The Rebel's Return (14 page)

B
eing rich enough to buy just about everything and everyone in Mission Creek had its advantages. Being able to promise huge endowments to the hospital opened doors for Maddie, allowing her privileges often denied others. She had kept a vigil at Dylan's bedside in the surgical intensive care unit after a bullet had been removed from his shoulder, although visitors weren't generally allowed except at posted times throughout the day. And twelve hours later, when the doctors deemed it safe, Maddie had Dylan moved into the deluxe suite at Mission Creek Memorial. Decorated more like an elegant bedroom with an attached sitting room, the suite boasted cherry furniture, a camelback sofa that made out into a double bed and two Queen Anne wing chairs, as well as a small cherry table and two straight-back chairs for dining.

As Maddie sat at Dylan's bedside watching him devour his first substantial meal—prepared and delivered by Thelma Hewitt—she thanked God for the millionth time that Dylan's injuries hadn't been fatal. No thanks to her. He'd been shot trying to protect her. She felt like a complete idiot, which of course she was. But
even Dylan agreed that when all was said and done, she'd done the right thing. By that he had not meant her following him to the rodeo arena; he'd meant her last-minute phone call to Hart.

When she'd called Dylan a hero, he'd said gruffly, “Hart O'Brien is the real hero. Phoning him was a smart move, Maddie. If he hadn't shown up when he did…”

Maddie didn't want to think about what would have happened if Hart hadn't arrived at the rodeo arena, along with four other police officers, only minutes after both Dylan and Gerri had been shot.

“Stop frowning, Red,” Dylan said. “Your face might freeze like that.”

She offered him a feeble smile. “Hart phoned while you were in the bathroom. He's coming over.”

“Big news? Why don't you go ahead and tell me what you know?” With his good arm Dylan pushed his empty plate to the side of the portable tray, then shoved the tray away from the bed. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged and his arm taped to his chest.

“If I had my way, Hart would wait until you're fully recovered to—”

“I took a slug in the shoulder,” Dylan said. “I'll be as good as new in a week or so. Honey, you've got to stop trying to protect me from the world, from anything that might be the slightest bit unpleasant. I'm a grown man. Big and strong. Or at least getting
stronger by the minute. And I'm mostly in my right mind. I don't need a caretaker.”

Maddie nodded. When tears welled up in her eyes, she turned away from him.

Dylan grabbed her wrist. “I don't need a caretaker. But I need a friend…and a lover.”

She turned back to him, tears trickling down her face, and forced herself to smile.

“I do need you, sweet Maddie.” He tugged on her wrist; she eased toward the bed. “I just don't need you to be my mother or my nurse or my bodyguard. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Speaking of bodyguards, how's Gerri today?” he asked.

“She's still in intensive care, but they're hoping to move her into a private room tomorrow.”

When Dylan tugged again, she moved closer. He released her and patted the side of the bed. She sat down beside him, being careful not to jostle him. He circled her waist with his arm.

“I want you to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Gerri and me,” Dylan told her.

“Whom should I blame?”

“Blame fate. Blame me. Blame the guy who tried to kill us. But do not blame yourself.”

“But I'm the one who nearly got us—” Tears lodged in her throat.

“You thought you were doing the right thing. Ac
tually by calling Hart, you saved all our lives. And if I'd been smart, I'd have contacted Hart when I received that first phone call. You tried to convince me to let the police in on what was going on.”

She gazed at him lovingly. “Here you are recuperating from a gunshot wound, lying in a hospital bed, and you're the one comforting me. Don't we have our roles reversed?”

“Nah.” He grinned. “Comforting is a two-way street. You've been doing your share lately.” Dylan slipped his hand around the back of her neck and urged her downward until her lips hovered over his. “How long do we have before Hart shows up?” he asked, his lips brushing hers as he spoke.

Maddie sucked in her breath. “You're in no shape for any hanky-panky. Besides, Hart's due any minute now.”

The suite door opened. “Hart's here, so whatever you two were about to do will have to wait.”

Dylan chuckled. “I was just trying to talk Nurse Maddie into giving me a sponge bath.”

Hart grinned. “She can clean you up later. But for now I thought you might want me to bring you up to date on several items of interest.”

Maddie eased off the bed and into a nearby chair. Hart stood at the foot of the bed.

“Shoot,” Dylan said, then winced and chuckled. “Poor choice of words.”

“Well, our shooter—a Mr. Alex Black—is behind
bars. Arrested for the murder of Carl Bridges and the murder of Manuel Torrez, the guy who stole the gun from the crime lab.”

“How did you know? What proof do y'all have?” Dylan asked. “Will it stand up in court?”

