Donovan's Child (16 page)

“How about next Sunday? You can both come out here, to the ranch, for dinner.”

She pictured the wide white steps up to the deep front verandah of the Greek Revival-style ranch house. Wheelchair accessible, it wasn't. “Can I get back to you?”

“That will be fine. And call me any time you think you might be able to slip away for a bit, just the two of us.”

“I will. I love you.”

“Love you, too…”

They said goodbye.

The pizza came. After she'd devoured three big slices, Abilene got busy. She unpacked and went through the pile of junk mail that her neighbor had picked up for her. The houseplants didn't need watering. The same neighbor had kept an eye on them.

But the Christmas stuff really did have to go. She took it all down and packed everything away.

By the time she was done, it was after ten. She filled the tub and soaked for half an hour, easing away the
kinks from those long hours on the road. And then, finally, she crawled into bed, where she lay wide awake half the night.

She missed the warmth of Donovan beside her, missed the soft, even sound of his breathing as he slept.

And she kept feeling that something was not right.

Which was silly, she reminded herself over and over. Everything was fine. Donovan would join her tomorrow. And on Tuesday, the next phase of work on the children's center would begin.

 

In the morning, she packed a suitcase and went to Zoe and Dax's house, which was just outside of San Antonio, in an exclusive gated community.

She gave her name at the front gate and then again at the gate to the Girard estate. In the cavern of a garage, she parked her little car between a Bentley and an Aston Martin, and left her suitcase in the trunk to bring in later.

Dax and Zoe's house was three stories and sixteen thousand square feet of pure luxury, the furnishings mostly modern, but with a lot of the interesting accent pieces that Dax had picked up on his travels all over the world.

The housekeeper welcomed her and showed her to Donovan's rooms, which were spacious and comfortable. Both the bedroom and the sitting area had views of the back grounds and the pool.

Abilene had been to the house twice before, during the holidays, after her sister and Dax had decided to get married. On the first visit, Zoe had given her a full tour, so she knew her way around inside and out.

Donovan had had his luggage sent ahead. The housekeeper, Pauline, led the way to the walk-in closet, where
his shoes were arrayed on handsome wooden racks and everything else was either waiting on hangers or neatly folded and put away in drawers.

Abilene thanked Pauline and said that yes, she would ring if she needed anything. The housekeeper left her.

By then, it was ten-thirty. Donovan's plane wasn't due to land for half an hour. It could be a couple of hours before he arrived at the house.

She went outside and strolled around the grounds for a while. Back inside, she stopped at the restaurant-size kitchen, where the cook gave her coffee and a warm chocolate croissant.

Her phone chimed as she was wandering back to Donovan's rooms. A text.

It was from Donovan. Just landed. No probs. C U soon.

She grinned like an idiot and texted back, Here. W8ing. She longed to add Luv U, but she stopped her eager thumbs just in time. She hit Send, fast, before she could change her mind again and do it anyway.

It was too early, she reminded herself for the ten-thousandth time. And besides, it would be just too tacky, to declare her love via text message. Too tacky. Too soon.

He answered with a simple, Gr8.

And that was that.

Danger averted. Love not so much as mentioned or in any way alluded to.

In Donovan's bedroom, she stood at the window and looked out at the pool and tried to figure out why she kept feeling so disconnected, so…wrong.

When no answer came to her, she went to the bed and kicked off her shoes and stretched out on her back.
The room was quiet and she was pretty tired, since she'd barely slept the night before.

She closed her eyes, let out a slow sigh. Really, a half-hour nap might be just what she needed….

 

Dax's housekeeper was waiting in the garage when Donovan pulled the van in.

She indicated the empty space a few slots away from Abilene's dusty Prius, and then waited some more as he unhooked his chair and wheeled to the lift and down.

“I'm Pauline. Welcome,” she said, once he'd rolled off the lift and locked up the van.

