The Baby Dilemma. Rebecca Winters

suddenly, everything went quiet.

      He’d seen her.

      On unsteady legs, Kellie crossed the distance to the doorway, coming face to face with a man who bore a superficial resemblance to the husband she adored. But this close to him, those dark slits glittering with accusation couldn’t be his eyes.

      Beneath his facial hair, the features she loved so well looked chiseled in stone. Combined with his forbidding stance, she sought the doorjamb for support.

      “You should have come to the apartment instead of using Raoul to get to me,” he said in a wintry voice she didn’t recognize. “I would have signed those divorce papers before showing you the door.”

      Dear God.

      “As it is, you’ll have to go back where you came from and wait five more days for your long-sought freedom.”

      “Philippe—”

      “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you would stoop so low as to presume on my relationship with the prince in order to achieve your own ends. To think there was a time when I thought I knew you…”

      His hostility went beyond anything she could have imagined. How in heaven would she be able to break through the formidable barrier he’d erected against her?

      “Please, sweetheart—we have to talk.”

      “Don’t.” His quiet rage was more terrifying than if he’d shoved her body against the wall. “I’ll give you ten minutes to leave the chalet. That’s nine minutes and thirty seconds more than you gave me in the E.R.”

      Every word cut her like a knife before he jerked away from her. What happened next was like something out of a ghastly nightmare.

      Tossing his cane aside, he started up the back staircase two steps at a time, the way he would have done before the accident.

      “No!” she screamed, chasing after him, but he was too fast for her. As he reached the top, she saw him trip. He fell against the floor groaning in agony.

      “Darling!” She flew the rest of the distance and knelt at his side where he was half-sitting half-lying there holding his bad leg. As much as she wanted to touch him, comfort him, she didn’t dare. “Don’t move. I’ll call for help.”

      Already she could see perspiration beading his hair-line. Pain had drawn the color from his complexion.

      He flashed her a withering glance. “I told you to get out!”

      No way.

      “This isn’t your house, Philippe. I have as much right to be here as you do. Right now you need medical help.”

      Without waiting to take anymore of his cruel rejection, she hurried back down the stairs to her room. Raoul had left his cell phone number on the end table next to the guest phone.

      She grabbed the receiver and punched the digits. To her relief he responded on the second ring.

      “Raoul— I’m so glad you answered!”

      “Kellie? I haven’t even reached Roger’s yet. What’s wrong? You sound out of breath.” There was alarm in his voice.

      “Philippe has hurt his leg.” In the next few seconds she related what had happened.

      “Your magic worked even faster than I thought it would. There’ll be no climbing for him in the foreseeable future, thank God. I’ll bring the doctor.”

      “All right. Please hurry. He’s in pain.”

      “That’s good. It means he’s feeling again,” Raoul murmured before clicking off.

      Pondering that comment, Kellie hurried into the kitchen to fashion a makeshift ice bag.

      As she rummaged around in the drawers for some plastic bags, it dawned on her once again how fortunate they were to be Raoul’s guests. In fact she agreed with their host that this latest accident was a blessing in disguise.

      But when a stream of bitter French invective penetrated to the hall, it didn’t prevent her from shivering all the way to the loft to rejoin her husband.

      By the time she reached him, he’d dragged himself to the nearest bed and had collapsed on top of it. If she hadn’t had the advantage for the moment, his withering regard would have paralyzed her.

      She walked past him to pull a pillow from each of the other three beds. “Here. Let’s get these under your knee.”

      The fact that he let her arrange the pillows to elevate his trousered leg indicated his degree of agony. She followed that action with the ice bag which she placed over his knee.

      Without asking his permission, she unlaced his boot and carefully pulled it off. She repeated the process with his other boot. To be able to take care of him again in any capacity filled her with inexpressible joy.

      It was an automatic gesture to put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re hot, darling. Let me help you off with this sweater.”

      Because he hadn’t tried to interfere with her ministrations, she didn’t think he would fight her for taking this liberty, too.

      That’s where she was wrong.

      As she started to ease it from his hips, his right hand seized her wrist in a viselike grip, hurting her. She’d forgotten he had muscles of whipcord strength.

      “You’ve done enough. Do you understand?”