THE MORNING SIDE OF DAWN Read online

  He tossed the towel around his neck, then grabbed the loose ends with his hands. Maybe he'd still felt guilty for making those assumptions about her, he thought. But he'd apologized for that, and she'd accepted. So why had he stayed? Why had he probed until she'd told him what she hadn't even told Chase?

  Chase. That was it. It had to be. Next to Sean, Chase was the closest thing Dar had to a brother. The closest thing to any family at all. And Cassie was Chase's sister. With Chase gone, and Sean rightfully preoccupied, the only one left here to deal with Cassie's problem was him.

  An odd wariness filled him. He'd never felt this way before, never had anyone to feel this way about. Never had a connection with anyone before, not one that made him feel somehow … responsible. Was this what a family was? He didn't know; the feeling was utterly foreign to him. Was this what it meant when they said families should stick together? If so, he wasn't sure he liked it. In fact, he was fairly sure he didn't. He didn't want to be responsible for anyone. Especially Cassie.

  But he had to admit he admired her determination to deal with this herself. He knew she was right, that Chase would probably cut his vacation short and come home if he felt his sister was in any kind of danger. And Sean would feel he had to take care of her, when right now Rory needed him. Cassie was like her brother—and himself—in that, it seemed; she didn't ask for help easily. And not at all if she thought it would cost someone too much.

  He lifted one hand to shove the sweat-dampened hair back from his face. And froze midmotion at the sound of a car on the gravel part of the drive. His mouth twisting into a grimace, he began to wheel toward the door; he'd had more company in the past three days than he'd had in the past month.

  When he got close enough to look out the window and saw the little red convertible pulling to a stop, he felt an odd rash of apprehension. He glanced down at himself. He wore only a pair of nylon shorts; the altered bindings of the ski machine were padded and lined for use with bare skin. And while the surgeon who had tidied up the mangled mess left by a speeding freight train had done a very nice job, there was no denying that it wasn't the most pleasant of sights to the inexperienced eye. It didn't bother him anymore, but he'd had a lot of years to get used to it. He glanced at the car again in time to see Cassie opening the door, and wondered if he had enough time to change into more concealing sweats.

  Anger suddenly flooded through him, anger at himself. What the hell was he thinking of? He'd given up protecting the sensibilities of the world long ago. This was what he was, and if anyone didn't like it, they could just get the hell out. And that included Ms. Supermodel. He spun around and yanked the door open and wheeled out onto the porch just as Cassie came running up the steps.

  With one look at her face, his anger drained away.

  She stopped dead in her tracks on the porch. She stared at him. Not at his legs, but at his bare chest and belly. Then she swiftly shifted her gaze to his face, the faintest wash of color in her cheeks the only sign of any disconcertedness.

  It was that rise of color that proved to him he hadn't been wrong in his assessment after that first glimpse of her. She'd been pale, much paler than he remembered this morning.

  "What's wrong?" he asked abruptly, forgoing the small talk he knew he wasn't any good at anyway.

  "I … I'm sorry to bother you again, but…"

  Her voice trailed away, and she looked as if she wished herself anywhere but there. He tended to have that effect on women, he acknowledged to himself ruefully. His looks might attract them initially, but they soon realized he wasn't worth the effort.

  "It's all right." It came out a little gruffly, and he tried again. "What's wrong?" he repeated.

  It was a measure of her upset, he supposed, that she stayed instead of taking to her heels at his tone. And that she sank down to sit on the top step of the porch, so that, for once, he was looking down at her. He was used to having to look up at people, especially since the lightweight everyday chair he used was much lower than the typical hospital-type chair, but Cassie was also taller than most women and a lot of men he knew. He wondered if she'd done it intentionally.

  "I … got a letter," she said at last. "At Chase's office."

  "A letter?" His brow furrowed for a moment. Then it hit him. "From Willis?"

  She nodded, looking almost grateful that he'd remembered.

  "At Chase's office?"

  She nodded again. "It was in with his mail. Addressed to me, in care of Cameron and Associates."

  His forehead creased again. "How does he know Chase's office address?"

  She sighed. "I spent most of the afternoon trying to figure that out for the police. The only thing I can think of is an article they did on me in one of the fashion magazines a couple of years ago. It mentioned Chase, and that he was an in-demand architect in San Diego."

  Dar considered that, then nodded. "It wouldn't be that hard to find an architect named Cameron in San Diego."

  He saw her let out a breath. Then he sucked in a breath of his own as she caught her lower lip between her teeth and gently worried it. Heat cascaded through him, catching him completely off guard. It had been longer than he could remember since he'd felt anything like this. Hell, he wasn't sure he'd ever felt anything like this. He was glad she wasn't looking at him; he knew he must be wearing a completely stunned expression. But even his shock wasn't enough to cool the sudden heat; if he didn't get a handle on this, these thin nylon shorts weren't going to be much help in disguising his response.

  It was only the absurdity of his reacting this way to a woman millions of men lusted after—and the fact that she was so troubled—that enabled him to finally rein in his unexpected response. Still, it was a moment before he trusted himself to speak.

  "What was in the letter?"

