Chapter One
Aubrey Corelli brushed a dark strand of curly hair away from her face and straightened her shoulders. She stood in front of the closed door, strengthening her resolve. She'd been told what to expect. Absently, her hand smoothed the pants of the uniform she wore as a physical therapist. This was a new case, and she couldn't help feeling apprehensive after listening to Dr. Tulden.
Determined, she forced a smile and opened the door. Quickly, her brown eyes scanned the interior. Although the sun was shining, the draperies were closed and the room was filled with dark shadows. A solitary figure in a wheelchair stared silently into the distance.
With purpose-filled strides, Aubrey walked into the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitson. I'm your physical therapist, Miss Corelli. I believe Dr. Tulden mentioned I was coming." Silence. Undeterred, Aubrey pulled open the draperies and paused momentarily to take in the beauty of the California coast. Huge waves crashed against the beach. The sky was the bluest of blue, and not a cloud was in sight. Aubrey sighed with appreciation.
"Close the draperies." The harshly whispered words were barely audible.
Aubrey ignored him. No one had mentioned her patient was so young, mid-thirties at most. His hair was dark and needed to be trimmed; his eyes were like those of a caged lion-fierce, and at the same time hopeless and angry. It wasn't difficult to see that this man had once been vital and proud. But he was close to being broken. That was the reason she'd been hired.
"It's a beautiful morning. I was up at dawn and saw the sunrise."
"I said close the draperies." There was no doubting the command a second time. He squinted against the light.
"I'll be bringing in breakfast in just a few minutes, if you'd like to get ready." His mouth thinned. His two large hands rotated the chair to her side. "Would you like to eat on the deck?" she asked.
Ignoring her, he leaned forward, grabbed the draperies' pulley, and tugged them closed. Expelling a frustrated sigh, Aubrey turned to him, hands on her hips. No, she wouldn't let this man get the better of her. It would be best for them both if he recognized early on that she wasn't like the others.
The room was again dim, with only a minimum of soft light. Dragging a chair to the double glass doors, she unhooked the pulley, opened the draperies, and tossed the cord so that it caught on the valance. "If you prefer to have the draperies closed, then do it yourself."
His eyes seemed to spit fire at her, but he said nothing. Although his face was covered with at least a day-old beard, Aubrey could see the nerve twitch in his jaw.
"I'll be back in five minutes with your breakfast," she told him. She closed the door on her way out and paused to inhale a deep breath. Dr. Tulden hadn't understated the situation; Reeve Whitson could easily be her most difficult case.
★★★
The white-haired woman Aubrey had been introduced to earlier that morning glanced up expectantly when Aubrey entered the large, modern kitchen.
"How'd it go?" Bliss Girths asked.
"Fine," Aubrey assured the older woman. As Bliss chuckled, a network of wrinkles broke out across her weathered face.
"I've been working for Mr. Whitson too many years to accept that. Odds are you won't last the week." The cheery tone carried a note of challenge.
"I'll last," Aubrey said, as she poured a glass of juice and set it on a tray.
A brow flicked upward approvingly. "I said to Mr. Whitson's mother the minute I saw you that you'd be the one to help Mr. Whitson be his ol' self again."
"He has to help himself. There's only so much you or me or anyone can do," Aubrey explained, and lifted the breakfast tray from the kitchen counter. She didn't mean to sound rude or discouraging, but it was best to set the other woman straight. She wasn't a miracle worker.
"Mr. Whitson's mother will be here this afternoon. I know she'll want to talk to you."
"Let me know when she arrives."
The swinging kitchen door opened with a push of her shoulder. Reeve had wheeled across his room. He glanced up when she entered. His look was hard and unwelcoming.
"I'm not hungry."
"No, I don't imagine you work up much of an appetite sitting in the chair, do you?" His eyes narrowed menacingly.
"Well, if you're not hungry, I am." Aubrey walked onto the veranda and set the tray on the table. She made a small production of lifting the silver-domed food warmer. A thick slice of ham, two fried eggs, and hash browns filled the plate. An order of toast was wrapped in a white linen cloth and set to the side. Aubrey deliberately slid the knife across the ham and lifted the first bite to her mouth. "Delicious," she murmured with closed eyes.
