Donovan's Child Page 10

  She hadn’t known what was happening, he was sure.

  And he was grateful for that, at least.

  If she’d noticed what was going on with him, she probably would have insisted they discuss it. Frankly. At length. In excruciating detail.

  Discussing his current state of continuous arousal with her was the last thing he needed.

  “There it is.” She pointed at the turnoff up ahead. Beyond it, he could see the red neon sign: Luisa’s Cantina, complete with matching zigzagging arrow pointing down at the front doors. The dirt parking lot was packed with pickups and SUVs, and glaringly lit by sodium vapor lamps. “You need to turn.”

  “Abilene. I know. I’ve been there before.”

  She slanted him a frown. “You are edgy tonight, even more so than usual.”

  He didn’t answer her. He concentrated on turning off the highway and then into the lot and then on looking for a decent parking space—easily found, since Luisa had a few handicapped spaces not far from the door.

  Men and women in jeans and boots stood out on the wide wooden porch that jutted off the front of the barn-like structure. They lounged against the raw pine railing, wearing jackets against the night chill. Even in the van, with the windows up, he could hear the country-western music from inside, muffled, but clearly distinguishable.

  He eased the van in between two extended cabs, each with a handicapped sign dangling from its rearview mirror. The space was a few feet from the wheelchair access ramp. The special parking spaces and the ramp had been there for as long as he’d known Luisa. Even back when he could walk unassisted, he’d always noticed such things. It was part of his job, to include handicapped access in any public building he designed. But this was the first time he would be making use of it himself.

  He glanced at Abilene in the seat beside him. In a cheerful clatter of bangle bracelets, she flipped a swatch of chestnut hair back over her shoulder—and winked at him. It annoyed him no end that he found that silly wink of hers sexy.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  Strangely, he was ready.

  The edginess she’d remarked on as they left the highway had gone. He might be the only guy in a wheelchair to show up here tonight. Six months ago, he would not have been able to imagine himself doing this. He’d told himself then that he simply never would.

  Now, thanks in no small part to the maddening and relentless woman beside him, he was here. And he was going farther. He was wheeling up that ramp and through the front door.

  Maybe he would even have a good time. At any rate, it would be something of an adventure. A first.

  He gave Abilene a nod.

  “Well, all right then.” She leaned on her door and swung those long legs to the ground.

  He unhooked the locks that held his chair in place and backed cleanly between the seats to the lift. Once he’d ridden it out and down, he used the remote to close everything up again and engage the locks. Abilene was right there, waiting for him.

  They headed for the ramp. A few of the cowboys on the front porch were watching them. Maybe they’d never seen a fully equipped wheelchair-ready van before. Maybe they were wondering if the guy in the chair would get up and dance—or maybe just admiring the way Abilene filled out those skinny jeans of hers.

  Donovan decided it didn’t matter. Whatever they were thinking was their business. There were nods and tipped hats as he and Abilene reached the top of the ramp.

  One of the cowboys ambled over and held open the door. Donovan didn’t need anyone holding a door for him. He preferred others to ask if he wanted help. Or to wait until he requested it.

  But still, he got that the cowboy was only being polite. He gave him an extra nod and a muttered, “Thanks,” as he wheeled on through into the din of Luisa’s place on a Friday night.

  The cantina was just as he remembered: rough plank floors and a long mahogany bar on the far wall, with mirrors behind, a never-ending supply of booze on glass shelves, and ten spigots for various beers on tap. Round tables with bentwood chairs rimmed the dance floor.

  Luisa spotted them right away. She’d always been like that. She knew who came into her cantina and she knew when. She hustled on over, wearing jeans as tight as Abilene’s and a red off-the-shoulder T-shirt, with Luisa’s in black glitter emblazoned across her breasts.

  “You came! I’m so happy!” Her smile was wide and her arms were outstretched. She hugged Abilene first. And then she came at him. When she bent down, he allowed her to wrap her arms around him. “Donovan. Oh, it has been much too long since I’ve seen you here.” Her black hair brushed his cheek and she smelled, as always, of jasmine. She stood tall and braced her fists on her hips. “I saved you a table. See? I knew you would come. This way…”

  Rounded hips swaying, she led them to a table not far from the bar and swept the reserved sign away. He asked for scotch. Abilene said she would have the same.

  Luisa signaled for the drinks and took the chair beside him. She asked them how their work was going and then listened with half an ear as Abilene told her. Luisa was like that, in the bar. Always ready with the hugs and the questions. But as a rule, she hardly heard the answers. Inevitably, she would have to jump up and go deal with another friend who’d just arrived, or handle some mini-crisis or other.

  The drinks came. And Luisa left them.

  They sipped scotch and listened to the music, watched the locals two-stepping out on the floor. It was nice, easy. Relaxed. If someone had told him two weeks ago that he’d be sitting in Luisa’s with Abilene tonight, thoroughly enjoying himself, he would have called them certifiable.

  Abilene leaned close to him. “Don’t you wish you’d done this sooner?” Her hair swung forward. He could smell her fresh, tart scent—like green apples, watermelon and roses, all somehow perfectly blended together. He wanted to touch her hair. He wanted it bad.

