he reached out and pulled a chord, closing the curtains, and the room became dim. Dione blinked for a moment before her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness; then the man became clear to her, and she felt her throat tighten with shock.

She’d thought that she was prepared; Richard had told her that Blake had lost weight and was rapidly deteriorating, but until she saw him, she hadn’t realized exactly how serious the situation was. The contrast between the man in the wheelchair and the laughing man in the photo she’d seen was so great that she wouldn’t have believed them to be the same man if it hadn’t been for the dark blue eyes. His eyes no longer sparkled; they were dull and lifeless, but nothing could change their remarkable color.

He was thin, painfully so; he had to have lost almost fifty pounds from what he’d weighed when the photo had been taken, and he’d been all lean muscle then. His brown hair was dull from poor nutrition, and shaggy, as if it had been a long time since he’d had it trimmed. His skin was pale, his face all high cheekbones and gaunt cheeks.

Dione held herself upright, but inside she was shattering, crumbling into a thousand brittle pieces. She inevitably became involved with all her patients, but never before had she felt as if she were dying; never before had she wanted to rage at the injustice of it, at the horrible obscenity that had taken his perfect body and reduced it to helplessness. His suffering and despair were engraved on his drawn face, his bone structure revealed in stark clarity. Dark circles lay under the midnight blue of his eyes; his temples had become touched with gray. His once powerful body sat limp in the chair, his legs awkwardly motionless, and she knew that Richard had been right: Blake Remington didn’t want to live.

He looked at her without a flicker of interest, then moved his gaze to Richard. It was as if she didn’t exist. “Where’ve you been?” he asked flatly.

“I had business to attend to,” Richard replied, his voice so cold that the room turned arctic. Dione could tell that he was insulted that anyone should question his actions; Richard might work for Blake, but he was in no way inferior. He was still angry with Serena, and the entire scene had earned his disapproval.

“He’s so determined,” Serena sighed, moving to her brother’s side. “He’s hired another therapist for you, Miss…uh, Diane Kelley.”

“Dione,” Dione corrected without rancor.

Blake turned his disinterested gaze on her and surveyed her without a word. Dione stood quietly, studying him, noting his reaction, or rather, his lack of one. Richard had said that Blake had always preferred blondes, but even taking Dione’s black hair into consideration, she had expected at least a basic recognition that she was female. She expected men to look at her; she’d grown used to it, though once an interested glance would have sent her into panic. She was a striking woman, and at last she had been able to accept that, considering it one of nature’s ironies that she should have been given the looks to attract men when it was impossible for her to enjoy a man’s touch.

She knew what he saw. She’d dressed carefully for effect, realizing that her appearance would either be intimidating or appealing; she didn’t care which, as long as it gave her an edge in convincing him to cooperate. She’d parted her thick, vibrant black hair in the middle and drawn it back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck, where she’d secured it with a gold comb. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Serena had called her a gypsy, and her warm, honey-tanned skin made it seem possible. Her eyes were cat’s eyes, slanted, golden, as mysterious as time and fringed with heavy black lashes. With her high cheekbones and strong, sculptured jawline, she looked Eastern and exotic, a prime candidate for a lusty sheik’s harem, had she been born a century before.

She’d dressed in a white jumpsuit, chic and casual, and now she pushed her hands into the pockets, a posture that outlined her firm breasts. The line of her body was long and clean and sweeping, from her trim waist to her rounded bottom, then on down her long, graceful legs. Blake might not have noticed, but his sister had, and Serena had been stirred to instant jealousy. She didn’t want Dione around either her husband or her brother.

After a long silence Blake moved his head slowly in a negative emotion. “No. Just take her away, Richard. I don’t want to be bothered.”

Dione glanced at Richard, then stepped forward, taking control and focusing Blake’s attention on her. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Remington,” she said mildly. “Because I’m staying anyway. You see, I have a contract, and I always honor my word.”

“I’ll release you from it,” he muttered, turning his head away and looking out the window again.

“That’s very nice of you, but I won’t release you from it. I understand that you’ve given Richard your power of attorney, so the contract is legal, and it’s also ironclad. It states, simply, that I’m employed as your therapist and will reside in this house until you’re able to walk again. No time limit was set.” She leaned down and put her hands on the arms of his wheelchair, bringing her face close to his and forcing him to give her his attention. “I’m going to be your shadow, Mr. Remington. The only way you’ll be able to get rid of me is to walk to the door yourself and open it for me; no one else can do it for you.”

“You’re overstepping yourself, Miss Kelley!” Serena said sharply, her blue eyes narrowing with rage. She reached out and thrust Dione’s hands away from the wheelchair. “My brother has said that he doesn’t want you here!”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Dione replied, still in a mild tone.

“It certainly does! If you think I’ll let you just move in here…why, you probably think you’ve found a meal ticket for life!”

“Not at all. I’ll have Mr. Remington walking by Christmas. If you doubt my credentials, please feel free to investigate my record. But in the meantime, stop interfering.” Dione straightened to her full height and stared steadily at Serena, the strength of her willpower blazing from her golden eyes.

“Don’t talk to my sister like that,” Blake said sharply.

At last! A response, even if it was an angry one! With secret delight Dione promptly attacked the crack in his indifference. “I’ll talk to anyone like that who tries to come between me and my patient,” she informed him. She put her hands on her hips and surveyed him with a contemptuous curl to her mouth. “Look at you! You’re in such pitiful shape that you’d have to go into training to qualify for the ninety-eight-pound weakling category! You should be ashamed of yourself, letting your muscles turn into mush; no wonder you can’t walk!”

The dark pupils of his eyes flared, a black pool in a sea of blue. “Damn you,” he choked. “It’s hard to do calisthenics when you’re hooked up to more tubes than you have places for, and nothing except your face works when you want it to!”

“That was then,” she said relentlessly. “What about now? It takes muscles to walk, and you don’t have any! You’d lose a fight with a noodle, the shape you’re in now.”

“And I suppose you think you can wave your magic wand and put me into working order again?” he snarled.

She smiled. “A magic wand? It won’t be as easy as that. You’re going to work harder for me than you’ve ever worked before. You’re going to sweat and hurt, and turn the air blue cussing me out, but you’re going to work. I’ll have you walking again if I have to half-kill you to do it.”

“No, you won’t, lady,” he said with cold deliberation. “I don’t care what sort of contract you have; I don’t want you in my house. I’ll pay whatever it takes to get rid of you.”

“I’m not giving you that option, Mr. Remington. I won’t accept a payoff.”

“You don’t have to give me the option! I’m taking it!”

Looking into his enraged face, flushed with anger, Dione abruptly realized that the photograph of the laughing, relaxed man had been misleading, an exception rather than the rule. This was a man of indomitable will, used to forcing things to go his way by the sheer power of his will and personality. He had overcome every obstacle in his life by his own determination, until the fall down the cliff had changed all that and presented him with the one obstacle that he couldn’t handle on his own. He’d never had to have help before, and he hadn’t been able to accept that now he did. Because he couldn’t make himself walk, he was convinced that it wasn’t possible.

