Kitabı oxu: «Come Lie With Me»

“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.