Donovan's Child (2 page)

A
wheelchair.

Nobody had mentioned that he was using a wheelchair.

Yes, she'd heard that he'd had some kind of accident climbing some snow-covered mountain peak in some distant land. But that was nearly a year ago. She'd had no clue the accident was bad enough for him to still need a wheelchair now.

“Oh, God. I had no idea,” she heard herself whisper.

He kept on rolling, approaching her down the endless length of the room. Beneath the long sleeves of the knit shirt he wore, she could see the powerful muscles of his arms bunching and releasing as he worked the wheels of the chair. He didn't stop until he was directly in front of her.

And then, for several excruciating seconds, he stared up at her as she stared right back at him.

Golden,
she thought. He was as golden up close and personal as in the pictures she'd seen of him. As golden as from a distance, on a stage, when she'd been a starry-eyed undergraduate at Rice University and he'd come to Houston to deliver an absolutely brilliant lecture on form, style and function.

Golden hair, golden skin. He was a beautiful man, broad-shouldered and fit-looking. A lion of a man.

Too bad about the cold, dead gray-blue eyes.

He broke the uncomfortable silence with a shrug. “At least you're no doormat.”

She thought of the apology she probably owed him. She really should have considered that there might be more going on with him than sheer egotism and contempt for others.

Then again, just because he now used a wheelchair didn't mean he had a right be a total ass. A lot of people faced difficult challenges in their lives and still managed to treat others with a minimum of courtesy and respect.

She returned his shrug. “I have a big mouth. It's true. And my temper rarely gets the better of me. But when it does, watch out.”

“Good.”

It wasn't exactly the response she'd expected. “It's good that I never learned when to shut up?”

“You've got guts. I like that. You can be pushed just so far and then you stand up and fight. You're going to need a little fighting spirit if you want to have a prayer of saving this project from disaster.”

She didn't know whether to be flattered—or scared to death. “You make it sound as though I would be doing this all on my own.”

“Because you
will
be doing this all on your own.”

Surely she hadn't heard him right. Caught by surprise, she fell back a step, until she came up against the hard edge of the drafting table. “But…” Her sentence trailed off, hardly begun.

It was called a fellowship for a reason. Without his name and reputation, the project would never have gotten the go-ahead in the first place. The San Antonio Help the Children Foundation was all for giving a bright, young hometown architect a chance. But it was Donovan McCrae they were counting on to deliver. He knew that every bit as well as she did.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his perfectly symmetrical mouth. “Abilene. You're speechless. How refreshing.”

She found her voice. “You're Donovan McCrae. I'm not. Without you, this won't fly and you know it.”

“We need to carry through.”

“You noticed. Finally.”

A slow, regal dip of that leonine head. “I've put this off for way too long. And as you've already pointed out, there's a need for this center. An urgent need. So I'll…supervise. At least in the design phase. I'll put my stamp of approval on it when I'm satisfied with what you've done. But don't kid yourself. If it gets built, the design will be yours, not mine. And you will be following through in construction.”

Abilene believed in herself—in her talent, her knowledge, and her work ethic. Yes, she'd hoped this fellowship would give her a leg up on snaring a great job with a good firm. That maybe she'd be one of the fortunate few who could skip the years of grunt work that went into becoming a top architect. But to be in charge of a project of this magnitude, at this point in her career?

It killed her to admit it, but she did anyway. “I don't know if I'm ready for that.”

“You're going to have to be. Let me make this very clear. I haven't worked in a year. I doubt if I'll ever work again.”

Never work again?

That would be a crime. She might not care much for his personality. But he was, hands down, the finest architect of his generation. They spoke of him in the same breath with Frank O. Gehry and Robert Venturi. Some even dared to compare him favorably to Frank Lloyd Wright. He blended the Modern with the Classical, Bauhaus with the Prairie style, all with seeming effortlessness.

And he was still young. Not yet forty. Many believed an architect couldn't possibly hit creative stride until at least the age of fifty. There was just too much to learn and master. Donovan McCrae's best work
should
be ahead of him.

“Never work again…” She repeated the impossible words that kept scrolling through her mind.

“That's right.” He looked…satisfied. In a bleak and strangely determined sort of way.

“But why?” she asked, knowing she was pushing it, but wanting to understand what, exactly, had happened to him to make him turn his back on the kind of career that most would kill for. “I mean, there's nothing wrong with your
brain,
is there?”

An actual chuckle escaped him. “You
do
have a big mouth.”

She refused to back off. “Seriously. Have you suffered some kind of brain damage?”

“No.”

“Then why would you stop working? I just don't get it.”

Something flashed in those steel-blue eyes of his. She sensed that he actually might give her an answer.

But then he only shook his head. “Enough. I'll take that memory stick.” He held out his hand.

She kept her lips pressed together over a sarcastic remark and laid the stick in his open palm.

He closed his fingers around it. “Ben will show you to your rooms. Get comfortable—but not
too
comfortable.” He backed and turned and wheeled away from her, disappearing through a door beyond the looming edifice that served as his desk.

“Abilene?” said a quiet voice behind her. She turned to face Ben Yates, who was slim and tall and self-contained, with black hair and eyes to match. “This way.”

She grabbed her bag off the back of her chair and followed him.

 

The house was a marvel—like all of Donovan McCrae's designs. Built into the side of a rocky cliff, it had seemed to Abilene, as she approached it earlier, to materialize out of the desert: a cave, a fortress, a palace made of rock—and a house—all at the same time.

It was built around a central courtyard. The back half nestled into the cliff face. It had large glass doors and floor-to-ceiling windows all along the courtyard walls, giving access to the outside and great views of the pool and the harsh, beautiful landscaping. The facade side had windows and glass doors leading to the courtyard, as well. It also offered wide vistas of the wild, open desert.