Twice she felt his gaze on her, but she said nothing. When she had finished, she stood and walked to the far side of the long deck. The view was fantastic. Reeve Whitson must be more than bitter to block this beauty from his life. But then, she knew what it was to be immune to the lovelier things in life. "I'll take the tray back to the kitchen and send Peter in to help you bathe."
He ignored the comment. "You didn't drink the orange juice." He reached up and lifted it from the tray. There was a suppressed violence about the way he handled the glass-as if he wanted to hurl it at her. "The hired help eat in the kitchen. Remember that."
She shouldn't have smiled. Aubrey realized that too late. Without warning, he emptied the contents of the glass on her uniform. An involuntary gasp escaped as the cold liquid ran down her front. Calmly, she set the tray aside. Their eyes clashed and held as she struggled to maintain control of her temper. "I'm sure that was an accident, Mr. Whitson."
"And I assure you it wasn't." His hard gaze held hers.
"That's unfortunate," Aubrey returned, and without a backward glance she emptied the remains of her lukewarm coffee in his lap. Not waiting for his reaction, she took the tray. "I'll send Peter in," she announced crisply, and left.
Her hands were trembling when she came into the kitchen. Reeve Whitson's arrogant pride was definitely going to be a challenge. But he'd learn soon enough. The display of temper pleased her. He hadn't lost the will to fight. That was good; in fact, it was very good.
Bliss looked up from the sink, her eyes widening as she noted the juice stain.
Aubrey laid the tray on the counter and smiled wryly. "I had a small accident," she explained.
"Sure you did," Bliss muttered with a dry laugh, and lifted the empty plate from the tray. "Well, I'll be. Mr. Whitson ate his breakfast," she cried in open astonishment. "First time in six months that he's cleaned his plate. You are a miracle, girl. What did you do?"
Aubrey couldn't put a damper on the woman's enthusiasm. "I'm afraid that's a professional secret, but I promise to let you in on it before I leave."
Smacking her lips, Bliss beamed a brilliant smile. "I always said that once Mr. Whitson started eating again he would walk. He won't ever be strong unless he eats."
"I couldn't agree with you more," Aubrey replied with a soft sigh. "But after such a large breakfast you should keep his lunch light. Nothing more than broth, but do me a favor and cook his favorite meal tonight."
"I will, Miss, that I will."
Pleased with herself, Aubrey walked down the hall to her room. She understood Reeve's frustration. His story was a familiar one. His car had skidded on a rain-slick road and smashed into a tree. The bare facts had been related by Dr. Tulden. Only when Aubrey pried further did she learn he had lain in the twisted wreck for hours in an agony beyond description before anyone found him. The initial surgery had saved his life, but in his weakened condition the operation to relieve the pressure on his spinal column had had to be delayed. Months passed before he was strong enough to endure the next difficult surgery. Now there were no guarantees. Dr. Tulden told her there was feeling in Reeve Whitson's legs, but the pain remained intense, and Reeve had decided to accept the wheelchair rather than endure the agony of learning to walk again.
Aubrey didn't need to be a psychologist to know that a man who resigned himself to a wheelchair had far more reason than pain. Something had happened to make him lose the will to use his legs. She'd know what it was before finishing this assignment.
After six months, the bitterness had built a thick wall around him. It wouldn't be easy to crack that granite fortress, but Aubrey was determined. She wanted to be the one to help him.
Entering her bedroom, she paused again to take in the expensive décor. The room was decorated in a powder- blue color scheme: The wallpaper contained tiny bluebells; the azure carpet was lush and full. The flowered bedspread matched the walls and draperies. Aubrey had seen pictures in magazines of rooms like this, but she'd never imagined she would be sleeping in one.
Money could buy a lot of things, and in Reeve's case it had bought him the privilege of choosing life in a deluxe-model wheelchair.
Opening her closet, she took out and changed into a fresh uniform. She rinsed out the juice stain in the private bath off the bedroom. Once she'd turned off the water, she could hear the angry words coming from the room next to hers. Apparently, Reeve wasn't in any better of a mood.
