A Marriage Worth Waiting For. Susan Fox P.Читать онлайн книгу.
weathered face was so permanently tanned that it hinted at a Spanish ancestry, and his expression was, as usual, set in harsh lines. His high cheekbones and black hair emphasized those hints of ancestry, but his eyes were a deep, dark blue that could either frost the soul, or glow like blue flame. Rarely, oh so very rarely, did they go soft with tenderness or sparkle with amusement. It was far more common to see them glitter with irritation or displeasure. Or only a bit less often, to show a blue lightning flash of temper.
He had a certain gruff charm when he wanted to charm, but that was a rare thing, easily overlooked or forgotten since his no-nonsense, my-way-or-the-highway disposition was so prominent. It wasn’t in Morgan Conroe’s nature to be passive or ambivalent, or to bow or bend to anything or anyone less than his Maker. How she’d survived living under the same roof with him that last five years after she’d fallen so out of favor might qualify as the eighth wonder of the world.
His low, gravelly drawl sent a bracing chill through her heart. “I came to take you home.”
It took her a dizzy moment to register the shocking words. The hurt and frustration of both the present and the past reared up, and the pain in her head bloomed so quickly that she reflexively jerked up a hand to make it stop.
“Go away,” she whispered, and pressed a palm to her forehead as if to contain the explosion.
The big fingers that closed around her wrist as her weak arm gave out were hot and hard with thick calluses. Morgan lowered her arm to the bed and those hard fingers shifted to warmly clasp her hand. But then his other hand brushed lightly over the top of her head.
“Hurts, don’t it, baby.” The calm, growling statement sent a warm breath of comfort through her. “Just relax,” he said then murmured, almost to himself, “These damned concussions…”
The way he’d said it gave the impression that he was on her side, fighting the injury with her. Which put her heart in peril, though the hurt in her head distracted her from the full impact of that wary observation.
Remarkably, the harsh pain began to subside, and then that big, hard palm began to move in gentle, soothing strokes that avoided the tender place on her skull and reduced the knife blades of pain to a much less awful ache.
Memories of watching Morg with an injured or frightened animal ghosted through her thoughts. There was no one better with animals than Morgan, especially the little ones. For all his brusqueness with people, he had a certain magic with animals and children. The smaller and more helpless or hurt they were, the more they instinctively trusted him.
That was one of the many reasons she’d loved him once upon a time. At twelve, she’d idolized him. She’d been a skinny city kid whose flighty, neglectful mother had married his father. She’d been painfully shy and terrified of horses and cattle and the frightening roughness of ranch life.
But the much older Morg had been kind to her, and so patient that she’d followed him around and hung on his every word. He’d taught her the manly arts of riding, roping, fly-fishing and target shooting, but he’d also instructed her on how well-brought-up young ladies were expected to behave in public.
He’d passed judgment on the length of her hems, had private “man talks” with the boys who’d dared to take her on dates, and he’d taught her to dance. He’d taught her everything she’d needed to know, and he’d made sure she’d had a secure place in his family and in his world.
But all that changed a handful of years later when she’d developed a crush on him. As if he’d sensed it, he’d begun a subtle withdrawal. She no longer got to go everywhere with him. And then he hardly ever let her be around him in situations when they’d be alone.
Hurt by his remoteness, and those first inklings of rejection, Selena had tried all the more to be with him and take part in everything he did. Until that awful, awful time when she’d been seventeen, and frustration, youthful stupidity, and the excruciating pain of unrequited adolescent love had driven her to corner him and confess.
Even now, she couldn’t bear to let that memory come. But turning her mind away from it put her attention right back on the soothing movement of his hand. And the wild, sweet stirrings of the soul-deep feelings for Morgan Conroe that had matured years past adolescence and promised to be even more dangerous to her heart than ever.
Selena found the strength to pull her hand from his and weakly move her head. “S-stop. Please.”
Oh God, that had sounded just as forlorn as she felt. But it was torture to have him touch her like this—to touch her at all—when she knew there’d inevitably come a time when he’d again withdraw from her. And then if he somehow sensed how besotted she was—and in spite of everything, she was still besotted—he’d reject her as brutally as before.
“All right, little one.”
The low rasp went through her hurting body like a warm balm, and she felt the hypnotic pull on her heart. His big hand shifted away from her head, but the back of a knuckle trailed lightly down her cheek. Selena was too weak now to control the flutter of her closed lashes as the pleasure of that registered.
“Get some sleep. Everything’s taken care of.”
The gruff words sent a quake of happiness and relief through her groggy mind.
Everything’s taken care of translated to I’ll take care of you. Words she might have died to hear from him again, words that common sense warned her to immediately protest, but words too formidable to either reject or ignore in her feeble physical state.
Mercifully, the blackness dropped over her then and dragged her to a place where Morgan Conroe couldn’t follow.
“Mr. Conroe made arrangements for you to recover at your family’s home. I understand you’ll have someone nearby around-the-clock.”
The doctor’s statement rocked her, but before Selena could protest, his added words kept her silent.
“Otherwise, I couldn’t release you for at least another day.”
One of the cardinal rules she’d lived by all her life—to keep family dirt private—ensured her silence now. Growing up, she’d never mentioned family problems to outsiders because she’d been ashamed of her mother’s behavior and their gypsy life. Then after her mother had married Morgan’s father, she’d kept silent about her mother’s secrets, the fibs, the infidelities, the little manipulations.
She’d suffered her crush for her stepbrother without telling anyone, not even her mother, until she’d made the colossal mistake of telling Morgan himself. And of course, keeping to habit, she’d never told a soul about his angry rejection either.
So Selena felt even less inclined to inform the doctor that she had no “family” home. There was no reason for him to know that the only home she counted these days—or wanted—was her apartment.
The goal now was to get out of this depressing place. Once the doctor authorized her release, she’d call a cab and make a quick escape before Morgan came around again. He’d only been here that one time yesterday morning, so if she was lucky, she could be gone before he showed up again.
Obviously Morg had talked to the doctor about her release, but she hoped he’d done that over the phone. She’d had a friend bring her a set of clothes last night, though Selena hadn’t known for sure that she’d have a chance of being released today.
That morning she’d awakened with a bit more energy, so she felt more eager than ever to leave the hospital. Her IV had been removed, her take-home med would be ready soon, so the moment the doctor strode out, she called a cab company and gingerly slipped out of bed.
As she quickly discovered, it was a challenge to dress. The stiff pain that plagued her every move left her sitting weakly in the chair, her head spinning and her skin lightly sheened with perspiration.
If she could get to her apartment, she’d be fine. She’d be able to lie down and sleep uninterrupted. A day or so of quality rest and her body would surely begin to make real progress toward recovery.