Strike Zone (14 page)

Over brandy, they’d get down to business. Corbin held her own in a man’s world. Despite the head butting and teeth grinding each had done, respect remained foremost between them as they battled toward the pennant.

It was a quarter past eight by the time the Cessna touched down at Richmond International Airport. Valet parking delivered Brek’s SUV curbside at the terminal. He then pressed the speed limit on his way to Richmond General.

Traffic was light as he reached for his cell phone to dial Hilary’s home number. He hadn’t planned to see her on his return. He only wanted to check in, hear how she was doing and how her father’s campaign was progressing. He’d missed two fund-raisers while on the road, and a further donation was expected.

Her home phone rang a dozen times. No answer.

He next tried her cell phone. “Hello,” she answered, low and breathy. Sexy.

“It’s Brek.”

“You’re . . . home?”

“Just landed,” he informed her. “You’re where?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Campaign headquarters. Stuart and I were writing Daddy’s speech for the Kiwanis Club tomorrow.”

Brek heard rustling in the background, as if she were straightening something, but it didn’t sound like papers. He also heard a male grunt, which had to have come from Stu.

“Kiwanians participate in many school activities.” Hilary continued. “My father wants their votes as well as educator support.”

Wayne Talbott was covering all his bases. “Didn’t know you’d taken up speech writing,” he teased Hilary. Wasn’t that Stuart Tate’s job?

“I offered to help.” Her tone was slightly defensive. “You were out of town, I had nothing better to do. We’ve been going at it since early afternoon. We’re almost ready to call it a night.”

Going at it?
Strange phrase for speech writing.

“Do you need a ride home?” Brek knew Hilary wasn’t big on driving. She preferred to carpool or catch a cab. “I can pick you up after I make a quick stop at the hospital.” He prided himself on his honesty, so he admitted, “Taylor Hannah had knee surgery today. I wanted to check on her. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind at all.” Her voice held more relief than jealousy. “Visit Taylor tonight, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Stuart will drive me home.” A short pause. “Can I count on you to attend the Kiwanis luncheon?”

Why not? He had a team meeting in the morning, but was free for lunch. When he agreed, she gave him the time and place, then sweetly instructed before she hung up that he bring his checkbook.

Stryke disconnected, then massaged his brow. His life seemed disjointed. Ever since Taylor had returned to Richmond, his thoughts had strayed to her instead of to the woman he was to marry. He felt unfaithful.

Had Taylor not destroyed her knee, she’d have been long gone, desert hiking across the Sahara. And his life would have returned to normal.

Normal and Hilary fit together nicely.

Hilary didn’t need thrills to be happy.

Stryke had no problem living low-key.

He needed to concentrate on his fiancée, give her the attention she deserved. Be loyal.

Hilary crosses your mind out of duty, not love
, a small voice whispered.
She
can’t
replace what you lost with Taylor.

The words unnerved him. Sweat broke out on his brow, and his palms grew damp. What the hell was his problem? He cared for Hilary Talbott. No one could tell him otherwise.

He slowed to well below the speed limit until his mind cleared. Maybe he shouldn’t visit Taylor. If he had any sense, he’d take the next exit and turn around and go home instead of to the hospital.

He had no sense. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the hospital parking lot. It had rained in Richmond; small puddles glistened beneath the streetlights, his stride reflected in the pools.

A gift shop opened off the main entrance. Flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals were showcased in the window. A single white rose caught his eye.

One rose says as much as a dozen, Taylor had once told
him. Unless you plan to make love on the petals.

He made a quick detour into the shop and bought the rose in the cobalt blue bud vase, as well as a box of gourmet jelly beans. Cherry was the dominant flavor.

By the time he reached reception, a soft gong signaled that visiting hours were over. Elevator doors opened, and family and friends filed out, leaving for the night.

Stryke never used his status as a Rogue to gain favors, but he did so tonight. He bartered tickets for the team’s next series against the Cleveland Indians in order to see Taylor Hannah for five full minutes.

He signed autographs at the nurses’ station on the fifth floor before being directed to Taylor’s room—a private room, he was glad to note—at the far end of the hallway. The light from the call button cast a dozen bouquets and clusters of balloons in shadow.

