“Put your head down.” Liam pushed her head between her knees.
Nancy did so and concentrated on breathing. When she dared to sit up again, he had a small, thoughtful frown in his eyes. “Don’t think about it anymore,” he said gently. “Please. Don’t faint on me.”
So give me something else to think about, you doofus, she wanted to yell. She contented herself with a slightly hysterical crack of laughter.
He looked around her apartment. The cramped room was crammed with floor-to-ceiling shelves, cassettes, CD racks. A desk dominated the room, with a computer, a fax, a scanner. A file cabinet, copy machine, and water cooler were crowded around it. Liam patted the back of the couch where they sat. “Does this thing open up into a bed?”
Her hackles were on the rise, as she sensed a criticism in formation. “Yes, it does,” she said. “Anything else? More pronouncements about my apartment, my life, my choices? By all means, Liam. Express yourself.”
“So this place is an office. With a couch for those occasional moments when you want to assume a horizontal position,” he said.
Yeah. Like, right now. With you. She groped for a smart-ass retort, but an unexpected insight took form in her mind as she looked into his eyes.
“You’re pissing me off on purpose,” she said slowly.
His face was impassive. “A couple of zingers to get you going. It kicks up your blood pressure. I like to see some color in your face.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I must look like death warmed over. Or not even. Death served right out of the fridge.”
“No.” He reached out, pulled her hands gently off her face. “You’re beautiful, Nancy. You shine. Like a jewel.”
She was moved, embarrassed, mortified. Charmed beyond belief.
“It’s sweet of you to say so,” she managed.
“Sweet has nothing to do with it.”
She giggled. “Now who’s defensive when I call him sweet?”
“You don’t believe me.” His voice was incredulous.
A hot blush stained her face. “I, uh, appreciate the compliment. Really, I do. But it’s not a matter of believing or not believing. It’s just that beauty is such a subjective thing. So it doesn’t mean anything.”
He looked baffled. “Subjective, my ass. What’s not to understand? Beautiful is beautiful.”
She rushed on. “What does it mean, to tell someone she’s beautiful? Men have told me that I was beautiful before. They changed their minds when they met someone they thought was more beautiful. By comparison, I suddenly became less beautiful. That sucks, by the way, when you look into your boyfriend’s face and realize that your stock just went down the toilet.”
“Nancy,” he said gently.
“Who knows what a person sees when he looks at another person? It changes with his mood, the weather, what he ate that day! How beautiful would I look to you after I’d annoyed you for a while by popping my knuckles, or slurping my soda, or whatever grates on you? Telling me I’m beautiful is meaningless. So don’t do it. You’d have more luck coaxing me into bed if you stayed away from the whole subject.”
“You think that’s what this is about? Just getting you into bed?”
She swallowed over a lump in her throat. Doing it again, with him. Babbling nonsense, like an idiot.
“Be quiet for a second.” His voice was as soft as drifting smoke. He reached out and plucked a spray of miniature orchids out of a vase on the end table by the couch. She’d bought them the week before, in honor of Lucia, who had always loved them. Deep pink, spotted with purple, luminous and mysterious. “Are these beautiful?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
“How do you know they are?”
She chewed her lip, sensing a trap. “I don’t know. I couldn’t say. I’m not the poetic type. They just are.”
He tucked the sprig back into the vase and stroked a petal with his fingertip. “That’s my point. You don’t have to be poetic. Just look at them. Shut up, and really look at them. And you know. You feel it. Right here.” He put his hand on his chest. “They just are.”
She gazed at him, hypnotized as his finger stroked the lambent curve of the blossom.
She tried it. Exactly what he suggested. She shut up, the talk, the worries, the fear, the clamorous noise in her head. She just looked at him as he touched that flower. He gazed back at her, those clear, light eyes endlessly patient, and gentle. Waiting for her to get it. He reached out, touched her cheek, as softly as he’d touched the flower.
And suddenly…ah. She got it. She knew. Right in her chest, just like he said. Oh, yes. He was beautiful. He shone. Like a jewel.
The realization pierced, burned, like a knife in her chest, turning.
This was against all her rules, all her better judgment. The power dynamic was whacked, wrong. He was the one who had saved her. He was the one offering protection and comfort. She was the one who was desperately in need of it. He had everything, she had nothing. She couldn’t even guarantee him a good time in bed to compensate him for his trouble, with all her sexual hang-ups. A crass assessment of the situation, but there it was. She called it how she saw it.
She preferred to have something concrete to offer a man that would keep him connected with her after the initial flash of desire flickered and went out, as it inevitably did. Not that the trick had ever worked that well before, considering her romantic track record.
Liam didn’t need her. She had nothing to offer him but herself, and when he lost interest in that, she would be toast.
Liam sensed the direction her mind was running. She could tell by his thoughtful frown. “What’s wrong now, Nancy?”
He sounded exhausted. Fed up. She didn’t blame him a bit. She was a piece of work. Nothing but problems. Her mind raced to come up with a plausible lie. Letting him see how small she felt would just embarrass them both.
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered.
He let out a sigh, and leaned back, laying his head against the back of the couch. Covering his eyes with his hands.
That was when she noticed the condition of his hand. His knuckles were torn and raw, encrusted with blood. God, she hadn’t even given a thought to his injuries, his trauma, his shock. She’d just zoned out, floated in her bubble, leaned on him. As if he were an oak.
But he wasn’t an oak. He was a man. He’d fought like a demon for her, and risked his life, and gotten hurt, and she was so freaked out and self-absorbed, she hadn’t even noticed. She was mortified.
“Liam. Your hand,” she fussed, getting up. “Let me get some disinfectant, and some—”
“It’s okay,” he muttered. “Forget about it.”
“Like hell! You’re bleeding!” She bustled around, muttering and scolding to hide her own discomfiture, gathering gauze and cotton balls and antibiotic ointment. He let her fuss, a martyred look on his face. After she finished taping his hand, she looked at his battered face and grabbed a handful of his polo. “What about the rest of you?”
“Just some bruises,” he hedged.
“Where?” she persisted, tugging at his shirt. “Show me.”
He wrenched the fabric out of her hand. “If I take off my clothes now, it’s not going to be to show you my bruises,” he said.
She blinked, swallowed, tried to breathe. Reorganized her mind. There it was. Finally verbalized. No more glossing over it, running away.
“After all this?” Her voice was timid. “You still want to…now?”
“Fuck yes.” His tone was savage. “I’ve wanted it since I laid eyes on you. It’s gotten worse ever since. And combat adrenaline gives a guy a hard-on like a railroad spike, even if there weren’t a beautiful woman in my face, driving me fucking nuts. Which puts me in a bad place, Nancy. I know the timing sucks for you. The timing’s been piss-poor since we met, but it never gets any better. It just keeps getting worse.”