But she was determined, too. Unlike him, she’d learned early that she could be struck down, forced to do things she didn’t want to do. She’d pulled herself out of the murky depths of despair by her own silent, stubborn belief that life had to be better. Dione had forged her strength in the fires of pain; the woman she had become, the independence and skill and reputation she’d built, were too precious to her to allow her to back down now. This was the challenge of her career, and it would take every ounce of her willpower to handle it.

So, insolently, she asked him, “Do you like having everyone feel sorry for you?”

Serena gasped; even Richard made an involuntary sound before bringing himself back under control. Dione didn’t waste a glance on them. She kept her eyes locked with Blake’s, watching the shock in them, watching the angry color wash out of his face and leave it utterly white.

“You bitch,” he said in a hollow, shaking voice.

She shrugged. “Look, we’re getting nowhere like this. Let’s make a deal. You’re so weak, I’ll bet you can’t beat me at arm wrestling. If I win, I stay and you agree to therapy. If you win, I walk out that door and never come back. What do you say?”

Chapter Two

His head jerked up, his eyes narrowing as they swept over her slender form and graceful, feminine arms. Dione could almost read his thoughts. As thin as he was, he still outweighed her by at least forty, possibly even fifty, pounds. He knew that even if a man and a woman were the same weight, the man would be stronger than the woman, under normal circumstances. Dione refused to let a smile touch her lips, but she knew that these weren’t normal circumstances. Blake had been inactive for two years, while she was in extremely good shape. She was a therapist; she had to be strong in order to do her job. She was slim, yes, but every inch of her was sleek, strong muscle. She ran, she swam, she did stretching exercises regularly, but most importantly, she lifted weights. She had to have considerable arm strength to be able to handle patients who couldn’t handle themselves. She looked at Blake’s thin, pale hands, and she knew that she would win.

“Don’t do it!” Serena said sharply, twisting her fingers into knots.

Blake turned and looked at his sister in disbelief. “You think she can beat me, don’t you?” he murmured, but the words were more a statement than a question.

Serena was tense, staring at Dione with an odd, pleading look in her eyes. Dione understood: Serena didn’t want her brother humiliated. And neither did she. But she did want him to agree to therapy, and she was willing to do whatever was necessary to make him see what he was doing to himself. She tried to say that with her eyes, because she couldn’t say the words aloud.

“Answer me!” Blake roared suddenly. Every line of him was tense.

Serena bit her lower lip. “Yes,” she finally said. “I think she can beat you.”

Silence fell, and Blake sat as though made of stone. Watching him carefully, Dione saw the moment he made the decision. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he challenged, turning the wheelchair with a quick pressure of his finger on a button. Dione followed him as he led the way to his desk and positioned the wheelchair beside it.

“You shouldn’t have a motorized wheelchair,” she observed absently. “A manual chair would have kept your upper body strength at a reasonable level. This is a fancy chair, but it isn’t doing you any good at all.”

He shot her a brooding glance, but didn’t respond to her comment. “Sit down,” he said, indicating his desk.

Dione took her time obeying him. She felt no joy, no elation, in knowing that she would win; it was something she had to do, a point that she had to make to Blake.

Richard and Serena flanked them as they positioned themselves, Blake maneuvering himself until he was satisfied with his location, Dione doing the same. She propped her right arm on the desk and gripped her bicep with her left hand. “Ready when you are,” she said.

Blake had the advantage of a longer arm, and she realized that it would take all of the strength in her hand and wrist to overcome the leverage he would have. He positioned his arm against hers and wrapped his fingers firmly around her much smaller hand. For a moment he studied the slim grace of her fingers, the delicate pink of her manicured nails, and a slight smile moved his lips. He probably thought it would be a cake walk. But she felt the coldness of his hands, indicating poor circulation, and knew the inevitable outcome of their little battle.

“Richard, you start it,” Blake instructed, lifting his eyes and locking them with hers. She could feel his intensity, his aggressive drive to win, and she began to brace herself, concentrating all her energy and strength into her right arm and hand.

“Go,” said Richard, and though there was no great flurry of movement between the two antagonists, their bodies were suddenly tense, their arms locked together.

Dione kept her face calm, revealing nothing of the fierce effort it took to keep her wrist straight. After the first moments, when he was unable to shove her arm down, Blake’s face reflected first astonishment, then anger, then a sort of desperation. She could feel his first burst of strength ebbing and slowly, inexorably, she began forcing his arm down. Sweat broke out on his forehead and slipped down one side of his face as he struggled to reverse the motion, but he had already used his meager strength and had nothing in reserve. Knowing that she had him, and regretting her victory even though she knew it was necessary, Dione quickly settled the matter by forcing his arm down flat on the desk.

He sat in his wheelchair, a shattered expression in his eyes for a flashing moment before he closed himself off and made his face a blank wall.

The silence was broken only by his rapid breathing. Richard’s face was grim; Serena looked torn between the desire to comfort her brother and a strong inclination to throw Dione out herself.

Dione moved briskly, rising to her feet. “That settles that,” she said casually. “In another two months I won’t be able to do that. I’ll put my things in the room next to this one—”

“No,” said Blake curtly, not looking at her. “Serena, give Miss Kelley the guest suite.”

“That won’t do at all,” Dione replied. “I want to be close enough to you that I’ll be able to hear you if you call. The room next door will do nicely. Richard, how soon can you have those changes made that I stipulated?”

“What changes?” Blake asked, jerking his head up.

“I need some special equipment,” she explained, noting that the diversion had worked, as she’d intended it to. He’d already lost that empty look. She’d evidently made the right decision in being so casual about beating him at arm wrestling, treating the incident as nothing unusual. Now was not the time to rub it in, or to let him know that there were a lot of men walking the earth who couldn’t match her in arm wrestling. He’d find out soon enough when they got into the weight-lifting program.

“What sort of special equipment?” he demanded.

She controlled a smile. His attention had certainly been caught by the possibility of any changes in his beloved home. She outlined her needs to him. “A whirlpool is a necessity. I’ll also need a treadmill, weight bench, sauna, things like that. Any objections?”

“There might be. Just where do you plan to put all this?”

“Richard said he could outfit a gym for me on the ground floor, next to the pool, which will be very convenient, because you’ll be doing a lot of work in the pool. Water is a great place for calisthenics,” she said enthusiastically. “Your muscles still get the workout, but the water supports your weight.”

“You’re not putting in a gym,” he said grimly.

“Read my contract.” She smiled. “The gym is going in. Don’t make such a fuss; the house won’t be disfigured, and the equipment is necessary. An Olympic trainee won’t be getting the workout you’re facing,” she said with quiet truth. “It’s going to be hard work, and it’s going to be painful, but you’ll do it if I have to drive you like a slave. You can put money on it: You’ll be walking by Christmas.”

