Bewitched: In Too Deep. Lori Foster
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cleared her throat. His biceps were large and thick and she knew even both her hands wouldn’t circle him completely. She lightly caressed him and her breathing hitched. She was so damn ignorant about this sort of thing. “Harry, I really do appreciate all you did tonight. Not that I couldn’t have handled it on my own—”
“But it was nice to have the company? My sentiments exactly.”
She tilted her head, searching for the right words. This entire situation was awkward for her, because she’d never really wanted anyone before. “I know you said you don’t want to get involved, and I feel the same way.”
His entire expression softened. “Charlie—”
“No, you don’t need to explain. I understand. But…”
“But what?”
His voice was low, the words gentle. She could feel him looking down at her, and so she mustered her courage, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “But I want you. There. I said it.”
He stared, shock plain on his face, and she took advantage of it, throwing herself against him. She felt his arms automatically catch her, and she kissed him while his mouth was still open in surprise. He was motionless only a moment, then he turned, pinned her to the wall, and with a low deep groan, proceeded to kiss her silly.
CHAPTER SIX
HARRY ENTERED the hospital with his heart in his throat and his pulse racing. The day, which had begun with no indications of a catastrophe, continued to slide rapidly downhill. Actually, he thought, he was well into a new day. Surely things would begin improving, surely Dalton would be all right.
A nurse directed him to the CCU, or coronary care unit, and the name alone made Harry break out in a sweat. A heart attack, Dalton had suffered a heart attack. He felt sick with anxiety and throbbing guilt.
It took him mere seconds to reach the right room, and as soon as he was close enough, he could hear Dalton complaining. He increased his pace, rushed into the room, then came to a standstill.
Dalton, pale and obviously agitated, was in a sterile white bed, oxygen hooked up to his nose, other apparatus connected in various places. He fought to sit up while a nurse struggled to keep him still. Harry drew himself up and said, “What is going on here?”
The nurse looked at him with utter and complete relief, then asked hopefully, “Harry Lonnigan?”
“Yes.” He stepped forward and nudged her out of the way, giving Dalton a glare. “Be still.”
Dalton rested back with a smile.
The nurse heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. “He needs to be resting, but he was insistent on seeing you. I told him we’d left a message for you, but when you couldn’t be reached, he wanted to get out of bed and try calling you himself—”
“I’m sorry for the delay. The storm knocked out my answering machine and I didn’t receive any message.” He frowned at Dalton. “I called your house and the housekeeper told me what happened. I got here as quickly as I could.”
Dalton gripped his hand. “She contacted me, Harry.”
Harry looked down at the man he loved like a father and winced. Dalton was still good-looking at fifty-nine, tall, lean, with only a smidge of gray mixed in with his dark hair. He’d always looked so vital to Harry, but now, he looked shrunken and frail. “Who contacted you?”
“My daughter.”
Everything in Harry jolted. His wits jumped about hither and yon, his heart thumped. He cast a quick glance at the nurse, then squeezed Dalton’s hand. To the nurse he asked, “Can I speak with you in just a moment? I’d like to be updated—”
She patted Harry’s arm. “Get your father settled, then come out. I’ll be at the nurses’ station. But please—” and she bent a warning look on Dalton “—he needs to be still and calm.”
Harry nodded. “I’ll see to it. And thank you.”
The nurse went out, closing the door behind her. Harry hadn’t bothered explaining to her that Dalton wasn’t his father. In all the most important ways, he’d been the only father Harry knew.
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