Cooper

SCORPIO SONS 3:

CONNOR

NHYS GLOVER

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. With the exception of historical events and people used as background for the story, and those in the public domain, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in this work come wholly from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

Published by Belisama Press 2014

© Nhys Glover 2014

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

OTHER BOOKS BY NHYS GLOVER

ANCIENT ROMAN HISTORICAL ROMANCES:

Liquid Fire

The Barbarian’s Mistress

Lionslayer’s Woman

White Raven’s Lover

The Gladiator’s Bride

WEREWOLF KEEP TRILOGY:

Guardian of Werewolf Keep

Imprisoned at Werewolf Keep

Defiance at Werewolf Keep

Insane (A novella)

NEW ATLANTIS TIME TRAVEL SERIES:

Nine Lives (Cara/ Jac)

The Dreamer’s Prince (Jane/ Julio)

Savage (Faith/ Luke)

Shared Soul (Maggie/ Travis)

Bitter Oath (Liv/ Rene)

The Titan Drowns (Eilish/Max, Karl/Lizzie, Pia/Marco)

The Key (Kat/Bart)

Pieces (Krista/Dirk)

Second Chance (Bree/Hakon)

Watcher (Jin/Rafe)

Vision of You (Ellen/Duke)

Osiris (Takhara/Dan)

Causality (Willow/Jarvidh)

SCORPIO SONS SF/SHIFTER ROMANCE SERIES:

1: Colton

2: Connor

3: Cooper

OTHERS:

The Way Home (Ghost Romance)

Caught in a Dream (SF Romance)

Labyrinth of Light (New Age Inspirational Non-Romance)

Amy Hays stared nervously at the people around her. Some were obviously sick; others were the carers of the sick; and still others were just curiosity seekers, here for the show. The idea that she might somehow end up being part of that 'show' horrified her. And yet, wasn't that why she was here?

With her head down and shoulders hunched so that she looked as small as her long, lanky body could make her, she followed the rest of the audience into the large auditorium. The seats were all chairs, so those in wheelchairs could be easily accommodated. And there were quite a few wheelchairs in the crowd, she noted.

If she thought she had problems, what must it be like to be permanently imprisoned in a wheelchair, never being able to run or dance or even do something as simple as walk up a flight of stairs? No, she was luckier by far than those poor souls. At least her ailments weren't physical.

She felt very conscious of the fact that she was one of the few people who'd come alone. Everyone else had carers or friends with them. All except the young man two rows over from her back-row seat. He seemed as out of place as she was, having wheeled himself into his place, without help, only a few moments before she'd taken her seat.

That was worst of all. It was one thing to be unable to walk; it was another to be
alone
and unable to walk. Maybe he had friends and family who hadn't been able to come tonight. Maybe he had a wife or girlfriend who was just late arriving.

How old was he? Mid-twenties, she guessed, maybe five years older than she was. But something about the invisible wall around him made him appear older than he looked, and more damaged than from just the physical injuries apparent on the surface.

But he was handsome. His darkish, sandy-coloured hair was slightly too long, brushing the neck of the cream-coloured, cable-knit sweater he wore. It was glossy and had a natural wave she envied. Her long, ginger locks were as straight as a ruler. It was one of the many things she hated about her appearance.

The man fascinated her. And it wasn't
just
because he was so good looking, with those broad shoulders; strong chin; full, but not overly full lips; and deep-set eyes below heavy brows and high forehead. His cheeks were shadowed by several days' growth. Was he growing a beard or had he just not felt like shaving?

As if he felt Amy's eyes on him, the man turned to look over at her. For a moment he stared a challenge, those eyes like a hawk's, fierce and all-seeing. Then he blinked, gave his head a little shake, and forced his expression to lose its angst so it became almost vulnerable.

Embarrassed to have been caught staring, Amy looked away, her too-pale cheeks beginning to burn, she knew from experience, to an ugly shade of beetroot red. How many times had she been laughed at because of that awful colour? Her tormentors had often taunted her with how ugly her red hair and red cheeks made her.
Carrot top and beetroot face
had been shortened to the cruel nickname,
Vegi,
over the years. The fact that
Vegi
was a derogatory term for someone mentally challenged didn't go unnoticed by many of those terrible children.