“Manuel Torrez, a member of the janitorial staff who cleans all the city buildings, including the crime lab, stole the gun for Black, but he got greedy and thought he'd make enough money to skip town by selling the gun's return and information to you.” Hart glanced at Maddie. “You two should have called me when that guy first contacted you.”

“Yeah, hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Dylan said.

“Well, Torrez lived long enough to finger Black as the guy who'd hired him to steal the gun and—” Hart paused for effect “—Black's palm print matches the one found on the murder weapon.”

“I'll be damned.” Dylan shook his head. “Has this guy—this Alex Black—explained why he killed my father?”

“He's denying he did it, but we've got him and he's not slipping through the cracks. I promise you that we'll get a conviction.” Hart looked right at Dylan. “Black is a two-bit hood, with ties to the mob. Take my word for it, the guy's going down.”

Dylan held out his hand. Hart rounded the bed and the two men shook hands. “Thanks,” Dylan said. “Thanks for everything.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't make it easy for you, did I? Sorry about that.”

Hart shrugged. “For you, it was personal. Under similar circumstances, I might have done the same thing.”

“I need to know why,” Dylan said. “There has to be a reason. Somebody hired Alex Black to kill my father.”

“It may take us awhile to find out who and why, but sooner or later we'll nail whoever was behind the hit.” Hart placed his hand on Dylan's shoulder. “How about leaving the rest to us? Let the police handle things from here on out.”

“Yeah, I'll do that.”

Hart turned to Maddie. “Keep him out of trouble, will you?”

“Me?” Maddie pointed to her chest. “He doesn't listen to me. I have no control over him whatsoever.”

Hart grinned, then glanced at Dylan. “She'll eventually figure it out and when she does, you're a goner.” Hart pointed his finger at Dylan and clicked his tongue as he jerked his finger mimicking a gun firing. “And when that happens, it'll kick you on your ass a lot worse than a gunshot.”

When Hart left, Maddie looked quizzically at Dylan. “What on earth was he talking about?”

“Beats me.” Dylan shrugged.

 

Five days later, Maddie brought Dylan to her condo and spent the next few days waiting on him hand and
foot. She was driving him nuts, but he'd given up trying to stop her, because she thought of playing nursemaid as part of her penance. She'd taken all the blame in what went wrong, when in fact, he'd been more to blame than anyone else. Hell, if he hadn't been so cocksure of himself, so damned and determined to solve the murder case and not share info with Hart O'Brien, he might not have almost gotten Maddie and Gerri and himself killed.

Other than having a mighty sore shoulder, he felt okay. He really didn't need Maddie buzzing around him, doing everything for him, but no matter what he said, she didn't listen. What he wanted—what he needed—was to make love to Maddie. But she considered him an invalid and whenever he put the moves on her, she scolded him and reminded him of his condition. Hell, she'd even put him in the guest bedroom!

When he entered the kitchen at ten after eight, he was surprised not to see Maddie waiting for him. Instead he found only Thelma busily emptying the dishwasher.

“Morning,” she said. “Sleep well?”

“Slept okay,” he replied. “Where's Maddie?”

“Still asleep. That child has worn herself to a frazzle lately. I doubt she'd gotten more than two or three hours sleep a night since you got shot.”

“I've been out of the hospital and here with her for three nights, why hasn't she—”

“She gets up every couple of hours and checks on you.”

Dylan huffed. “What can I do to convince her I'm practically a hundred percent again?”

“It'll have to be something dramatic,” Thelma said. “And I'd suggest something romantic.”

“Romantic, huh?”

“You don't want to spend the next few weeks living like a monk, do you?”

Dylan blushed. He wasn't accustomed to discussing his love life with anyone, least of all his lover's housekeeper.

“Maddie adores the ballet, and one of our local Mission Creek gals is a prima ballerina with the Houston Ballet. Why don't you take Maddie into Houston for a night out? Show her how well you are and romance her at the same time.”

“Mmm-hmm. Thelma, you're a genius.”

“I'm not a genius, just a very observant, intuitive woman. And I know Maddie.”

“The ballet, a limousine, dinner at a five-star restaurant…a perfect way to say goodbye.”

Thelma glared at him. “What do you mean a perfect way to say goodbye?”

“I'll soon be fully recovered and I've agreed to let the police handle everything concerning my father's murder from here on out. It's time I head back to Dallas, to my job and my life there.”

“What about Maddie?”

“What about her?”

“Are you just going to run off and leave her?”

“I'm not running off,” Dylan said in self-defense. “I'm going home. Maddie and I are friends. I hope we remain friends and—” He'd almost said “and lovers.” “But we agreed, going into our relationship, that we're both lousy at commitments, at anything permanent.”

