Kiss Your Prince Charming

His eyes closed, as if he’d suddenly dropped off, just like that. But then he spoke again. “No. I need to contact them, if only so they know where I am. But they’re both getting older, and I don’t want to give them a shock or a scare if I don’t have to. I’ll find a way to call them myself—but not until I know from the docs exactly what’s going to happen.”

He still hadn’t opened his eyes. She hesitated. “Greg, I don’t want to stay, even another minute, if there’s any chance you could fall asleep and really rest—”

“I’m not sleeping. It’s just the drugs. I seem to keep zoning out and then somehow my mind starts replaying the accident....”

“You want to talk about it, get it off your chest?”

Outside the door, carts wheeled by, nurses called, the loudspeakers kept snapping out codes. But inside Greg’s room it was another world, a quiet, private world that only included the two of them. Their fingers had been loosely threaded together, but now his grip tightened until the heat of his palm nested in the heart-bed of hers. “I was in the old MG, not the Volvo. On I-94 in the middle lane, just driving back to work after lunch. That’s all. Nothing weird. Only this truck ahead suddenly blew a front tire and he was swerving everywhere, all over the road.. and so was everyone behind him, trying to clear out of his way. I was the peanut butter between a Cadillac and an Explorer. My MG squished like a pancake. Lucky.”

He wasn’t through talking, but his voice was losing power, sounding increasingly syrup-thick and slow. She leaned forward, clasping his hand more snugly. She’d never held hands with Greg—there’d never been even a teensy problem with male-female chemistry between them—and she felt embarrassed at her sudden awareness of his big fingers and maleness and the electric feeling of connection. Naturally, though, her emotions were nerves-sharpened. He was painfully describing how lucky he was to even be alive.

“Three other cars were in the same smash-up. At least nobody was killed. Took the Jaws of Life to get two of us out of our cars. I don’t even know where all the glass came from. The back of the one truck, maybe. But it was the glass that cut up my face—could have my eyes so easily. And I kept hearing this little girl—she was crying. Rach? Will you find out how she is for me?”

“I’ll ask, Greg. I promise.”

“She was crying so hard, I told myself she had to be okay. I mean, nobody could bawl that loud if they weren’t basically pretty strong. But find out, okay? She was so little.”

It was so typical of Stoner, worrying about others. “I’ll get an answer. But in the meantime, I think I should leave and you should rest. Only, before I come back tomorrow, can you think of some things you need me to bring? I assume you want your own toothbrush, but I don’t know if you can use one if your jaw’s all wired up—”

“Believe me, I’ll find a way to use one. If I can’t brush my teeth, I’d have to commit hara-kiri. So yeah, I really would appreciate that.”

“And you probably want your own pajamas—”

“Um, Rach. I don’t do pajamas.”

“Oh. Well.” She could feel a flush blooming on her cheeks and wanted to kick herself. At twenty-nine years old—and having been both married and divorced—it was downright ridiculous to fluster up at the idea of a man sleeping naked. Particularly when Greg was just a friend. “Well, with all those bandages on your face, I don’t think you’ll be needing a razor for a while. I’ll bring some books and magazines, but there must be something else I can do.” Abruptly she snapped her fingers. “I know what.”

“What?”

“Your sacred lawn. All life would end if it didn’t get mowed by Saturday, wouldn’t it? So I’ll get your grass cut. I won’t manicure it like you do, but consider this is an offer I wouldn’t make to even Mel Gibson. Even Brad Pitt. We’re talking a true test of how much I love you, neighbor. Now...what else could be worrying you?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, something else may cross your mind, but I’ll come back and visit tomorrow after work. You can make a list if you think of anything else.”

His hand clutched hers just for a second longer, and then loosened. “Rach—thanks for coming.”

“No sweat.” But once she stood up, Rachel couldn’t just leave. He looked so alone in that bed, so isolated behind the wall of bandages. And though he had dozens of friends, right then she felt like the only family he had. There was simply no way that she could walk out of that room without expressing support and caring in some concrete, physical way.

So she bent down, but finding a spot to kiss him was almost a humorous challenge. His face and brow—and really, most of his head—were wrapped in white gauze. The only uncovered spot was his mouth.

His lips were naked, warm, soft. She snapped her head back up. Instantly. Not because she suddenly, inappropriately, felt her pulse buck and bolt—but because all she intended was a kiss lighter than the stroke of silk. Anything else risked hurting him. Anything else risked...well, this was Greg. Not just a good man, but a true hero of a friend. Rach would die if he misunderstood any gesture from her.

“All right, you,” she said firmly. “I’m outa here. But I want you to behave yourself until I come back tomorrow—no seducing the nurses, no playing football in the hall, no wild drinking parties, you hear me? And I’ll be in tomorrow right after work.”

She made it outside in the hall, out of Greg’s sight, before abandoning the cheerful smile and leaning weakly, sickly, against the wall. God. All those tubes. All those bandages. Sure, it could have been worse, but there was no question in her aching heart that he was lucky to be alive.

Without talking to a doctor, she had no idea what his prognosis really was. Or what be had to face ahead. The only thing Rachel felt sure of was fiercely wanting to be there for him.

Whatever it took to get him on his feet again, she was more than willing to do.

Two

“And how’s my gorgeous hunk doing today? Running around the halls naked again? Seducing all the nurses? Giving all the doctors hell?”

Greg’s pulse stopped dead, then suddenly bolted faster than a runaway horse. For almost a month now, Rachel had visited at the same time every evening—but tonight she wasn’t expected. And because he’d been so positive she wasn’t coming, he had no time to mentally brace. For one vulnerable minisecond, the sound of her voice made his heart dip into that wild, wicked well of forbidden waters.