A terrible longing crossed his face before he brought his thin hand up to rub his forehead, and Dione sensed his indecision. But it wasn’t in him to give in to anyone else easily, and he scowled. “You won the right to stay here,” he said grudgingly. “But I don’t like it, and I don’t like you, Miss Kelley. Richard, I want to see that contract she keeps harping about.”

“I don’t have it with me,” Richard lied smoothly, taking Serena’s arm and edging her toward the door. “I’ll bring it with me the next time I’m over.”

Serena had time for only an incoherent protest before Richard had her out the door. Trusting Richard to keep his wife away, at least for the time being, Dione smiled at Blake and waited.

He eyed her warily. “Don’t you have something else to do besides staring at me?”

“I certainly do. I was just waiting to see if you have any questions. If you don’t, I need to be unpacking.”

“No questions,” he muttered.

That wouldn’t last long, she thought, leaving him without another word. When he found out the extent of her therapy, he’d have plenty to say about it.

It was evidently up to her to find her way around the house, but because the design was so simple, she had no difficulty exploring. Her suitcases were sitting in the foyer, and she took them upstairs herself, finally examining the room she’d chosen for her own. It was a room for a man, done in masculine browns and creams, but it was comfortable and suited her; she wasn’t picky. She unpacked, a chore that didn’t take long because she didn’t burden herself with a lot of clothing. What she had was good and adaptable, so she could use one outfit for several different things just by changing a few accessories. The way she traveled around, from one case to another, a lot of clothing would have been a hindrance.

Then she went in search of the cook and housekeeper; a house that size had to have some sort of staff, and she needed everyone’s cooperation. It might have been easier if Richard had remained to introduce her, but she was glad that he’d taken Serena out of the way.

She found the kitchen without difficulty, though the cook who occupied it was something of a surprise. She was tall and lean, obviously part Indian, despite the pale green of her eyes. Though her age was impossible to determine, Dione guessed her to be at least in her fifties, possibly sixties. Her raven black hair didn’t hint at it, but there was something in the knowledge in her eyes, the dignity of her features, that suggested age. She was as imperial as a queen, though the look she turned on the intruder into her kitchen wasn’t haughty, merely questioning.

Quickly Dione introduced herself and explained why she was there. The woman washed her hands and dried them with unhurried motions, then held her hand out. Dione took it. “My name is Alberta Quincy,” the cook said in a deep, rich voice that could have been a man’s. “I’m glad that Mr. Remington has agreed to therapy.”

“He didn’t exactly agree,” Dione replied honestly, smiling. “But I’m here anyway, and I’m staying. I’ll need everyone’s cooperation to handle him, though.”

“You just tell me what you want,” Alberta said with pure confidence. “Miguel, who takes care of the grounds and drives Mr. Remington’s car, will do as I tell him. My stepdaughter, Angela, cleans the house, and she’ll also do as I say.”

Most people would, Dione thought privately. Alberta Quincy was the most regal person she’d ever met. There wasn’t much expression in her face and her voice was even and deliberate, but there was a force to the woman that most people wouldn’t be able to resist. She would be an indispensable ally.

Dione outlined the diet she wanted Blake to follow, and explained why she wanted changes made. The last thing she wanted to do was offend Alberta. But Alberta merely nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

“If he gets angry, put all the blame on me,” Dione said. “At this point, I want him to be angry. I can use anger, but I can’t work with indifference.”

Again Alberta nodded her regal head. “I understand,” she said again. She wasn’t a talkative woman, to understate the matter, but she did understand, and to Dione’s relief she didn’t express any doubts.

There was one other problem, and Dione broached it cautiously. “About Mr. Remington’s sister…”

Alberta blinked once, slowly, and nodded. “Yes,” she said simply.

“Does she have a key to the house?” Gold eyes met green ones, and the communication between the two women was so strong that Dione had the sudden feeling that words were unnecessary.

“I’ll have the locks changed,” Alberta said. “But there’ll be trouble.”

“It’ll be worth the benefits. I can’t have his routine interrupted once I get him started on it, at least until he can see some improvement for himself and will want to continue with it. I think Mr. Dylan can handle his wife.”

“If he even wants to any longer,” Alberta said calmly.

“I think he does. He doesn’t seem like a man to give up very easily.”

“No, but he’s also very proud.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble between them, but Mr. Remington is my concern, and if that causes friction, then they have to handle it as best they can.”

“Mrs. Dylan worships her brother. He raised her; their mother died when Mrs. Dylan was thirteen.”

That explained a lot, and Dione spared a moment of sympathy for both Serena and Richard; then she pushed thoughts of them away. She couldn’t consider them; Blake would take all her concentration and energy.

Suddenly she was very tired. It had been a full day, and though it was only late afternoon, she needed to rest. The battle would begin in earnest in the morning, and she’d need a good night’s sleep in order to face it. Starting tomorrow, her hands would be full.

Alberta saw the sudden fatigue that tightened Dione’s features and within minutes had a sandwich and a glass of milk sitting on the table. “Eat,” she said, and Dione knew better than to argue. She sat down and ate.

Dione’s alarm clock went off at five-thirty the next morning. She rose and took a shower, her movements brisk and certain from the moment she got out of bed. She always woke instantly, her mind clear, her coordination in perfect sync. It was one reason why she was such a good therapist; if a patient needed her during the night, she didn’t stumble around rubbing her eyes. She was instantly capable of doing whatever was required of her.

Something told her that Blake wouldn’t be such a cheerful riser, and she could feel her heartbeat speeding up as she brushed her long hair and braided it in one thick braid. Anticipation of the coming battle ran through her veins like liquid joy, making her eyes sparkle and giving a rosy flush to her skin.

The morning was still cool, but she knew from experience that exertion would make her warm, so she dressed in brief blue shorts, a sleeveless cotton shirt with cheerful polka dots in red, blue and yellow, and an old pair of tennis shoes. She touched her toes twenty times, stretching her back and legs, then did twenty sit-ups. She was capable of many more than that, but this was only a quick routine to warm up.

She was smiling when she entered Blake’s room after a quick tap on the door. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully as she crossed the floor to the balcony and opened the curtains, flooding the room with light.

He was lying on his back, his legs positioned a little awkwardly, as if he’d tried to move them during the night. He opened his eyes, and Dione saw the flare of panic in them. He twitched and tried to sit up, groping at his legs; then he remembered and fell back, his face bleak.

How often did that happen? How often did he wake, not remembering the accident, and panic because he couldn’t move his legs? He wouldn’t do that for very much longer, she determined grimly, going over to sit on the bed beside him.

“Good morning,” she said again.

He didn’t return the greeting. “What time is it?” he snapped.