  And he had a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t have what he wanted.

  Screw all those reasons.

  He lifted his hand from the table and caught a thick lock between his fingers. Warm. Silky.

  He lifted it to his face, took in the scent, the feel, the essence of her. She made no protest—in fact, she leaned marginally closer. He heard her breath catch on a soft hitch of sound.

  She didn’t ask what was going on, what he was up to—she didn’t say a word. That surprised him. She was always so ready to dissect and discuss his every action. But for once, she just let it be. He appreciated that.

  It gave him permission, gave him the freedom, to do what he did next.

  Which was to touch her cheek, to run the back of his index finger down the perfect curve, to feel the velvet-soft flesh, the elegant shape of her cheekbone beneath. She sighed.

  He wanted to kiss her, to feel the give, the texture, the heat of her mouth. To taste her, to know the warmth of her breath.

  She said his name, “Donovan,” on a whisper of sound. And he thought that no one, ever, had said his name the way she did. With tenderness. And complete understanding.

  With acceptance. And the sweet heat of honest de sire.

  She leaned in just that fraction closer, a movement that told him she would welcome his kiss.

  There was nothing else, at that moment. No one else in the crowded, noisy roadhouse. Just Abilene. So close to him, leaning closer.

  He took her mouth. Gently. Lightly.

  It wasn’t the time or the place for a deep kiss.

  But a tender one, yes.

  A gentle brush of his mouth to hers was enough—enough to tell him everything he needed to know right then. That her lips were as soft and giving as he’d always known they would be, that the scent of her only got better, sweeter, more tempting, when he was tasting her, too.

  With aching reluctance, he pulled back—not far. A few inches. Enough that he could see her eyes again: rich gold, lush green.

  He ran a finger down the side of her throat, felt her slight shiver that said she wanted more. She wanted everything. And h
e thought of the thousand and one ways he had refused her since that first day, that first moment, when she entered the studio. All the small and petty cruelties, which in the end had served no purpose beyond forestalling the inevitable: the two of them, now.

  Tonight.

  Luisa came back to them, laughing, happy, all busyness and bustle. She dropped into the chair she had vacated a few minutes before. “So sorry to desert you. There’s always too much to do here, for me, on a Friday night.”

  “No problem.” Abilene sent Luisa a smile. And then she turned to him again. She met his eyes, glanced down at his mouth. He felt that glance as a physical caress, as if she had kissed him a second time. “We’re doing fine.”

  “Ah.” Luisa was catching on. “Yes. I see that you are doing just great. And I’m very pleased.” She sounded smug, as if she herself had engineered it all—the evening, the moment, that perfect, brushing kiss.

  He probably should have said something cool and ironic. But right then, the last thing he felt was cool. And irony seemed only another defense, another sad little way to reject all the basic human connections he’d set himself on denying.

  For tonight, at least, for the short time he and Abilene would have together, he was going to let down his defenses. He was going to let the inevitable find him.

  At last.

  So he only smiled at Luisa and she grinned back at him and the band started playing a slow, romantic song.

  Under the table, Abilene’s hand found his, lifted it over the wheel between them and rested it on her knee. They twined their fingers, held on tight. Like a couple of kids in love for the first time, with their whole lives ahead of them, with the world before them, theirs to claim.

  “I’ll be back,” said Luisa, and she jumped up again and headed off toward the bar.

  Abilene squeezed his hand. “Want to play some pool?”

  He’d taken the armrests off the chair before he left the house. It was easier to work the wheels without them, easier to get around in confined spaces. And also, as luck would have it, to get up close to a pool table to make a shot. “Eight ball?”

  “Whatever you say.” She leaned in close. He couldn’t resist—didn’t want to resist. Again, he brushed her lips with his. Her eyes drifted shut—and so did his. She was the one who pulled back that time. She whispered, “I have to warn you, I’m pretty good.”

  “I’ll do my best. I just hope I can hold my own.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “You’re acting much too humble. I can see I might be in trouble here.”

  “Want to back out?”

  “No way. We’re playing.”

  And they did. It was the second time he’d played since the accident on the mountain. The first had been that past Tuesday night, when Alan stayed over.

  He’d discovered right away that there were advantages to playing from a wheelchair. Players on two legs had to bend over to get the right angle to line up a shot. From the chair, he was in a good position to begin with.

  He and Abilene played best of three. She was pretty good. She won the first game.

  He took the other two.

  After that, there were coins lined up to challenge him. Abilene claimed a stool a few feet from the table and cheered him on. He beat three comers and then a tall blonde in a straw cowboy hat and studded jeans, with colorful tattoos covering both arms stepped up.

  She took him down, two in a row.

  He shook her hand.

  She tipped her hat at him and chalked her cue for the next game.

  By then, it was almost midnight. The table they’d had when they arrived was taken, so they found another. Luisa brought them a second round, sat with them for a few minutes, then took off again.

  On the dance floor, couples swayed, dancing close and slow. He felt a small stab of regret—that he couldn’t rise to his feet, take Abilene’s hand, lead her out there and pull her into his arms.