Abilene's rooms were on the cliff side.

Ben ushered her in ahead of him. “Here we are.”

The door was extra wide. The one to the bedroom was
wide, as well. She ran her hand down the rough-hewn doorframe.

Ben said, “Donovan had all the rooms made wheelchair-accessible, so it would be possible for him to get around anywhere in the house.”

She set her leather tote on a long table by the door and made a circuit. First of the sitting room, then of the bedroom. She looked into the walk-in closet where her own clothes were already hanging, and also the bathroom with its open shower and giant sunken tub.

The walls of the place seemed hewn of the rock face itself. And the furniture was rustic, made from twisted hunks of hardwood, starkly beautiful, like the desert landscape outside. French doors led out to the pool, and to the paths that wound through the courtyard.

Donovan's assistant waited for her near the door. “The pool is yours to use as long as you're here. There's also a large gym downstairs. Check with me if you want to work out there and I'll give you a schedule. Donovan uses the gym several hours a day and prefers to do so alone. The desk, computer and drafting table you used today in the studio are yours whenever you need them. Anytime you're hungry, the kitchen is to your left as you exit your rooms. Just keep going until you reach it. Or you can ring. Press the red button on the phone. The housekeeper will answer and see that you get anything you need.”

“I know I'll be very comfortable. Thank you.”

“I had your suitcases unpacked for you.”

She gave him a wry smile. “You assumed I would stay?”

“I did, yes.”

“I have to tell you, it was touch and go back there in the studio. Your boss can be rude.”

Apparently, Ben felt no obligation to leap to Donovan's
defense. He spoke in his usual calm, unruffled tone. “Don't let him run you off.”

“I won't. It's a promise.”

“That's the spirit.” Did he almost smile? She couldn't be sure. “Drinks at seven, just you and Donovan.”

“That sounds really fun.” She said it deadpan.

Ben took her meaning. “Only if you feel up to it. If you'd prefer, I can have something sent here, to your rooms.”

“I definitely feel up to it.”

“Excellent. If you follow either the courtyard breeze-way or the interior hall in either direction, you'll eventually reach the front living room off the main entrance. Or you can simply cross the courtyard. It's chilly out, but not too bad.”

“I'm sure I can find my way.”

“Good, then. If you need anything—”

“I know. Press the red button on the house phone.”

“I'll see you at dinner.” He turned to go.

“Ben?”

He paused in the doorway, his back to her.

“I had no idea Donovan was in a wheelchair.”

A silence. And then, reluctantly, he turned to her again. “Yes. Well, he's very protective of his privacy lately.”

“A little communication goes a long way.”

“You should be discussing this with him.”

“Probably. What happened to him?”

Ben frowned. She was sure he would blow her off—or tell her again to ask Donovan. But then he surprised her and gave it up. “You may have heard about the ice-climbing accident.”

“Just that there was one.”

“He fell several hundred feet. Both legs sustained mul
tiple fractures. His right tibia was driven up through the knee joint into the thigh.”

She forced herself not to wince. “So…it's not his spine? I mean, he's not paralyzed?”

“No, he's not paralyzed.”

“Will he walk again?”

“It's likely. But with…difficulty—and I've said more than enough. Seven. Drinks in the front living area.”

And he was gone.

Abilene got out of her tired traveling clothes and jumped in the shower. In twenty minutes, she was freshened up and ready to go again. She considered exploring the house a little but decided to ask Donovan to show her around personally later. It might be a way to break the ice between them.

If such a thing was possible. The man was as guarded as they came. She had her work cut out for her, to try to get to know him a little.

Stretching out across the big bed, she stared up at the ceiling fixture, which consisted of tangled bits of petrified wood interwoven with golden globe-shaped lights that seemed strung on barbed wire. With a sigh, she let her eyes drift shut. Maybe what she really needed about now was a nice little nap….

The faint sound of her cell ringing snapped her awake. She went to the sitting room to get it. The display read Mom.

She answered. “I'm here. Safe. Don't worry.”

“Just what I needed to know. Your father sends his love.”

“Love to him, too. Did Zoe and Dax get away all right?” Saturday, which had been New Year's day, Abilene's baby sister had married her boss and the father of
her coming baby. The newlyweds were to have left for their honeymoon on Maui that morning.

“They're on their way,” her mother said. “Dax says to say hi to Donovan.” Zoe's groom and Donovan were longtime acquaintances. “And your sister says to tell your new mentor that he'd better treat you right.”

“I'll give him the message—both of them,” Abilene promised.

“Have you…spoken with him yet?” Aleta Bravo asked the question carefully. She knew how upset Abilene had been with the whole situation.

“We spoke, yes. We…had words, I guess you could say. He was rude and dismissive. I was forced to tell him off.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Not as of now. I'll keep you posted.”

“You can always simply come home, you know. It won't be that difficult to find a place for yourself. You're a Bravo. And you graduated at the top of your class.”

“Mom. There are plenty of architects. But an architect who's worked closely with Donovan McRae, now that's something else altogether. A fellowship like this—one-on-one with the best there is—it just doesn't happen very often.”

She considered adding that Donovan had been facing some serious challenges lately and possibly deserved a little slack for his thoughtless behavior. That he used a wheelchair now.

But no. Ben had made it painfully clear that McRae didn't want the world butting into his private business. She would respect his wishes. At least until she understood better what was going on with him.

Aleta said, “You're determined to stay, then?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, then I suppose I won't be changing your mind….”

“No. You won't.” And then, from her mother's end of the line, faintly, she heard the deep rumble of her father's voice.

Aleta laughed. “Your father says to give him hell.”