Peter had seemed the perfect type to deal with Reeve. He was an easygoing, laid-back sort of person who recognized a good thing when he saw one. His job entailed helping Reeve bathe and dress each morning, and stimulating his leg muscles with massage and lifting weights. Peter Swanson was a body man, and he had been given free use of the equipment in the room off the kitchen-equipment Reeve had once used.
Now that she was here, she'd see to it that Peter's duties were increased. She was going to need his help. One of the first things she planned to do was get Reeve Whitson into his swimming pool, whether he wanted to go or not. And for a time she was going to need Peter to get him there.
She had finished reading over the medical reports kept by the previous therapists when Bliss came to tell her Mrs. Whitson had arrived.
Glancing at her watch, Aubrey raised a speculative brow. "She's early."
"Mrs. Whitson's anxious to meet you," Bliss explained unnecessarily.
The older woman, seated on a long white sofa, was the picture of grace and charm. She was delicate and fine- boned, her hair silver and stylish. She glanced up when Aubrey entered the room. Aubrey watched as the smile died on her lips.
"Miss Corelli, I can't tell you how pleased I am to meet you," she said with a frown.
"Is something the matter?"
"It's just that I expected someone older," she admitted.
Aubrey's back remained straight as she sat across from the older woman. "I'm twenty-eight," she said in a deliberate, casual tone.
"But Dr. Tulden explained that ..." She let the rejoinder fade into silence.
Aubrey's eyes held the older woman's. "I can assure you that I'm perfectly qualified for the job."
"Oh, my dear, I didn't mean to imply otherwise. It's just that there is so much resting on you. I'm at my wit's end with that son of mine. I've all but given up hope."
"To do so would be premature."
"Have you met Reeve?" Her eyes were anxious.
"This morning."
"And?" she inquired gently.
"And he's bitter, resentful, in pain, mad as a wet hen at the world and everyone in it."
"His last therapist stayed only one day."
"I may not look like much, Mrs. Whitson," Aubrey strived to assure the woman, "but I can guarantee it's going to take far more than a few angry words for me to pack my bags."
The woman looked relieved. "I can't tell you how pleased my husband and I are that you agreed to take this assignment. Dr. Tulden has nothing but good things to say about you, and quite honestly I don't know how much longer my husband can continue managing the company."
"Pardon?"
Marola Whitson lifted a china teacup to her lips and took a sip before continuing. "I'm sorry, dear. I assumed Dr. Tulden told you."
"No, I'm afraid he didn't."
Marola Whitson sighed, drawing Aubrey's rich, brown eyes to the carefully disguised age lines that fanned out from the older woman's eyes and mouth. "My husband came out of retirement after Reeve's accident. I'm afraid the pressure is more than Jordan can cope with. We'll be forced to sell the business unless Reeve can assume some of the responsibilities soon."
Aubrey frowned thoughtfully. "I'd like to talk to your husband when it's convenient. I can't make any promises, Mrs. Whitson, but I would think involving your son in the business again would be in his own best interest."
"Yes, but ..." She looked disconcerted, and Aubrey noted that her hands shook as she replaced the cup in the saucer. "Reeve's convinced he will never walk again. He's given up."
"Mrs. Whitson, I think you should realize that a man like your son never gives up. Although he wouldn't let you see it, he's fighting. No matter what he says or does."
The silver-haired woman paused, her hands folded primly on her lap. "You're very wise for your years." She regarded Aubrey thoughtfully. "I apologize for doubting. I can see that you're exactly what Reeve needs."
"I hope I am," she murmured softly, "for your sake, and for Reeve's, too."
The soft hum of the wheelchair sounded behind them. Reeve's look was hooded as he moved into the room. "I wasn't aware you'd arrived, Mother." A sarcastic inflection laced his words.
"I was introducing myself to Miss Corelli. I hope you appreciate how fortunate we are to get her."
"Oh yes." His light, mirthless laugh was filled with disdain. "About as lucky as I was the night of the accident."