  Someday, he might be able to dance again. A slow number anyway, like the one playing now, the kind of dancing where you pretty much just swayed in place. But not in the near future. Not for months, anyway.

  Maybe never.

  That hadn’t bothered him, until tonight. He hadn’t given dancing so much as a thought since the accident. It was like sex, something that held no interest for him, something he’d left behind.

  Abilene took his hand again, calling him back.

  Into the moment, into tonight.

  He looked at her. Never would he grow tired of looking at her. “You about ready to go?”

  She squeezed his fingers, nodded.

  Luisa appeared from the crowd as they worked their way to the door. She bent down and hugged him, pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Come back soon.”

  He promised that he would.

  The drive home was as silent as the ride out there had been. Now, though, it was a silence of anticipation. There was a certain promise between them now, a promise made in a kiss, in the simple act of holding hands.

  In the weeks she’d lived in his house, they’d done a lot of talking.

  But tonight was like that night almost a week ago, when they’d shared dinner in quiet companionship. Tonight was a night they didn’t need words.

  When they reached the house, he followed the driveway around to the garage entrance. They were in and parked, the engine idling, when she leaned across the space between her seat and his chair.

  “My rooms?” she asked him, her face tipped up to his, her skin pearly in the dim glow from the dashboard lights. Her mouth, her husky voice, her night-dark eyes, the scent of her—all of her—invited him.

  She made a low sound as their lips met. And she opened for him.

  He swept his tongue in, groaning at the taste of her, the wet, tempting slickness. She put her hand on his shoulder, clasping, holding on to him.

  That did it.

  He was aching for her, growing hard.

  She pulled back. Her eyes seemed haunted, a trick of the dim light. “My rooms?” she asked again.

  His throat clutched. He felt absurdly inexperienced, as though this were his first time—which, in a sense, it was. Somehow, he managed a nod.

  She reached out again, bangle bracelets clattering, her hand sliding warm and smooth against his nape, to pull him close for one last, hard, swift kiss.

  And then, as quick as she had kissed him, she released him. She leaned on her door and swung those long legs out. She jumped down, pushed the door shut between them.

  For a moment, she stood out there, beside the van, looking in at him, as if she had something important to say. But in the end, she only turned and left him.

  He pivoted in his chair, tracking her, watching her walk away around the end of the van, her boot heels tapping out a hollow rhythm on the concrete floor.

  She headed for the ramp. Too soon, she was out of sight.

  Once he could no longer see her, he had the strangest sensation—that he had lost her already, without ever letting himself have her. That tonight hadn’t really happened. That he was alone.

  Again.

  That, he couldn’t bear. Not now. Not yet.

  He was backed out and down in record time. He shut up the van and made for the exit ramp as fast as his wheels would carry him.

  Chapter Nine

  In her rooms, Abilene worked fast.

  She took off her bangles and dropped them on the table by the bed. She took off her jacket, her shirt, her bra. Perched on the stool at the end of the bed, she tore off her boots, her jeans—everything. Naked, she grabbed the clothes in her arms, carried them to the closet, tossed them inside and shut the door.

  And then yanked it open again.

  Maybe greeting him naked was a little too…much.

  She dug around in the pile of clothes until she found her silk panties. Once she’d wiggled back into them, she went to the dresser in the middle of the closet, where she started opening drawers and riffling through them, looking for something that was attractive, but maybe not too
overtly seductive.

  Not that she’d brought anything overtly seductive.

  After all, she’d come here to work, not to have sex with Donovan.

  In the end, she settled on the one nightgown she’d brought. It was cotton, a warm bronze color, very thin and wispy. It left her arms bare, but covered the rest of her to her ankles.

  Not sexy, really. But not exactly unsexy. And certainly not as bad as greeting him in her Rice T-shirt and tattered sweats.

  The bed was already turned back. Olga did that, nightly. So she ran around the sitting room, the bedroom and the bathroom, getting the lighting right—low, but not too low.

  By then, a good ten minutes had passed since she left him in the garage. He would be knocking on the sitting room door any second now.

  Wouldn’t he?

  He’d better be.

  She went out to the sitting room and perched on the couch, where she stared at the door to the hallway, willing that knock to come.

  It didn’t. Endless seconds ticked by.

  Eventually, she jumped up and went back to the bedroom, to check the time on the bedside clock: fifteen full minutes had gone by since he agreed to meet her in her room.

  She went back to the sitting room, stood in the middle of the floor and tried to figure out what to do next.

  What was going on here? He had agreed he would come to her rooms. Hadn’t he?

  He’d agreed with a nod, which clearly meant yes. But maybe she should have insisted that he say it out loud.

  Then again, if he’d changed his mind after the fact, what difference did it make?

  She paced the floor, trying to decide what her next move should be. Should she go to his rooms? Call him?

  Or just forget it? Just take off this not-quite-sexy nightgown, put on her sweats and go to bed.

  The knock—three light taps—cut her off in mid-pace.

  In a rush, she released the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. She considered calling out that the door was open. But then she ended up racing over there and turning the knob.