But that was just because he was in love with her.

By the time he turned his head to face her and started cranking up the bed to a sit-up posture, naturally he’d squashed the inappropriate emotion. It wasn’t that hard to do, not anymore, particularly when he risked losing Rach altogether if she ever discovered how he felt about her. She was the princess to his frog. That’s just the way it was, which he’d accepted ages ago. Still...after a man had been cooped up all day in a tediously monotonous hospital room, Rachel was like a burst of vital, vibrant stinging life.

Raindrops spattered everywhere as she stripped off her trench coat, revealing the suit and heels she’d worn to work. Knowing Rach, the suit couldn’t have cost much, but she had this way of wearing clothes that made everything look expensive and sharp. Not flaunty. She didn’t go for flashy styles that showed off her figure, yet typically this outfit was a subtle feast for his eyes. The suit was a soft cherry-red, with a slim skirt that palmed the curve of her fanny and a short jacket that bared a spot at her neck for jewelry. She did like her beads. Temporarily her tawny hair looked wind-tousled and shaggy—the way he liked it best—and framed a small face with giant blue eyes, an itsy nose and a generous, wide mouth. Rach hated the label of “cute,” but man, she was. Darling. Cute. Irresistible. Words Greg never used on a woman, vocabulary he never used at all. Except for her. In the privacy of his mind.

“I’ve been giving everybody hell,” he assured her. “One of these days, I figure it’ll work and they’ll throw me out of this place. But I didn’t expect to be venting any bad temper on you tonight. Didn’t you get the message on your answering machine? I called to tell you not to come.”

“Yeah, I got your message about the weather. I just ignored you, big guy. What, did you think I’d melt if I drove in a little rain?”

It wasn’t raining “a little.” A harmless drizzle had started around noon, putting a shine and glisten on all the orange and gold autumn leaves, but by nightfall, the friendly little rain had turned into a gusty, moody storm. If and when all that water iced up, the roads would turn into a skating rink. “You’re supposed to listen to the advice of your elders,” Greg said sternly.

Her peal of laughter was infectious. “You don’t get credit for being a mere three years older than me! And yeah, I know the roads may freeze, but the temperatures aren’t supposed to drop that low until midnight. The nurses’ll toss me out long before then.” She kicked off her wet heels and padded closer to the bed in her stocking feet, her gaze narrowed as she studied him. “Well, I can’t tell if they put you through any fresh torture today. Are you in pain?”

“Nope, I’m fine, really.”

She rolled her eyes. “You always say that. And I think all those white bandages are mysterious and sexy and all, but I’m awfully sick of not being able to see your face, Stoner. I can’t tell when you’re lying. I can’t tell when you’re hurting or happy or anything else....”

As far as Greg was concerned, the only good thing to come from the accident were the bandages. Yeah, they were annoying, but at least Rach couldn’t see his expressions. For a whole month now, he could look at her without worrying about giving away his true feelings for her.

“But you’re finally at the end of this torture setup. I know you have to be feeling raw after the surgery yesterday, but this is the last time the plastic surgeon plans to cut you, yes? Didn’t he promise? No more? So if you just heal from this sucker, you’re home-free. I don’t suppose they let you have solid food today?”

“No. And I’d rather have a cheeseburger right now than a million bucks. But at least that’s the only blackmail they’re still holding over my head. The minute I can keep down some solid food, I get to bump this pop stand and go home...only, that’s tough to pull off when nobody’s willing to bring me anything but a liquid dinner.”

Her soft eyes swam with sympathy. “Now, Stoner. You know the broken jaw thing was the toughest problem, but you’re on the total mend track now. It won’t be that much longer.” She shot him a teasing diamond-watt grin. “Although I’m not sure I’m going to recognize you when this is all over. A whole new face is only part of this. You’re practically down to skin and bones. No love handles. Only half of you to hug. We’re talking about a woman’s dream—you’ve lost so much weight that you’re going to need a giant shopping trip to buy all new clothes.”

Temporarily he couldn’t wince—but he wanted to. “You call that a dream? I call it a nightmare. I’d rather have chicken pox than shop. I’d rather eat liver. Hell, I’d rather do anything.”

Rachel perched a hip on the bed and pulled the hospital tray table between them. A deck of cards appeared in her hands. “Well, from the goodness of my heart, I’ll help keep your mind off your troubles. You prepared to lose the rest of your life savings tonight?”

“Are you gonna fleece a poor, disadvantaged invalid again?”

“Yup. In fact, while you’re on this losing streak, I think we should up the ante to maybe a dime a game instead of just a nickel.”

“There goes my retirement,” Greg said plaintively, and was rewarded with her rich throaty chuckle.

Rach shuffled with the flashy style of a Las Vegas hustler and then dealt the cards. He cheated so she’d win—but no more than three out of four hands. If she won them all, Greg figured she’d guess something was fishy, particularly since he was a comptroller and should have had some skill with numbers.

His bumbling ineptitude didn’t seem to trouble her, though, possibly because she loved winning. And since he loved watching her win, Greg considered them even. Tonight, besides, he really couldn’t concentrate on the cutthroat canasta game.

His ribs still screamed when he laughed. The broken arm itched. And in the beginning, the bandages swathing his head had aroused his sense of humor—he did look like a mummy in training—but they also constricted his sight and movement and he was sick of them now. What the plastic surgeon had cut—and recut—on his face over the last weeks had involved constant bruising and swelling, and their rebuilding his jaw had been the worst. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, could never just let down and relax because there was always some kind of pain nagging at him.