Donovan's Child (12 page)

He canted forward then, touched the side of her hip, tracing the curve of it, following the shape of her, up into the cove of her waist, and then back down again. Little flares of heat burst along her skin in the most wonderful way, wherever he touched her.

He took hold of the bits of elastic at her hips and eased her panties down, over her thighs, to her knees. Then he sat back again. She did the rest, bending to slide them down all the way, stepping out of them, using her toe to kick them aside.

She rose to her height again.

Naked,
she thought.
I'm standing here naked in front of Donovan McRae.

And then she grinned to herself, as she realized that his seeing her naked really wasn't anything new.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said, low and rough.

“Maybe you do.”

Or maybe he didn't.

It made no difference.

What mattered was that they were here, together, in this intimate way. What mattered was that it was good, between them. It was honest. Open. True.

He said, “You're so beautiful. I never thought this would happen.”

“I didn't, either. But it did. It is. And Donovan, I'm so glad that you're here with me….”

He asked, “The bed?”

She shook her head. “I was thinking, the first time, we could try it in your chair….”

His eyes grew darker. Softer. “Sure.” His hands were already at his fly. He unbuttoned, unzipped.

“Can I help?”

He lifted one sculpted shoulder in a half-shrug. “I guess it would make things quicker.”

“Your shoes?”

“Thanks. Yeah.”

So she bent on one knee and took off his shoes for him, and also his socks. When she stood again, he'd taken the condoms from a pocket. He held them out to her. She set two on the nightstand, and kept the other, ready, in her hand.

With some effort, he began easing down his jeans and underwear. She stepped back a little. Partly to admire the view. Partly because if he wanted help, he would say so.

He paused with the jeans and briefs still high on his thighs and he snared her glance, held it, his square jaw suddenly tight. “You should be warned. It's not a very pretty sight….”

She only looked at him, steadily, without wavering. It seemed to her that there were no words for this. Her complete acceptance of him was what mattered, her ability to communicate that she wanted him exactly as he was, that the man he was now, at this minute, was enough for her—more than enough.

He braced his feet on the footrest and with a groan
he tried to stifle, lifted his hips enough to take the jeans down to his thighs. Since he didn't ask for more help from her, she didn't offer it.

Bending at the waist, he pushed the jeans and briefs over his knees, down his calves and, finally, all the way off. And then he wadded them tight and tossed them away from him.

Slowly, he sat up straight again. He remained hard, fully aroused. She had absolutely no doubt that he wanted her.

But his eyes had turned wary. He was watching her, gauging her reaction to the sight of his damaged legs. “Pretty ugly, huh?”

“No,” she said. “Not ugly at all.”

“Liar.” But at least he said it with a tender smile.

She wanted to argue, to promise she wasn't lying, that his legs weren't ugly. But why go there? They were what they were. And in comparison to the buff perfection of his upper body, they did look sad and wasted—the right leg especially. It was much worse than the left, crisscrossed with ridges of scar tissue, some of it red and angry, the long rows of stitches still visible. His calves were too thin, his ankles slightly swollen.

He gave a low chuckle. “A lot of pins, rods and screws involved, putting them in, taking them out again. Believe it or not, this whole mess looks a hell of a lot better than it did just a month ago….”

“I believe it.”

He searched her face, seeking the slightest hint that she might be having second thoughts—about tonight, about the two of them.

But she had none. And he must have seen that.

Because he held out his hand to her again.

She took it, and she came to him, easing a leg over
him, straddling him as she had before—only now, there was nothing, not the slightest scrap of fabric, between them. They were flesh to flesh.

She kissed him, sliding her fingers free of his, peeling the wrapper off the condom and then slipping her hand between them and down, so she could encircle him. He moaned into her mouth when her grip closed around him.

He was silky. So hard. So warm. She moved her hips in rhythm with her stroking hand.

As she stroked him, he clasped her thighs, his fingers gliding underneath, so he could caress her from below. She felt her own wetness, her readiness for him.

And then he was lifting her, taking some of her weight on his arms. She helped him, rising to her toes, moving in closer against him, so her breasts brushed his chest and her toes, behind the rear wheels, could touch the floor.