“And you don't think maybe, just maybe, things might be different with Maddie?”

“Things are different with Maddie. We're not going to hurt each other. We're going to remain friends.”

Did he truly believe what he was saying? Could he be nothing more than a friend to Maddie? Hell, no, not when every instinct within him longed to be her lover. But he'd screwed up Maddie's life more than once. How could he be sure he wouldn't do it again? He couldn't risk it, didn't dare reach out and grab the one thing he wanted most in this world—Maddie Delarue, his woman for the rest of their lives.

Besides, would she or anyone else ever believe that a business shark like Dylan Bridges hadn't married her for her money?

Thelma continued glaring at him, then she slammed the dishwasher door and walked straight up to him.

“Dylan Bridges, you're a damn fool. That's what you are.”

He leaned over and kissed Thelma on both cheeks and said, “And you, Ms. Hewitt, are an old romantic
who believes in happily-ever-after endings. But Maddie and I are smart enough not to expect fairy-tale endings for our lives.”

“I said it once and I'll say it again. Dylan Bridges, you're a damn fool!”

 

Maddie stood outside the kitchen door, tears trickling down her cheeks. She'd heard everything Dylan had said. How was it possible that he didn't love her, didn't want to spend the rest of his life with her? She loved him so fiercely, so completely that she wasn't sure she could survive when he left her. Once again, Maddie Delarue had played the fool. If she'd thought her heart had been broken a couple of times in the past, she'd been wrong. Her heart had only been bruised a little. But this time, it was broken. Broken beyond repair.

S
everal days later, Maddie and Dylan took the private airline shuttle-service into Houston. Maddie had chosen one of her favorite evening gowns, a spaghetti-strapped, floor-length number in shiny purple satin with a straight skirt and fitted bodice that accented her curves. To complete the outfit, she'd donned a pair of elbow-length gloves and three-inch heels, both in a dyed-to-match shade of deep lavender. She wore her hair in a French twist and accented the ensemble with diamond and amethyst earrings and bracelet. The moment he saw her, Dylan had told her she was beautiful. She didn't doubt his sincerity. Dylan didn't lie. He had always been completely honest with her. But his body lied. His body had promised her love and passion forever.

Maddie wasn't sure how she would get through this night—her last night with Dylan. He'd already made arrangements to fly back to Dallas tomorrow and was having his repaired Porsche sent on to him later. He had told her he wanted tonight to be special, a night they would both remember years from now. She had
forced a smile and pretended that he wasn't ripping her heart to shreds with every word he spoke.

When they arrived in Houston, a limousine whisked them downtown. Inside the limo, they were cocooned in their own little world, with romantic classical music, vintage champagne, caviar, a single peach rose tied with a sheer white ribbon. And Dylan, smiling, attentive, touching her cheek lightly, caressing her bare shoulders. All the while she had to pretend that she was enjoying every moment, appreciating his thoughtfulness.

“You're awfully quiet this evening,” he said.

“Am I?” She shrugged. “I suppose I'm simply overwhelmed by everything you've done. You've created the perfect date.”

“I aim to please.” He leaned over and brushed her lips with his.

She wanted to grab him and hold him and beg him not to leave her. But she'd never in a million years beg any man, not even Dylan Bridges. Obviously he didn't love her and didn't want to stay with her. She'd fooled herself into believing that great sex meant love. For her maybe, but not for Dylan.

“So, how well do you know Susan Wainwright?” Dylan asked.

“Susan? As well as I know most of the Wainwrights, although Susan is a few years younger than I am. I always liked her. And I envied her being tall and thin.”

Dylan draped his arm around Maddie's shoulder and smiled as his gaze skimmed over her from head to toe. “Honey, you have no reason to envy another woman her figure. You've got the kind of body men dream about from the time they go through puberty until they're put six feet under.”

How did he expect her to react to such a fabulous compliment? All the sweet talk and flattery in the world was a poor substitute for what Maddie really wanted: Dylan's love, now and forever.

Maddie forced herself to smile. Dear God, couldn't Dylan see through her brave pretense?

“You know, I hated the ballet when I was a teenager and my dad used to take me,” Dylan said. “I didn't fully appreciate the art form until about six years ago, when I dated a lady who was mad about ballet.”

“Oh, is that right?” Maddie kept her false smile firmly in place.

“You'd like Babs. You two have quite a lot in common. She's a redhead who looks good in purple. She loves the ballet and the opera and has exquisite taste.”

“Sounds like a lovely person.”

“She is.”

