From the design of the house, Dione suspected that all of the upstairs rooms opened onto the graceful gallery that ran along the entire U of the house, looking down on the inner courtyard. When Richard tapped lightly on a door that had been widened to allow a wheelchair to pass easily through it, then opened it at the low call that permitted entrance, she saw at once that, at least in this room, her supposition was correct. The enormous room was flooded with sunlight that streamed through the open curtains, though the sliding glass doors that opened onto the gallery remained closed.
The man at the window was silhouetted against the bright sunlight, a mysterious and melancholy figure slumped in the prison of a wheelchair. Then he reached out and pulled a chord, closing the curtains, and the room became dim. Dione blinked for a moment before her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness; then the man became clear to her, and she felt her throat tighten with shock.
She’d thought that she was prepared; Richard had told her that Blake had lost weight and was rapidly deteriorating, but until she saw him, she hadn’t realized exactly how serious the situation was. The contrast between the man in the wheelchair and the laughing man in the photo she’d seen was so great that she wouldn’t have believed them to be the same man if it hadn’t been for the dark blue eyes. His eyes no longer sparkled; they were dull and lifeless, but nothing could change their remarkable color.
He was thin, painfully so; he had to have lost almost fifty pounds from what he’d weighed when the photo had been taken, and he’d been all lean muscle then. His brown hair was dull from poor nutrition, and shaggy, as if it had been a long time since he’d had it trimmed. His skin was pale, his face all high cheekbones and gaunt cheeks.
Dione held herself upright, but inside she was shattering, crumbling into a thousand brittle pieces. She inevitably became involved with all her patients, but never before had she felt as if she were dying; never before had she wanted to rage at the injustice of it, at the horrible obscenity that had taken his perfect body and reduced it to helplessness. His suffering and despair were engraved on his drawn face, his bone structure revealed in stark clarity. Dark circles lay under the midnight blue of his eyes; his temples had become touched with gray. His once powerful body sat limp in the chair, his legs awkwardly motionless, and she knew that Richard had been right: Blake Remington didn’t want to live.
He looked at her without a flicker of interest, then moved his gaze to Richard. It was as if she didn’t exist. “Where’ve you been?” he asked flatly.
“I had business to attend to,” Richard replied, his voice so cold that the room turned arctic. Dione could tell that he was insulted that anyone should question his actions; Richard might work for Blake, but he was in no way inferior. He was still angry with Serena, and the entire scene had earned his disapproval.
“He’s so determined,” Serena sighed, moving to her brother’s side. “He’s hired another therapist for you, Miss…uh, Diane Kelley.”
“Dione,” Dione corrected without rancor.
Blake turned his disinterested gaze on her and surveyed her without a word. Dione stood quietly, studying him, noting his reaction, or rather, his lack of one. Richard had said that Blake had always preferred blondes, but even taking Dione’s black hair into consideration, she had expected at least a basic recognition that she was female. She expected men to look at her; she’d grown used to it, though once an interested glance would have sent her into panic. She was a striking woman, and at last she had been able to accept that, considering it one of nature’s ironies that she should have been given the looks to attract men when it was impossible for her to enjoy a man’s touch.
She knew what he saw. She’d dressed carefully for effect, realizing that her appearance would either be intimidating or appealing; she didn’t care which, as long as it gave her an edge in convincing him to cooperate. She’d parted her thick, vibrant black hair in the middle and drawn it back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck, where she’d secured it with a gold comb. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Serena had called her a gypsy, and her warm, honey-tanned skin made it seem possible. Her eyes were cat’s eyes, slanted, golden, as mysterious as time and fringed with heavy black lashes. With her high cheekbones and strong, sculptured jawline, she looked Eastern and exotic, a prime candidate for a lusty sheik’s harem, had she been born a century before.
She’d dressed in a white jumpsuit, chic and casual, and now she pushed her hands into the pockets, a posture that outlined her firm breasts. The line of her body was long and clean and sweeping, from her trim waist to her rounded bottom, then on down her long, graceful legs. Blake might not have noticed, but his sister had, and Serena had been stirred to instant jealousy. She didn’t want Dione around either her husband or her brother.
After a long silence Blake moved his head slowly in a negative emotion. “No. Just take her away, Richard. I don’t want to be bothered.”
Dione glanced at Richard, then stepped forward, taking control and focusing Blake’s attention on her. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Remington,” she said mildly. “Because I’m staying anyway. You see, I have a contract, and I always honor my word.”
“I’ll release you from it,” he muttered, turning his head away and looking out the window again.
“That’s very nice of you, but I won’t release you from it. I understand that you’ve given Richard your power of attorney, so the contract is legal, and it’s also ironclad. It states, simply, that I’m employed as your therapist and will reside in this house until you’re able to walk again. No time limit was set.” She leaned down and put her hands on the arms of his wheelchair, bringing her face close to his and forcing him to give her his attention. “I’m going to be your shadow, Mr. Remington. The only way you’ll be able to get rid of me is to walk to the door yourself and open it for me; no one else can do it for you.”
“You’re overstepping yourself, Miss Kelley!” Serena said sharply, her blue eyes narrowing with rage. She reached out and thrust Dione’s hands away from the wheelchair. “My brother has said that he doesn’t want you here!”
“This doesn’t concern you,” Dione replied, still in a mild tone.
“It certainly does! If you think I’ll let you just move in here…why, you probably think you’ve found a meal ticket for life!”
“Not at all. I’ll have Mr. Remington walking by Christmas. If you doubt my credentials, please feel free to investigate my record. But in the meantime, stop interfering.” Dione straightened to her full height and stared steadily at Serena, the strength of her willpower blazing from her golden eyes.
“Don’t talk to my sister like that,” Blake said sharply.
At last! A response, even if it was an angry one! With secret delight Dione promptly attacked the crack in his indifference. “I’ll talk to anyone like that who tries to come between me and my patient,” she informed him. She put her hands on her hips and surveyed him with a contemptuous curl to her mouth. “Look at you! You’re in such pitiful shape that you’d have to go into training to qualify for the ninety-eight-pound weakling category! You should be ashamed of yourself, letting your muscles turn into mush; no wonder you can’t walk!”
The dark pupils of his eyes flared, a black pool in a sea of blue. “Damn you,” he choked. “It’s hard to do calisthenics when you’re hooked up to more tubes than you have places for, and nothing except your face works when you want it to!”
“That was then,” she said relentlessly. “What about now? It takes muscles to walk, and you don’t have any! You’d lose a fight with a noodle, the shape you’re in now.”
“And I suppose you think you can wave your magic wand and put me into working order again?” he snarled.
She smiled. “A magic wand? It won’t be as easy as that. You’re going to work harder for me than you’ve ever worked before. You’re going to sweat and hurt, and turn the air blue cussing me out, but you’re going to work. I’ll have you walking again if I have to half-kill you