LITMIR.BIZ

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“Perhaps we are kindred spirits, you and I. Perhaps we can—” he brushed back a tendril of my hair “—heal each other in every way....”

      Edward pulled closer to me. I felt the warmth of his breath against my skin and shivered all over. My heart was beating frantically. He started to lower his head toward mine.

      Then I saw the sardonic twist of his lips.

      Putting my hands on his chest—on his hard, muscular, delicious chest, warm through his shirt—I said, “Stop it.”

      “No?” Taking a step back, laughing, he mocked me with my earlier words. “Too soon?”

      “You are a jerk,” I choked out.

      He shrugged his one-shoulder shrug. “Can’t blame me for trying. You seem so naïve, like you’d believe any line a man told you.” He considered me. “Kind of amazing you’re still a virgin.”

      Outrage filled me, and new humiliation. “You claim you’re desperate to be healed—”

      “I never used the word desperate.”

      “Then you fire your physical therapists, and waste your days getting drunk—”

      “And don’t forget my nights having sex,” he said silkily.

      “You’re already trying to sabotage me.” Narrowing my gaze, I lifted my chin. “I don’t think you actually want to get better.”

      His careless look disappeared and he narrowed his eyes in turn. “I’m hiring you as a physio, Miss Maywood, not a psychiatrist. You don’t know me.”

      “I know I came a long way here to have my time wasted. If you don’t intend to get better, tell me now.”

      “And you’ll do what? Go back home to humiliation and paparazzi?”

      “Better that, than be stuck with a patient who has nothing but excuses, and blames others for his own laziness and fear!”

      “You say this to my face?” he growled.

      “I’m not afraid of you!”

      Edward stared at me blankly.

      “Maybe you should be.” He fell back heavily into the chair and stared at the fire. The sheepdog lifted his head, wagging his tail.

      “Is that what you want?” I said softly, coming closer. “For people to be afraid of you?”

      The flickering firelight cast shadows on the leatherbound books of his starkly masculine study. “It makes things simpler. And why shouldn’t they fear me?” His midnight-blue eyes burned through me. “Why shouldn’t you?”

      Edward St. Cyr’s handsome face and cultured voice were civilized, but that was a veneer, like sunlight over ocean. Beneath it, the darkness went deeper than I’d imagined. In spite of my earlier brave words, something shivered in my heart, and I suddenly wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

      “Why should I be afraid of you?” I gave an awkward laugh. “Is your soul really so dark?”

      “I loved a woman,” he said in a low voice, not looking at me. “So much I tried to kidnap her from her husband and baby. That’s how I got in the accident.” His lips turned flat. “Her husband objected.”

      “This is why you wouldn’t allow the agency to give me any details,” I said slowly, “not even your name. You were afraid if I knew more about you, I wouldn’t come, weren’t you?”

      His jaw tightened.

      “Was anyone hurt?”

      His expression suddenly looked weary. “Only me.”

      “And now?”

      “I’ve left them to their happiness. I’ve found that love, like dreams,” he said the word mockingly, “offers more pain than pleasure.” He turned to me in the firelight, his expression stark. “You want to know about the depths of darkness in my soul?” His lips twisted. “You couldn’t even see it. You, who are nothing but innocence and sunlight.”

      I frowned at him. “I’m more than that.” I suddenly remembered my own power, what I could do. The glimmer of fear disappeared. “I can help you. But you must promise to do everything I say. Everything. Exercises, healthy diet, lots of sleep—all of it.” I lifted an eyebrow. “Think you can keep up with me?”

      His lips parted. “Can you keep up with me? I’ve broken a lot of physiotherapists,” he said dryly. “What makes you think I can’t break you? I...” He suddenly scowled. “What are you smiling at? You should be afraid.”

      I was smiling. For the first time in three weeks, I felt a sense of purpose, even anticipation as I shook my head. The high-and-mighty tycoon didn’t know who he was dealing with. Yes, I was a pathetic pushover in my personal life. But to help a patient, I could be as ruthless and unyielding as the most arrogant hedge fund billionaire on earth. “You are the one who should be afraid.”

      “Of you?” He snorted. “Why?”

      “You asked for all my attention.”

      “So?”

      My smile widened to a grin. “Now you’re going to get it.”

       CHAPTER TWO

      “YOU CALL THIS a workout?” Edward demanded the next morning.

      I gave him a serene smile. “Those were just tests. Now we’re about to start.”

      We were in the former gardener’s cottage, which Edward had recently had converted into a personal rehabilitation gym, complete with exercise equipment, weight benches, yoga mats and a massage table, with big bright windows overlooking the garden. I had him lift his arms slowly over his head, saw the pull in his muscle, saw him flinch.

      “Okay.” I squared my shoulders. “Let’s begin.”

      Then started the stretches and small weights and balancing and walking and then driving him to the nearest town recreation area so he could swim. I nearly brought him to his knees, literally as well as figuratively. I think I surprised him by pushing him to his limit, until he was covered with sweat.

      “Ready to be done?” I said smugly.

      Now he surprised me, by shaking his head. “Done? I’m just getting started,” he panted. “When will the real workout begin?”

      Leaving me to grit my teeth and come up with exercises that would continue to strengthen him, or at least not cause him injury.

      As the afternoon faded into early evening, he never once admitted weakness or exhaustion. It was only by the grip of his fingers and the ashy-pale hue of his skin that I knew.

      On the second day, though, I knew he’d be sore. I expected him to plead the demands of business, and spend his day with ice packs on his aching muscles, relaxing in his home office and talking on the phone. But when I told him to meet me in the gardener’s cottage after breakfast, he didn’t complain. And when I went down to set up, I found Edward already at the weight bench, lifting a heavier weight on his shoulder than he should have.

      “Linger over your kippers and eggs, did you?” he said smugly. And then the second day went pretty much like the first, except this time it felt like he was a step ahead.

      So the third day, determined to regain a sense of control, I had an early breakfast and went down to the gardener’s cottage, at nine. I was able to greet his surprised face when he arrived five minutes later.

      The fourth day, he was already there stretching when I arrived at eight forty-five.

      We fell into a pattern. Any time Edward wasn’t working in his home office, on his computer or the phone at odd hours talking to London,

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