A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

FORTUNATELY, there were no broken bones, though the jagged cut that ran from Dean’s right shoulder almost down to his elbow required quite a few stitches. He left the emergency room of the small county hospital with his arm in a sling, his hip stinging from a tetanus shot, a bottle of painkillers in his left hand and the doctor’s long list of instructions still ringing in his ears.

His ruined sweatshirt had been cut away; his bare chest was covered only by the bandages and the woolen jacket he kept in his car.

His aunt hovered at his right side, guiding him as though he were a feeble old codger, he thought ruefully. Cara and Casey trailed behind them, their faces creased in almost identical expressions of concern. Cara drove Dean’s car, with Casey riding in the front passenger seat so that Dean and his aunt could share the back seat.

“I’ll be fine, Aunt Mae,” he assured her for at least the hundredth time. “It hurts like he—heck,” he hastily amended with a glance at Casey, “but it’s nothing permanent. You heard the doctor.”

“I heard him say how very lucky you were that the bench didn’t break your back or split your skull,” Mae retorted, clearly still badly shaken from the ordeal.

Dean nodded meaningfully in the direction of the little girl who was listening so intently in the front seat. “None of that happened, Aunt Mae,” he said firmly, “it was just an unfortunate accident, and I’ll be fine. But I want all of you to stay away from those old buildings, you hear? Now we know just how dangerous they are. Right, Casey?”

She nodded. “I won’t go near them, Mr. Gates,” she said fervently.

“Good girl.”

“Now you’ll have to hire someone to take them down,” Mae said with obvious satisfaction. “The doctor said you shouldn’t do any strenuous work with that arm for several weeks after the stitches are removed.”

“I’ll talk to the contractor tomorrow,” Dean conceded.

He rested his throbbing head against the back of his seat. Man, he was tired. And he ached all over. He knew that when all the painkillers wore off, his arm was going to hurt like a real son of a bitch. And he hated taking pills.

He wanted to know what had happened. How that potting bench had gotten into the loft when he knew damned well it hadn’t been there earlier. What had made those scraping sounds he’d heard just before the bench had crashed down on him and what had caused that thud moments later?

Maybe Anna would have some answers for him.

MAE AND CARA insisted that Dean go straight to bed when they got home, though Dean protested that he was perfectly capable of sitting in a chair. They wouldn’t hear of it, and once he was lying down, he was secretly relieved he’d given in.

They offered to bring him dinner on a tray, but he refused. His stomach was still too unsettled for solid food. He compromised by drinking a cup of bouillon. Aunt Mae didn’t leave him alone until she’d watched him take the painkillers the doc

tor had prescribed for him. Then, promising to check on him frequently, she tiptoed out of the room, turning out the overhead light and leaving only the dimmed bedside lamp to softly illuminate the room.

Dean waited for Anna to appear—or at least he tried to wait. Pain, exhaustion and the strong medication were combining to make him sleepy. It was all he could do to hold his eyes open, scanning the shadowy corners of his bedroom for any sign of his dark-eyed ghost.

Sleep won out. Dean closed his eyes and settled into the pillows with a deep sigh. He would talk to Anna later.

He slept heavily. He roused a time or two when his aunt came in to check on him, and he assured her each time that he was fine and that he’d call out if he needed her during the night. Cara tiptoed in once, shyly feeling his forehead and then insisting that he take another pill. He murmured a grudging thank-you and a firm good-night, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

His dreams were vivid, disturbing. Flashes of pain and that sense of helplessness he’d felt when he’d been pinned beneath the potting bench, alone in the shed, unable to move, not knowing whether anyone would find him before he bled to death. Memories of Anna, leaning over him, her voice broken as she’d cried out her inability to help him. Echoes of that shuffling, creaking noise above him just before Dean’s world had exploded in pain.

And then he dreamed of Anna. Her cool hands against his face. Her lips moving beneath his.

He shifted against the sheets, and his body throbbed with arousal now in addition to the underlying pain.

“Anna,” he murmured, holding her close in his dreams. “Anna.”

“Dean,” she whispered in return, her voice that musical, far-off litany that had haunted him, waking and dreaming.

She caressed his face, and then moved her hands to stroke his shoulders, his bare chest, his stomach. He stirred beneath her touch, groaning when his injured arm protested the movement.

“Lie still,” she murmured, gently holding him down. “I need to know you’re all right.”

“I’m okay,” he muttered, his tongue thick with sleep and the effects of medication. “Just—my arm.”

She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, just above the thick bandage. And then on the side of his throat. And on his chest, just above his right nipple.

Each kiss was like a tiny electrical charge. Not unpleasant. Tingly

He’d kicked off the thin sheet that had covered him, leaving him clad only in his briefs. Anna explored every exposed inch of him, finding every scratch, every bruise, anointing them with those fleeting, stimulating kisses. He could almost feel the energy stirring within him, as though she was transferring her own vibrancy to him.