How many times she'd come home from school in tears she didn't know. In the early years she had Maria to comfort her, but when Amy turned ten her father had caught her hugging her nurse. He'd told Amy she was too old for such babyish behaviour, and sent away the only mother she'd ever known. Oh, she had a
real
mother, one who'd carried her in her icy womb, but her
true
mother had always been Maria.

Up until then, she'd been able to cope. It didn't matter that she was ugly, stupid and unlovable, as long as there was just one person in the world who thought she
wasn't
those things. Just one person who loved her without condition. But once Maria was sent away, Amy began to break apart, a little bit at a time, until somewhere around puberty she began her in-again-out-again visits to the sanatorium for her 'nerves'. Oddly enough, those stays were the happiest parts of her teen years. People were kind to her in that expensive institution, even if it was only the aloof form of kindness offered by professionals. But at least no one hit her or called her names there. No one tried to rape her.

She cried every time they sent her home, and prayed for the next time she got bad enough that she'd have to be sent back. The drugs they gave her in that place made the pain go away for a while, allowing her to sleep. If she could, she would have slept her life away.

Despite her best intentions, Amy found her gaze drifting back to the man in the wheelchair. When they reached him, she had to jerk her gaze hastily away again; because he was staring at her this time, just as intently as she'd first stared at him.

What was he thinking? She hoped it wasn't:
What is that ugly idiot doing staring at me? Am I so pathetic that even someone like her pities me?

Her painful self-abusing thoughts came to an abrupt stop as the lights dimmed and a good-looking man in his thirties stepped out onto the stage and into a bright spot-lit circle. Around her people gasped in admiration. This healer was certainly impressive to look at. He wore a pure white suit, shirt and tie, which set off his dark good looks. When he smiled, his equally white teeth seemed to appear brighter than even the suit. A
Hollywood smile,
it was called. She had one, too. Her mother had insisted she have years of braces and her teeth bleached unnaturally white, to improve her looks. Anything to improve her looks.

Something about this man rubbed her the wrong way. Was it just because of his teeth, or was it his confidence; as if he was more showman than healer?

What did she expect to have healed anyway? Was
stupid
a disease that could be healed? Certainly
plainness
wasn't. But she'd hoped against hope that this famous healer could give her a little confidence; take a little of the sadness from her heart;
anything
to make life bearable.

However, as the man began his spiel, her hopes began to falter. Had it been yet another bad choice to come here? Nothing he said resonated with her. In fact, the way people around her ate up his dramatic words made her uncomfortable. How could they just accept those superficial platitudes as if they fell from the lips of God? Couldn't they see those words were hollow?

When the first of the supplicants started going to the front for healing, with much crying and many loud prayers to God, she found she could take it no more. Politely, she excused herself as she made her way to the aisle. People must have thought she was heading down to the front for a healing because they touched her arm and spoke words of support. It made her feel like a cheat to be leaving rather than staying. It made her feel wrong to have those small gestures of comfort given to her when she didn't deserve them.

At the aisle she glanced up and saw the man in the wheelchair making his way to the exit, too. Somehow, that made her feel better. If he was leaving as she was, then she couldn't be wrong about what she felt in there, could she? If someone else saw through the charlatan as she thought she had, then maybe she wasn't wrong.

Or maybe he had seen her getting up to leave and had come to verbally abuse her for staring at him. She hurried faster, desperate to avoid any kind of confrontation with him. But as soon as she was out the double doors and heading across the lobby, she heard someone call out to her. Or she assumed they were calling out to her.

Maybe the male voice calling, "Hey, hold up," was talking to someone else. She daren't look behind her to find out. Instead, she sped up until she was almost trotting to the exit.

But before she made it to the doors, a wheelchair drew alongside her and she recognised the handsome man she'd been staring at. How had he pushed his chair so fast? Maybe it was motorised. Of course, that was it. The chair was motorised, so he didn’t have to push himself long distances.

"Hey, please, stop. I want to talk to you," he said, looking up and across at her.

He seemed to be pushing the wheels himself. No motor then. How could he do that? Sure, his upper-body looked solid and muscular, but the distance he'd covered in such a short time was unusual.