Pauline led him out of the garage, down a wide hallway and up a short ramp, into another hallway somewhere in the back half of Dax's enormous house. She showed him the kitchen before she took him to his rooms. “Help yourself to anything you might like,” she said.

“Thanks.” The door in there, like every door he'd seen so far, was more than wide enough to wheel through. The doorways matched the house; everything on a grand scale.

“Abilene is in your rooms,” Pauline said as they started down another wide hallway with a twelve-foot ceiling and a silver-flecked ivory granite floor.

Abilene. He'd been kind of wondering why she hadn't come out to meet him. He was anxious to see her. Ridiculously so.

“I checked on her a few minutes ago,” said the housekeeper. “She's napping. I hated to wake her….”

Napping. He should have known. She worked so hard. And she'd spent all day yesterday on the road.

“Here we are,” said the housekeeper, stopping at a half-open door. “Your suitcases arrived safely and I've had everything put away.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything in the vehicle that you'd like me to have brought in to you?”

“There's a briefcase and a small overnight bag. I'll get them later.”

“If you need anything, just pick up the phone. House line is blue, to reach me. The green button is the kitchen.”

He thanked her again.

She nodded and left him alone at last.

He went in, stopping to shut the door and engage the privacy lock behind him. The sitting room was big and inviting, furnished with simple, expensive pieces, mostly in reds and tans.

But he didn't hang around in there. He went through the wide doorway to the bedroom.

And found what he was looking for.

She was sound asleep, her silky hair spread across the pillow and a peaceful expression on her fine-boned face. She wore canvas trousers and a slouchy sweater and she'd kicked off her flat-soled shoes. Her slender feet were bare, her pretty toenails painted the color of plums.

His sleeping princess from his own private fairy tale.

He went to her, drawn as if by a magnet. When he got to the side of the bed, he shucked off his shoes, locked his wheels and, with great care, pressed his palms to the mattress beside her and levered himself out of the chair.

She opened her eyes as he lowered himself to a sitting position next to her. “Donovan. You're here.” Her face lit up as if from within.

And he couldn't help himself. His heart melted.

He saw in her eyes what it could be, with them. He
was in it, he lived it—a whole, rich, wonderful life, at her side.

The fine work they would do. The bright, bold, unbounded happiness they would share.

The love they would make.

The troubles they would overcome, the dark times that would always, inevitably, give way to light….

No, it wasn't going to happen. But at that moment, in that large, well-appointed room, with the bright winter-afternoon sunlight streaming in across the tan cover of the bed, picking up gold highlights in her dark-toffee hair, he pretended that it would.

She reached for him, sighing welcome.

And he went down to her, ignoring the twinges in his messed-up legs as he hauled them up onto the mattress and then out as straight as they would go. With effort, he rolled to his side, facing her, and he gathered her into him, covering her soft mouth with his own.

They both groaned at the contact. Instantly, she opened for him. He speared his tongue inside, where it was wet and hot and oh, so sweet. She sucked on it, ran her own tongue around it, teasing him, laughing a little, deep in her throat, a rough purr of sound that vibrated into the core of him.

Already, he was hard, aching to be inside her.

And she was slipping her hand down between them, cupping him with another eager moan, pressing the length of him, caressing him as her body rocked against him, making him harder still.

“The door?” she whispered against his lips.

“Locked it.”

“Ah.” She went on kissing him—deep, wet, sucking kisses. Endless kisses.

Her nimble fingers worked at his fly. She had his
zipper down in an instant, and she was slipping that slim, clever hand of hers under the waistband of his boxer briefs.

She encircled him. He groaned into her mouth as she pushed at him, urging him over to lie on his back.

He went, not even aware by then of his legs, of the twinges and twitches, the pain that was there, whenever he moved them. Right now, he felt a different ache. A good ache, dark and sweet, rolling through him in hungry waves.

Whatever she wanted from him, she could have. He was hers to command.

