Harlequin Presents January 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Sheikh's Desert Duty\Nine Months to Redeem Him\Fonseca's Fury\The Russian's Ultimatum (20 page)

Edward looked at me coldly. “No.”

“Then you felt sorry for me.”

“This isn't about
you.
” His dark blue eyes glittered in the firelight. “This is about me. I need a good physiotherapist. The
best
.”

Confused, I shook my head. “There must be hundreds, thousands, of good physical therapists in the U.K....”

“I gave up after four,” he said acidly. “The first was useless. I hardly know which was thicker, her skull or her graceless hands pushing at me. She quit when I attempted to give her a gentle bit of constructive criticism.”

“
Gentle?
”

“The second woman was giggly and useless. I sacked her the second day, when I caught her on the phone trying to sell my story to the press...”

“Why would the press want your story? Weren't you in a car accident?”

His lips tightened almost imperceptibly at the corners. “The details have been kept out of the news and I intend to keep it that way.”

“Lucky,” I said, thinking of my own media onslaught.

His dark eyes gleamed. “I suppose you're right.” He glanced down at his arm in the sling, at his leg propped up in front of him. “I can walk now, but only with a cane. That's why I sent for you. Make me better.”

“What happened to the other two?”

“The other two what?”

“You said you hired four physical therapists.”

“Oh. The third was a hatchet-faced martinet.” He shrugged. “Just looking at her curdled my will to live.”

Surreptitiously, I glanced down at my damp cotton jacket, sensible nursing clogs and baggy khakis wrinkled from the overnight flight, wondering if at the moment, I too was curdling his will to live. But my looks weren't supposed to matter. Not in physical therapy. Looking up, I set my jaw. “And the fourth?”

“Ah. Well.” His lips quirked at the edges. “One night, we shared a little too much wine, and found ourselves in bed in a totally different kind of therapy.”

My eyes went wide. “You fired her for sleeping with you? You should be ashamed.”

“I had no choice,” he said irritably. “She changed overnight from a decent physio to a marriage-crazed clinger. I caught her writing
Mrs. St. Cyr
over and over on my medical records, circling it with hearts and flowers.” He snorted. “Come
on.
”

“What bad luck you've had,” I said sardonically. Then I tilted my head, stroking my cheek. “Or wait. Maybe
you're
the one who's the problem.”

“There is no problem,” he said smoothly. “Not now that you're here.”

I folded my arms. “I still don't understand. Why me? We only met the once, and I'd already given up doing physical therapy then.”

“Yes. To be an assistant to the world-famous Madison Lowe. Strange career choice, if you don't mind me saying so, from being a world-class physiotherapist to fetching lattes for your stepsister.”

“Who said I was world-class?”

“Ron Smart. Tyrese Carlsen. John Field.” He paused. “Great athletes, but notorious womanizers. I'm guessing one of them must have given you reason to quit. Something must have made the idea of being assistant to a spoiled star suddenly palatable.”

“My patients have all been completely professional,” I said sharply. “I chose to quit physical therapy for—another reason.” I looked away.

“Come on, you can tell me. Which one grabbed your butt?”

“Nothing of the sort happened.”

“I thought you would say that.” He lifted a smug eyebrow. “That's the other reason I wanted you, Diana. Your discretion.”

Hearing him say he wanted me, as he used my first name, made me feel strangely warm all over. I narrowed my eyes. “If one of them had sexually assaulted me, believe me, I wouldn't keep it a secret.”

He waved his hand in clear disbelief. “You were also betrayed by your boyfriend and America's Sweetheart. You could have sold the story in an instant and gotten money and revenge. But you've never said a word against them. That's loyalty.”

“Stupidity,” I mumbled.

“No.” He looked at me. “It's rare.”

He made me sound like some kind of hero. “It's just common decency. I don't gossip.”

“You were at the top of your profession in physical therapy. That's why you quit. One of your patients did something, didn't he? I wonder which—”

“For heaven's sake!” I exploded. “None of them did anything. They're totally innocent. I quit physical therapy to become an actress!”