“About six o’clock, maybe a little earlier.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Beginning your therapy,” she replied serenely. He was wearing pajamas, she saw, and wondered if he were able to completely dress himself or if someone had to help him.

“No one’s up at this hour,” he grumbled, closing his eyes again.

“I am, and now you are. Come on; we’ve got a lot to do today.” She rolled the wheelchair to the side of the bed and threw the covers back, revealing his pitifully thin legs clad in the pale blue pajamas. His feet were covered with white socks.

He opened his eyes and the anger was there again. “What’re you doing?” he snarled, reaching out an arm to whip the covers back over himself again.

He didn’t want her to see him, but she couldn’t permit any modesty to interfere. Before long she’d be as familiar with his body as she was with her own, and he had to realize that. If he were ashamed of his physical condition, then he’d simply have to work to improve it.

She snatched the covers away again, and with a deft movement scooped his legs around until they were hanging off the side of the bed. “Get up,” she said relentlessly. “Go to the bathroom before we get started. Do you need any help?”

Pure fire sparked from his blue, blue eyes. “No,” he growled, so angry that he could barely speak. “I can go to the bathroom by myself, Mama!”

“I’m not your mother,” she returned. “I’m your therapist, though the two do have a lot in common.”

She held the chair while he levered himself into it; then he shot across the room and was in the adjoining bathroom before she could react. She laughed silently to herself. When she heard the lock click she called out, “Don’t think you can lock yourself in there all morning! I’ll take the door off the hinges if I have to.”

A muffled curse answered her, and she laughed again. This was going to be interesting!

By the time he finally came out she had begun to think she really would have to take the door down. He’d combed his hair and washed his face, but he didn’t look any more pleased with being awake than he had before.

“Do you have any underwear on?” she asked, not making any comment on the length of time he’d spent in the bathroom. He’d timed that very nicely, stalling as long as he could, but coming out just before she did something about it.

Shock froze his features. “What?” he asked.

“Do you have any underwear on?” she repeated.

“What business is it of yours?”

“Because I want your pajamas off. If you don’t have any underwear on, you may want to put on a pair, but it really doesn’t matter to me. I’ve seen naked men before.”

“I’m sure you have,” he muttered snidely. “I have underwear on, but I’m not taking my pajamas off for you.”

“Then don’t. I’ll take them off for you. I think you learned yesterday that I’m strong enough to do it. But those pajamas are coming off, the easy way or the hard way. Which is it?”

“Why do you want them off?” he stalled. “It can’t be so you can admire my build,” he said bitterly.

“You’re right about that,” she said. “You look like a bird. That’s why I’m here; if you didn’t look like a bird, you wouldn’t need me.”

He flushed.

“The pajamas,” she prodded.

Furiously he unbuttoned the shirt and threw it across the room. She could sense that he would have liked to do the same to the bottoms, but they were a bit more difficult to remove. Without a word Dione helped him back onto the bed, then pulled the garment down his thin legs and draped it over the arm of the wheelchair. “On your stomach,” she said, and deftly rolled him over.

“Hey!” he protested, his face smothered in the pillow. He swept the pillow aside. He was shaking with fury.

She popped the elastic waistband of his shorts. “Calm down,” she advised. “This will be painless this morning.”

Her impertinent little gesture made his temper flare so hotly that his entire torso flushed. Smiling at his response, she began to firmly knead his shoulders and back.

He grunted. “Take it easy! I’m not a side of beef!”

She laughed. “How delicate you are!” she mocked. “There’s a reason for this.”

“Like what? Punishment?”

“In a word, circulation. Your circulation is terrible. That’s why your hands are cold, and why you have to wear socks to keep your feet warm, even in bed. I’ll bet they’re icy cold right now, aren’t they?”

Silence was her answer.

“Muscles can’t work without a good blood supply,” she commented.

“I see,” he said sarcastically. “Your magical massage is going to zip me right onto my feet.”

“No way. My magical massage is mere groundwork, and you should learn to like it, because you’re going to be getting a lot of it.”

“God, you’re just loaded down with charm, aren’t you?”

She laughed again. “I’m loaded down with knowledge, and I also come equipped with a thick hide, so you’re wasting your time.” She moved down to his legs; there was no flesh there to massage. She felt as if she were merely moving his skin over his bones, but she kept at it, knowing that the hours and hours of massage that she would give him would eventually pay off. She pulled his socks off and rubbed his limp feet briskly, feeling some of the chill leave his skin.

The minutes passed as she worked in silence. He grunted occasionally in protest when her vigorous fingers were a little too rough. A fine sheen of perspiration began to glow on her face and body.

She shifted him onto his back and gave her attention to his arms and chest and his hollow belly. His ribs stood out white under his skin. He lay with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his mouth grim.

Dione moved down to his legs again.

“How much longer are you going to keep this up?” he finally asked.

She looked up and checked the time. It had been a little over an hour. “I suppose that’s enough for right now,” she said. “Now we do the exercises.”

She took first one leg, then the other, bending them, forcing his knees up to his chest, repeating the motion over and over. He bore it in silence for about fifteen minutes, then suddenly rolled to a sitting position and shoved her away.

“Stop it!” he shouted, his face drawn. “My God, woman, do you have to keep on and on? It’s a waste of time! Just leave me alone!”

She regarded him in amazement. “What do you mean, ‘a waste of time’? I’ve just started. Did you really expect to see a difference in an hour?”

“I don’t like being handled like so much putty!”

She shrugged, hiding a smile. “It’s almost seven-thirty anyway. Your breakfast will be ready. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said, and then a startled look crossed his face and she knew that he’d just realized that he was hungry, probably for the first time in months. She helped him to dress, though her aid managed to send him off into a black temper again. He was as sullen as a child when they entered the elevator that had been installed especially for him.

But the sullenness fled when he saw what was on his plate. Watching him, Dione had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. First horror, then outrage contorted his features. “What’s that mess?” he roared.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said casually. “That’s not all you’re getting, but that’s what you’ll start off with. Those are vitamins,” she added in a helpful tone.

They could have been snakes from the way he was staring at them. She had to admit that the collection was a little impressive. Alberta had counted them out exactly as Dione had instructed, and she knew that there were nineteen pills.

“I’m not taking them!”

“You’re taking them. You need them. You’ll need them even more after a few days of therapy. Besides, you don’t get anything to eat until after you’ve taken them.”

He wasn’t a good loser. He snatched them up and swallowed them several at a time, washing them down with gulps of water. “There,” he snarled. “I’ve taken the damned things.”

“Thank you,” she said gravely.

Alberta had evidently been listening, because she promptly entered with their breakfast trays. He looked at his grapefruit half, whole wheat toast, eggs, bacon and milk as if it were slop. “I want a blueberry waffle,” he said.

“Sorry,” Dione said. “That’s not on your diet. Too sweet. Eat your grapefruit.”

“I hate grapefruit.”

“You need the vitamin C.”

