The Heart of Grace. Линда Гуднайт
though she was thirty-two years old, they still attempted to run her life. To their way of thinking, she never should have married Drew. And she sure shouldn’t run to his bedside after he’d announced his intention to divorce her.
But how could she not? He was her husband and she loved him.
Right now, she refused to deal with the pressure from her parents. Knowing her husband was lying in a hospital bed, seriously injured was all she could handle. The list of injuries was frightening, to say the least. Broken ribs, ankle, heel, a ruptured spleen, and too many cuts and bruises for anyone to tell her about on the telephone. She was terrified to see him.
Her Prada heels echoed in the sterile white environment. She reached room 4723 and stopped, suddenly short of breath, not from the climb but from the uncertainty.
How would Drew look? Would he be conscious? Was he in awful pain?
The new worry crowded in. Would he want her here? Would he be angry that she had come after he’d made it clear that he never wanted to see her again?
During the time Drew was in a military hospital in Germany, she’d called every day. He either hadn’t been able or willing to speak to her. Now that he was here in Walter Reed, she’d given up calling. She’d gotten on a plane and come.
The fact that he’d initiated a divorce didn’t mean anything at this point. Drew was her husband. He needed her. And she was going to take care of him whether he liked it or not. During his recovery, she would pray every single day for God to change Drew’s mind and heal their marriage. A politician’s daughter didn’t give up without a fight.
Fingers on the handle, she paused to draw in a steadying breath.
“Help me, Lord,” she whispered, and then slowly pushed the heavy door inward.
The semi-darkened room was quiet. Drew was alone, eyes closed. A shiver of relief rippled through her. Though bruised and sutured, he still looked like Drew.
She breathed a prayer of gratitude. A roadside bomb often did much worse. From the bits and pieces of information she’d gathered, the rest of the convoy hadn’t fared as well.
Given the rhythmic motion of his chest, Drew was sleeping. An IV machine tick-ticked at his bedside, and his left leg was elevated on pillows. A medicine scent permeated the small unit. Monitors she couldn’t name crowded in around his bed. The whole scenario was surreal and frightening.
Heart in her throat, Larissa tiptoed inside, careful not to wake him. She wanted a minute to drink him in, to love him with her eyes, to remember all the beautiful times they’d had together. And most important of all, to thank God above that he remained alive and would recover. Her husband, her heart. How could he want to end the precious gift God had given them when they’d found each other?
As always, Drew looked larger than life, his tall form too big for the standard issue hospital bed, his skin dark against white sheets. One long, manly hand lay across his chest gripping the necklace he always wore. She’d asked him about the tiny fish more than once, but his vague answers hadn’t satisfied. Now that she was a Christian, she wondered even more. Drew tolerated her new faith, but he wasn’t interested in sharing it, which made his attachment to the necklace even more curious.
“A friend gave it to me when I was a kid,” he’d say. “It’s nothing special.”
But she didn’t believe that. Since he was never without it, she suspected the necklace carried a deeper meaning than he let on. But she had never pressed.
That was part of the problem in their marriage. She never pressed. Drew was dark and brooding at times and she’d learned to tiptoe around the topics that set him off. Part of the attraction from the beginning had been that air of mystery, the things he didn’t say or talk about. She wanted to unlock the secrets and see inside his heart. She wanted to know him as he knew her. Drew had never allowed that. For a long time, she’d wondered if he’d ever let her in, if he’d ever let her know the real Drew Michaels. Now she knew he never would.
Once he’d mentioned a “tough” childhood and her hopes had soared that he was about to share his heart. The next day he’d been on the phone about an assignment, and the next day he was gone. She hadn’t seen him again for six weeks. That was the way he was, and she’d learned to accept it. As long as he’d continued coming back to her, she’d been happy.
At some point, he’d decided she wasn’t enough.
The stabbing pain sliced through her heart again. What had she done? Why had he stopped loving her?
Drew stirred then and turned his head, emitting a gentle snore that made her smile. Light from the door illuminated his face. His cheeks were sunken and he was much thinner than normal. Beneath his naturally dark skin existed an unnatural pallor. Pinch lines of pain encircled his supple mouth. She longed to soothe them away with her fingertips.
He needed a shave, too, but then Drew had always gone for the scruffy whiskered look. She’d gone for it as well, head over heels.
Her eyes lingered for a moment on his face. Her beautiful, rugged, dangerous Drew. So deep and mysterious, so brilliant and creative and loving. He had many wonderful traits.
Her thoughts wandered back to the first time they’d met. After paying an enormous price for a group of his stunning photographs, she’d been thrilled for the opportunity to meet the man who could portray children with enough beauty and sensitivity to make her cry. She’d pictured an equally sensitive artist with a gentle and unassuming demeanor.
What she’d met was a wild man with a cocky attitude, dark hair tied back with a leather strip, the tiny fish resting in the hollow of his darkly tanned throat. Dressed in tattered jeans, a denim jacket hanging casually from wide, muscular shoulders, the startling photographer had slowly removed his shades and devoured her with wolf eyes. It had been love at first sight.
Three whirlwind weeks later, over the furious protests of her parents, they’d married.
Her parents had been wrong. Drew was wrong. Now she was the only one left who believed in their marriage.
Deep in his sleep-drenched subconscious, Drew smelled Larissa’s perfume. Sweet and expensive, just like the wearer. Pleasure washed through him, stronger than the throbbing, incessant pain in his body. Larissa.
Coming slowly out of his latest fifteen-minute nap, he hoped he hadn’t been dreaming. He wanted to see her, to hold her. All of the agony of the last few days would disappear as soon as he held her.
Opening his eyes to slits, he saw with relief that she was, indeed, in the room. For a satisfying moment, he looked his fill, unnoticed. She stood at his bedside deep in thought, her attention focused on the wires and tubes dangling around him. She looked stricken, frightened, and he longed to take her in his arms and tell her everything was okay. A fierce protectiveness came over him, laughable because he was too weak to stand up, much less protect anyone.
His Larissa. Classy. Vulnerable. Gorgeous.
He wished for his camera.
Where was his camera anyway? He touched his chest, feeling for the pockets in his vest before realization crept in and he remembered where he was. He also remembered the other thing. He couldn’t hold Larissa ever again.
The throbbing in his head reached a crescendo. She would have been so much better off if he’d made her a widow.
As if sensing his wakefulness, Larissa slowly turned, her gorgeous violet eyes liquid with unshed tears. Drew’s guts clenched with the need to comfort her. He bit down on the sides of his tongue to hold back the words. Divorce was the right decision, regardless of his physical condition. Maybe because of it, too.
Mustering every bit of courage, he ground out the words, “What are you doing here?”
His hand lay limp across his chest. She reached for it, and her soft, silky fingers soothed more than any medicine. In a minute, he’d pull away, but right now, he just couldn’t let go.
“I’ve