She left him—just long enough to get out of her trousers and little silk panties. And then she was back, pushing at his clothes enough to clear the way, easing his cell and his keys from his pockets, setting them on the nightstand, out of her way.

He shut his eyes, swept away by the sheer pleasure her touch always brought. And when he looked again, she was above him, straddling him, up on her knees, gazing down at him, her eyes soft and shining, her mouth curving in a sensual smile.

Slowly, by aching degrees, she lowered her body onto his, taking him within her, so deep.

All the way.

He made some absurd, lost groaning sound. And she laughed, low. Huskily. She knew her power over him. It was absolute. She bent down to him, kissed him.

But only briefly, a brushing touch of her lips to his, her hair falling forward around them like a veil of silk. When he tried to follow, lifting his head off the pillows to keep from losing the tenuous connection of that kiss, she laughed again.

And she rose up once more, pushing her hips down
on him, locking her body to his. And she took that big sweater she wore and ripped it off, tossing it away, her beautiful hair crackling with static, lifting as she pulled the sweater over her head, then falling in a wild tumble to her shoulders again.

Her bra was nothing more than a bit of pink lace.

He reached up, curved his fingers around one lacy cup, feeling the warmth and fullness of the sweet flesh beneath. “Take it off.” He moaned the words.

She reached behind her, undid the clasp and let it drop down her arms. He took it from her, rumpled the lace in his hand, brought it to his face, breathed in the tempting apple and watermelon scent that clung to it—and then he dropped it over the side of the bed.

He reached for her. She came down to him, fusing her mouth to his, kissing him so deeply now. He cradled her breasts, stroked her back and ran his hands up over her shoulders, into the lush silk of her hair.

She moved on him, deep strokes, slow and hot and overwhelming. He was lost—lost in her—never, ever wanting to be found.

When the finish came, she stilled above him. He wrapped her tighter in his arms, knew a breath-held wonder as they rose together.

And then the long, sweet pulse of slow release.

 

Not much later, his cell rang.

“Don't answer that,” she commanded.

But then she allowed him to look at the display, at least.

“It's Jessica Nevis, with the Foundation.”

She sighed. “Go ahead.”

He spoke to Jessica, confirmed that they would meet tomorrow morning, at nine.

And he no sooner hung up, than Ruth Gilman's assistant called, from Johnson Wallace, just confirming, for tomorrow. Ruth would be there and Doug, as well, when they met with the Foundation people at nine.

And after Ruth's assistant, the builder called, too.

When he finally put the cell back on the nightstand and pulled Abilene close again, she asked, “Where is that temporary assistant when you need her?”

“That reminds me—I need to call the temp agency. There's not going to be any time to deal with the temp until Wednesday, at the earliest.” He tried to reach for the phone again.

She caught his hand and kissed it. “Wait. Just for a few minutes.”

He gave in and settled back on the pillow again, with her cradled close to his side.

“I have a confession.” She pressed her lips to the side of his neck, whispered, “I brought a suitcase.”

“What?” He pretended to grumble. “You're moving in on me?”

“Yes, I am.” She snuggled in closer. “Don't try to escape.”

“On these legs? I don't think so.” He caught her mouth. They shared a kiss, and then she curled against his shoulder with a sigh.

Idly, he ran his hand down the silky skin of her arm. She felt good in his arms. As if she belonged there.

And really, she did. At least for the next month.

He'd thought long and hard about when to end it, about whether or not he should get it out there now, have a long talk with her, remind her of what he'd told her that day he wheeled in on her in the shower, that love and forever were not an option.

But then again, when they had that talk, knowing her,
there was going to be trouble. She was going to be really angry with him. He got that. He accepted that.

And right now, he didn't want her distracted from the job they needed to do together, didn't want her so furious with him that it got in the way for her. When he left her, he wanted her all set up as the supervising architect on the project—with the Foundation, with Johnson Wallace, with the builder, with all of them.

She had given him so much and he wanted her future assured. It was the least he could leave her with.