She still had her hand down between them, around him, and she moved it lower, to the base of him, so she could hold him in place. She rolled the condom over him.

There. It was on.

She tipped her hips forward, lifting them. He helped her, raising her higher, into position to take him inside. Yes. Just…there.

She felt him, so sleek and hot, nudging her, parting her.

With a long, hungry moan, she lowered herself onto him. He came into her in a sweet, hot glide. Her body put up no resistance. She welcomed him.

There was only pleasure. Only heat.

Only the delicious, complete, thrilling way he filled her.

She let her head fall back and a deep cry escaped her;
it felt so very good. And he leaned into her, kissed her throat, her chin, opening his mouth on her, licking her, scraping her burning skin lightly with his teeth…

Until she lowered her head and offered her lips. He took them. She parted to him eagerly, gave herself over to his deep, wet kiss.

With his powerful arms supporting her thighs, giving her something to brace against, she could take control. And she did. She moved on him in deep, hard strokes and he helped her, lifting when her body signaled him, lowering when she pushed down.

He felt so good, so exactly right.

And behind her eyes there was darkness, beautiful darkness. Darkness turning slowly to blinding, glorious light.

D
onovan woke in Abilene's bed.

For a moment, he lay there, eyes closed, unmoving.

Remembering.

Every kiss. Every whispered endearment. Every hot, sweet caress.

It had been good. Damn good. Better, even, than in all his frustrated fantasies of how it might be.

He opened his eyes. He lay on his side, facing her. His legs hurt. But then, they always did.

She was still sleeping—on her back, one slim pale arm thrown across her eyes, her hair wild on the pillow, her lips slightly parted. Her breathing was shallow. Quiet. Slow.

He ached to touch her, to take hold of the blankets, pull them away slowly. To reveal every inch of her, every hollow, every soft, inviting curve.

It made him hard all over again, just thinking about
something so simple as easing the blankets down so he could see her bare breasts. But the clock on the nightstand said it was nine-fifteen. Long past time that they should be up and at work.

Yes, it was Saturday. And yes, she deserved a day off.

But they couldn't afford that. They had two weeks and two days left until the agreed-upon presentation to the Foundation people. They were making fine progress.

But still, the timeline was an impossibly short one. There would be no days off.

She rolled her head his way, lowered her arm and opened one eye. “Oh, God. I know that look. It's the
get to work
look.”

“We should have been up hours ago.”

She groaned. “Can't I have just one kiss, please? Before you start cracking the whip again.”

He eased a strand of hair out of the corner of her soft mouth. “It's after nine.”

“Ugh.”

“Work.”

“Have I told you lately that I hate you?”

He grinned. “You don't have to tell me. I can see it in your eyes.” And then he sat up, pushed the covers off his scarred legs and eased them, with great care, over the edge of the bed.

“You're such a romantic the morning after,” she grumbled behind him.

He sent her a glance over his shoulder. “Don't tempt me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” She looked right in his eyes and she eased down the blankets. Her full breasts with their pretty, puckered nipples came into view.

He was the one groaning then. “Unfair.”

She laughed, a low, husky sound that stirred him even more than her nudity. And then she sighed and pulled the covers up again. “You're right. We need to work.”

He continued to stare at her. He really liked staring at her. It felt good—freeing—to be able to do it openly now.

Finally, he shook himself and reached for his chair, which waited where he'd left it, next to the bed. It was easy, after all the months of practice, to lift himself into the seat using only his arms.

She was shaking her head as he dropped neatly into place. “It's amazing, watching you do that.”

“It's all about upper-body strength and conditioning. Nothing any gymnast can't do and do well.”

“Still, it doesn't seem humanly possible.”

“I'm a fortunate man. I have my own personal gym and I can afford to hire good trainers. All I had to do was put in the time.”

Her expression had turned chiding. “Don't minimize what you've accomplished, Donovan.”

“All right, I won't. I'm amazing.”

Her eyes went soft. “Yeah. You are. You definitely are.”

He wanted to swing himself back into that bed with her. But no. Not an option. There was work that needed doing, work that wouldn't wait. “So, mind if I use your bathroom—just for a few minutes?”