  She sighed, a quiet, breathy little sound that did nothing to help him forget the heat that had just swamped him.

  "Just the same stuff. That he thinks I'm wonderful. Precious. That he worries about me working too hard. Will I please just talk to him. That kind of thing."

  She stopped, but her forehead creased as if she were considering saying more. After a moment, he spoke again.

  "And?"

  She hesitated.

  "You've told me this much, you might as well finish it."

  "That's just it. I don't know if there's anything more. It's just that this time…"

  When she trailed off again, Dar suppressed an exasperated sigh of his own. "This time what?" he prodded.

  Cassie's gaze shot to his face. Her mouth quirked. "Now you know how people feel trying to talk to you."

  He drew back slightly, instinctively starting to stiffen up. But he couldn't deny the truth of what she'd said. So he ignored it.

  "We're not talking about me. What did he say in this letter that's different?"

  She hesitated again, then the words came out in a rush. "That he wants to take care of me. Forever."

  Dar's brows lowered. "Take care of you?"

  She nodded. "I know it doesn't sound like much, but that's the first time he's ever said anything like that."

  "It could be innocent. Or it could be a sign that he's taken another step. Headed for crossing the line."

  Cassie's relief was evident as she looked at him. "Yes! That's exactly how I felt."

  "'Take care of you' could mean a lot of things. So could 'forever.' What did the sheriff say?"

  She sighed. "The deputy was very nice. He read me the California stalking law. It says there has to be a pattern, 'continuity of purpose,' I think it said, and that it has to be threatening." Her mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "I guess I'm not afraid enough yet."

  "So they didn't do anything?"

  "It's not their fault," Cassie said. "He hasn't threatened me, or really done anything to scare me. He just makes me nervous."

  "The fact that he found you here is enough to make anybody nervous."

  She gave him a sideways look. "The deputy agreed with that. So he took a repor
t, and booked the letter as evidence. Then he told me about restraining orders."

  Dar let out a disgusted snort. "Even if you got one, he'd have to be served with it and then violate it before they could do anything. They can't station somebody on your doorstep just in case he decides to break it."

  To his amazement, she suddenly smiled, a smile that first took his breath away, then sent an echo of that earlier heat rushing through him.

  "Thank you," she said.

  He barely managed to speak. "For what?"

  "I knew you wouldn't give me that sweet but condescending 'Don't worry about it' pitch that everyone else does. I think that's why I came here."

  His mouth quirked. "People don't come to me for sweetness and light, you're right about that."

  "Sometimes sweetness and light aren't what people need."

  "Maybe I should rephrase that. People don't generally come to me at all."

  She paused before suggesting, "And that's how you prefer it?"

  Something about the way she was looking at him made him uneasy. And all too aware that her gaze had occasionally shifted, drifting over his bare chest. He'd be flattered, were it not for the fact that he knew she worked with some of the best-looking men in the world, and he couldn't help wondering if she was comparing.

  "I work damn hard at keeping it that way," he said, more abruptly than he'd meant to.

  "Why?"

  "Why do you think?"

  Her gaze lowered to his legs. For the first time in a very long time, he truly wanted to hide them. As it had when she'd arrived, the urge disturbed him, and he fought it as he watched her face, searching for some clue about what she was thinking as she studied what remained of his legs.

  At last she lifted her head and met his eyes. Steadily, unwaveringly. With no trace of pity or distaste, two emotions he had learned to read even in those who hid it well.

  "I know what you'd like me to think," she said slowly. "You'd like me to believe it's because of this." She made a gesture that included him and his chair. "But I don't think it really is."

  "Maybe you should think again," he said with a hint of anger; she was probing too close to the bone, and he didn't like it.

  "Maybe," she admitted easily. "After all, what do I know about what it's been like for you?"

  His gaze narrowed as she spoke, using what was a bottom-line defense for many—the reminder that no one who hadn't been through it really knew what it was like to wake up one day to find a quarter of your body gone. He wondered if she'd said it intentionally, thinking she'd beat him to it. It should have blunted his irritation, he supposed, but it seemed to feed it instead.

  "I do know a little about what Sean went through," she said. "I can only imagine how much worse it was for you."

  "Feeling sorry for me?" The caustic question was out before he could stop it.

  Cassie leaned back a little. She looked him over again, slowly, assessingly, from his face to his chest, then to his arms, and down to his belly. He felt her gaze as if she were brushing him with a feather, and his skin tingled in response.

  "Hardly," she said, with a throaty undertone to her voice that only intensified the odd sensation. She looked startled for a moment, as if surprised to hear what her voice had sounded like. When she spoke again, it was almost hastily. "Besides, you're a hero."

  Dar let out a disgusted breath. "Hardly," he muttered, aware only after he'd said it that he'd echoed what she had said.

  "Sean told me what happened."

  "Like I said, Sean talks too much."

  "He also said you hate it when people call you that."

  "He's right."

  "Why? It's true. You saved those boys who fell right in front of that train—"

  He swore under his breath, low and harsh, cutting her off. He grabbed the right push rim, ready to spin and wheel away, but swore again when his still-sweaty hand slipped.

  "I think Sean understated it," Cassie said mildly, not reacting at all to his cursing.

