Hero For the Asking Read online

  "Yes. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?"

  He nodded. "There's an open-house reception at Halloran House tomorrow night. Part of our fund-raising drive going on this week. I'd like for you to come with Summer and Derek."

  "I'd love to. I'm curious to see this place that you and Summer are so devoted to."

  "It's interesting." He dropped a kiss on her lips, a mere ghost of the kisses that had gone before, and set her away from him. "Goodnight, Spring."

  "Good night, Clay."

  She slipped into the house, then walked quietly toward the den, deep in thought. Her steps halted abruptly at the doorway. Derek and Summer stood before the room's spectacular glass wall, locked in a passionate embrace. Derek's head was bent protectively over his petite wife as he kissed her with familiar intimacy, her arms clenched around his neck.

  Spring turned silently and headed for her room, wondering why she suddenly found herself blinking back tears.

  * * *

  Clay bent over the bed, his lips touching soft, cool skin as his hand stroked a headful of crisp black curls. "Hi, beautiful."

  Liquid brown eyes smiled into his tender blue-green ones. "Hi."

  "How're you feeling?"

  "Not so great," Thelma whispered, turning her head restlessly on the flat pillow of her intensive-care bed. "My chest hurts like crazy."

  "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "No, but thanks, anyway. What time is it? I lose track inhere."

  "It's seven-thirty a.m.," he answered. "Thursday," he added, in case she'd also lost track of the days.

  "How'd you get in here? I thought only family was allowed in. Not that I'm complaining. I'm so glad to see someone besides my loving mother." She added a bitter twist to the last two words that wrenched Clay's heart.

  "I sweet-talked a nurse," he told her, deliberately maintaining his easy smile. "Told her I was your brother."

  Thelma laughed weakly, lifting their clenched hands and eyeing the contrast between her brown and his fair skin. "And she bought it, right? You're slick, man."

  "Thanks. I try." He glanced at all the tubes and wires attached to her, trying not to frown. Thelma remained a very sick young woman. The doctors still hesitated to predict whether her recovery would be complete, continuing to worry about permanent lung damage—the delicate membranes had been so badly scarred by her neglect of her condition. Clay refused even to consider the possibility that Thelma could still die. "I talked to Frank this morning. He said that you're going to Chicago to live with your aunt when you leave the hospital."

  Thelma nodded. "That's right. I been begging to go live with Aunt Diane for a long time, but my mother refused to let me. She's finally given in."

  "Think you'll be happy in Chicago?"

  The shrug she gave was heartbreakingly old for her age. "Who knows? But it couldn't be any worse than here. And Aunt Diane seems to want me with her. First time anyone's wanted me around in a long time."

  "That's not quite true, Thelma. I've always wanted you around."

  "Yeah, but we both know that you're a bleeding heart. Always have been, always will be."

  "You got it," Clay admitted, winking at her.

  "Well, you can stop bleeding over me. I've decided to get it together in Chicago. Aunt Diane says if I'll straighten up and really try to do better, she'll see that I get the money to go to college when I finish high school, major in music, like I've always wanted to do. The doctors won't tell me whether I'll be able to sing worth a damn, uh—" she paused, knowing how Clay felt about "his kids" cursing, then continued "—halfway good after this thing with my lungs, but I'm going to do it, one way or another. If I can't sing, I've always got my piano. I'm pretty good, you know."

  "I've always been your number one fan, haven't I?"

  "Yeah. You have. Thanks. Sorry I keep screwing up."

  "Everyone screws up sometimes, Thel. Now you've just got to put the past behind you and try again. You can do it."

  She sighed wearily and closed her eyes for a moment, her lashes delicate against youthful cheeks. Then her eyes opened again, and there was a sheen of tears. "I haven't thanked you for saving my life."

  "It's okay. You don't have to."

  "I really didn't care if I died, you know."

  Clay's throat tightened. "I know. But I cared. And Frank and Summer cared. And your Aunt Diane cares. We love you, Thelma, and we're going to save your life and your future even if we have to kick your butt to get you to listen to us."

