Come Lie With Me - Linda Howard [67]
When she woke she was alone in the bed and the brightness of the room told her that the morning was almost over. She wasn’t fortunate enough to forget, even for a moment, the events of the night. Her eyes went to the gallery, but the wheelchair was gone, and she wondered how Blake could have left her bed and taken the wheelchair without waking her; she was normally the lightest of sleepers, coming awake at any unusual noise. But she’d been so tired…she was still tired, her body heavy and clumsy feeling, her reactions slow.
She eased out of bed, wincing at the unfamiliar soreness of her body. How could she have been so stupid that she’d let Blake make love to her? She was trying to get through these last days with him with the least amount of emotional damage, and she’d made it impossibly complicated. She should never have tried to arouse him; she didn’t know anything about handling men, or handling herself, if it came to that. He’d said, “I need you,” and she’d melted. A real pushover, she told herself contemptuously. He must have seen her coming a mile away. Then, to top it all off, she’d told him about Scott.
She writhed inwardly with embarrassment. She’d managed for years to control herself, to keep herself from wallowing in the slimy pool of the past. So she hadn’t been comfortable with men; what of it? A lot of women managed very well without men. When she thought of the way she’d clung to him, weeping and moaning, she wanted to die of shame. Her solitary nature hated the thought of displaying so much of herself to anyone, even the man who had taken up her days and nights for months.
Willpower had a lot to say for itself; it steadied her nerves, gave her the courage to shrug her shoulders and step into the shower as if there was nothing unusual about that morning. She dressed as she normally did, then went straight to the gym, where she knew she’d find Blake. There was no point in putting off their meeting, because time wouldn’t make it any easier. It was best to face him and get it over with.
When she opened the door he glanced at her but didn’t say anything; he was lying on his stomach, lifting weights with his legs, and he was counting. He was totally engrossed in the demands he was making of his body. With a slow but steady rhythm he lifted each leg in turn.
“How long have you been doing that?” Dione asked sternly, forgetting her discomfort as her professional concern surfaced.
“Half…an…hour,” he grated.
“That’s enough. Stop right now,” she ordered. “You’re overdoing it; no wonder your legs give you fits! What are you trying to do, punish your legs for the years they didn’t work?”
He relaxed with a groan. “I’m trying to get away from the walker,” he said irritably. “I want to walk alone, without leaning on anything.”
“If you tear a muscle you’re going to be leaning on something for a lot longer than necessary,” she snapped back. “I’ve watched you push yourself past the bounds of common sense, but no more. I’m a therapist, not a spectator. If you’re not going to follow my instructions, then there’s no use in my staying here any longer.”
His head jerked around, and his eyes darkened to a stormy color. “Are you telling me that you’re leaving?”
“That’s up to you,” she returned stonily. “If you’ll do as you’re told and follow your training program, I’ll stay. If you’re going to ignore everything I say and do what you want, there’s no point in my wasting my time here.”
He flushed darkly, and she realized that he still wasn’t used to giving in to anyone. For a moment she expected him to tell her to pack her bags, and she pulled herself up, braced for the words that would end her time with him. Then he clenched his jaw and snapped, “All right, lady, you’re the boss. What’s the matter with you today? You’re as touchy as a rattler.”
Absurd relief washed over her, at both her reprieve from exile and the familiar, comforting ill-temper apparent in his words. She could handle that; but she knew beyond a doubt that she wouldn’t have been able