  Dar stopped in the act of tightening his grip on the push rim, and stared at her.

  "What does it take to drive you away?"

  Cassie met his gaze evenly. "Was that what you were trying to do?"

  She said it so innocently, as if she were merely curious, that he couldn't help the sound of disbelief that escaped him. When she unexpectedly laughed, for the second time since she'd arrived he felt his anger drain away. His mouth twisted ruefully.

  "You're as tough as your brother, aren't you?"

  "Let's just say I've dealt with some of the most temperamental people on the planet," she said. "But I admit, I didn't realize I needed to treat you like you were one of them."

  Abashed, he let out a compressed breath. "I…" He stopped, not sure what, if anything, there was left to say. How could he deny it, when deep in his gut he knew it was true? Knew that he'd purposely cultivated that prickly demeanor to keep the world at a distance?

  He couldn't deny it, so he didn't try. But he couldn't quite do what he'd intended, either—couldn't quite turn his back on her and wheel away. He lifted his hand from the push rim and searched for something conciliatory to say.

  "What are you going to do now?" he finally asked. "About the letter, I mean."

  She didn't answer for a moment, and he wondered if she was deciding whether to accept the abrupt change of subject.

  "Nothing, I suppose," she said at last, as if they were simply continuing the discussion. "I've reported it to the police and they've done all they can. I don't see any point in going through the hassle of getting a restraining order in this county when I don't know how long I'll be here. And like you said, I'd have to serve him, and even if I did, they can't station somebody on my doorstep twenty-four hours a day just in case." She sighed. "I'm just glad he hasn't discovered where I live, not yet, anyway."

  She turned her head to look out at the lagoon, sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. It gave Dar a chance to look at her in a way he never had. The first time he'd seen her, he'd been too shocked by the realization that the supermodel of the past three years was Chase's sister, and that she was, incredibly, flirting with him, to really look at her. Besides, he hadn't needed to look; just about everybody in the entire country—if not the world—knew what she looked like, recognized that thick mane of dark hair and those vivid green eyes. And the single name, because she needed no other.

  But then she had been only Cassandra to him, the image she'd been so quick to repudiate. Somehow she seemed different now. Or maybe he was just beginning to see her differently. Not as Cassandra, not even just as Chase's sister, but as Cassie, who was not only beautiful but had a quick mind, was far too observant for his comfort and who had a laugh that could drive a saint to distraction.

  And Dar Cordell knew damn well he was no saint.

  "It's lovely here," she murmured, barely loud enough for him to hear. He forced himself to stop staring at that perfect profile, at the soft curve of her lips, the delicate yet determined chin, the barely tilted line of her nose, the soft, thick sweep of her lashes.

  "Yes," he agreed, grateful that his voice sounded only a bit thick, considering the turn his thoughts had suddenly taken.

  "No wonder you don't invite visitors."

  "I seem to be getting them anyway," he said before he thought how it would sound. She turned to look at him again, and he put his hands up, palms outward. "I didn't mean anything by it. Just that it's been a little … busy lately."

  "Relatively speaking?"

  "Relatively speaking," he said dryly, "it's been Grand Central Station around here."

  She laughed, and to his own amazement he found himself smiling back at her. She stopped, looking startled, and his smile became a rather sheepish one. He really must have become a pain if a simple smile from him was so astonishing.

  "I'm sorry, Dar," she said.

  The sound of her saying his name sent an odd little ripple through him, and for a moment he couldn't find the words to ask her what she was sorr
y about. Then she told him.

  "I shouldn't have intruded on you, but this was the only place I could think of to come. You already knew, and—"

  He found his voice then, and interrupted her gently. "It's all right."

  He found he meant it, and that surprised him more than anything else had today … except for that moment when his long-dormant libido had sprung unexpectedly to life. That and the fact that he'd spent the entire afternoon talking with her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd talked to anybody, outside of Sean, for that long. That it was this woman made it even more unbelievable.

  She studied him for a moment before saying, "Well, at least let me pay you back for listening to my tale of woe. How about I go get a pizza or something?"

  He raised a brow. "Supermodels eat pizza?"

  "I'm not a supermodel. Not this week, anyway." One corner of her mouth twisted. "I'll make it a large pizza. Pepperoni?"

  He meant to say no. He had his mouth open to do it. But somehow "okay" came out instead. And when she grinned at him, he couldn't bring himself to change it.

  "Got beer?" she asked cheerfully. "Gotta have beer with pizza."

  "You really are living dangerously," he said, responding to her mood without really realizing it. "Yes, I've got beer."

  And the next thing he knew he was wheeling into his bathroom to flip on the shower, to clean up before sharing a pizza with a woman half the men in the world would kill to get close to. The celebrated, perfect Cassandra, and a guy a lot of people couldn't even bear to look at. It was so preposterous he nearly laughed out loud.

  "Keep laughing, Cordell," he muttered to himself as he stripped off his shorts and levered himself out of the wheel-locked chair and onto the small plastic seat built into the wall of the shower enclosure. He grabbed the handheld shower and directed the blast of warm water down over his shoulders. "Just keep laughing, and don't get any stupid ideas."