A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

She left an all new kind of pain in her wake.

“Anna,” he said from between his teeth. “I want you.

Very lightly, she touched the swollen ridge beneath his briefs. “I know,” she murmured, her tone sad. “I wish—”

He reached for her. Then cursed when the movement made his arm scream in protest.

“Lie still,” she said quickly, touching his arm, encouraging him to rest it on the pillow his aunt had arranged beneath him. “You mustn’t strain your arm.”

He fought the encroaching drugged sleepiness. “Don’t go,” he muttered, struggling to focus, still unsure of whether he was awake or asleep. “Stay with me.”

She laid her fingertips against his lips. “I can’t. I have to go now.”

“No. I-I need-”

“Sleep,” she whispered. “You need sleep.”

“Anna—”

He felt something brush his lips again. He thought perhaps she’d kissed him.

Before he could respond, she was gone.

He groaned and covered his eyes with his good arm.

God help him, he’d fallen in love. With a ghost. Perhaps that was only fitting for a man who had never believed in either.

10

The course of true love never did run smooth.

—William Shakespeare

DEAN WAS in the sitting room the next afternoon, settled into an easy chair with a cup of tea and the newspaper, both of which he tried to juggle with his left hand. He wasn’t doing very well at it.

He couldn’t really concentrate on the newspaper, anyway. All he could think about was Anna.

Had she really come to him during the night, or had he dreamed her? Had she kissed him, touched him, or was it only the medication that had made his fantasies seem so real?

Was he really in love with her, or was this only desire, fueled by a long spell of celibacy? And if he did love her, what the hell was he supposed to do about it?

The telephone rang. He ignored it. It was answered by someone else in the house, but a moment later Casey appeared in the doorway.

“It’s for you, Mr. Gates,” she said, motioning toward the extension on the cherry-wood table at his left side.

“Thank you, Casey.”

She nodded and disappeared.

Folding the newspaper in his lap, Dean lifted the receiver. “Gates.”

“I hear you’ve done battle with a potting bench. And you lost.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Dean answered wryly, recognizing Mark’s voice.

“Seriously, Dean, are you all right? The local grapevine has you all but dead. One gossip-loving matron told me your arm had been amputated, though Cara assured me it wasn’t quite that serious.”

“Not nearly that serious.” Dean had noticed how Mark’s voice softened when he’d said Cara’s name. “You talked to Cara?”