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"All right, then. But as soon as you're through that door, you stop and let me carry you again. Agreed?"
"Agreed." She didn't want to walk the rest of the way. Her painkillers must be wearing off, because getting dressed had been painful enough. Walking would be agony. But she could manage a few steps. That's all she'd need.
Desmond set her down, careful not to jostle her or move too quickly. Then he plucked the keycard out of her fingers, and triggered the door.
"I'll go in first, in case— "
"Daddy!" Gillian yelled as soon as Desmond pushed open the door, running across the living room. When she saw Rebecca she stopped, her eyes going wide, and ducked behind the couch. She poked her face around the arm of the couch and stared at Rebecca. "Is she gonna die, Daddy?"
"No, honey." Desmond shot a worried look at Rebecca, as if his daughter might have picked up on something he'd missed. Then he hurried over to comfort Gillian, kneeling beside her. "She's just hurt. She had to have a shot."
Gillian nodded with a wisdom beyond her years. "Shots hurt."
"But after yesterday's shot, you won't need any more for a long, long time."
Gillian smiled. Rebecca took advantage of the distraction to make her way inside the apartment. She felt like a sailor who hadn't quite gotten his land legs back, and the fewer people who watched her shuffling walk, the better.
Desmond whispered something, and Gillian turned and ran back into the kitchen. Desmond smiled as the swinging door wafted the scent of chocolate chip cookies into the living room. He opened Rebecca's bedroom door and turned on the light before returning to her.
He scooped her off her feet smoothly, cradling her against his chest as he carried her to the bedroom. His action called to mind a variety of her fantasies, and she slanted a glance up at him. He grinned.
"This isn't the bedroom I'd like to be carrying you to. And I can think of much more pleasant activities to do in bed than rest." His grin faded, and his voice became earnest. "But you need to get well. That's the important thing. Can you grab the covers?"
She looked down. He held her over the bed, but if he put her down, she'd be on top of the covers. She reached out and flicked them aside, revealing clean sheets in a new striped pattern. Desmond lowered her into the bed without so much as a twinge of pain, and pulled the sheet and blanket over her.
"Do you want more pillows, so you can sit up a little?"
"No. I'm tired." The operation, followed by their enthusiastic lovemaking, had worn her out. By the time she managed to get ready for bed, she'd be exhausted. "Just hand me my nightshirt. I left it hanging in the closet."
He opened the c
loset, revealing only empty space.
"It's not there." He looked around, and pointed to the suitcase leaning against wall. "You must have packed it with the rest of your things."
She hadn't. And she'd left the suitcase in the closet, too. Mrs. Waters must have done it. The woman couldn't wait to be rid of her.
"Could you get it out, then?"
He ruffled through her clothing until he found the nightshirt. "Here it is."
She almost asked how he knew which T-shirt it was, until she remembered he'd come in to wake her up. Was it only yesterday morning? It seemed so long ago.
"Thank you."
"Rest well." He stroked a light caress along her jaw, trailing it down along her arm. Then he walked out and shut the door behind him.
She stared at the ceiling, her skin tingling where he'd touched her. How had she gotten herself into this predicament? And how on earth was she going to get herself back out?
She liked Desmond. She really did. Oh, he could be infuriatingly self-confident and arrogant. But he was also the sweetest, most considerate man she'd ever known. Except she didn't know him. Not really. And that was the problem.
Rebecca sighed, and wished she could turn over and plump up the pillow. Lying in bed was going to get old quickly. Her cheeks heated as she remembered Desmond's comments, and their earlier lovemaking. There was no denying her attraction for him, or his for her. They made sparks like flint and steel whenever they touched. But that was no basis for an enduring relationship.
Her mother had proved how foolish pinning your hopes to a dream could be. She'd had two years to get to know Rebecca's father, and still hadn't known him well enough to predict he'd desert her.
Rebecca recalled how devastated she'd felt, when she'd finally discovered the absent father she'd idolized all those years was nothing more than a figment of her mother's imagination. She could forgive her father for leaving, and her mother for inventing a new reality to replace the one that had treated her so poorly. But that didn't mean Rebecca wanted to go through that nightmare of heartbreak again. Not when she could avoid it by thinking with her head instead of her emotions.
Satisfied, she started to undo her shirt. Desmond's not like that. He'd sacrifice anything for his family. She stopped with the shirt half unbuttoned. Where had that thought come from? It had just appeared in her head, without warning, fully formed. Like her hunches when she was working on a story.
