Her last week at the sanatorium was pure torture.
She saw Joaquin throughout, here and there about the place, not any more frequently than she had before.
The difference now? She saw him. Not just with her eyes, but with every inch of her. If she were lucky, she’d come across him in the company of others and would only suffer the heat of his gaze from a distance, would only be able to steal the barest of glances at him.
If she were really lucky, she would catch him alone. Then he would come as close to her as he could without touching, his mouth next to her ear. It still skirted impropriety, but if they were seen, it would only appear as if they were in close conference.
He never whispered anything suggestive. He asked about her day, the other patients, letting his voice caress her as he went on about mundanities.
It was almost unbearably seductive.
But the worst were her daily checks on him. She’d take his wrist in her hand, he’d lay that gaze upon her, and all of her would turn to some great fluttering thing, nothing more than the hot pulse thudding in her veins.
Only her training kept her counting off the ticks of his pulse, let her write in his records with a shaking hand. And when she was done, he’d lay his fingers across her wrist. But he didn’t pretend any longer to take her pulse. It was simply an excuse to touch her, to hold her in place with those eyes that put her in mind of rich, fragrant tea.
She spent her days in agony, anxious that she might see him and frenzied when she didn’t.
It’s my last afternoon off, she thought as she walked down the hall to the door that led outside. In two days, she would be leaving here for Los Angeles.
Of course, all she could think of was him.
He had yet to receive a reply from the last attorney, her final and best hope he might leave this place.
It tormented her, the reply that had not yet come. He seemed troubled as well, more than a whiff of desperation hanging between them whenever they met.
Perhaps he was sad she was leaving.
And perhaps pigs were flying outside the windows.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Mr. Obregon’s dark head slid out of the sunroom as she passed.
“Nurse McCallahan,” he said, “if you have a moment.”
As if he only had something mundane to tell her, some task he wanted her to complete. All of her went to quivering as she followed him into the room.
The sunroom was flooded with the afternoon light, the room being a little too warm at the moment to be comfortable. Which likely explained why all the lounge chairs were empty.
She came to stand before him, her hands clasped in front of her. “What might I help you with?”
He looked her up and down. “Where’s your uniform?”
“It’s my afternoon off. My last one.” Which meant she didn’t have to stand here and ask him what she might do for him. But of course she would anyway.
His lips compressed, but he said nothing. Instead, he held up an envelope. “I heard back.” A slow smile broke out on his face. “I have an apprenticeship. Starting in two weeks.”
She couldn’t help it—she had to embrace him at this marvelous news. He caught her with one arm, the other firmly braced against his walking stick. He was entirely too tall, and she was wider than he was, but still… it felt delightful to hold him close like this. She squeezed him with happiness, and he squeezed back.
“That’s wonderful!” She remembered herself and stepped back, dropping her gaze to the floor as she tried to force her lips out of their smile. “May I see the letter?”
“Of course.”
Thomas P. Franklin, Esq., Los Angeles.
“Los Angeles?” She wasn’t sure if she was excited—or anxious. She told herself she shouldn’t care a bit.
But she did. Damn her treacherous heart.
She handed the letter back to him. “It seems we’re both leaving then.” Hardly even a tremor there.
She’d done it. She’d pushed him from this place. Instead of triumph filling her, all she wanted to do was cry.
He came close again, as if he were about to simply whisper in her ear. But this time was different. This time his hand slid along her jaw, tipping her face up to his.
“It’s your afternoon off,” he said. “Walk with me. Please.”
Yes.
But she was tired of their game. The joy in it, the pleasure, had drained away with that letter. She wanted something real—real touches, real kisses. Not the facsimile of the past few days.
Real sensations.
“Please,” he said again, more begging there.
“I’m still a nurse here.” Weak, but she had to make some protest, if only for form’s sake. “For another two days.”
“I know. I won’t do anything improper. I swear.”
Oh, but that was the problem. She wanted to be very improper with him indeed.
Joaquin watched as Mae blinked long and slow in response to his request.
When that letter had arrived today, he’d been on fire to show her. And her embrace… he’d hadn’t been embraced with such pure joy since he couldn’t remember when.
He wanted to spend a little more time with her, a few more minutes of savoring his accomplishment with her. And he was also damned tired of stealing half moments with her, never able to touch, only allowing himself to whisper inanities into her ear. He didn’t want to have to jump away from her like some kind of thief when someone approached.
He wanted this last afternoon of hers for himself. It might be selfish, but he wanted it anyway.
