White Lies (12 page)

           
 
Steve could hear the worry in Jay's voice and
wondered at it. Did she know something, after all? Why else would she worry
about what happened to him when he left the hospital? He had news for her,
though; wherever she went, that was where he intended to go, and Frank Payne
could take those ideas of his and become real friendly with them.

           
 
Two more weeks of biding his time. He didn't
know if he could do it. It was hard to force himself to exercise the patience
he needed to allow his body to heal, and there were still weeks of
rehabilitation ahead before he regained his full strength. He'd have to push
himself harder than the therapists would, but he could sense his own limits,
and he knew they were more elastic than the therapists could guess. It was just
one more piece of the puzzle.

           
 
He decided to let himself "wake up"
and began shifting restlessly. The IV

           
 
needle tugged at his hand. "Jay?" he
called in a groggy tone, then cleared his throat and tried again.
"Jay?" He never quite got used to hearing his own voice the way it
was now, so harsh and strained, gravelly in texture. Another little oddity. He
couldn't remember his own voice, but he knew this one wasn't right.

           
 
"I'm here." Her cool fingers touched
his arm.

           
 
How many times had he heard those two words,
and how many times had they provided him with a link to consciousness? They
seemed embedded in his mind, as if they were his one memory. Hell, they
probably were. He reached for her with his free hand. "Thirsty."

           
 
He heard the sound of water pouring; then a
straw touched his lips and he gratefully sucked the cold liquid into his dry
mouth and down his raw throat. She took the straw away after only a couple of
swallows. "Not too much at first," she said in that calm way of hers.
"The anesthesia may make you sick." He moved his hand and felt the
needle tugging at it again. Swift irritation filled him. "Get a nurse to
take this damned needle out."

           
 
"You need glucose after surgery to keep
from going into shock," she argued.

           
 
"And it probably has an antibiotic in it—"

           
 
"Then they can give me pills," he
rasped. "I don't like being restricted like this." It was bad enough
that his legs were still in casts; he'd had enough of having to lie still to
last him a lifetime.

           
 
She was silent for a moment, and he could
sense her understanding. Sometimes it was as if they didn't need words, as if
there were a link between them that transcended the verbal. She knew exactly
how frustrated it made him to have to lie in bed day after day; it was not only
boring, it went against every survival instinct he possessed. "All right,"
she finally said, her cool fingers drifting against his arm. "I'll get a
nurse."

           
 
He listened as she left the room, then lay
quietly, waiting to see if Frank Payne would identify himself. It was a subtle
game; he didn't even know why he was playing it. But Payne was hiding
something, and Steve didn't trust him. He'd do anything he could to gain an
edge, even if it was something so trivial as pretending to sleep while he
eavesdropped. He hadn't even learned anything, other than that Payne had
"plans" for him.

           
 
"Are you in any pain?" Frank asked.

           
 
Steve cautiously turned his head.
"Frank?" Another part of the game, pretending he didn't recognize the
other man's voice.

           
 
"Yes."

           
 
"No, not much pain. Groggy." That
much was true; the anesthesia made him feel limp and sleepy. But he could force
himself to mental alertness, and that was the important part. He would rather
be in pain than be so doped up he didn't know what was going on around him. The
barbiturate coma had been a nightmare of darkness, of nothingness, which he
didn't want to experience again, even in a mild form. Even amnesia was better
than that total lack of self.

           
 
"That's the last of it. No more surgery,
no more tubes, no more needles. When the casts come off your legs, you can
start getting back to your old shape." Frank had a quiet voice, and there
was often a note of familiarity in it, as if they had known each other well.

           
 
His words touched a chord of recognition in
Steve; his old shape hadn't been bulky muscles, but rather speed and stamina, a
steely core of strength that kept him going when other men would have
collapsed.

           
 
"Is Jay in any danger?" he asked,
cutting through the cautious maneuvering to what was most important to him.

           
 
"Because of what you may have seen?"

           
 
"Yes."

           
 
"We don't anticipate any danger,"
Frank replied, his voice cautious. "You are important to us only because
we need to know exactly what happened, and you might provide us with some
answers."

           
 
Steve smiled wryly. "Yeah, I know.
Important enough to cut through red tape and coordinate two, maybe three,
separate agencies, as well as pulling in people from different branches of the
service and from the private sector. I'm just an innocent bystander, aren't I?
Jay may buy that, but I don't. So cut the crap and give me a yes or no answer.
Is Jay in any danger?"

           
 
"No," Frank said firmly, and after a
second Steve gave a fractional nod, all he could manage. Regardless of what
Frank was hiding, he was still fond of Jay and protective of her. Jay was safe
enough. Steve could deal with the rest later; Jay was what mattered now.

           
 
His legs were thin and weak after having been
encased in plaster for six weeks; he ran his hands down them, getting himself
accustomed to their peculiar lightness. He could move them, but his movements
were jerky and uncontrolled. For the past couple of days he had been sitting in
a wheelchair or in the bedside chair, letting his body adjust to movement and
different postures. His hands had healed enough that he had been able to stand,
using a walker for support, for a few minutes each day. His store of knowledge
was increasing all the time. He now knew that even when he was bent forward to
hold the walker, he was several inches taller than Jay. He wanted to take her
in his arms and hold her against him, to feel her soft body adjust to his size
as he bent his head to kiss her. He'd been holding off, taking it slow, but now
that was at an end.