“I just took a year’s supply of vitamin C!”

“Look,” she said sweetly, “this is your breakfast. Eat it or do without. You’re not getting a blueberry waffle.”

He threw it at her.

She’d been expecting something like that, and ducked gracefully. The plate crashed against the wall. She collapsed against the table, the laughter that she’d been holding in all morning finally bursting out of her in great whoops. His hair was practically standing on end, he was so angry. He was beautiful! His cobalt blue eyes were as vivid as sapphires; his face was alive with color.

As dignified as a queen, Alberta marched out of the kitchen with an identical tray and set it before him. “She said you’d probably throw the first one,” she said without inflection.

Knowing that he’d acted exactly as Dione had predicted made him even angrier, but now he was stymied. He didn’t know what to do, afraid that whatever he did, she would have anticipated it. Finally he did nothing. He ate silently, pushing the food into his mouth with determined movements, then balked again at the milk.

“I can’t stand milk. Surely coffee can’t hurt!”

“It won’t hurt, but it won’t help, either. Let’s make a deal,” she offered. “Drink the milk, which you need for the calcium, and then you can have coffee.”

He took a deep breath and drained the milk glass.

Alberta brought in coffee. The remainder of the meal passed in relative peace. Angela Quincy, Alberta’s stepdaughter, came in to clear the mess that Blake had made with his first breakfast, and he looked a little embarrassed.

Angela, in her way, was as much of an enigma as Alberta was. She showed her age, unlike Alberta; she was about fifty, as soft and cuddly as Alberta was lean and angular. She was very pretty, could even have been called beautiful, despite the wrinkling of her skin. She was the most serene person Dione had ever seen. Her hair was brown, liberally streaked with gray, and her eyes were a soft, tranquil brown. She had once been engaged, Dione would learn later, but the man had died, and Angela still wore the engagement ring he’d given her so many years before.

She wasn’t disturbed at all by having to clean egg off the wall, though Blake became increasingly restless as she worked. Dione leisurely finished her meal, then laid her napkin aside.

“Time for more exercises,” she announced.

“No!” he roared. “I’ve had enough for today! A little of you goes a long way, lady!”

“Please, call me Dione,” she murmured.

“I don’t want to call you anything! My God, would you just leave me alone!”

“Of course I will, when my job is finished. I can’t let you ruin my record of successful cases, can I?”

“Do you know what you can do with your successful record?” he snarled, sending the chair jerking backward. He jabbed the forward button. “I don’t want to see your face again!” he shouted as the chair rolled out of the room.

She sighed and lifted her shoulders helplessly when her eyes met Angela’s philosophic gaze. Angela smiled, but didn’t say anything. Alberta wasn’t talkative, and Angela was even less so. Dione imagined that when the two of them were together, the silence was deafening.

When she thought that Blake had had enough time to get over his tantrum, she went upstairs to begin again. It would probably be a waste of time to try his door, so she entered her room and went straight through to the gallery. She tapped on the sliding glass doors in his room, then opened them and stepped in.

He regarded her broodingly from his chair. Dione went to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s difficult,” she said softly. “I can’t promise you that any of this will be easy. Try to trust me; I really am good at my job, and at the very worst you’ll still be in much better health than you are now.”

“If I can’t walk, why should I care about my health?” he asked tightly. “Do you think I want to live like this? I would rather have died outright on that cliff than have gone through these past two years.”

“Have you always given up so easily?”

“Easily!” His head jerked. “You don’t know anything about it! You don’t know what it was like—”

“I can tell you what it wasn’t like,” she interrupted. “I can tell you that you’ve never looked down at where your legs used to be and seen only flat sheet. You’ve never had to type by punching the keys with a pencil held in your teeth because you’re paralyzed from the neck down. I’ve seen a lot of people who are a lot worse off than you. You’re going to walk again, because I’m going to make you.”

“I don’t want to hear about how bad other people have it! They’re not me! My life is my own, and I know what I want out of it, and what I can’t…what I won’t accept.”

“Work? Effort? Pain?” she prodded. “Mr. Remington, Richard has told me a great deal about you. You lived life to the fullest. If there were even the slimmest chance that you could do all of that again, would you go for it?”

He sighed, his face unutterably weary. “I don’t know. If I really thought there was a chance…but I don’t. I can’t walk, Miss Kelley. I can’t move my legs at all.”

“I know. You can’t expect to move them right now. I’ll have to retrain your nerve impulses before you’ll be able to move them. It’ll take several months, and I can’t promise that you won’t limp, but you will walk again…if you cooperate with me. So, Mr. Remington, shall we get started again on those exercises?”

Chapter Three

He submitted to the exercises with ill grace, but that didn’t bother her as long as he cooperated at all. His muscles didn’t know that he lay there scowling the entire time; the movement, the stimulation, were what counted. Dione worked tirelessly, alternating between exercising his legs and massaging his entire body. It was almost ten-thirty when she heard the noise that she’d been unconsciously listening for all morning: the tapping of Serena’s heels. She lifted her head, and then Blake heard it, too. “No!” he said hoarsely. “Don’t let her see me like this!”

“All right,” she said calmly, flipping the sheet up to cover him. Then she walked to the door and stepped into the hallway, blocking Serena’s way as she started to enter Blake’s room.

Serena gave her a startled look. “Is Blake awake? I was just going to peek in; he usually doesn’t get up until about noon.”

No wonder he’d been so upset when I got him up at six! Dione thought, amused. To Serena she said blandly, “I’m giving him his exercises now.”

“So early?” Serena’s brows arched in amazement. “Well, I’m certain you’ve done enough for the day. Since he’s awake early he’ll be ready for his breakfast. He eats so badly. I don’t want him to miss any meals. I’ll go in and see what he’d like—”

As Serena moved around Dione to enter Blake’s bedroom, Dione deftly sidestepped until she once more blocked the door. “I’m sorry,” she said as gently as possible when Serena stared at her in disbelief. “He’s already had his breakfast. I’ve put him on a schedule, and it’s important that he stay on it. After another hour of exercise we’ll come downstairs for lunch, if you’d like to wait until then.”

Serena was still staring at her as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you saying…” she whispered, then stopped and began again, her voice stronger this time. “Are you saying that I can’t see my brother?”

“At this time, no. We need to complete these exercises.”

“Does Blake know I’m here?” Serena demanded, her cheeks suddenly flushing.

“Yes, he does. He doesn’t want you to see him right now. Please, try to understand how he feels.”

Serena’s marvelous eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, I see!” Perhaps she did, but Dione rather doubted it. Hurt shimmered in Serena’s eyes for a moment; then she shrugged lightly. “I’ll…see him in an hour, then.” She turned away, and Dione watched her for a moment, reading wounded emotions in every line of her straight back. It wasn’t unusual for the one closest to the patient to become jealous of the intimacy that was necessary between patient and therapist, but Dione never failed to feel uncomfortable when it happened. She knew that the intimacy was only fleeting, that as soon as her patient was recovered and no longer needed her services, she would go on to some other case and the patient would forget all about her. In Blake’s case, there was nothing to be jealous of anyway. The only emotion he felt for her was hostility.