  She chuckled faintly. "All right. I said I'd try." She paused again, and Clay could see that she was tiring. He moved as if to leave, but her hand tightened on his. "Don't go yet. Please. It gets lonely in here."

  "All right. I've got a few more minutes before the nurse kicks me out."

  "That woman who was with you when you found me...who was she?"

  Startled, Clay tilted his head. "Her name is Spring Reed. Summer's sister. Do you remember her?"

  "I think so. It's real fuzzy, but I sort of remember a pretty lady with blond hair washing my face and talking to me in a nice, friendly voice. I remember how good it felt. I was so hot."

  "Spring will be glad to hear that. She's been worried about you. She's another bleeding heart, like Summer and me," he added, using Thelma's own words to tease her.

  "Are you in love with her?" Thelma asked unexpectedly, reading something in his voice or his expression as she watched him closely.

  He blinked, then grinned rather sheepishly. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

  "Going to marry her?"

  "Haven't thought about it. I'm not really the marrying kind, you know."

  "Bull."

  He raised one eyebrow, questioningly. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said bull. You act crazy, but everyone knows you're just Joe Normal underneath. You'd be happy as a clam with a wife and a bunch of kids and you know it. So don't try to con me, McEntire."

  "Think so, huh?"

  "Know so." Her lashes fell again. "I'm getting sleepy. Sorry."

  "That's okay. You need your rest, and it's time for me to get to school. I stopped by here on the way to work, and I'd better go or I'll be late. But I'll be back."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise. And you'd better write to me when you're in Chicago, or I'll come after you, you hear?"

  "Yeah?" She looked inordinately pleased. "Will you write me back?"

  "You can count on it." He kissed her cheek, then straightened. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Okay." She stopped him at the entrance to her glass cubicle. "Clay?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You're dressed kinda boring today, aren't you?"

  He grinned, looking down at his lime-green T-shirt, worn Levi's and white Reeboks. "I dressed in a hurry this morning. I'll try to do better next time."

  "You do that. This place is dull enough. Bye, Clay."

  He left with his grin still in place, though inside he was praying fervently that the teenager would recover. She deserved a break.

  * * *

  Exhale. Clay lowered his chin almost to the floor, his forearms straining under his weight. Inhale. He pushed himself up so that his body was on a slant, mentally counting, forty-nine.

  Exhale. He lowered himself again, sweat dripping down his forehead. Inhale. Fifty.

  With a grunt he abruptly threw himself onto his back, crossing his hands on his bare, sweat-slick chest. He really hated exercising, he thought ruefully. That's why he never did it. Good thing he stayed in shape through his usual frenetic activity.

  So why was he trying to turn himself into melting Jell-O with push-ups? Good question. And he knew the answer. He was trying not to think of Spring. He'd been trying not to think of her all day, since his early-morning visit with Thelma. He'd tried not to think about her during his hours at work, during lunch with his friend Frank from Halloran House, during seventy-five sit-ups and fifty push-ups.

  It wasn't working. It seemed as if she'd been on his mind
since the moment he'd set eyes on her.

  Okay, so he was in love with her. He'd known before Thelma had made him admit it that morning; had, in fact, known since he'd seen her in her "funky" outfit Monday evening. And it was going to hurt when she left next Wednesday. It was going to hurt bad.

  He'd never felt quite like this before. The few times he'd flirted with love in the past had usually been pleasant, sometimes passionate, but never permanent. And he'd never particularly regretted that fact. He'd always put his work first. Something told him he wouldn't get over Spring as easily. The same something that told him that his work wouldn't be quite enough when she was hundreds of miles away from him. He almost resented her for that.

  Six days. She was flying out of his life in six days. His stomach clenched with dread.