“I suppose you'll be seeing Babs when you go back to Dallas.”

“Probably. She's married to one of my business partners and the mother of my godson.”

Maddie sighed and something inside her released.
Relief? Rage? “If she was so wonderful, it's a shame your partner stole her away from you.”

“It didn't happen that way.” Dylan nuzzled Maddie's neck. “Babs and I were never more than good friends.”

“The way you and I are good friends,” Maddie said.

Dylan lifted his hand, grasped her chin and forced her to look directly at him. “No, honey, not friends and lovers. Babs and I were only friends. And for your information, what I've had with you is not like anything I've ever had with another woman.”

Then why are you leaving me? she wanted to shout. If what we've shared is so unique, so special, how can you walk away so easily?

“Yes, so you've said before.” Maddie pulled his hand away from her face, but held it for several minutes.

“We should make plans for you to come for a visit to Dallas sometime,” he said. “I wouldn't want us to lose touch.”

“No, I…I wouldn't want that either.”

“Great. Then we're in agreement.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Later that evening, Maddie found herself trying very hard to concentrate on the performance, to allow the on-stage melodrama to overshadow her personal misery.
Madame Butterfly
was one of her favorite ballets as well as one of her favorite operas. The two-act
drama, danced to the music of Puccini's famous opera, told the heartbreaking tale of a beautiful young geisha betrayed by a callous U.S. Navy officer at the turn of the nineteenth century.

Occasionally she caught a glimpse in her peripheral vision of Dylan glancing at her, and from time to time he'd reach over and squeeze her hand. He seemed the same as he'd been a day ago, a week ago, yet how could he be the same when he knew this was their last night together? But ending their relationship—did they even have a true relationship?—had been his decision, not hers. He wasn't dying inside; his heart wasn't bleeding.

Enough of this self-pity, Maddie told herself. You've recovered from a broken heart before; you can do it again. It'll just take a little longer this time because this time you really are in love. This wasn't a teenage infatuation with a football hero or a whirlwind royal romance. Dylan is your soul mate. You've known that, in your heart, since you were sixteen.

Too bad he doesn't know it!

Dylan leaned over and whispered, “Susan Wainwright is brilliant as Cio-Cio-San, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is. Absolutely brilliant.” Thank God, she'd seen Susan perform on other occasions and could truthfully testify that she was a gifted ballerina.

Suddenly, right in the middle of the enthralling wedding night pas de deux, Susan Wainwright collapsed on stage. The entire audience gasped in unison.
The curtain closed and loud murmurs rose throughout the theater.

“Oh, mercy.” Maddie clutched Dylan's hand. “I know there's no way to get backstage, but I wish that somehow we could find out what happened and how Susan is.”

Several minutes ticked by before the announcement was made that Ms. Wainwright was resting comfortably in her dressing room and would be taken to the hospital shortly, but that she was conscious and alert. A substitute performer would temporarily replace Ms. Wainwright.

“I'd like to leave,” Maddie said.

“Would you like to see if we can find out more about Susan?”

Maddie shook her head. “I'm sure they've called her family. And if they're taking her to the hospital, we might just get in the way. I'm so relieved that she's at least conscious. I'd heard that she had health problems—just Mission Creek rumors, of course.”

Dylan led Maddie out of the theater to their waiting limousine. Once inside, he pulled a shivering Maddie into his arms. She clung to him.

“Oh, Dylan, when she collapsed that way, I thought she was dead. I don't know why, but I sensed that she'd had a heart attack. People can die instantly, you know. They're here with us one minute and the next they're gone.” Maddie eased away just enough to
look into his eyes. “Just like your father…and my father.”

“And my mother,” Dylan said. Dear God, Maddie was right. Life was all too brief and therefore precious. Not to be wasted.

“Susan is younger than I am. What if she…Oh, Dylan.” Maddie wept on his shoulder.

Dylan held her, caressing her back, pressing his cheek against hers. Younger than I am. Younger than I am. Maddie's words echoed inside his mind. What if it had been Maddie who had collapsed, struck down in her prime? What if instead of a lovely and talented woman he barely knew, Maddie was the one being rushed to the hospital right now?

The thought of losing Maddie was unbearable. Why the hell hadn't he realized the fact that he loved Maddie Delarue as deeply and completely as it was humanly possible to love? Why had he fooled himself into thinking that they were friends and lovers and nothing more? Maddie was his other half, the one woman on earth meant for him. They fit together perfectly—in and out of bed.

But what if she doesn't love you? he asked himself. What if she doesn't trust you enough to marry you? Then you'll have to find a way to earn her trust. Do whatever the hell you have to do. And what about all those people who'll say you married Maddie to get your hands on Delarue, Inc.? To hell with them! What did he care what people thought?

