Wilder Hearts. Karen Rose Smith

he wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t make the first move toward the bedroom. He’d been serious when he’d vowed that the next time they made love it would be at Simone’s invitation, and she wouldn’t need even a drop of alcohol to influence her decision.

      As his hormones pumped, as his blood pounded in need, he reined in his desire to the point he thought he might die. And when she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away, he thought he surely would.

      “I’m sorry, Mike. But I can’t. I just can’t do this.”

      Oh, she could. And she had. But he knew better than to argue.

      She unclipped the barrette in her hair, then combed her fingers through the strands. “I’m not the kind of woman who wants or needs a man in my life.”

      “You may not want one. But you definitely need one.” And Mike was the man she needed most.

      His suspicion that she’d been hurt in the past only deepened now.

      She strode back to the coffee table and picked at a clump of grapes he’d placed next to the slices of cheese. “In the three or so years you’ve known me, how many times have you seen me with a man—romantically speaking? How many times have I actually gone out on a date?”

      “That’s not healthy,” he said.

      “I’m not very good at relationships, so it’s easier this way.”

      He couldn’t buy that. Still, it had been five or six weeks since the two of them had slept together. But he had no idea how long it had been for her prior to that.

      Too long, he suspected. The last guy she’d been involved with must have done a real number on her self-esteem.

      “Can’t you be content to let us just be friends?”

      God only knew how long he could keep this up. His hope was that she’d give in to her true feelings before he grew tired of waiting.

      Damn. He was only human.

      “I’ll take whatever you can give me,” he said.

      At least that was his plan for now.

      The next morning, Simone woke to the sounds of dogs barking. She rolled over in bed, raised up on an elbow and peered through the curtains. In the backyard, Mike was playing ball with Wags and Woofer, who obviously hadn’t learned the rules of Fetch.

      But she had to give Mike credit for trying to teach them how to bring the little rubber ball back to him and not keep it as a well-earned prize.

      What was she going to do about that man?

      If she believed in the power of true love, if she believed that she could become involved in any kind of lasting relationship, she would definitely consider making Mike a part of her life.

      But she knew her own flaws, as well as her strengths.

      When Cynthia Pryor, her mom’s neighbor, had called last night to inform Simone of something another mother would have disclosed on her own, she’d been completely taken aback. Not just by the terrible news, but by the blatant reminder that she and her mom had never been close, that they never would be.

      And thanks to their dysfunctional relationship, Simone would never be able to create a warm, loving family of her own.

      After the call, when Mike had held her, when he’d kissed her, she’d wanted so badly to accept all that he’d been willing to give her.

      But how could she when she knew she’d always hold back? When she knew she’d always retreat to that special place in her mind where no one could ever hurt her again?

      As she climbed from bed, another bout of morning sickness struck with a vengeance, and she hurried to the bathroom. When it was all over—God, she hated being sick—she washed her face, returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of mattress. Then she dialed her mother’s house.

      After the third ring, a click sounded. Simone opened her mouth to respond, but when the canned voice of her mom’s answering machine began its recitation, she blew out a ragged sigh instead.

      “You have reached 518–555–2467. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll return your call at my earliest convenience.”

      Simone cleared her throat. “Hi, Mom. It’s me. I just wanted to touch base and see how you’ve been. Please give me a call when you can. It’s—” she glanced at the clock on the bureau “—it’s ten-fifteen on Thursday. I have to go into work this afternoon around three, but I should be close to home until then. I love you.”

      As she hung up the phone, she realized that she always ended her calls that way. I love you.

      But did she?

      Did that little girl inside of her still exist? The one who’d desperately wanted to hear those three little words repeated and know, without a doubt, that her mother truly meant them?

      No. That lonely child had faded into the past when Simone hit high school, where she learned that she could get the affirmation, respect and attention she craved from her teachers. So, as a result, she studied hard and excelled—especially in science.

      At one time, she’d actually thought about going to medical school, but the cost was prohibitive, especially without any family support. So she’d settled for nursing school, where she graduated at the top of her class.

      Fifteen years ago, she landed a job at Walnut River General and worked on any floor she was assigned. But she soon found her real calling in the emergency room, where she gained the respect of patients, coworkers and administrators alike.

      One nice thing about the E.R. was that Simone could become personally involved with the patients for a few hours, then was able to back off as they either went home or were sent to other floors in the hospital.

      Yes, she’d overcome a lot in the past thirty-seven years, but she still found it difficult to actually connect with people.

      When the rubber ball Mike and the dogs had been playing with hit the side of the house, the wooden window frame and the glass shook and shuddered.

      Simone peered out into the yard to see what was going on outside.

      Through the pane of glass separating them, Mike caught her gaze, smiled and shrugged at the same time. Then he mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

      She was sorry, too. Sorry that she couldn’t pin her heart and her dreams on Mike O’Rourke. That she couldn’t create something she’d never had.

      Once upon a time, she’d hoped and prayed to have what other children had been blessed with, but that dream had faded along with that little brown-haired girl who used to cry herself to sleep each night.

      The child whose mother had looked at her newborn for the very first time and determined that she was unlovable.

      Mike had found his true calling when he’d pursued EMT training at the local junior college.

      In fact, he loved everything about his job—the adrenaline rush, the satisfaction of saving a life.

      Sure, there were times when it was tough, times when he came upon an accident victim too late to be of any help.

      He didn’t like having to look into the eyes of a victim’s family and tell them there was nothing left to do but to call the coroner. But he accepted that as part of life, as part of his job.

      Tonight, just after eight o’clock, he and Leif were sitting around the television at the station with several other guys when the next call came in, and the men all sprung into action.

      Four and a half minutes later, they arrived at the scene of a car accident that had occurred when a seventy-six-year-old woman ran a stop sign at the intersection of Lexington and Pine, broadsiding a vehicle driven by a sixteen-year-old boy.

      The teenager in a white Honda Accord had suffered a possible skull