* * *
The first thing Olivia became aware of when she woke was Xander’s face immediately in front of hers. His eyes were open, and his face so serious, so still, that for a split second she was afraid he’d remembered. But then his eyes warmed and he gave her that special half smile of his.
“Livvy?” he asked, lifting a hand to push a hank of hair off her face.
“Mm-mmm?”
“I love you.”
Her eyes widened and her heart went into overdrive. How long had it been since she’d heard those precious words from Xander’s lips? Far too long.
She turned her head so she could place a kiss in his palm. “I love you, too.”
She snuggled up closer to him, loving the fact she could.
“I mean it,” he said. “I was thinking about the accident and wondering when the last time was that I told you how much you mean to me. It frightened me to think it might have been a very long time ago, and that I might have died without ever telling you again.”
She was lost for words.
Xander continued. “And I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me? Why? I’m still your wife.” She gasped in a sharp breath. Would he pick up on the slip she’d made, referring to herself as still being his wife?
“You’ve been so patient with me since I was released from the hospital. I appreciate it.”
He leaned in a little closer until his lips touched hers in the sweetest of kisses. Olivia felt her body unfurl with response to his touch—her senses coming to aching life. She couldn’t help it; she kissed him back. Their lips melded to each other as if they had never been apart at all, their tongues—at first tentative, then more hungrily—meeting, touching and tasting. Rediscovering the joy of each other.
Xander’s hands skimmed her body, lingering on the curve of her waist, touching the swell of her breasts. Her skin grew tight, her nipples aching points of need pressing against the thin fabric of her bra. He palmed them, and fire licked along her veins. And with it an awareness that doing this with him was perpetuating another lie.
With a groan of regret, Olivia caught at his hands and gently eased them from her aching body. She wriggled away from him and swung herself into an upright position. Drawing in a deep breath, she cast a smile at him across her shoulder.
“If that’s how you show your appreciation, remind me to do more for you,” she said, injecting a note of flippancy into her voice that she was far from feeling.
“Come back,” he urged.
She looked at him, took in the languorous look in his eyes, the fire behind them that burned just for her. Even in their darkest days, they’d still had this physical connection between them. A spark that wouldn’t be doused. A need that only each other could fulfill.
“I wish I could, but I’ve got work to do,” she said, getting to her feet and straightening her clothing. “You stay in bed though. You’re still a bit too pale for my liking. How’s the head?”
“It’s fine,” Xander replied, also getting up.
As Olivia went to leave the room, he stepped in front of her. “Livvy, stop. You won’t break me if we make love.”
“I know, and I...I want to—don’t get me wrong. I just think it’s too soon for you, and on top of your headache, as well—” She broke off as the phone rang.
Grateful beyond belief for the interruption, she dived for the phone next to the bed.
“It’s the gallery,” she whispered to Xander, covering the mouthpiece once she identified who it was. “I’ll be a while.”
He gave her a piercing look, one that reminded her all too much of the determined man he’d been, and then turned and left the room. Olivia sagged back onto the edge of the bed, her pulse still beating erratically, her mind only half engaged with the gallery owner’s conversation. She must have said all the right things in all the right places because the twenty-minute call seemed to satisfy the gallery owner’s queries.
After replacing the phone on the bedside table, Olivia reached out and smoothed the covers of the bed. The indentations of where they’d been lying together were easily erased. If only it was as easy to erase the demand that beat like an insistent drum through her body. Sure, she could have given in to him, but the sense of right and wrong that had made her pull away still reared up in the back of her mind.
It would be unfair to make love with him when he didn’t know about their past—about the problems that had driven them apart two years ago. She’d been a fool to think she could live in a make-believe world where the past never happened and everything was still perfect between them. She did love him, deeply, and that was more than half the problem. If she didn’t, she would have been able to take advantage of his overture to make love, would have been able to lose herself in his skillful touch and the delirium of his possession without guilt holding her back.