           
 
Jay watched him massage his thighs and calves,
his long fingers kneading the muscles with sure strokes. He was scheduled for a
session in physical therapy that afternoon, but he wasn't waiting for someone
else to do the work for him. He had been like a coiled spring since the surgery
on his eyes: tense, waiting, but under iron control. It had been a month and a
half since the explosion, and perhaps lesser people would still have been lying
in bed and taking pills for the pain, but Steve had been pushing himself from
the moment he'd regained consciousness. His hands had to be tender, but he used
them and never winced. His ribs and legs had to hurt, but he didn't let that
stop him. He never complained of a headache, though Major Lunning had told Jay
he would probably have headaches for several months.

           
 
She glanced at her watch. He'd been massaging
his legs for half an hour. "I think that's enough," she said firmly.
"Don't you want to go back to bed?" He straightened up in the
wheelchair and his teeth flashed in a grin. "Baby, I'm so tired of that
bed, the only way you could get me back in it would be if you crawled in there
with me."

           
 
He looked so wickedly masculine that she felt
herself weakening even as she tried to warn herself against his charm. He
wasn't above using his appeal as a wounded warrior to get to her, blast his
hide. She couldn't even look at him without getting wobbly kneed, and sometimes
the way she felt about him welled up in her like a flood tide, pleasure and
pain so sharply mingled that she would almost moan aloud. Every day he was
stronger; every day he conquered new territory, exerted his will over another
aspect of his life. It was both amazing and frightening to watch him and to
realize the extent of his willpower as he dealt with his situation. He was so fiercely
controlled and determined that it was almost inhuman, but at the same time he
let her see how very human he was; he depended on her now more than she had
ever imagined possible, and the vulnerability he revealed to her was all the
more shattering because she knew how rare it was.

           
 
"Get the walker for me," he ordered
now, turning his bandaged eyes toward her expectantly, as if waiting for her to
protest.

           
 
Jay pursed her lips, looking at him, then
shrugged and placed the walker in front of him. If he suffered a setback, it
would be his own fault for refusing to accept his limitations. "All
right," she said calmly. "Go ahead and fall. Break your legs again,
crack your head open again and spend a few more months in here. I'm sure that
will thrill the nurses."

           
 
He chuckled at her acerbity, a reaction that
was becoming more frequent as he healed. He regarded it as a measure of his
recovery; while he had been ill and helpless, she hadn't refused him anything.
He liked finding this bite to her personality. A passive woman wouldn't suit
him at all, but Jay suited him in every way, at all times.

           
 
"I won't fall," he assured her,
levering himself into an upright position. He had to support most of his weight
on his arms, but his feet moved when he told them to. Jerkily, true, but on
command.

           
 
"And heee's offf aaand
stumbling
!" Jay cried in dry
imitation of a racetrack announcer, her irritation plain.

           
 
He gave a shout of laughter and did stumble,
but caught himself with the walker. "You're supposed to guide me, not make
fun of me."

           
 
"I refuse to help you push yourself too
hard. If you fall, it will be your own fault."

           
 
A crooked smile twisted his lips and her heart
speeded up at the roguish charm it gave his face. "Ah, baby," he
cajoled. "I'm not pushing too hard, I promise. I know how much I can do.
Come on, guide me down the hall."

           
 
"No," she said firmly.

           
 
Two minutes later she was walking slowly by
his side as he maneuvered the walker, and his reluctant legs, down the hall. At
the end of the corridor, the Navy guard watched alertly, examining everyone and
everything. It was like that every time Steve left his room, though he didn't
realize he was guarded so closely. Jay felt a chill as her eyes met those of
the guard and he nodded politely; no matter how calm everything seemed, the
guards' presence reminded her that Steve had been involved in something highly
dangerous. Wouldn't his amnesia put him in even more danger? He didn't even
know he was being threatened or by wtipm. No wonder those guards were
necessary! But realizing just how necessary they were terrified her. This was
all part of the large gray area Frank hadn't explained, but she knew it was
there.

           
 
"This is far enough," Steve said,
and cautiously turned around. He turned exactly 180 degrees and took two steps
before stopping, his head turning back to her. "Jay?"

           
 
"Sorry." Hastily she moved to his
side. How had he known how far to turn?

           
 
Why wasn't he more uncertain of his movements?
He walked slowly, still supporting most of his weight on his arms and hands,
but he seemed deliberate and sure. He was slowed by his injuries but not
thwarted. He wouldn't let himself give in; he didn't look on his injuries as
something to be recovered from, but rather as something to be conquered. He would
handle this on his own terms, and win, because he wouldn't accept anything
less.

           
 
She saw even more of his determination in the
following days as he sweated through physical therapy. The therapist tried to
restrain him but Steve insisted on setting his own pace. He swam laps, guiding
himself by Jay's voice, and walked endlessly on a treadmill. By the third day
of therapy he had discarded the walker permanently and replaced it with Jay.
Grinning as he put his arm around her shoulder, he explained that at least
she'd cushion him if he fell. He had gained weight rapidly since the tube had
been taken out of his throat, and now he regained his strength just as rapidly.
Jay felt as if she could see a difference in him from one day to the next.
Except for the bandages over his eyes, he seemed almost normal, but she knew
every scar hidden by the comfortable sweats Frank had brought him to wear. His
hands were still pink from the burns, and his ruined voice would never be much
better. Nor was his memory showing any sign of returning. There were no flashes
of memory or glimmers of recognition. It was as if he had been born when he had
fought his way out of unconsciousness to respond to her voice, and nothing
existed before that.