When she reentered the bedroom he twisted his head around to stare at her. “Is she gone?” he questioned anxiously.

“She’s going to wait downstairs to eat lunch with you,” Dione answered, and saw the relief that crossed his face.

“Good. She…nearly went to pieces when this happened to me. She’d be hysterical if she saw what I really look like.” Pain darkened his eyes. “She’s special to me; I practically raised her. I’m all the family she has.”

“No, you’re not,” Dione pointed out. “She has Richard.”

“He’s so wrapped up in his work, he seldom remembers that she’s alive,” he snorted. “Richard’s a great vice-president, but he’s not a great husband.”

That wasn’t the impression Dione had gotten from Richard; he’d seemed to her to be a man very much in love with his wife. On the surface Richard and Serena were opposites; he was reserved, sophisticated, while she was as forceful as her brother, but perhaps they were each what the other needed. Perhaps her fire made him more spontaneous; perhaps his reserve tempered her rashness. But Dione didn’t say anything to Blake. She began the repetitious exercises again, forcing his legs through the same motions.

It was tiring, boring work; tiring for her, boring for him. It made him irritable all over again, but this time when he snapped at her to stop, she obeyed him. She didn’t want to browbeat him, to force her wishes on him in everything. He’d put in the most active morning he’d had since the accident, and she wasn’t going to push him any further. “Whew!” she sighed, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand and feeling the moisture there. “I need a shower before lunch! Breaking off a little early is a good idea.”

He looked at her, and his eyes widened in surprise. She knew that he didn’t really see her all morning; he’d been preoccupied with his own condition, his own despair. She’d told him that he’d have to work hard, but now for the first time he realized that she’d be working hard, too. It wasn’t going to be a picnic for her. She knew that she looked a mess, all sweaty and flushed.

“A bath wouldn’t hurt you,” he agreed dryly, and she laughed.

“Don’t be such a gentleman about it,” she teased. “You just wait. I won’t be the only one working up a sweat before long, and I won’t show you any mercy!”

“I haven’t noticed you showing any, anyway,” he grumbled.

“Now, I’ve been very good to you. I’ve kept you entertained all morning; I made certain you had a good breakfast—”

“Don’t push your luck,” he advised, giving her a black look, which she rewarded with a smile. It was important that he learn to joke and laugh with her, to ease the stress of the coming months. She had to become the best friend he had in the world, knowing as she did so that it was a friendship that was doomed from the outset, because it was based on dependence and need. When he no longer needed her, when his life had regained its normal pace, she would leave and be promptly forgotten. She knew that, and she had to keep a part of herself aloof, though the remainder of her emotions and mental effort would be concentrated entirely on him.

While she was helping him to dress, a process that didn’t anger him as it had that morning, he said thoughtfully, “You’ll be spending most of your time dressing and undressing me, it seems. If this is the routine you’re going to be following it’ll save a lot of time if I just wear a pair of gym shorts; I can put on a robe before we eat, and Alberta can bring trays up here.”

Dione successfully hid her delight, merely saying, “That’s your second good idea of the day.” Secretly she was elated. From a practical standpoint he was right: It would save a lot of time and effort; however, it would also exclude Serena from most of their meals. That would be a big help.

If wasn’t that she disliked Serena; if she had met her under different circumstances, Dione felt that she would have liked Serena very much. But Blake was her concern now, and she didn’t want anyone or anything interfering with her work. While she was working on a case she concentrated on her patient to the extent that everyone else faded into the background, became gray cardboard figures rather than three-dimensional human beings. It was one of the things that made her so successful in her field. Already, after only one morning, Blake so filled her thoughts, and she was so much in tune with him, that she felt she knew him inside and out. She could practically read his mind, know what he was going to say before he said it. She ached for him, sympathized with him, but most of all she was happy for him, because she could look at his helplessness now and know that in a few months he would be strong and fit again. Already he was looking better, she thought proudly. It was probably due more to his anger than her efforts, but his color was much improved. He could stay angry with her for the entire time if it would keep him active and involved.

She was feeling satisfied with the morning’s work as she walked beside him into the dining room, but that feeling was shattered when Serena plunged toward Blake, her lovely face bathed in tears. “Blake,” she said brokenly.

Instantly he was alert, concerned, as he reached for her hand. “What is it?” he asked, a note of tenderness creeping into his voice, a particular tone that was absent when he talked to everyone else. Only Serena inspired that voice of love.

“The patio!” she wailed. “Mother’s bench…it’s ruined! They’ve turned the pool into a madhouse! It looks awful!”

“What?” he asked, his brows snapping together. “What’re you talking about?”

Serena pointed a shaking finger at Dione. “Her gym! They’ve torn up the entire patio!”

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Dione said reasonably. “It may be disorganized now, but nothing should be torn up. Richard’s overseeing the installation of the equipment, and I’m sure he wouldn’t let anything be damaged.”

“Come see for yourself!”

Dione checked her watch. “I think we should have lunch first. The patio isn’t going anywhere, but the food will be cold.”

“Stalling?” Blake inquired coldly. “I told you, Miss Kelley, that I don’t want this house changed.”

“I can neither deny nor confirm what changes have been made, because I haven’t been outside. I’ve been with you all morning. However, I trust Richard’s good sense, even if you don’t,” she said pointedly, and Serena flushed furiously.

“It isn’t that I don’t trust my husband,” she began heatedly, but Blake cut her off with a lifted hand.

“Not now,” he said shortly. “I want to see the patio.”

Serena fell into immediate silence, though she looked sulky. Evidently Blake was still very much the big brother, despite his obvious ill health. His voice carried the unmistakable ring of command. Blake Remington was accustomed to giving orders and having them carried out immediately; his morning with Dione must have gone completely against the grain.

It was the first time Dione had been on the patio, and she found it beautifully landscaped, cool and fragrant, despite the brutal Arizona sun. Yucca plants and different varieties of cactus grew in perfect harmony with plants normally found in a much more congenial climate. Careful watering explained the unusual variety of plants, that and the well-planned use of shade. White flagstones had been laid out to form a path, while a central fountain spewed its musical water upward in a perfect spray. At the back of the patio, where a tall gate opened onto the pool area, was a beautifully carved bench in a delicate pearl-gray color. Dione had no idea what type of wood it was, though it was gorgeous.

The patio was disorganized; evidently the workers Richard had hired had used the patio to store the pool furniture that was in the way, and also the materials that they didn’t need at the moment. However, she saw that they had been careful not to disturb any of the plants; everything was placed carefully on the flagstones. But Serena ran to the lovely bench and pointed out a long gouge on its side. “See!” she cried.