“You just missed her grandmother and sister.” A matronly nurse had followed him down the hall. “Ms. Hannah refused her pain medication. Call the station if she should change her mind.”

Brek shook his head. Typical Taylor, forgoing drugs to mentally dominate the pain. Inside the room, he quietly approached her bed—a bed with the foot elevated. Her toes poked from beneath the blanket.

Taylor lay still, as white as the sheet pulled beneath her chin. He set the single rose and box of jelly beans on her nightstand, then edged a chair toward her bed. Once seated beside her, he focused on her paleness, the stubbornness of her chin, even in sleep, and her slightly parted lips.

Her left hand lay uncovered beside her hip. Stryke lowered the bedside bar and covered her hand with his. Her fingers were cold, twitchy. His contact soon warmed her, and she held his hand tightly.

In time, her eyelids fluttered and she blinked awake. Her pupils were dilated, her lips pinched in pain. “Brek?” Her voice came out dry, throaty.

He poured her a glass of water, stuck in a bendable straw, then held the glass while she took two long sips.

She settled back on her pillow and brokenly forced out, “Surgery today.”

“So I heard.”

“Who told you?” she asked, as if she’d expected to keep her surgery a secret.

“I overheard Sloan talking to Addie in the locker room after the game.”

She tried to give him a small smile, but wasn’t successful. “One-hitter.” Her hoarse praise meant more than any congratulations at the park. “Eve told me.”

Taylor’s condition was far more important than his win. “How are you feeling?”

“Drowsy.” Her eyes remained dilated, her words somewhat slurred. “My head feels stuffed with cotton. Hard to think.”

“No need to think, Taylor. Just rest.”

“Rest? I hate lying here.” She pushed up on her elbow and tried to roll onto her side. The exertion caused a spasm in her shoulder, and a deep moan. She dropped back, looking as tired as she was frustrated by her lack of strength.

Stryke hurt for her. “You’re four hours out of postop. Cut yourself some slack.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “I won’t be skiing for a few days.”

“Maybe not for several weeks.”

She clenched her jaw. “I will ski again.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Ski La Grave.”

“Is that where you damaged your knee?” They had yet to discuss the accident. This was as good a time as any. The darkened room gave them privacy. They might never be this isolated again.

She yawned, her body going soft beneath the blanket.

He sat tense, wide-awake, on the edge of his chair.

Her eyelids drooped. “Wedding . . . announcement.” Her tone was raw, as if the words were torn from her soul. “Mind . . . wandered. Misjudged . . . dogleg.”

And she slept.

Stryke strung her words together a dozen times. She’d mentioned a marriage announcement. Had his engagement thrown off her timing on a treacherous dogleg that needed her full attention?

He might never have those answers. Fuzzy headed and vulnerable, she’d given him a couple of leads. Fully awake, she’d never divulge the actual details of the accident. They were no longer a couple. Taylor kept her business to herself.

Five minutes became fifteen. Almost an hour passed. He held her hand for a long, long time. He just couldn’t let go.

At eleven, a nurse arrived to take Taylor’s temperature and blood pressure, and to check her IV. Taylor stirred, coughed, rubbed her throat. Stryke poured more water, and Taylor sipped.

He waited for the nurse to toss him out, and was surprised when she handed him a pillow and told him the chair reclined.

With their hands still joined, Brek Stryker kicked back and closed his eyes. He had a team meeting in the morning. He’d stay with Taylor for a while longer, then leave. . . .

He never left. His internal alarm went off at seven. The window blinds had been cracked, and sunlight sliced across his eyelids, the warmth spreading over his face.

He stretched, rotating his ankle to regain circulation in one foot. Then he opened his eyes. He found Taylor’s gaze on him. Not on
him
exactly, but on his groin.

He sported a morning erection.

Fully blown and wickedly painful.

To make matters even more uncomfortable, they still held hands. He’d drawn her hand across his thigh, and her fingertips rested a nail’s length from his balls.

“Morning.” He released her hand.

She drew back. “You’re still here?”

“I spent the night.”

His words made Taylor Hannah shiver. She’d thought him no more than a dream. She’d expected only nurses in her room this morning.