“Be my guest. Take your time.”

He backed and turned and aimed himself at the bathroom.

When he came out again, she was wearing sweats and a Rice T-shirt. His briefs, jeans and sweater were laid out neatly across the bench at the foot of the bed, his shoes
and socks lined up beside them. He wheeled over there. “Thanks.”

She nodded. “Need any help?”

“No, I can manage.”

“I'm going to take a shower, then.” She headed for the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. “Breakfast in the studio?”

“Yeah. We can eat while we work.”

 

The day was a good one, Abilene thought. A very productive one.

Their routine was the same as it had been. She worked steadily, and he worked with her for a couple of hours that morning. Then, as always, he left her to continue on her own and he went to spend time in the gym. He returned briefly before lunch to check on her progress and make suggestions. Then he was gone again. Lunch, like breakfast, she had in the studio while she worked.

Donovan appeared again around three.

Anyone observing them that day might have thought everything was the same between them. As before, he demanded much of her. He could be very tough, and if he didn't like something she'd come up with, he told her what he wanted changed in no uncertain terms.

And she talked right back to him, same as she always had. He might be a genius and she might be really grateful to have this chance to work with him. But no way was she letting him get all up in her face. She demanded respect, too. And she could give as good as she got.

So everything between them was the same.

Except that it wasn't.

Now they were lovers.

Just the thought of that, of the simple words,
He is my lover,
brought a thrilling, heated shiver running beneath
her skin. And every time she looked at him, she felt that little lurch in her belly, that click of recognition, that deeper knowledge a woman has of the man who shares her bed.

She worked hard and she kept her focus.

But still, through the whole day, she felt a rising sensation, a sweet anticipation. She wanted him.

And she would have him when the workday was through.

At five, when she was ready to stop for the day, he was in the studio with her, over behind that volcanic slab of a desk of his, puzzling through an issue with storage room access.

She straightened her work area and got up to leave. “I'm going for a swim. I'll see you at dinner.”

He glanced up. Their gazes met. The shimmery, heated feeling within her grew brighter, hotter.

She wanted to run to him, to bend close to him, fuse her mouth to his. The answering flare of heat in his eyes told her he was thinking along similar lines.

But no. It was better, wiser, to wait.

The studio was their workplace. And she'd been tempted all day to give in to her desire for him and blatantly try to seduce him in that very room. Maybe on that enormous desk of his.

It should be possible. If he could manage to swing himself up there, she could do the rest….

Uh-uh. No. Better if she disciplined herself in here, during work, from the first.

“Dinner,” she said again.

He gave a low, knowing laugh that sent little flares of bright heat exploding along her nerve endings. “Dinner. Got it.”

She turned and headed for the door before she ended up behaving in a manner that was totally undisciplined.

 

“Your brother-in-law called me,” Donovan said during dinner.

By then, they'd had their salad and Olga had just served the lamb chops and the lemon tarragon asparagus. Everything was delicious, as always, but all Abilene could think about was getting the man across from her alone.

For a moment she wondered which brother-in-law. Pretty pitiful, considering she only had one—a brand-new one, Dax Girard—who had married her baby sister Zoe at New Year's. “Uh. Dax, you mean?”

Donovan nodded. “He gave me a hard time for not taking his calls.”

“I'm glad,” she said gently, “that you finally did talk with him. Did you tell him what you've been through in the past year?”

“That I'm using a wheelchair now—is that what you mean?” He phrased the sentence as a question. But it wasn't, not really. It was a put-down, a warning that he didn't want to be quizzed on what he might have said to Dax about his physical condition.

She ignored the warning. She never would have gotten this far with him if she'd heeded his warnings. “Yes, Donovan. That you use a wheelchair is part of it, of course.”

He made a low snorting sound. “Yes, I told him that my legs were badly damaged in the accident on the mountain—worse than I let it be known at first. Badly enough that I'm using a wheelchair now.”

She smiled at him, a wide, approving smile. “Good.”

He glanced away—to show her he was still annoyed with her? Or maybe to keep from returning her smile? Who knew?

And that he was defensive about what he'd said to Dax really didn't bother her, anyway. She was simply grateful, that he was willing, at last, to talk to his friends, to tell them what was going on with him.