"Reeve." Marola Whitson breathed his name in protest. But his dark head had already turned away, effectively cutting off any further discussion. "You'll have to forgive him." Anger trembled from the sharp edge of his mother's voice.
Aubrey glanced up, surprised. She would have thought Marola Whitson was the type of woman who would never lose her poise. The small display of temper showed Aubrey how desperate the situation had become for Reeve's mother.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Whitson. I understand."
★★★
An hour later, Aubrey wandered into the kitchen. Bliss was busy fixing lunch. "Mr. Whitson's tray's ready. He has all his meals in his room these days."
"I'll take it to him," Aubrey volunteered. She wouldn't avoid another confrontation.
She knocked once before swinging open the door. "Good afternoon. I imagine you're anxious for this."
"Then you imagined wrong."
"Listen, Reeve, we can do this easy or we can do this hard. The decision is yours."
"Nothing in my life's come easy," he returned sharply.
Aubrey's laugh was filled with challenge. "You're sitting in this showroom house with people fighting to wait on you, and you want my sympathy? You're looking at the wrong woman."
He tipped his head to one side and glared at her. "Get out-or I'll throw you out."
"If you want me to leave, you'll have to do it physically. That's pretty tough for a cripple."
His nostrils flared. "Don't be so confident."
"Oh, I'm sure." She tossed the words at him flippantly. "I run two miles every morning, and in addition to being in great physical condition, I could flatten you with one swift punch. Look at you," she returned smoothly. "You've been sitting in the wheelchair for six months. Your muscles are weak and limp. I doubt that you could lift your own weight. But if you want to try, don't let the fact I'm a woman stop you."
A muscle jumped along the side of his jaw. With a violent shove, he propelled the wheelchair onto the veranda. For now, Aubrey recognized, he was running; he didn't know what else to do. But the time was fast approaching when he'd have nowhere to go.
Before she left, Aubrey set up the meal tray. A satisfied smile spread to her eyes as she regarded the meager contents. She'd bet hard cash Reeve Whitson was going to eat his lunch.
When she returned she noted that she'd been right. He'd devoured every bit and would probably look forward to dinner.
"I'm taking you outside now," she told him in a silky, smooth voice.
"No, you aren't."
She didn't argue. Instead, she stuck her head out the door and called Peter. Almost immediately the muscle-bound young man stepped into the room. "I'd like you to take Mr. Whitson to the beach."
"No," Reeve shouted.
"Do as I say, Peter," Aubrey encouraged.
"You so much as touch my chair and you're fired." The way he spoke proved that the threat wasn't an idle one.
"She told me you'd say that."
"Don't do it." The thin line of Reeve's mouth was forbidding.
Uncertain, Peter glanced to Aubrey for assurance. They'd had a long talk and had reached an understanding where Reeve Whitson was concerned.
"You can't fire either one of us. You realize that, don't you?" she asked, in a bored voice.
"Like hell."
"As I understand the situation, it's your family who hired us, and therefore we work for them. Not you."
Aubrey could have kissed Peter as he effortlessly pushed Reeve out the bedroom door. Only at rare times had she seen such barely restrained rage. Reeve's face was twisted with it as Peter directed the chair out the back door and onto the sheets of plywood they had laid on the sand to help manipulate his chair. The day was gorgeous, and a gentle breeze ruffled the soft brown curls about her face.
"Is that all?" Peter looked to her and she nodded, indicating he could leave.
Slipping off her shoes, Aubrey sat on the soft beach and burrowed her feet in the warm sand. Lifting her face to the soothing rays of the sun, she closed her eyes, oblivious to the angry man beside her.
After several minutes of contented peace, she lowered her gaze and turned to Reeve. He sat erect and angry, like a prisoner of war. He was a prisoner, she mused.
"Tomorrow we'll start with the therapy."
"What therapy?"
She ignored the censure in his voice. "Your first session will be in the morning with me. I thought we'd start in the pool. Later, in the afternoon, Peter will be helping you tone up the muscles in your arms."
His hands grabbed hold of the arms of his chair in a death grip. "What has my mother told you?" He breathed the question.
Aubrey let the sand drain out of her closed fist, watching it bounce against the beach. "Plenty."
