air conditioning when he’d moved in. Soon, he thought, he’d
get that ugly green tile out of that second-floor bathroom. Another
four days and his energy would come roaring back and he’d head
right down to the tile store. The master bedroom was sort of stark
though, with just a big black lacquer bed and a matching black lacquer
dresser, a couple of comfortable black and white chairs, and a
good-sized closet, nearly walk-in, he’d said to her, lots of room for
both of their clothes.
He’d had big plans for the bed the night before, about two hours
after she’d gotten back from Riptide, and even though he couldn’t
move a whole lot and his flexibility was nearly nil, and he’d tended
to moan from pain as well as pleasure, it hadn’t mattered. She’d
simply taken charge. He nearly shook the afghan off now just
thinking of how she’d looked astride him, her head thrown back
when she’d screamed out his name. And then she’d just fallen over
on him and the pain had nearly made him yell again. But he’d just
lain there, silent, holding her against him as best he could, stroking
her smooth back, and then she’d slowly straightened, frowned at
the sight of his rib, all yellow and green now, and said, “I nearly
killed you, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
“Kill me again,” he’d said, and she laughed and kissed him and kissed him again and again, and loved him until he’d yelled again,
this time not from any pain in his damned ribs.
He felt good. He had plans for that bed again today, maybe in
just about an hour from now. He was stronger today, maybe he’d be
able to do a bit more moving around. He hadn’t been able to get
his hands and mouth everywhere he’d wanted to last night. Ah, but
today. His fingers itched, his mouth sort of tingled. And what
about tomorrow and the next day? Maybe he’d just keep her in the
bedroom until they had to leave for the church to get married,
then right back here again. It sounded really fine to him. He wondered
what Becca thought about mirrors everywhere.
She brought him some iced tea and a plate of celery stuffed with
cream cheese. She sat beside him and fed him between kisses.
He realized suddenly that there was something different about
her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then he realized
what it was–she was hiding something from him. And her
eyes, something different there–he realized, finally, that it was
shock. Well, he supposed that nearly burning to death on the roof
of her father’s house would leave its mark. Or realizing that a man
she’d really liked was in actuality a madman. Or just maybe, he
thought, his mouth tightening, that madman, Tyler McBride, had,
in fact, hurt her or tried to, and she hadn’t seen fit to tell him.
He ate another celery stick, eyeing her, then said, his voice all
suspicious, his brows lowered, “You swear you didn’t lie to me? You
swear that there was no real trouble up in Riptide?”
She lightly stroked her fingers over his cheek. She loved to touch
him. She particularly liked him naked so she could touch all of him,
kiss all of him. She leaned down now and kissed his mouth, then straightened again. She said, all easy and blase, “Nothing that couldn’t
be handled. Sam’s all right. I can’t tell you how wonderful Rachel is
with him. I knew they were close, but when she came running into
the house, Sam left me in a flash and went right to her. I thought she
would fall apart, she was so relieved that Sam was all right. Sheriff
Gaffney told me that since there are no relatives, Rachel and her husband
would very likely adopt Sam. I called up this morning, and
she’s already got him an appointment with that child psychologist
Sherlock recommended up in Bangor. Oh yeah, I also told Rachel
she was probably a very conscientious great real estate agent, but I
would never ever rent another house from her again.” His frown was
still in place. “Rachel laughed.” The frown lightened.