You've gotten Maddie in trouble more than once. How can you be so sure you won't do it again? He couldn't be sure. After all, he was only human. He'd made his share of mistakes and he'd probably make a few more in the future. And what about trusting Maddie? Dammit, man, the woman possesses a talent for unswerving loyalty. She'd never desert you, never turn her back on you.

Dylan kissed Maddie until neither of them could breathe, and after they came up for air, he kissed her again. When they arrived at the airport, he was still kissing her.

He wanted to take this woman home—home to bed. And he intended to make love to her for the rest of the night. Tomorrow, when she woke in his arms, he would thank God again for Maddie's life.

 

By the way Dylan had been acting, Maddie suspected that he had been as shaken by Susan Wainwright's collapse on stage as she had been. He seemed to need to reaffirm the fact that they were both alive and well. Maddie understood; she felt the same.

The minute they arrived at her condo, they began stripping off their clothes in a frenzied rush to the bedroom. Somehow, right now, it didn't seem to matter that this would be their last night together, that tomorrow Dylan was going back to Dallas. He was with her now, here, this moment. And he was kissing her and touching her and wanting her as desperately as she wanted him. Life was fleeting. An ephemeral
dance that ended all too soon. Reach out and grab happiness while you can, she told herself.

They landed together in the middle of her bed. Naked and panting, hungry for life and love and carnal pleasure, Maddie and Dylan mated with pure, primitive passion. Sweet preliminaries didn't matter. Protection wasn't even considered. Promises of commitment never came to mind. And foreplay became the act itself, the desire to physically bond greater than all other needs. Lifting her hips to meet him, Dylan entered her body with a powerful thrust, embedding himself inside her, becoming one being with her. Maddie moaned with the absolute rightness of their joining. The feel of him inside her was an indescribable pleasure. The intensity of their lovemaking brought them to strong, quick, simultaneous climaxes.

They lay together, embracing and kissing, as the aftershocks rippled through their bodies. Neither said a word. Words were unnecessary at that moment.

They slept awhile, then woke to make love again. Slower, more tenderly, but no less passionate. They turned and tumbled, panted and sighed. He took the dominant position at first, only to surrender to her command later. They gave and took, thinking of themselves and thinking of each other, until Maddie didn't know where she left off and where Dylan began. There was no I; there was no he. Only we. Nonexistent alone; everything together.

 

Maddie woke around nine o'clock and found herself all alone in her big bed. The rumpled covers, half on
the floor, the other half hanging to the side of the bed, and the strong smell of sex and Dylan's unique scent were the only evidence that he had spent the night with her. Her body ached as she got out of bed and retrieved a silk robe from her closet. Sweet aches, the results of torrid lovemaking. She moved from room to room, searching for her lover. The condo was empty.

Where was Thelma? Maddie wondered, then remembered it was Saturday morning. Thelma didn't work on weekends.

Had Dylan slipped away while she slept, leaving her without saying goodbye, making sure she didn't plead with him to stay? Would he call her later? Would he drop by on his way out of town? Or was it over; was this the end of their love affair?

She would cry if she weren't suddenly so numb. Blessedly numb, as if she'd received a shot of Novocain strong enough to deaden her inside and out. She moved as if in a trance, returning to her bedroom and entering her private bath. She showered, washed and dried her hair, then dressed in casual khaki slacks and a coral knit top. Later in the kitchen, she prepared coffee and toast before reading the morning paper and telephoning Archy Wainwright to ask about Susan. Maddie was told that Susan was in the hospital for observation and tests. Either that was all the Wainwright patriarch knew or all he wanted to tell anyone outside the family.

By eleven o'clock she decided that if she didn't get out of her condo, she would go mad. Maybe she should drive by 1010 Royal Avenue and see if Dylan's rental car was still there. His plane wasn't supposed to leave until nearly four this afternoon, so he had to be somewhere. She could stop by in town and pick up some sort of farewell gift, she told herself. Any excuse to see him one more time.

You're pitiful! Listen to yourself. Why are you so desperate to hang on to a man who doesn't want you? Because I love him! That's why.

Just as Maddie picked up her purse and car keys and headed out, someone rang the doorbell. Maddie dumped her keys and purse in the velvet Louis XIV chair in the foyer, then glanced through the peephole. There stood Dylan. With her heart beating wildly, she slung open the door.

“Hey, Red, you're going to have to give me a key to this place,” he said as he walked in, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off her feet. “If I'm going to live here, I need access to the place so I won't have to keep ringing the doorbell to get in.”