"I refuse to fall into your schemes."
"We'll see about that." She rose lithely and rolled her pant legs up to her knees. The ocean was several hundred yards away, and she ran down to the water's edge. Her big toe popped the tiny bubbles the surf produced. The sun felt soothing and warm, and she basked in the beauty of the afternoon. When she glanced back she saw that Reeve had somehow managed to turn his chair around, and with a determined effort had begun to wheel the chair toward the house.
For now she'd let him escape. His pride demanded as much.
Aubrey didn't see him again until later that evening. She wasn't surprised when Bliss proudly exclaimed that Mr. Whitson had eaten his dinner.
The sky was pink with the setting sun when she unpacked her flute and stood on the veranda. The music flowed from her, unbound and free. There'd been a time when Aubrey had had to decide between a musical career and the medical profession. Once the decision had been made she had no regrets. She was a good therapist, and she knew it. Cases like these were her best-and for a reason. Absently, she stopped playing and rubbed her thigh.
"Don't quit."
The words surprised her, and she turned around. Reeve had rolled his chair onto the veranda and was only a few feet from her. Foolishly, Aubrey hadn't realized their adjacent rooms shared the deck.
Wordlessly, she lifted the flute to her lips and played her favorite pieces. Lively jigs followed by the sweet, soulful sounds of the classics.
"Where did you ever learn to play like that?" he asked, in a whisper
.
It was the first time she had heard him speak without being angry. "I started as a child. My father was a musician."
His strong profile was illuminated by the darkening sky. Her eyes fell from the powerful face to the chair, and her heart wanted to cry for him. Arrogant, noble, proud-and trapped.
No. Swiftly, she jerked her gaze free. The last thing she wanted was to become emotionally attached to a patient. For now Reeve Whitson needed her, but that would soon change, and he would be free from the chains that bound him. As he became independent to live and love again, he wouldn't want or need her.
Aubrey had never fooled herself-she wasn't a beauty. Dark hair and equally dark eyes were probably her best features. Her mouth was too small to be sensuous, her nose a little short, her cheekbones too high. The Reeve Whitsons of this world wouldn't be interested in a hundred-pound misfit. "Good night, Mr. Whitson," she spoke softly.
"Miss Corelli." He remained on the deck while Aubrey turned sharply and entered her room, closing the sliding glass door after her. Her heart was pounding wildly, and she placed a calming hand over it. What was the matter with her? It would be utter foolishness to become attracted to this man. Two, maybe three, months at the most, and she would be leaving.
★★★
Aubrey woke with the alarm early the following morning. The sun hadn't broken the horizon when she pulled open the draperies and stared into the distance. Quickly, she dressed in sweatpants and an old gray sweatshirt. She hadn't run on sand before, and she wondered about wearing tennis shoes.
The house was quiet and still as she slipped out the kitchen door. A chill ran goose bumps up her arms, and she jiggled them loosely at her sides as she performed the perfunctory warm-up exercises.
An angry gust of wind nearly toppled her along the beach as the surf pounded the shore. Heedless to the blustery force, Aubrey picked up her heels and ran. The first quarter-mile was always the hardest. Her lungs heaved with the effort. Her shoes sank in the sand, making it almost impossible to maintain her usual pace. Soon she discovered it was much easier if she ran close to the water, where the sand was wet and hard.
When she figured she'd gone a mile or more, she turned and headed back. The house was in sight when she spotted a seagull walking along the shore, dragging one wing.
Slowing her pace, she watched as the poor creature pitifully attempted to fly. After several tries the large bird keeled over, exhausted. Realizing the pain it must be enduring, she stopped running, hoping she could find some way to help. When she took a tentative step toward it, the gull struggled to sit upright and flee.
Speaking in soothing tones, she fell to her knees in the sand. "Long John Seagull, what are you doing here?"
The bird hobbled a few steps and fell over.
"It looks like you need a friend," she said softly. "Stay here. I'll be right back." With urgent strides, Aubrey raced toward the house.
Breathlessly, she stumbled into the kitchen.
