him in those ways. Not so much the coma itself, but the shock of awakening.
He'd said the past and present were blurred for him, and in a way she was coping with the same problem. The last years had taught her to resist the kind of man Mitch had been, to protect her individuality fiercely, and that lesson had been a hard one; she would never again be weak or submissive. If he had come back into her life with the manner she remembered, she would have ignored her own unresolved feelings and ended it between them no matter what he said.
But he hadn't demanded, hadn't tried to overpower her or make light of her objections. He hadn't tried to impose his will on her; he hadused reason, not domination. He seemed to her just as strong-willed as he had been ten years before, perhaps even more so, yet he was also watchful and quieter and more self-contained. She didn't quite know how to react to this Mitch, her past knowledge warning her to keep a distance between them even as she was conscious of feeling drawn to him.
She had never looked at him through a woman's eyes, not really. Not until today. And today he was different.
Kelly turned onto her side and stared toward the window, trying to relax, to stop thinking. It occurred to her only a long time later as she was drifting off to sleep that it wasn't just her mind and emotions that were drawn to Mitch. With all the tensions between them, she hadn't realized how her body had reacted, how she'd been vibrantly aware of his every movement.
Except for when he had lifted the gold chain she wore, they hadn't touched at all. Yet she'd felt every glance, felt his voice like some strange, taut vibration in the air that brushed her skin softly. New, unfamiliar, and unnerving feelings. And those feelings followed her into sleep, prompting dreams like none she'd ever had before. . . .
He drew his thick jacket tighter and turned up the collar, mildly annoyed by the coldness of the wind. From his position in the lower level of the garden he could see the house clearly, had watched lights going out downstairs. She'd taken a bath, he thought, but had closed the wooden shutters so he couldn't see. Modest little bitch. They were all like that, though, at least to hear them talk.
Protesting the lights being on, acting uncomfortable about dressing and undressing around him. Trying to hide from him even when they were his to look at as much as he damned well pleased.
Then her bedroom light had gone out, and he had seen the dim glow in another bedroom, realizing that the two in the house weren't sharing a bed yet. The very thought of the bastard in her bed made bile rise in his throat, and he spat into the bushes angrily. Ghosts were impossible to kill, but Mitchell was flesh and blood.
He stared up at the bedroom window, barely able to make out a shadowy form, then glanced toward the cliffs. He'd looked the place over thoroughly, and knew there were wooden steps leading down to the narrow strip of sand. After a while he leaned against a tree and watched the window, waiting patiently for that other watcher to go to bed.
Mitch stood at his bedroom window, staring out into the shifting landscape. The trees tossed restlessly, blown by the fractious coastal winds, and now and then he caught a glimpse of the dark gleam of the sea. The hardwood trees were naked branches moving eerily, and the pines whispered and sighed as they swayed. It was a lonely sight.
He found it difficult to trust sleep now, to relax and give himself up to it. The therapists had told him that was natural and that one day he'd be able to close his eye without feeling the dark stirrings of fear. Doctors had assured him that there was no likelihood of his slipping back into a coma. Not likely at all, they'd said with quick smiles.
But then, it hadn't been likely that he would ever awake from the coma at all.
He hadn't wanted even to close his eye in those first days, his resistance almost obsessive, until sheer exhaustion had
He'd said the past and present were blurred for him, and in a way she was coping with the same problem. The last years had taught her to resist the kind of man Mitch had been, to protect her individuality fiercely, and that lesson had been a hard one; she would never again be weak or submissive. If he had come back into her life with the manner she remembered, she would have ignored her own unresolved feelings and ended it between them no matter what he said.
But he hadn't demanded, hadn't tried to overpower her or make light of her objections. He hadn't tried to impose his will on her; he hadused reason, not domination. He seemed to her just as strong-willed as he had been ten years before, perhaps even more so, yet he was also watchful and quieter and more self-contained. She didn't quite know how to react to this Mitch, her past knowledge warning her to keep a distance between them even as she was conscious of feeling drawn to him.
She had never looked at him through a woman's eyes, not really. Not until today. And today he was different.
Kelly turned onto her side and stared toward the window, trying to relax, to stop thinking. It occurred to her only a long time later as she was drifting off to sleep that it wasn't just her mind and emotions that were drawn to Mitch. With all the tensions between them, she hadn't realized how her body had reacted, how she'd been vibrantly aware of his every movement.
Except for when he had lifted the gold chain she wore, they hadn't touched at all. Yet she'd felt every glance, felt his voice like some strange, taut vibration in the air that brushed her skin softly. New, unfamiliar, and unnerving feelings. And those feelings followed her into sleep, prompting dreams like none she'd ever had before. . . .
He drew his thick jacket tighter and turned up the collar, mildly annoyed by the coldness of the wind. From his position in the lower level of the garden he could see the house clearly, had watched lights going out downstairs. She'd taken a bath, he thought, but had closed the wooden shutters so he couldn't see. Modest little bitch. They were all like that, though, at least to hear them talk.
Protesting the lights being on, acting uncomfortable about dressing and undressing around him. Trying to hide from him even when they were his to look at as much as he damned well pleased.
Then her bedroom light had gone out, and he had seen the dim glow in another bedroom, realizing that the two in the house weren't sharing a bed yet. The very thought of the bastard in her bed made bile rise in his throat, and he spat into the bushes angrily. Ghosts were impossible to kill, but Mitchell was flesh and blood.
He stared up at the bedroom window, barely able to make out a shadowy form, then glanced toward the cliffs. He'd looked the place over thoroughly, and knew there were wooden steps leading down to the narrow strip of sand. After a while he leaned against a tree and watched the window, waiting patiently for that other watcher to go to bed.
Mitch stood at his bedroom window, staring out into the shifting landscape. The trees tossed restlessly, blown by the fractious coastal winds, and now and then he caught a glimpse of the dark gleam of the sea. The hardwood trees were naked branches moving eerily, and the pines whispered and sighed as they swayed. It was a lonely sight.
He found it difficult to trust sleep now, to relax and give himself up to it. The therapists had told him that was natural and that one day he'd be able to close his eye without feeling the dark stirrings of fear. Doctors had assured him that there was no likelihood of his slipping back into a coma. Not likely at all, they'd said with quick smiles.
But then, it hadn't been likely that he would ever awake from the coma at all.
He hadn't wanted even to close his eye in those first days, his resistance almost obsessive, until sheer exhaustion had
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