Blake’s eyes flashed. “Yes, I see. Well, Miss Kelley, it looks as if your workers have damaged a bench that I consider priceless. My father gave it to my mother when they moved into this house; she sat here every evening, and it’s here that I see her in my mind. I want this whole thing called off before something else is ruined, and I want you out of my house.”

Dione was distressed that the bench had been damaged, and she opened her mouth to apologize; then she saw the flash of triumph in Serena’s eyes and she paused. To give herself time to think, she walked to the bench and bent down to examine the scarred wood. Thoughtfully she ran a finger over the gouge; a quick glance at Serena caught a hint of apprehension in those amazingly expressive eyes. What was Serena worried about? Looking back at the bench, the answer became readily apparent: The bench was undoubtedly damaged, but the gouge was old enough to have weathered. It certainly hadn’t been done that morning.

She could have accused Serena of deliberately trying to cause trouble, but she didn’t. Serena was fighting for the brother she loved, and though her battle was useless, Dione couldn’t condemn her for it. She would just have to separate Serena from Blake so her work could continue without a constant stream of interruptions. Richard would have to bring that laser brain of his into use and keep his wife occupied.

“I can understand why you’re both upset,” she said mildly, “but this gouge wasn’t done tonight. See?” she asked, pointing at the wood. “It isn’t a fresh scar. I’d guess that this has been here for several weeks.”

Blake moved his wheelchair closer and leaned down to inspect the bench for himself. He straightened slowly. “You’re right,” he sighed. “In fact, I’m afraid I’m the culprit.”

Serena gasped. “What do you mean?”

“A few weeks ago I was out here and I bumped the wheelchair into the bench. You’ll notice that the gouge is the same height as the hub of my wheel.” He rubbed his eyes with a thin hand that trembled with strain. “God, I’m sorry, Serena.”

“Don’t blame yourself!” she cried, rushing to his side and clutching his hand. “It doesn’t matter; please don’t be upset. Come inside and let’s have lunch. I know you must be tired. It can’t do any good for you to tire yourself out like this. You need to rest.”

Dione watched as Serena walked beside the wheelchair, all concern and love. Shaking her head a little in amused exasperation, she followed them.

Serena remained close by Blake’s side for the rest of the day, fussing over him like a hen with one chick. Blake was tired after his first day of therapy, and he let her coddle him. Though Dione had planned to have another session of exercise and massage, she let it go rather than fight a battle to do it. Tomorrow…well, tomorrow would be another story.

Richard arrived for dinner, a practice that Alberta had told Dione was the usual whenever Serena came over, which was every day. He watched silently as Serena hovered anxiously over Blake, and though Richard had the original poker face, Dione sensed that he wasn’t happy with the situation. After dinner, while Serena got Blake settled in his study, Dione took the opportunity to speak privately to Richard.

They went out to the patio and sat on one of the benches that were scattered around. Dione looked up at the countless stars that were visible in the clear desert night. “I’m having a problem with Serena,” she said without preamble.

He sighed. “I know. I’ve had a problem with her since Blake had his accident. I understand how she feels, but it’s still driving me crazy.”

“He said something today about raising her.”

“Practically. Serena was thirteen when their mother died, and it was quite a shock to her. It was weeks before she could bear for Blake to be out of her sight; it must’ve seemed to her as if everyone she loved was dying. First her father, then her mother. She was especially close to her mother. I know that she’s terrified something will happen to Blake, but at the same time I can’t help resenting it.”

“‘Forsaking all others,’” Dione quoted, a little sadly.

“Exactly. I want my wife back.”

“Blake said that you don’t pay any attention to her, that you’re wrapped up in your work.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with restless fingers. “I have a lot of work to do, with Blake like he is. My God, what I wouldn’t give to go home to just a little of the tender loving care that she smothers Blake with every day!”

“I spoke to Alberta about having the locks on the doors changed, but the more I think about it, the more I think it isn’t such a good idea,” she confessed. “Blake would be furious if anyone locked his sister out of his house. The problem is, I can’t keep him on a schedule if she keeps interrupting.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said doubtfully. “But any suggestion that will keep her away from Blake will go over like an outbreak of plague.” He looked at her, and his teeth suddenly flashed white as he grinned. “You must have the steadiest nerves I’ve ever seen. Was it interesting today?”

“It had its moments,” she replied, laughing a little. “He threw his breakfast at me.”

Richard laughed aloud. “I wish I could’ve seen that! Blake’s always had a hot temper, but for the past year he’s been so depressed that you couldn’t make him angry if you tried all day. It would’ve been like old times if I had been here to see him.”

“I hope I can get him to the point where he doesn’t need to be angry,” she said. “I’m certain that he’ll progress more rapidly if we aren’t interrupted. I’m relying on you to think of something that’ll keep Serena occupied.”

“If I could, I’d have used it before now,” he said in disgust. “Short of kidnapping her, I can’t think of anything that will work.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“What?”

“Kidnap her. Take her on a second honeymoon. Whatever it takes.”

“The second honeymoon sounds good,” he admitted. “But there’s no way I can get free until Blake returns to work and takes over again. Any more ideas?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to think of something on your own. I don’t know her that well. But I need privacy to work with Blake.”

“Then you’ll have it,” he promised after a moment’s thought. “I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll keep her away as much as I can. Unless Blake’s completely dead, it shouldn’t take him long to realize that he’d rather have you fussing over him than his sister, anyway.”

At the obvious admiration in his voice, Dione shifted uncomfortably. She was aware of her looks, but at the same time she didn’t want anyone to comment on them. Blake was her patient; it was out of the question for her to become involved with him in any sort of sexual relationship. Not only was it against her professional ethics, it was impossible for her. She no longer woke up in the middle of the night trying desperately to scream, her throat constricted by sheer terror, and she wasn’t going to do anything to reawaken those nightmares. She’d put the horror behind her, where it had to stay.

Sensing her unease, Richard said, “Dione?” His voice was low, puzzled. “Is something wrong?” He put his hand on her arm, and she jumped as if she’d been stung, unable to bear the touch. He got to his feet, alarmed by her action. “Dione?” he asked again.

“I…I’m sorry,” she murmured, wrapping her arms tightly around herself in an effort to control the trembling that had seized her. “I can’t explain…. I’m sorry—”

“But what’s wrong?” he demanded, reaching out his hand to her again, and she drew back sharply, jumping to her feet.

She knew that she couldn’t explain, but neither could she stand there any longer. “Good night,” she said rapidly, and walked away from him. She entered the house and almost bumped into Serena, who was stepping out onto the patio.

“There you are,” she said. “Blake’s gone to bed; he was so tired.”

“Yes, I thought he would be,” Dione said, gathering her composure enough to answer Serena evenly. Suddenly she felt very tired, too, and she was unable to stifle a yawn. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

Serena gave her an odd, considering look. “Then Richard and I will be leaving; I don’t want to keep you up. I’ll see Blake tomorrow.”