“All right,” she finally said, pale lashes sweeping down to shield her eyes. “But no one must see us.”
“They won’t.”
He marched her out one of the side doors and into the back garden, past some benches, past the rose garden, and across the lawn surrounded by hedges. He herded her back through a small gap in the hedge, coming out into a secluded cove protected on one side by the hedge and on the other by a profusion of geraniums. He loved the way she stepped back as he moved forward, her eyes never leaving his, trusting in where he was taking her.
The shrub swallowed them both, leaves rustling and branches shifting as they forced their way inside, the scent of geraniums thick around them as the red petals fell with each touch. When they were completely concealed, he reached for her and took her mouth under his.
It was even better than he recalled, the softness of her against him more potent than in his memories. He coaxed her mouth open, his tongue caressing hers when she granted him access. At that first intimate touch of their mouths, she came alive, wrapping her arms around his neck and fitting the bow of her body against his. The kiss changed with her, snapping and sparking with the heat growing between them. He set softly biting kisses against her neck, needing to taste the skin there and feeling a surge of satisfaction at her breathy moan.
In the wake of the pleasure came a twinge of pain. His left side began to protest the contortions he was attempting in order to reach this delectable woman. He bit back a curse and started to lower her to her feet. She made an incoherent protest, pulling at his shoulders until they were both so entangled they fell to the bracken-covered ground in an inelegant heap.
“Are you all right?” he breathed into the shell of her ear, taking the opportunity to nip at the lobe.
“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking in the most delicious way when his teeth sank into that bit of softness.
He shifted as best he could, trying to get most of his weight off his left side while keeping her close. She shifted with him, obviously sensing his discomfort, but her efforts mostly hampered his until their tangle just got more tangled.
Finally, he got himself on his right side and her in his arms and between his legs, the both of them dusted with leaves and mulch and dirt, the air about them thick with the earthiness of the garden floor. He kissed a line down her neck, her hands fisting in his hair, the moans coming from her the most gratifying thing he’d ever heard. He ran his free hand down her side, the other being trapped under her, feeling the lush curves under his palm even as he cursed the layers of cloth that kept him from knowing her flesh fully.
He ran his hand as far down as he could, finding the end of her skirt and thanking God she was so short he didn’t have to go far to find it. She kept her mouth firmly on his, their tongues almost irrevocably entwined. He burrowed his hand under her skirts, looking for the warm succor of bare skin.
He never found it. As his fingers encountered yet more cloth, he remembered just how many layers of woven protection ladies liked to wrap themselves in. In fact, since the last time he’d attempted such thing, he’d swear that ladies were wearing even more clothes.
Instead, he set himself to caressing her legs through the fabric, his hand tracing the swell of her calf, the dip of her knee, before heading inward to test the softness of her thigh—and being stopped completely short by the wad of skirts wedged between his elbow and shoulder. He paused, trying to think of a way out of this puzzle.
She raised her head slightly, those light blue eyes hazy and unfocused. “What are you—?”
Voices from the garden had them both stilling to stone. He held himself tight, his breathing slow and shallow as the noise of footsteps and voices grew torturously close. The hand trapped under Mae began to tingle unpleasantly, and he flexed it to try to move the blood, to no avail.
The little party in the garden took their time, spending an eternity strolling along and exclaiming over the plants. In the recesses of his mind he called them the vilest names he could think of while Mae simply stared, listening so hard it looked as if her ears might begin trembling.
Just as his hand had gone completely numb and his scar increased its pitch to an agonizing hum, the party moved off.
He worked his hand free as quickly as he could, the prickles in it sharp as he flexed it hard. His breath came in a great heaving rush, like steam escaping a boiler. He turned his head, the litter on the ground catching at his hair and skin as he did, and looked over at her.
Her blue eyes were wide with mirth and her mouth—that delicious mouth—tipped up into a smile. She began to laugh. He couldn’t help but join her as that laugh of hers hitched into his ribs and tickled an answering laugh out of him.
Truly it was funny, being nearly caught kissing a lady in a bush and prevented from further debauchery by her own skirt, of all things.
As their mirth slowed, he looked again into those pale eyes, soft with desire, and laughter, and perhaps even happiness, and something within him shook itself off, much as a horse would do halfway up to standing, a shaking that said, I’m awake, I’m still here, I’ve only been dozing.
That something gave him a great, hard shove, right into the depths of Nurse McCallahan’s eyes.