Donovan's Child Read online

  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.

  “What are you telling me, really?” His tone was as cutting and cruel as it had ever been. “You’re afraid you can’t handle it? You’re just not up for supervising the construction phase?”

  “Oh, I can handle it. Not nearly as well as we can, as a team. But well enough to get the job done, especially if Ruth Gilman has my back.”

  “Then there’s no problem.”

  “Yes. There is a problem, the one you keep refusing to talk about. Whether or not I can handle it isn’t the question. It was never the question. The question is what’s holding you back, what’s keeping you from carrying through on the commitment you made?”

  He refused to answer her. Instead, he insisted, “There is no point in going on about this. I explained the situation to you the day you got here. You stayed, and by staying you accepted those terms.”

  “But I only—”

  “We’re done here.”

  “But—”

  “I said, we’re done.” He took his napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table next to his half-finished meal. And then he backed and turned and wheeled away from her. She watched as he disappeared through the arch into the front room.

  With a discouraged little sigh, Abilene sagged in her chair. She gazed glumly down at her barely touched meal.

  So much for how far she and Donovan had come together.

  Donovan wheeled fast down the hallway until he reached his own rooms. Once he rolled over the threshold, he spun the chair around, grabbed the door and gave it a shove.

  The door was solid core, very heavy. When it slammed, it slammed hard. The sound it made was supremely satisfying to him.

  But the satisfaction didn’t last.

  He pulled a second wheelie, spun the chair again and ended up facing the sitting room fireplace. As well as the portrait hanging above it.

  Elias. At two. Before Donovan even really knew him. Wearing some ridiculous little sailor-boy suit Julie had put him in, sitting on a kid-size chair, one plump leg tucked beneath him, clutching his favorite Elmo doll, his chubby face tipped back, laughing at something the photographer—or maybe Julie—must have said or done.

  Sometimes, when Donovan looked at that picture, he could still hear the sound of his son’s happy laughter. But not often, not anymore. As the years went by, the sound, when he did hear it, seemed to get fainter. A bright, perfect memory fading by slow, painful degrees.

  He turned from the portrait, and his defensive fury at Abilene drained away, leaving him feeling foolish and petty and weighed down by regrets. Wheeling on into the bedroom, he avoided letting his gaze fall on the framed snapshot by the bed, of Elias at the beach. Instead, he went on into the bathroom. He turned on the water in the deep, jetted tub and stripped.

  The water welcomed him. He sank into it with a long sigh. He clos
ed his eyes and tried not to think about what a jerk he was being, about the evening he might have been having, in Abilene’s bed.

  Abilene called her mom that night.

  She told Aleta Bravo more about Donovan than she’d ever felt comfortable revealing before, including that he used a wheelchair—and that she cared for him. A lot. More so, each day.

  Her mom was great, as always, accepting and supportive. She said she hoped she’d be meeting Donovan soon.

  After talking to her mom, Abilene called Zoe, who instantly confessed she’d made Dax tell her everything that Donovan had said to him earlier that day.

  “Dax tried to get him to come and visit us,” Zoe said. “Donovan never quite got around to giving him an answer on the invitation—and he didn’t invite us out there to West Texas to see him, either.”

  “I know. Donovan told me, tonight, during dinner, that Dax had invited him for a visit. And then we had a big fight about it.”

  “A fight?”

  “Long story. Too long—and way too complicated.”

  “Ab, why do I get the feeling that there’s more going on with you two than this fellowship you waited so long for?”

  Abilene busted herself. “There is more. A lot more.”

  Zoe said nothing for a moment. And then, when she did speak, she sounded nothing short of philosophical. “Well, I guess I knew this would happen.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve been talking about Donovan McRae for years. You idolize him.”

  “I idolize Mies van der Rohe, too.” Van der Rohe was one of the great pioneers of Modern architecture. “But that doesn’t mean I want to get intimate with him.”

  “Isn’t Mies van der Rohe dead?”

  “Oh, very funny. You know what I mean.”

  “So…how serious is it?”

  “It feels serious to me. But it’s all new, you know?”

  “What about kids? Does he want them? Can he…?”

  “Wait a minute. Didn’t I just say it’s all new? Do we need to jump right to whether or not he can father a child?”

  “You just said it feels serious. And it is an issue you would have to deal with—I mean, if you want children.”