“I’ll be increasing his exercises tomorrow,” Dione informed her, taking the opportunity to let Serena know that her presence would hinder rather than help. “It would be better if you waited until late afternoon, say after four.”

“But that’s too much!” Serena gasped. “He isn’t strong enough!”

“At this point, I’m doing most of the work,” Dione reassured her dryly. “But I’ll be careful not to let him do too much.”

If Serena heard the sarcasm that Dione couldn’t quite suppress, she didn’t let on. Instead she nodded. “I see,” she said coldly. “Very well. I’ll see Blake tomorrow afternoon.”

Well, will wonders never cease, Dione thought wryly to herself as she made her way upstairs. All she’d had to do was mention that Blake would be busy, and though Serena hadn’t been happy with the situation, she’d agreed to it.

After she’d gotten ready for bed, she tapped lightly on Blake’s door; when she didn’t hear an answer she opened the door just enough to peek inside. He was sound asleep, lying on his back, his head rolled against his shoulder. With only the light from the hallway on him, he looked younger, the lines of suffering not visible now.

Quietly she closed the door and returned to her room. She was tired, so tired that her limbs ached, but after she was in bed she found that sleep eluded her. She knew why, and lay awake staring at the ceiling, knowing that she might not sleep at all that night. Such a silly, trivial thing…just because Richard had touched her.

Yet it wasn’t trivial, and she knew it. She might have pushed the nightmare away, she might have restructured her life completely, but her past was hers, a part of her, and it hadn’t been trivial. Rape wasn’t trivial. Since that night she hadn’t been able to bear for anyone to touch her. She’d worked out a compromise with herself, satisfying her human need for warmth and touching by working with her patients, touching them, but she could bear the contact only as long as she was the one in control.

On the surface she had recovered completely; she had built a wall between who she was now and who she had been then, never dwelling on what had happened, literally forcing herself to gather together the shattered pieces of her life and, with fierce concentration and willpower, actually mending the pieces into a stronger fabric. She could laugh and enjoy life. More importantly, she had learned how to respect herself, which had been the hardest task of all.

But she couldn’t tolerate a man’s touch.

That night had effectively prevented her from marrying and having a family. Since that part of life was denied her, she ignored it, and never cried for what might have been. Instead she became a vagabond of sorts, traveling around the country and helping other people. While she was on a case she had an intense relationship full of love and caring, but without any sexual overtones. She loved her patients, and, inevitably, they loved her…while it lasted. They became her family, until the day when it was over and she left them with a smile on her face, ready to continue on to her next case and her next “family.”

She had wondered, when she began her training, if she would ever be able to work with a man at all. The problem worried her until she decided that, if she couldn’t, she would be handicapping her career terribly and made up her mind to do what was necessary. The first time she worked with a man she’d had to grit her teeth and use all her considerable determination to make herself touch him, but after a few minutes she had realized that a man who needed therapy obviously wasn’t in any shape to be attacking her. Men were human beings who needed help, just like everyone else.

She preferred working with children, though. They loved so freely, so wholeheartedly. A child’s touch was the one touch she could tolerate; she had learned to enjoy the feel of little arms going about her neck in a joyous hug. If there was one regret that sometimes refused to go away, it was the regret that she would never have children of her own. She controlled it by channeling extra devotion into her efforts for the children she worked with, but deep inside her was the need to have someone of her own, someone who belonged to her and who she belonged to, a part of herself.

Suddenly a muffled sound caught her attention, and she lifted her head from the pillow, waiting to see if it was repeated. Blake? Had he called out?

There was nothing but silence now, but she couldn’t rest until she had made certain that he was all right. Getting out of bed, she slipped on her robe and walked silently to the room next door. Opening the door enough to look inside, she saw him lying in the same position he’d been in before. She was about to leave when he tried to roll onto his side, and when his legs didn’t cooperate, he made the same sound she’d heard before, a half sigh, half grunt.

Did no one ever think to help him change his position? she wondered, gliding silently into the room on her bare feet. If he’d been lying on his back for two years, no wonder he had the temperament of a water buffalo.

She didn’t know if he were awake or not; she didn’t think so. Probably he was just trying to change positions as people do naturally during sleep. The light in the hallway wasn’t on now, since everyone was in bed, and in the dim starlight coming through the glass doors she couldn’t see well enough to decide. Perhaps, if he were still asleep, she could gently adjust his position without his ever waking up. It was something she did for most of her patients, a gesture of concern that they usually never realized.

First she touched his shoulder lightly, just placing her hand on him and letting his subconscious become accustomed to the touch. After a moment she applied a little pressure and he obeyed it, trying to roll to his right side, facing her. Gently, slowly, she helped him, moving his legs so they didn’t hold him back. With a soft sigh he burrowed his face into the pillow, his breathing becoming deeper as he relaxed.

Smiling, she pulled the sheet up over his shoulder and returned to her room.

Blake wasn’t like her other patients. Still lying awake over an hour later, she tried to decide why she was so determined to make him walk again. It wasn’t just her normal devotion to a patient; in some way she didn’t yet understand, it was important to her personally that he once again become the man he had been. He had been such a strong man, a man so vibrantly alive that he was the center of attention wherever he went. She knew that. She had to restore him to that.

He was so near to death. Richard had been correct in saying that he wouldn’t live another year the way he was. Blake had been willing himself to die. She had gotten his attention that morning with her shock tactics, but she had to keep it until he could actually see himself progressing, until he realized that he could recover. She would never be able to forgive herself if she failed him.

She finally slept for about two hours, rising before dawn with a restless anticipation driving her. She would have loved to run on the beach, but Phoenix didn’t have a beach, and she didn’t know the grounds well enough to go trotting around them in the dark. For all she knew Blake had attack dogs patrolling at night. But despite her lack of sleep she was brimming with energy. She tried to burn off some of it by doing a brisk routine of exercises, but the shower she took afterward so refreshed her that she felt she was ready to tackle the world. Well, at least Blake Remington!

It was even earlier than it had been the morning before when she gave in to her enthusiasm and bounded into his room, snapping on the light as she did, because it was still dark.

“Good morning,” she chirped.

He was still on his side; he opened one blue eye, surveyed her with an expression of horror, then uttered an explicit word that would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap if he’d been younger. Dione grinned at him.

“Are you ready to start?” she asked innocently.

“Hell, no!” he barked. “Lady, it’s the middle of the night!”

“Not quite. It’s almost dawn.”

“Almost? How close to almost?”

“In just a few minutes,” she soothed, then ruined it by laughing as she threw the covers off him. “Don’t you want to see the sunrise?”

“No!”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” she coaxed, swinging his legs off the bed. “Watch the sunrise with me.”

“I don’t want to watch the sunrise, with you or anyone else,” he snarled. “I want to sleep!”

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