“You—” I swallowed the boulder that had suddenly lodged in my throat. “You went to my apartment?”
He didn’t address me immediately. He stowed my things in the cabinet near me so that I would be able to get to them if I wanted, then tucked the suitcase into the utilitarian closet. “Yes, I did.”
My heart tried to thump its way out of my ribcage. If I were going to have a heart attack, and it looked like I was, this was the place to do it. He had been to my apartment. He must have seen my work.
He had my suitcase.
He had been in my closet. Chances were pretty good he had seen the portrait of himself.
Why, oh, why hadn’t I burned that damned thing instead of practically praying to it every night and obsessing over it endlessly? It had become my icon, my idol—and it should have been smashed to pieces long ago. Instead, he had seen it, seen himself through my eyes and my naked desire for him played out in his own features.
Eager to be deferred from the topic that was seething between us like a chasm full of hot lava, I asked the first question that came into my mind. “How did you get into my apartment? I don’t remember giving you a key…” Then I answered my own question. “I didn’t realize you’d kept the one I gave you so long ago.”
Anthony’s eyebrows rose automatically in surprise at that simple answer, but then he pasted a blasé look on his face, saying in an overly casual way, “Oh, yeah, I kept it.”
* * *
Anthony
I approached her and kissed her as gently as a soft breeze, then took up my usual residence—the subtly torturous hospital chair.
Before I delved into what I wanted to talk to her about, I asked quietly, “How are you? Is there anything I can get you? When did you have your last pain meds?” I wasn’t about to let her be a brave little soldier about being in pain even if I had to give her the shots myself.
“They just gave it to me. I was hurting, and I asked for it.”
“Good girl,” I praised. “At this point, you’re healing and you don’t need to be in pain. If—when—they make you do PT, then you’ll have to shake hands with it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
A relatively comfortable silence fell between us, until I said, “You’re an incredible artist.”
Raychel drew a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“You have enough canvases. You should have a show.”
She was shaking her head, very slowly, very carefully, back and forth.
“Why not?”
“No interest. I paint for myself, not anyone else.”
“No one says that has to change.”
“I don’t want a show.”
Despite her insistence, my gut was telling me that wasn’t the truth. Raychel was remarkably talented, but she was also extremely shy. It was just fear holding her back from pursuing her dream, and I wasn’t about to let her hide either herself or her incredible art from her peers. But I would come back to that battle eventually. “Who’s Christopher?”
Raychel frowned. “How do you know about Christopher?”
I watched her reaction carefully when I had said his name. She looked surprised and puzzled, but not alarmed in any way. If he was someone she was involved with, then she should have looked a lot more worried that I had discovered this secret lover or interest.
A lot more worried, because I was going to kill him if he was.
“He left a message on your answering machine.” I couldn’t get my voice above an angry growl.
Raychel tried to smile, although it looked as if it pained her to do so.
I was stunned. She was smiling—or trying for a reasonable facsimile thereof. What was going on?
“Christopher Maddox is a very good friend of mine, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t look like you want to throttle him with both hands.”
“Just a friend?” I ground out.
“Just a friend. A very, very good, close friend.”
“How close?” I had never met this supposedly close friend of hers.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t have to justify or explain my friendships to you, Anthony.”
Fine. I wouldn’t push. At least not yet.
“Why did you leave me last night?”
When I was talking about Christopher, she’d met me head on, even though hers wasn’t in the best shape right now. She stood up to me, quietly, but didn’t back down. But when it came to her behavior last night, she turned away from me. I could see her fidgeting with the blanket, rubbing it with her fingers as if she were trying to grind the fabric into a fine pulp.
“Was it that bad?” I asked, only half kidding.
She turned back toward me, too quickly, and winced. “No, no, of course not. It was wonderful. It was fantastic—”
“I’m sorry for falling asleep right after we had sex. I shouldn’t have. I should have stayed awake and cuddled or something. That’s just not me, but you deserve more. But I was just exhausted, not that that’s an excuse—”