Not wanting him to be forced to keep going at that speed, she slowed to a standstill just as she reached the outside doors. It was February. Winter. And though this was California, once she stepped outside it would be too cold to stand in one place for long.

"Thanks. I was pushing it there to catch you up. I wanted to see if you were leaving for the same reason I was."

Now she was paying attention, she noticed his accent. Australian, New Zealander or South African? One of those. Certainly not American. What was he doing here?

"Sorry. I…I didn't realise you were calling to me. I… didn’t know who was calling…" she stammered to a halt and began twisting her hands together as she always did when overwhelmed with nervousness.

"Yeah, my fault. I didn't know your name and it seemed poor form to yell,
Hey you, the pretty redhead, hold up there!
"

She blanched at his words. Was he being sarcastic or just flattering her because he wanted something?

"My name is Cooper Adams. And I'm no threat to you, I promise. There's nothing more harmless than a guy in a wheelchair." The way he said
harmless
made it sound more like he meant
pathetic
. Her heart reached out to him.

"I…I'm not afraid of you. I…I wasn't running away from you or anything. Well, maybe I was, but not because I thought… I wasn't afraid of you, physically."

She saw her mistake as soon as the words came out of her babbling mouth. She'd just reinforced his sense of being harmlessly pathetic. But instead of dwelling on the unintended insult, Cooper focused in on her other words.

"Why
were
you running from me then?" he challenged a little more forcefully. Here it came. He was about to let loose on her for staring at him. Making him a laughing stock.

She cringed away, almost feeling the impact of those words before he'd said them. She was so tired of people hurting her. So damned tired. Couldn't just one person in the world be nice to a stupid, ugly girl like her? It wasn't like she
tried
to be those things. If trying counted for anything, she'd be breathtakingly beautiful and intelligent.

"Hey," Cooper said, more gently this time. "Hey, I'm sorry. You don't have to explain anything to me. It's okay."

Kindness and gentleness? Was she imagining it because she so desperately needed it? She took the chance to glance over at him, bracing herself to see a leer. What she saw took her breath away. Concern. His sensitive, handsome face was filled with concern.
For her
.

It gave her confidence to answer him.

"I thought you were going to yell at me," she admitted softly.

It surprised her that he heard her. "Yell at you? For what?"

She shrugged and looked at the closed door in front of her. Just one more step and she could be through them. Just one more step and she could be on the street, hailing a cab, and leaving this handsome man with his concerned face behind forever. She didn't need this. She didn't know how to handle this. For the first time in forever she’d taken a risk, stepped out of her corner and done something she knew would bring punishment down on her. Now that one decision was morphing into more and more options, more and more chances to be wrong and in trouble.

What could she do but go along with it now? Follow the path as best she could.

"For staring at you. It was rude. I'm sorry. It wasn't because you're in a wheelchair. It was just that you were alone like me. Did you notice that everyone else seemed to have friends with them?"

"Yeah, I noticed. But I'm used to it. Doesn’t bother me. Actually, it’s a bit of a relief. For years, I had nothing
but
people hovering over me, falling all over themselves trying to meet my every need."

That surprised her. But when she thought more about it, Amy realised that she understood. She knew what it felt like to be treated as if you weren't capable. And that's what Cooper was saying. They made him feel as if he wasn't capable of looking after himself.

Amy felt the heat of a blush creeping up her neck, and the mortification only sped its progress. Wringing her hands again, she tried to repeat the eight-times-table in her head. It was the one she found the hardest to remember. When she focused on it, sometimes it was enough to stop the blush from taking hold.

"I wasn't going to yell at you because you stared at me. I was staring just as much at you, but you just didn't notice. I guess pretty girls don't. Comes with the territory."

"Please stop flattering me. You don't have to do that."

"It wasn't flattery, like American fellas hand out at every turn. I can understand why you'd get sick of that. We Aussies pay real compliments or say nothing. Mostly we say nothing. Don't want to give ourselves away, you know." He laughed at himself lightly. It was genuine laughter with no cruel edge directed at either himself or her.

It was better to leave that prickly subject alone so she changed the direction of the conversation. "I wondered if you were Australian. What are you doing here? Are you on vacation?"