  He'd known a lot of emotions in his thirty-four-plus years. Despair, disillusion, hopelessness, rage. Later he'd discovered fulfillment, hope, love and happiness. He'd rarely known fear. But he was scared now. He'd tried so hard to make his life work, to fill the emptiness that had yawned inside him through the lonely, unhappy years of his youth. He lived alone now, but he hadn't consciously been lonely. He was pretty damned sure that he would be lonely in seven days. And in ten, and maybe even in one hundred, and more. Lonely for Spring.

  He'd never loved this way before; he couldn't imagine loving like this again. Couldn't imagine himself making love to any woman but Spring. It had never been like this before.

  Maybe he should back off a bit. Start preparing himself for being without her. Stop thinking about her all the time, counting the hours until he saw her again. Stop wondering what it would take to make her stay with him in six days.

  Grinding a rare curse between clenched teeth, he flipped onto his stomach and flattened his palms on his bedroom carpet. His arm muscles bulged.

  Inhale. Exhale. Fifty-one.

  Six more days.

  Inhale. Exhale. Fifty-two.

  Chapter Six

  Halloran House was a fascinating place, Spring decided. The twenty-odd residents were young, between the ages of eleven and sixteen, had been in trouble, but not too serious trouble yet, and wore defiant expressions that seemed to refuse intimacy yet pleaded for love all at the same time. Clay informed Spring that because the home, which had been established by a wealthy industrialist who had lost a son to a drug overdose, was funded primarily by donations, several major fund-raising events took place each year. The residents had put on a talent show last fall, which was how Summer had gotten involved. Clay had drafted her to direct the show.

  The current effort was an open-house reception for patrons and potential patrons. An informal buffet had been set up in the former ballroom-turned-recreation room, and a presentation was made to outline the home's purpose. Dressed all in white—shirt, coat, vest, pants, shoes and, yes, a white tie—Clay was a highly visible participant in the program. Spring couldn't take her eyes off him, but her fascination with him had little, if anything, to do with his clothing. Instead, she watched the way the light played on the golden highlights in his blond hair, the way his laughter made his eyes sparkle, the flashing dimples that appeared as deep grooves at the side of his mouth when he smiled. It seemed that every time she saw him, he was even more beautiful.

  "What do you think of my kids?" he asked Spring at one point as he snatched a moment of semiprivacy with her by crowding her into a corner.

  Spring turned her head to look past him. Many of the guests had gone by that time, leaving mostly staff and residents gathered in small clusters in the recreation room. "Some of them look pretty tough," she remarked. "And impressively big for their ages. Do you ever have trouble with them?"

  "Sure, sometimes. Fights, threats, whatever. We've learned to deal with it."

  "How does Summer deal with it?"

  "Very well." Clay's lips quirked upward. "Not that she has that much trouble. The kids think she's really 'hot,' in their vernacular. They tease with her, but they're actually quite respectful to her. Protective, even. And then they have one little extra incentive to be nice to her."

  "What's that?"

  Leaning against the wall behind him, he caught her hand and laced his fingers through hers. "A couple of months ago we were having some real problems with one of our larger, more troubled kids. He's fifteen, and big. Anyway, Summer directs some drama classes, improv, readings, and so on, because we feel it's good for the kids to express themselves creatively. Most of them like it; some don't. This guy started making trouble during one session, making fun of the smaller kids until he finally had one of them crying. Then he made fun of him for being a crybaby. Summer got mad and told the guy off. He decided to show everyone how bad he could be, so he gave her a shove."

  Spring frowned, instantly the protective big sister. "Did he hurt her? Was he punished? He's not still here, is he?"

  Clay laughed, his hand tightening reassuringly around hers. "It's okay. The kid made a bit of a mistake. Derek happened to walk into the room just as the guy pushed Summer down."

  A slight smile crept across Spring's face. "Oh. That was a mistake, wasn't it?" she mused, thinking of her businessman brother-in-law and the toughness she'd sensed in him from the beginning.

  "You got it. I'd come into the room right behind Derek, and I thought he was going to tear the kid apart. The kid thought so, too. He got off with nothing more than a deadly soft warning. He's treated Summer like fine porcelain ever since. He was dealt with officially here, of course, but it was Derek's threat that kept him straight from then on."

