“It’s a political thriller. Set in a dystopian surreal future.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“It is. It’s a take on Dante’s Inferno by a new writer who’s based in Seattle. Boyce Fox.” Ana’s eyes shine, animated with the thrill of a good book.
“I can’t wait to read it.”
She smiles and returns to her manuscript.
Smiling, I return to my collage.
A little later she gets up and wanders over to me, her expression hopeful. “Can we go back?”
“Of course.” I close my laptop, pleased with my photomontage of Mrs. Anastasia Grey.
“Will you drive?” she asks.
“Sure.” Taylor is visiting his daughter, and I’ve given Sawyer the day off.
“I want to grab a copy of The Oregonian on the way, so I can read Dad the sports page.”
“Good idea. I’m sure they’ll have one at reception. Let’s go.” I grab my jacket and my laptop, and we head out.
Ray lies peacefully asleep in his hospital bed, and it takes a few seconds for Ana and me to realize that he’s no longer on a ventilator. The repetitive, measured blast of air that had been his constant companion is no more; he’s breathing on his own. Ana’s face glows in relief. With infinite tenderness she strokes his stubbled chin and wipes his spittle with a tissue.
I look away.
I’m intruding. This wordless expression of love from a daughter to her father is too intimate for me to witness. I know Ray would be mortified if he knew I was standing here watching him at his most vulnerable. I stalk off to find one of his doctors for an update. Nurse Kellie and her colleague Liz are at the nurses’ station. “Dr. Sluder is in surgery.” Kellie picks up the phone. “She’s due out any minute. Do you want me to page her?”
“No. That’s fine. Thanks.” I leave both nurses and head back to the all-too-familiar waiting room. Again, I’m here alone; slumping into one of the chairs I open my laptop and pull up the latest iteration of my Ana collage. I’ve decided I want to add a few photographs from our wedding.
I’m completely absorbed in the task when Ana bursts into the room, dragging me from the screen. Her eyes are red-rimmed from fresh tears, but she’s brimming with elation. “He’s awake,” she exclaims.
Thank God. At last.
Setting aside my laptop, I stand up to embrace her. “How is he?”
She snuggles against my chest, her eyes closed, as she wraps her arms around me. “Talking, thirsty, bewildered. He doesn’t remember the accident at all.”
“That’s understandable. Now that he’s awake, I want to get him moved to Seattle. Then we can go home, and my mom can keep an eye on him.”
“I’m not sure he’s well enough to be moved.”
“I’ll talk to Dr. Sluder. Get her opinion.”
“You miss home?” Ana looks up at me.
“Yes.” Very much.
“Okay.” She smiles, and together we return to the ward, where we find Ray is sitting up in bed. He looks a little shell-shocked, and frankly embarrassed that I’m there.
“Ray. It’s good to see you back with us.”
“Thanks, Christian,” he grumbles. “Awful lot of trouble for you kids to be here.”
“Dad, it’s no trouble. We don’t want to be anywhere else.” Ana tries to reassure him.
Dr. Sluder joins us, bristling with efficiency. “Mr. Steele. Welcome back,” she says.
“You haven’t stopped smiling.” I tuck a strand of Ana’s hair behind her ear as she pulls up outside The Heathman in the R8.
“I’m very relieved. And happy.” She flashes me a smile.
“Good.” We climb out and Ana hands her keys to the valet. It’s getting darker and cooler and Ana shivers, so I drape my arm around her shoulders, and we wander into the hotel. From the foyer, I eye the Marble Bar. “Shall we celebrate?”
“Celebrate?” Ana frowns.
“Your dad.”
She chuckles. “Oh, him.”
“I’ve missed that sound.” I kiss her hair.
“Can we just eat in our room? You know, have a quiet night in?”
“Sure. Come.” Taking her hand, we walk to the elevators.
Ana devours her dinner. “That was delicious.” She pushes her plate away. “They sure know how to make a fine tarte tatin here.”
That they do, Ana. “That’s the most I’ve seen you eat the entire time we’ve been here.”
“I was hungry.” She sits back, replete, and it’s most gratifying to witness. She’s fresh and clean from our bath earlier and wearing nothing but my T-shirt and her panties. She’s all eyes and smiles and ponytail and legs…especially legs.
Lifting my glass of wine, I take a sip. “What would you like to do now?” I keep my tone gentle, and hopefully a little seductive. My iPod is playing some serene tunes in the background. I know what I want to do, but she’s had an emotional day.
“What do you want to do?”
Is this a trick question?
I raise a brow, amused. “What I always want to do.”
“And that is?”
“Mrs. Grey, don’t be coy.”
She purses her lips with her secret smile and, reaching across the table, grasps my hand and turns it over. With great care, she skates her index finger over my palm, which tingles in response. It’s an odd feeling that takes my breath away.
“I’d like you to touch me with this.” Her voice is low and provocative as her fingertip continues brushing over my index finger.
Her touch echoes. Everywhere.
Fuck.
I shift in my chair. “Just that?”
“Maybe this.” She traces a line along my middle finger and back to my palm. “And this.” She weaves a path up to my wedding ring. “Definitely this.” She stops, her finger pressed against my platinum ring. “This is very sexy.”
“Is it, now?”
“It sure is. It says ‘this man is mine.’”
Hell. I’m hard.
Yes. Ana. Yours.
Using her fingernail, she outlines the small callus that’s formed where my palm rubs against my ring, her eyes on mine. Her pupils dilate—the dark overcoming the bright blue.