Actress
. The words seemed to echo in the dark study, and I wished I could take them back. My cheeks burned. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to be laughing at me.

But Edward St. Cyr didn't laugh. “How old are you, Miss Maywood?”

The burn in my cheeks heightened. “Twenty-eight.”

“Old for acting,” he observed.

“I've dreamed of being in movies since I was twelve.”

“Why didn't you start sooner, then? Why wait so long?”

“I was going to, but...”

“But?”

I stared at him, then looked away. “It just wasn't practical,” I mumbled.

Now he did laugh. “Isn't your whole family in the business?”

“I liked physical therapy,” I said defensively. “I liked helping people get strong again.”

“So why not be a doctor?”

“No one dies in physical therapy.” My voice wobbled a little. I lifted my chin and said evenly, “It was a sensible career choice. I made a living. But after so many years...”

“You felt restless?”

I nodded. “I quit my job. But acting wasn't as fun as I thought it would be. I went on auditions for a few weeks. Then I quit that to become Madison's assistant.”

“Your lifelong dream, and you only tried it for a few weeks?”

Looking down at my feet, I mumbled, “It was a stupid dream.”

I waited for him to say, “There are no stupid dreams,” or murmur encouraging or sympathetic noises, as people always did. Even Madison managed it.

“Probably for the best,” Edward said.

My head lifted. “Huh?”

He nodded sagely. “You either didn't want it enough, or you were too cowardly to fight for it. Either way you were clearly headed for failure. Good to figure that out and quit sooner rather than later. Now you can go back to being useful. Helping me.”

My mouth fell open. Then I glared at him.

“You don't know. Maybe I could have succeeded. You have some nerve to—”

“You waited your whole life to try for it, then quit ten minutes after you started? Give me a break. You're lying to yourself. It's not your dream.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Then what are you doing here?” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “You want to give it another shot? London has a thriving theater scene. I'll buy you the train ticket. Hell, I'll even send you back to Hollywood in my own jet. Prove me wrong, Diana.” He tilted his head, staring at me in challenge. “Give it another go.”

I stared at him furiously, hating him for calling my bluff. I wanted to grandly take him up on his offer and march straight out his front door.

Then I thought of the soul-crushing auditions, the cold reptilian eyes of the casting directors as they looked me over and dismissed me—too old, too young, too thin, too pretty, too fat, too ugly. Too worthless. I was no Madison Lowe. And I knew it.

My shoulders slumped.

“I thought so,” Edward said. “So. You're out of a job and need one. Perfect. It just happens that I'd like to hire you.”

“Why me?” I whispered over the lump in my throat. “I still don't understand.”

“You don't?” He looked surprised. “You're the best at what you do, Diana. Trustworthy, competent. Beautiful...”

I looked up fiercely, suspecting mockery. “
Beautiful.
”

“Very beautiful.” His dark blue eyes held mine in the flickering light of the fire. “In spite of those god-awful clothes.”

“Hey,” I protested weakly.

“But you have qualities I need more than beauty. Skill. Loyalty. Patience. Intelligence. Discretion. Devotion.”

“You make me sound like...” I motioned toward the sheepdog on the rug. The dog looked back at me quizzically, lifting his head.

Edward St. Cyr's lips lifted at the edges. “Like Caesar? Yes. That's exactly what I want. I'm glad you understand.”

Hearing his name, the dog looked between us, giving a faint wag of his tail. Reaching out, I scratched behind his ears, then turned back to glare at his master.

His
master. Not mine.

“Sorry.” I shook my head fiercely. “There's no way I'm staying to work for a man who wants a physical therapist he can treat like his dog.”

“Caesar is a very good dog,” he said mildly. “But let's be honest, shall we? We both know you're not going back to California, not with all the sharks in the water. You wanted to get away. You have. No one will bother you here.”

“Except you.”

“Except me,” he agreed. “But I'm a very easy sort of person to get along with—”

I snorted in disbelief.

