He sounded so confident that Faith let herself believe him, because the alternative was unbearable.
Trying not to think about that, she asked, "What about family? Do I have any family?"
"Miss Leighton told us you have no family in Atlanta. There was a sister, I understand, but I believe both she and your parents were killed some years ago."
Faith wished she felt something about that. "And I'm single. Do I... Is there..."
"I'm sure you must have dated," he said kindly, "but evidently there was no one special, at least not in the last few months. You've had no male visitors, no cards or letters, and only Miss Leighton sent flowers, as far as I'm aware."
So she was alone, but for this remarkably good friend.
She felt alone, and considerably frightened.
He saw it. "Everything seems overwhelming right now, I know. it's too much to process, too much to deal with. But you have time, Faith. There's no need to push yourself, and no reason to worry. Take it step by step."
She drew a breath. "All right. What's the first step? "
"We get you up on your feet and moving." He smiled and rose from the chair. "But not too fast. Today, we'll have you gradually sit up, maybe try standing, and monitor your reaction to that. We'll see how your stomach reacts to a bit of solid food. How's that to start?"
She managed a smile. "Okay."
"Good." He squeezed her hand and released it, then hesitated.
Seeing his face, she said warily, "What?"
"Well, since you might want to read the newspapers or watch television to catch up on things, I think I should warn you about something."
"About what?"
"Your friend Miss Leighton. She's been missing for about two weeks."
"Missing? You mean she she stopped coming to visit me?"
There was sympathy in his dark eyes. "I mean she disappeared. She was reported missing, and though her car was found abandoned some time later, she hasn't been seen since."
Faith was surprised by the rush of emotions she felt.
Confusion. Shock. Disappointment. Regret. And, finally, a terrible pain at the knowledge that she was now completely alone.
Dr. Burnett patted her hand, but seemed to realize that no soothing words would make her feel better. He didn't offer any, just went away quietly.
She lay there staring up at the white, blank ceiling, which was as empty as her mind.
He laughed at her, the sound rich with amusement.
"Well, bow was I to know you couldn't boil water without ruining the pot?"
"I just forgot," she defended herself with spirit. "I had more important things on my mind."
He shook his head, fair hair gleaming like spun gold and a wry expression on his handsome face. "To be honest, I'm glad there are a few things you don't do well. If you were Perfect, I wouldn't know how to cope. "
She reached out a hand and touched his face, the backs of her fingers stroking downward in a quick caress. Her hands were strong and beautiful, well kept, the neat oval nails polished a vivid red. She felt the slight bristle of his evening beard, a scratchiness that was familiar and pleasant, even erotic. It made her breath catch at the back of her throat, and her voice emerged more husky than she had expected.
"I may not be Perfect, but I'm starving. And since I ruined dinner, I thought maybe we could go out."
"Only if you're buying," he said, still humorous even though his eyes darkened in response to what he heard in her voice. "I refuse to buy dinner for a woman who ruined three pots and really stunk up my kitchen.
"You needed new pots anyway, she said, and danced away, laughing, when he lunged at her. But she didn't try too hard to escape, and when his hands were on her, strong and sure and exciting, she let herself melt against him. Their bodies fit together as though they'd been designed to, and his mouth on hers was still a shock of wild, overwhelming pleasure, instantly seductive. But as always, the warning voice in her bead told her not to yield completely, to hold back something of herself because she knew how this would end, she knew it. And as always, she ignored the warning and reached eagerly for what he offered.
A burst of heat raced through her and her heart began to pound, and when his hands slid down her back to curve over her bottom and hold her even tighter against him...
Faith woke with a start, shaken yet also exultant.
There was a man in her life. Or had been.
She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the image of his face, pleased when it rose easily an vividly in her mind. That gleaming, spun-gold hair, a little longer than the current fashion, even a bit shaggy — and decidedly sexy. Gray eyes steady and intelligent, going silvery with laughter. Firm, humorous mouth, determined jaw. Deep, strong voice.
And the way he'd looked at her ... Faith shivered and opened her eyes, realizing that her cheeks were hot and she was smiling helplessly, that the quiver deep inside her was something other than fear and panic. She swore she could smell the cologne he used, that pleasant scent mixed with the sharper, clean fragrance of soap.
Then that sensory memory abandoned her, leaving only his face distinct in her mind. She held on to it — fiercely.
Her room was quiet but for the murmur of the television, tuned to CNN.
She was almost sitting up, the head of the bed raised because she'd been looking through magazines before she'd suddenly fallen asleep.
She still did that sometimes, even though it had been almost a week since she'd come out of the coma. Days of painful transition, of moving from a patient who was bedridden and totally dependent on the nursing staff to one slowly and cautiously reclaiming independence.
Small movements had required a great effort at first, and walking even more so. Her muscles were weak and slow to obey her, though daily physical therapy was gradually changing that. Her blood pressure had stabilized, but her stomach still had trouble with solid foods.
The removal of the feeding tube had been surprisingly painless and would leave only a tiny scar, but having the catheter taken out had not been pleasant.
Three days ago she had actually made it into the bathroom on her own, and had spent long minutes staring into the mirror at a face she didn't know. A thin, pale face, framed by mostly straight, dull red hair that fell just below her shoulders. Her green eyes were very clear and strong, but the remainder of her features struck her as less than memorable. Straight nose, generous mouth, determined chin.
Some might call her pretty, perhaps.
She had discovered that she was only a few inches over five feet, very slender, and fine boned. She had small breasts and virtually no hips — minimal curves at best. She thought her legs were okay, or would be once they began to hold her up for more than a few minutes at a time.
Yesterday morning she had taken a long, luxurious bath, and though a nurse had had to help her dry her hair afterward because she'd used up all her strength, the results had been worth it. She felt much better.
As for her hair, the dull red had become a rich auburn, which made her pale face look luminous.
It was a face, she thought now, that in lit attract a handsome man with gleaming blond hair. A man with intelligent gray eyes and a way of leveling them when he spoke that said he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
What was his name? And if they were so involved that physical intimacy had been very much a part of the relationship, why had he never come to visit her?
That bothered her. A lot. But the flowers from Dinah Leighton continued to arrive once a week, even after her own disappearance.
Faith had gotten up the nerve to call the florist and had found that the order had been paid ahead for another week.