Kiss Your Prince Charming. Jennifer Greene
almost a month now, Rachel had visited at the same time every evening—but tonight she wasn’t expected. And because he’d been so positive she wasn’t coming, he had no time to mentally brace. For one vulnerable minisecond, the sound of her voice made his heart dip into that wild, wicked well of forbidden waters.
But that was just because he was in love with her.
By the time he turned his head to face her and started cranking up the bed to a sit-up posture, naturally he’d squashed the inappropriate emotion. It wasn’t that hard to do, not anymore, particularly when he risked losing Rach altogether if she ever discovered how he felt about her. She was the princess to his frog. That’s just the way it was, which he’d accepted ages ago. Still...after a man had been cooped up all day in a tediously monotonous hospital room, Rachel was like a burst of vital, vibrant stinging life.
Raindrops spattered everywhere as she stripped off her trench coat, revealing the suit and heels she’d worn to work. Knowing Rach, the suit couldn’t have cost much, but she had this way of wearing clothes that made everything look expensive and sharp. Not flaunty. She didn’t go for flashy styles that showed off her figure, yet typically this outfit was a subtle feast for his eyes. The suit was a soft cherry-red, with a slim skirt that palmed the curve of her fanny and a short jacket that bared a spot at her neck for jewelry. She did like her beads. Temporarily her tawny hair looked wind-tousled and shaggy—the way he liked it best—and framed a small face with giant blue eyes, an itsy nose and a generous, wide mouth. Rach hated the label of “cute,” but man, she was. Darling. Cute. Irresistible. Words Greg never used on a woman, vocabulary he never used at all. Except for her. In the privacy of his mind.
“I’ve been giving everybody hell,” he assured her. “One of these days, I figure it’ll work and they’ll throw me out of this place. But I didn’t expect to be venting any bad temper on you tonight. Didn’t you get the message on your answering machine? I called to tell you not to come.”
“Yeah, I got your message about the weather. I just ignored you, big guy. What, did you think I’d melt if I drove in a little rain?”
It wasn’t raining “a little.” A harmless drizzle had started around noon, putting a shine and glisten on all the orange and gold autumn leaves, but by nightfall, the friendly little rain had turned into a gusty, moody storm. If and when all that water iced up, the roads would turn into a skating rink. “You’re supposed to listen to the advice of your elders,” Greg said sternly.
Her peal of laughter was infectious. “You don’t get credit for being a mere three years older than me! And yeah, I know the roads may freeze, but the temperatures aren’t supposed to drop that low until midnight. The nurses’ll toss me out long before then.” She kicked off her wet heels and padded closer to the bed in her stocking feet, her gaze narrowed as she studied him. “Well, I can’t tell if they put you through any fresh torture today. Are you in pain?”
“Nope, I’m fine, really.”
She rolled her eyes. “You always say that. And I think all those white bandages are mysterious and sexy and all, but I’m awfully sick of not being able to see your face, Stoner. I can’t tell when you’re lying. I can’t tell when you’re hurting or happy or anything else....”
As far as Greg was concerned, the only good thing to come from the accident were the bandages. Yeah, they were annoying, but at least Rach couldn’t see his expressions. For a whole month now, he could look at her without worrying about giving away his true feelings for her.
“But you’re finally at the end of this torture setup. I know you have to be feeling raw after the surgery yesterday, but this is the last time the plastic surgeon plans to cut you, yes? Didn’t he promise? No more? So if you just heal from this sucker, you’re home-free. I don’t suppose they let you have solid food today?”
“No. And I’d rather have a cheeseburger right now than a million bucks. But at least that’s the only blackmail they’re still holding over my head. The minute I can keep down some solid food, I get to bump this pop stand and go home...only, that’s tough to pull off when nobody’s willing to bring me anything but a liquid dinner.”
Her soft eyes swam with sympathy. “Now, Stoner. You know the broken jaw thing was the toughest problem, but you’re on the total mend track now. It won’t be that much longer.” She shot him a teasing diamond-watt grin. “Although I’m not sure I’m going to recognize you when this is all over. A whole new face is only part of this. You’re practically down to skin and bones. No love handles. Only half of you to hug. We’re talking about a woman’s dream—you’ve lost so much weight that you’re going to need a giant shopping trip to buy all new clothes.”
Temporarily he couldn’t wince—but he wanted to. “You call that a dream? I call it a nightmare. I’d rather have chicken pox than shop. I’d rather eat liver. Hell, I’d rather do anything.”
Rachel perched a hip on the bed and pulled the hospital tray table between them. A deck of cards appeared in her hands. “Well, from the goodness of my heart, I’ll help keep your mind off your troubles. You prepared to lose the rest of your life savings tonight?”
“Are you gonna fleece a poor, disadvantaged invalid again?”
“Yup. In fact, while you’re on this losing streak, I think we should up the ante to maybe a dime a game instead of just a nickel.”
“There goes my retirement,” Greg said plaintively, and was rewarded with her rich throaty chuckle.
Rach shuffled with the flashy style of a Las Vegas hustler and then dealt the cards. He cheated so she’d win—but no more than three out of four hands. If she won them all, Greg figured she’d guess something was fishy, particularly since he was a comptroller and should have had some skill with numbers.
His bumbling ineptitude didn’t seem to trouble her, though, possibly because she loved winning. And since he loved watching her win, Greg considered them even. Tonight, besides, he really couldn’t concentrate on the cutthroat canasta game.
His ribs still screamed when he laughed. The broken arm itched. And in the beginning, the bandages swathing his head had aroused his sense of humor—he did look like a mummy in training—but they also constricted his sight and movement and he was sick of them now. What the plastic surgeon had cut—and recut—on his face over the last weeks had involved constant bruising and swelling, and their rebuilding his jaw had been the worst. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, could never just let down and relax because there was always some kind of pain nagging at him.
But he forgot all that while Rach was here.
Thunder boomed outside. Rain slashed against the windows, running down the glass in silver ribbons. Against that black night, Rachel’s skin looked pearl-soft and luminous, like a treasure a man felt compelled to protect—even if her eyes were full of the devil and she was unrepentantly trying to sneak a peek at his cards. “Are you saving aces over there, Stoner?”
“Like I’d tell you.”
“I think you are.” Again she peered into his eyes as if she could see the truth there. “You know I’m at a disadvantage because I can’t see your face, when you can see mine. So I think it’s only fair that you give me a hint whether you have an ace or two.”
“Fair? Fair! You’re talking to a man who’s lost for four nights running. I’ll tell you whether I have aces when hell freezes over.”
She sniffed. “Okay. When you get home, I was going to make you a big fat steak on the grill with French fries, because I thought that’d taste good after all the meals you’ve had to drink from a straw. But if you can’t even give me a teensy little hint—”
“God. You play just like a girl. Sneaky. Manipulative. Making low-down blackmail threats—”
“Yeah. So what’s your point?”
He let out an exhausted sigh. “I have aces. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Uh huh.” She