“—and in a few months, after I can run again, perhaps you'll have figured out what you truly want to do with your life. You can leave Penryth Hall with enough money to do whatever you want. Go back to university. Build your physical therapy business. Even audition.” He shook his head. “Whatever. I don't care.”

“You just want me to stay.”

“Yes.”

Helplessly, I shook my head. “I'm starting to think I might be better off just staying away from people.”

His eyes glittered in the firelight. “I understand. Better than you might think.”

I tried to smile. “Somehow I doubt a man like you spends much time alone.”

He looked away. “There are all kinds of alone.” He set his jaw. “Stay. We can be alone together,” he said gruffly. “Help each other.”

It was tempting. What was my alternative? And yet...

I licked my lips, coming closer to his chair near the fire. “Tell me more about your injury.”

His handsome face shuttered as he drew back.

“Didn't the agency explain?” he said shortly. “Car crash.”

“They said you broke your left ankle, your right arm and two ribs.” I looked over his body slowly. “And also dislocated your shoulder, then managed to dislocate it
again
after you were home. Was it from physical therapy?”

He made a one-shouldered gesture that would have been a shrug. “I was bored and decided to go for a swim in the ocean.”

He could have died. “Are you crazy?”

“I said I was bored. And possibly a little drunk.”

“You are crazy,” I breathed. “No wonder you got in a car accident. Let me guess. You were street racing, like in the movies.”

The air in the dark study turned so chilly, the air nearly crackled with frost. His hand gripped the armrest, then abruptly released it.

“Got it in one,” he said coldly. “I raced my car straight into a Spanish fountain and flipped it four times down a mountain. Exactly like a movie. Complete with the villain carted off in an ambulance as all the good people celebrate and cheer.”

His friendliness had evaporated for reasons I didn't understand. Wondering what had really happened, I took a deep breath. “Too soon to joke about your accident, huh? Okay, got it.” I bit my lip. “What really happened? What caused it?”

“I loved a woman,” he said flatly. Jaw tight, he looked away, staring out the window. It was leaded glass, small-paned and looked very old. The last bit of reddish sun was dying to the far west.

“I find the topic boring.” He looked at me. “How about we agree to forget about the past—both of us?”

It was the best plan I'd heard all day. “Deal.”

“Jason Black sounds like an idiot in any case,” he muttered.

The memory of Jason's warm eyes, his lazy smile, his sweet, slow Texas drawl—
Darlin', aren't you a sight for sore eyes
—made pain slice through me like a blade. Folding my arms tightly over my heart, I glared at my new employer. “Don't.”

“So loyal,” he sighed. “Even after he slept with your stepsister. Such devotion.” Deliberately, he rested his eyes on his sheepdog, then turned back to me suggestively. I scowled.

“How do I know you won't toss me out tomorrow, for some trumped-up reason, like all the others?”

“I'll make you a promise.” His dark blue eyes met mine. “If you'll make one to me.”

As our eyes locked in the firelight, my whole body flashed hot, then cold. His deep, searing blue eyes made me feel strangely shivery. My gaze fell unwillingly to his mouth. His lips were sensual and wicked, even cruel.

And just the fact that I
noticed
his lips was a very bad sign. Mrs. Warreldy-Gribbley definitely would not approve.

Stay professional
, she'd ordered in Chapter Six.
Keep your heart distant when you're physically close. Especially if your employer is handsome and young. Keep your touch impersonal and your voice cold. See him as a patient, as a collection of sinew and bone and spine, not as a man
.

Looking up, I said in a voice icy enough to flay the skin of a normal man, “You're not flirting with me, are you, Mr. St. Cyr?”

“Call me Edward.” His eyes gleamed. “And no. I wasn't flirting with you, Diana.” His husky voice made my name sound like music. I tried not to watch the flick of his tongue on his sensual lips with each syllable. “What I want from you is far more important than sex.”

It had been an insane thing to worry about anyway—as if a gorgeous, brooding tycoon like Edward St. Cyr would ever look twice at a girl like me! “Oh. Good. I mean... Good.”

“I need you to heal me. Whenever I'm not working. Even if it takes twelve hours a day.”