  Spring tilted her head. "I'd be willing to bet that Summer got mad at Derek for interfering."

  "Know her well, don't you? She did, as a matter of fact. Said she was perfectly capable of handling the situation herself."

  "She probably could have."

  "I've no doubt of it. But Derek never apologized to her. He just sat quietly while she chewed him out, then told her in that silky voice of his that he'll do exactly the same thing if the situation ever comes up again. And that he's fully prepared to carry through on his threats if necessary."

  "Mr. Macho." Spring sighed, shaking her head. She'd left her hair down that evening and it fell in a silvery blond curtain to curl at her shoulders, where it swayed against her peach silk dress at her movement.

  Clay reached out with his free hand to catch a soft strand, rubbing it between his fingers as he murmured, "I suddenly see Derek's point. It's amazing how protective a man can feel about his woman." He met her eyes. "I know how I'd react if I found some guy shoving you to the floor."

  She blinked. Make it a joke, she told herself in a desperate attempt to lighten a suddenly heavy moment. "My, my. I do believe there's a bit of macho even in you, Clay."

  He grinned and allowed her to ease the tension with her teasing. "What can I say? I'm a mere male, after all."

  "Pity," she murmured, tugging her hand from his and stepping back. "I believe I'll have some more of that punch."

  She sipped her punch slowly, thinking that she was almost sorry she'd backed away from Clay a moment before. Oddly enough, when he'd taken her hand, it had been the first time he'd really touched her all evening. He'd been acting rather strangely since she'd arrived with Summer and Derek earlier. Though he'd carried on in his usual offbeat manner, there'd been something different in his manner toward her. It was almost as if he'd withdrawn from her in some way.

  She couldn't help thinking of their conversation the night before. He'd offered to back away from her, but she'd weakly asked him not to. So why was he?

  She frowned as a sudden thought occurred to her. What if he'd been put off by her telling him about Roger? In her moment of vulnerability she'd told Clay that she fantasized about marriage and family. Was he afraid that she'd start considering him as potential-husband material, as she'd admitted to doing with Roger? Was he backing off, as he'd said he would, in a subtle attempt to warn her not to get too involved with him? It made sense, but she wasn't sure. After all, he'd just
implicitly called her his woman, hadn't he? Or had he?

  No one had ever confused her the way Clay did, she thought, her mind growing weary from trying to understand him. And no one had ever made her want so very badly to understand him.

  She watched him across the room, clowning around with a group of his kids. He loved them so much. She suspected that love, for him, would be an obsession. What would it be like to be loved that way by him?

  She'd like to find out, she thought wistfully.

  She swallowed hard and set her punch cup on a table. What was she thinking? What did she hope would happen? Could she even imagine leaving the successful practice she'd built for herself in Little Rock to move to California, where the competition would be so fierce? She loved Arkansas. Unlike her sisters, she was perfectly happy to remain in the state where she'd been born.

  She tried to make herself stop thinking along those lines. She was being ridiculous. There was nothing serious between her and Clay. Nor did he appear to want anything more than a temporary alliance between them. He was a confirmed bachelor who dated women her own sister had described as drop-dead beautiful. He probably liked his life just the way it was—one beautiful woman after another, no strings, no messy entanglements. Nothing to offer a woman like her, who wanted...who needed so much more.

  "Spring, I'd like you to meet Katie," Summer said, appearing suddenly at her sister's side. "She's a real sweetheart. You'll like her."

  Fervently grateful for the distraction, Spring obediently followed Summer across the room.

  Though he was talking heartily, appearing to be completely involved in his conversation, Clay knew every move Spring made across the room from him. It seemed that he was aware of each breath she took, though they were separated by several yards. It was no use, he decided fatalistically, even as he gave a light-hearted reply to a question that had just been thrown at him. He wasn't going to be able to insulate himself from her, no matter how hard he might try.

  And he had tried. All evening he'd attempted to look at her and see just another pretty, interesting woman. Nothing special. Right?