"Dear heavens, are you all right?" Bliss stood with her back to the sink. Out of wind, all Aubrey could do was nod. "You scared me clean out of my skin."
"Sorry," Aubrey managed. Not wishing to wake Reeve, she moved quietly down the hall to her room. Only yesterday she'd unpacked some emergency medical supplies. She gathered what she thought she'd need in a large shopping bag, found some tough garden gloves, and hurried out of the room.
"You headed for a fire?" Bliss asked, as Aubrey scurried through the kitchen a second time.
"No. I found an injured seagull. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"But, Miss ..." Bliss called after her.
With the wind beating against her face, Aubrey returned to her newfound feathered friend.
A half-hour later her back ached and her fingers felt swollen and numb with the continued effort of trying to help the bird while not being cut by his powerful beak. As far as she could tell, the wing hadn't been broken, only injured. After carefully applying some antibiotic cream and binding it to his body with a strip of gauze, Aubrey felt confident the gull would heal.
Long John didn't look pleased when she picked him up and carefully placed him in the sack. A movement out of the corner of her eye captured her attention. She straightened and placed a hand above her eyes to shield them from the glaring sun. She saw that Reeve was on the veranda, watching her. Even from this distance she could see that he was displeased.
"His bark is worse than his bite," Aubrey informed the bird, who stuck his head out of the sack and looked around. "Don't worry. I know a safe place for you."
★★★
Her hair was wet from the shower when Aubrey came out of her room and closed the door.
"What were you doing this morning?" The question came at her like an arrogant challenge.
"Running," she replied, and rotated to face Reeve.
He glared at her. "I saw you working on something."
"I found an injured seagull. His wing," she added. "Are you ready for breakfast?"
Reeve's gaze hardened and shifted to her eyes. "You like to play the role of the rescuer, don't you? Birds, animals, people. Well, get this straight, Little Miss Miracle Worker. I don't need you, and furthermore, I don't want you. So get out of my life and stay out."
"My, my, we're in a fine mood this morning," Aubrey said cheerfully. "How do you want your coffee? Lukewarm and in your lap, or perhaps over your head?"
In return she saw a hint of a smile. "Would it be too much to ask for it in a cup?"
"That depends entirely upon you," she said softly. "Don't go away. I'll be right back." A few minutes later she brought in his breakfast tray. "You'll be pleased to know I ate in the kitchen," she said, a mocking reminder of his earlier statement. Again a near-smile came over him.
"I thought that would please you," she said.
On Aubrey's instructions, Bliss had prepared a much lighter meal this morning. A warm croissant was served with butter and homemade strawberry jam. She poured his coffee and set the pot to the side. "I'll be back in a few minutes with Peter."
"I don't need him this morning," Reeve said stiffly.
"Are you already in your suit?"
"My suit?"
"We're going swimming, remember?"
Reeve laughed coldly. "Not likely."
"It'll probably hurt, so prepare yourself."
"Miss Corelli," he muttered grimly, "there's no way on God's green earth that you're going to get me in that pool, so kindly accept that and save us both a lot of trouble."
"We'll see," she returned lightly.
The grooves around his mouth deepened with defiance. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a stubborn bi-"
"I do find such language unnecessary." She effectively cut him off by pivoting and walking away.
An hour later, dressed in her one-piece turquoise swimsuit, Aubrey dived into the deep end of the pool. Her slim body sliced through the water. She surfaced and did a couple laps, enjoying the feel of the cool water against her skin.
When she paused, she found Peter standing outside the pool, looking ill at ease and uncertain. "Whitson isn't pleased about this."
"I don't imagine he is. If necessary, bring him down here naked. He's coming in this pool one way or another."
"You're sure?"
"Very," she said confidently. "Throw him in, if necessary."
"If that's what you want."
Waiting in the shallow end of the pool, Aubrey could hear Reeve long before seeing him. An angry torrent of abusive words was followed by the sight of a red-faced Peter.
"Thank you, Peter." She smiled at Peter and then glared at Reeve. "The time has come to separate the men from the boys."
★†★
Well that is the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it and I hope you understand both of 'em in this chapter.
Awaits your thoughts and your votes !!! :-D