Yet there sat Brek Stryker, reclined, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. His brown hair was mussed, his jaw stub-bled, his slate blue eyes dark with concern.

His hard-on surprised her. The bulge made a solid crease beneath the wrinkled fabric of his slacks.

Heat rose to her face, and she dipped her head. The man had an incredible body. She’d once worked
every
muscle. Having him turned on in the morning had been a great way to start her day. They’d both walked out the door happy.

Stryke leaned forward and brought the chair to its upright position. “How’s your knee?” he asked.

“Hurts, but I’m ready for therapy.”

“Physical therapy begins today.” Dr. Ralph Harper, the most aggressive orthopedist in Richmond, entered the room, clipboard in hand. “But you’ll be taking it slow, Taylor.”

Noticing her frown, Harper continued, “You’re not going to like what I have to say, but you need to listen. Your ACL reconstruction went well. Yet even when everything goes perfectly, the replaced ACL isn’t as good as the old one. You’ve lost muscle, nerve fibers, and cartilage. You’re also at increased risk for arthritis.”

Taylor stared at the doctor, trying to take in his words. He’d told her all this yesterday, yet she hadn’t absorbed the full ramifications of her surgery until now.

“You’re looking at a knee brace as well as either a cane or crutches for ten days. Toe tapping, but no weight on your foot. Twelve weeks of therapy. And four to six months for a full recovery.”

“That long?” Had her heart stopped?

“You’re the type of patient used to being active,” the doctor continued. “You’ll push your limits.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, she will,” Stryke put in.

Harper looked from Brek to Taylor. “You’re under hospital care for a week. Your physical therapy will be closely monitored. But once you’re an outpatient, you’ll need someone to moderate your excess.”

“A keeper?” Air locked in her lungs, and she found it difficult to breathe. She’d never relied on anyone in her life. She wasn’t about to start now—injury or not. “I can do this on my own.”

Stryke’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. His touch was solid, strong, reassuring. “Taylor won’t overexert. Her grandmother and sister will keep an eye on her. I’ll check on her too, when time allows.”

Harper tapped his pen against his clipboard and nodded. “I’ll see you after therapy. Limit yourself to ankle pumps and circles and straight leg raises. Don’t give my therapist a hard time.” And he was gone.

Totally deflated, Taylor looked at the ceiling. She remembered the facts about her surgery, yet had pushed the recovery period to some far corner of her mind. She’d believed she’d be up and walking, if not running, in a very short time.
Short
was not four to six months.

She blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, Stryke.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For remaining in Richmond longer than you’d like.”

“Definitely my primary concern right now.”

She cut her gaze toward Stryke, and caught him curving his hands over the bedside bar. His hold was tight, his knuckles white, as he openly stared at her knee. She sighed. “My life is going to revolve around therapy and recuperating at Addie’s. I promise our paths won’t cross. No Jacy’s Java, no—”

“I want to help get you back on your feet.” His voice was low, yet his tone held an intensity that surprised her.

Her heart stuttered. He wanted to help her. No one knew her better. He was the only person she’d ever listened to concerning the direction of her life.

Her first inclination was to accept.

Her second to decline.

She didn’t deserve Brek Stryker in her life. He had a fiancée, and Taylor could never settle for being his friend.

An ache centered in her chest, then spread throughout her body. It killed her to push him away. “You’re engaged. Your responsibility’s to Hilary, not me.”

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Yet before he could argue, she offered a white lie. “Sloan McCaffrey’s already offered aftercare once I leave the hospital.”

“Sloan, aftercare?” He shook his head, unable to fit the two together. “The man couldn’t tweeze glass from your foot. You’ll need someone to support you when you exercise, someone to count and stop you so you don’t overdo.”

“Sloan can count—”

“To seven. He goes as high as four balls and three strikes.”

“He’ll see that I don’t press my luck,” she stated. “He’s scheduled La Grave for December. He’ll want his guide healthy and strong.”

Brek stepped back, his gaze surprisingly sharp. “I know how important this recovery is to you, Taylor. You’re going to feel as vulnerable as you will angry, and you’ll scream at the four walls. If you scream loud enough, I’ll hear you. And I’ll be back.”