Come Lie With Me. Linda Howard

she crossed the floor to the balcony and opened the curtains, flooding the room with light.

      He was lying on his back, his legs positioned a little awkwardly, as if he’d tried to move them during the night. He opened his eyes, and Dione saw the flare of panic in them. He twitched and tried to sit up, groping at his legs; then he remembered and fell back, his face bleak.

      How often did that happen? How often did he wake, not remembering the accident, and panic because he couldn’t move his legs? He wouldn’t do that for very much longer, she determined grimly, going over to sit on the bed beside him.

      “Good morning,” she said again.

      He didn’t return the greeting. “What time is it?” he snapped.

      “About six o’clock, maybe a little earlier.”

      “What’re you doing here?”

      “Beginning your therapy,” she replied serenely. He was wearing pajamas, she saw, and wondered if he were able to completely dress himself or if someone had to help him.

      “No one’s up at this hour,” he grumbled, closing his eyes again.

      “I am, and now you are. Come on; we’ve got a lot to do today.” She rolled the wheelchair to the side of the bed and threw the covers back, revealing his pitifully thin legs clad in the pale blue pajamas. His feet were covered with white socks.

      He opened his eyes and the anger was there again. “What’re you doing?” he snarled, reaching out an arm to whip the covers back over himself again.

      He didn’t want her to see him, but she couldn’t permit any modesty to interfere. Before long she’d be as familiar with his body as she was with her own, and he had to realize that. If he were ashamed of his physical condition, then he’d simply have to work to improve it.

      She snatched the covers away again, and with a deft movement scooped his legs around until they were hanging off the side of the bed. “Get up,” she said relentlessly. “Go to the bathroom before we get started. Do you need any help?”

      Pure fire sparked from his blue, blue eyes. “No,” he growled, so angry that he could barely speak. “I can go to the bathroom by myself, Mama!”

      “I’m not your mother,” she returned. “I’m your therapist, though the two do have a lot in common.”

      She held the chair while he levered himself into it; then he shot across the room and was in the adjoining bathroom before she could react. She laughed silently to herself. When she heard the lock click she called out, “Don’t think you can lock yourself in there all morning! I’ll take the door off the hinges if I have to.”

      A muffled curse answered her, and she laughed again. This was going to be interesting!

      By the time he finally came out she had begun to think she really would have to take the door down. He’d combed his hair and washed his face, but he didn’t look any more pleased with being awake than he had before.

      “Do you have any underwear on?” she asked, not making any comment on the length of time he’d spent in the bathroom. He’d timed that very nicely, stalling as long as he could, but coming out just before she did something about it.

      Shock froze his features. “What?” he asked.

      “Do you have any underwear on?” she repeated.

      “What business is it of yours?”

      “Because I want your pajamas off. If you don’t have any underwear on, you may want to put on a pair, but it really doesn’t matter to me. I’ve seen naked men before.”

      “I’m sure you have,” he muttered snidely. “I have underwear on, but I’m not taking my pajamas off for you.”

      “Then don’t. I’ll take them off for you. I think you learned yesterday that I’m strong enough to do it. But those pajamas are coming off, the easy way or the hard way. Which is it?”

      “Why do you want them off?” he stalled. “It can’t be so you can admire my build,” he said bitterly.

      “You’re right about that,” she said. “You look like a bird. That’s why I’m here; if you didn’t look like a bird, you wouldn’t need me.”

      He flushed.

      “The pajamas,” she prodded.

      Furiously he unbuttoned the shirt and threw it across the room. She could sense that he would have liked to do the same to the bottoms, but they were a bit more difficult to remove. Without a word Dione helped him back onto the bed, then pulled the garment down his thin legs and draped it over the arm of the wheelchair. “On your stomach,” she said, and deftly rolled him over.

      “Hey!” he protested, his face smothered in the pillow. He swept the pillow aside. He was shaking with fury.

      She popped the elastic waistband of his shorts. “Calm down,” she advised. “This will be painless this morning.”

      Her impertinent little gesture made his temper flare so hotly that his entire torso flushed. Smiling at his response, she began to firmly knead his shoulders and back.

      He grunted. “Take it easy! I’m not a side of beef!”

      She laughed. “How delicate you are!” she mocked. “There’s a reason for this.”

      “Like what? Punishment?”

      “In a word, circulation. Your circulation is terrible. That’s why your hands are cold, and why you have to wear socks to keep your feet warm, even in bed. I’ll bet they’re icy cold right now, aren’t they?”

      Silence was her answer.

      “Muscles can’t work without a good blood supply,” she commented.

      “I see,” he said sarcastically. “Your magical massage is going to zip me right onto my feet.”

      “No way. My magical massage is mere groundwork, and you should learn to like it, because you’re going to be getting a lot of it.”

      “God, you’re just loaded down with charm, aren’t you?”

      She laughed again. “I’m loaded down with knowledge, and I also come equipped with a thick hide, so you’re wasting your time.” She moved down to his legs; there was no flesh there to massage. She felt as if she were merely moving his skin over his bones, but she kept at it, knowing that the hours and hours of massage that she would give him would eventually pay off. She pulled his socks off and rubbed his limp feet briskly, feeling some of the chill leave his skin.

      The minutes passed as she worked in silence. He grunted occasionally in protest when her vigorous fingers were a little too rough. A fine sheen of perspiration began to glow on her face and body.

      She shifted him onto his back and gave her attention to his arms and chest and his hollow belly. His ribs stood out white under his skin. He lay with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his mouth grim.

      Dione moved down to his legs again.

      “How much longer are you going to keep this up?” he finally asked.

      She looked up and checked the time. It had been a little over an hour. “I suppose that’s enough for right now,” she said. “Now we do the exercises.”

      She took first one leg, then the other, bending them, forcing his knees up to his chest, repeating the motion over and over. He bore it in silence for about fifteen minutes, then suddenly rolled to a sitting position and shoved her away.

      “Stop it!” he shouted, his face drawn. “My God, woman, do you have to keep on and on? It’s a waste of time! Just leave me alone!”

      She regarded him in amazement. “What do you mean, ‘a waste of time’? I’ve just started. Did you really expect to see a difference in an hour?”

      “I don’t like being