Also, his frankness with her new brother-in-law freed her up to be more honest with her family. She'd yet to explain to them the challenges Donovan faced. It hadn't seemed right, as long as he was so guarded about it. But now, at last, he was letting people know his situation.

She prompted in an offhand tone, “So, what else did you and Dax talk about?”

Now, he turned to look at her again. It was a cool look—or at least, it tried to be. But Abilene knew him better than she once had. His dismissive remarks and icy glances were only defenses, ways to keep the world at bay after whatever had damaged his spirit so badly. Slowly, he was giving those defenses up.

And that was what mattered.

He said, “Dax tried to talk me into visiting him and your sister in San Antonio.”

Dax was über-rich. His house, in one of SA's most exclusive areas, was more like a palace. And then there was the giant garage, where he kept his collection of classic and one-of-a-kind vehicles, there was the gorgeous pool, the tennis court….

Abilene sipped her wine and then suggested casually, “We should go.”

He dismissed that idea with a lazy shrug. “Not going to happen. You know that.”

“Things change. So do people.
You've
changed,
Donovan, just in the few weeks I've known you. You've changed a lot, and for the better.”

“I'm not going to San Antonio.”

She brushed his objections away. “It's time, and you know it. And not only for you, personally. We're getting to the point where we need to be on-site. We need to bring in the other architects, start working with the builder.”

His forbidding expression had only grown more so as she spoke. “What's this ‘we'? You know I'm not going to San Antonio with you. You knew it from the start.”

She set down her wineglass. “That's another thing I've been meaning to discuss with you.”

He was openly sneering now. “You look way too damn determined. I hate it when you get that look.”

“I only want you to consider that things are changing—
you
are changing. And for the better.”

“You're repeating yourself.”

“Some things bear repeating.”

“I have not changed.”

“You sound like a sulky kid, you know that?”

“Did I mention I don't like where this is going?”

“Too bad. You told me when I got here that you would never work again. Well, Donovan. You
are
working. You're doing amazing work. It's not going to kill you to admit that you are.”

He made another snorting sound. “You're doing the work. I'm merely guiding you, giving you a nudge now and then, and only when you need one—which is rarely.”

“Oh, please. You're the one who made it all come together. We both know it. You found the heart of this project. And you've been with me, creating it, every step of the way. As a result of what you created, we're actually ahead of our own impossibly tight schedule.”

“You're overstating my contribution.”

“No, I'm not.”

He went on as though she hadn't spoken. “We're almost to the point now where you won't need me. And I took your inexperience into consideration when I chose the firm you'll be working with. The Johnson Wallace Group is the best.”

She'd heard of the Johnson Wallace Group, of course. They were based in Dallas and their reputation was world wide. “Donovan, you're not listening to me.”

“I heard every word you said.”

“But you weren't
listening.
”

He sipped from his water glass. “Of course I was listening. Now, about Johnson Wallace. The two partners in the San Antonio office, Doug Lito and Ruth Gilman, are excellent architects—and they work well with others. You'll be able to count on their support and considerable experience.”

“I know Johnson Wallace is the best around. And I've actually met Ruth Gilman and liked her. But that's not the issue.”

“There is no issue.” He cut off a tender bite of lamb. “It's a brilliant design and you're going to be ready to take over.”

She dropped her fork. Hard. It clattered against her china plate. “Donovan. You're not hearing me. My taking over was never the plan, and you know it.”

“It's been the plan, and
you
know it. I made that more than clear the first day you got here.” He ate the bite of lamb, started cutting another.

She reached out, stilled his hand. “You know what plan I mean. The
original
plan. The plan you proposed to the Help the Children Foundation, the one you offered as a fellowship to me and a bunch of other hopeful
beginners. You started this fully intending to be in on it all the way. That was the contract you made with everyone involved and that's why it matters, that you see it through, that you come, too, when it's time to go to San Antonio.”

He shrugged off her touch. Then he set down his fork and knife and sat back in his wheelchair. She, on the other hand, sat forward, urgently,
willing
him to see what he needed to do—and to finally agree to do it.