Donovan's Child by Christine Rimmer

lot.
    â€œWhat else then?” She looked at him sideways, needing the truth, yes. But contrarily, not really sure she wanted to know whatever he might reveal next.
    He revealed it anyway. “I watched you swimming, too.”
    Her cheeks were suddenly burning. She pressed her palms to them. “Oh, great. And I need to know that, why?”
    â€œBecause it’s the truth. It’s what I did. And I don’t want to lie to you, by omission or otherwise, about what I did. I owe you that much, at least.”
    She had no idea how to answer that. So she simply sat there, waiting, for whatever he would say next.
    He went on, “And it was the same, when I watched you swimming, as it was at first a little while ago, in there.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “There was appreciation. Admiration. A vague, faraway sense of longing, I guess you could say.”
    She sat forward, curious in spite of herself. “Longing for…?”
    â€œI don’t know. For the man I was once. For the past. For the present and the future, too. But not as they are and will be. As they might have been.”
    She thought of his child then, of the little boy. His lost son, Elias. She longed to ask him about Elias.
    But no. Bringing up Elias now would only send them spinning off in another direction entirely. They needed, right now, to stay with the subject at hand.
    The painful, awkward, weird—and thoroughly embarrassing—subject at hand.
    She raked her fingers back through her soggy hair. “So. You felt appreciation. Objective appreciation.”
    â€œYes. When I watched you swimming. And today, too. At first. But then it changed.”
    Her throat clutched. She gulped hard, to make it relax. “Changed?”
    â€œThat’s right. It became…something more. I found I was attracted. To you. As a man is attracted to a woman. It stopped being objective. I realized I want you. And I haven’t wanted anything or anyone since before the accident on the mountain—a long time before.”
    I want you. Had he actually just said that out loud?
    Okay, she truly was not ready to be having this conversation. Maybe she would never be ready. To speak of desire, of attraction, of sex with Donovan McRae.
    That wasn’t why she’d come here, worked her butt off, put up with his antagonism and his ruthless remarks. She was here for the work, and only the work. She had absolutely no interest in…
    She caught herself up short.
    Who was she kidding?
    She did have an interest in Donovan, as a man. She had a serious interest.
    He had captivated her from the beginning. From the first time she saw him, as a dewy-eyed undergraduate, one in hundreds in the audience on that long-ago evening when he came to speak at Rice.
    And since she’d been here, in his house, it was pretty much a toss-up over which fascinated her more: the work she’d come out here to do, or the man in the wheelchair across the bedroom from her.
    In the end, it was pretty simple. Much simpler than either of them were allowing it to be. She wanted him. And he wanted her.
    They should start with that. See where it led them…
    But really, how to start? That was not simple. Not with a man like Donovan.
    She rose and walked past him, crossing to the French doors. She opened the blinds. The winter sunlight spilled in, filling the room, gray and cool. Outside, the wind found its way into the courtyard, ruffled just slightly the glassy surface of the pool.
    He said her name, “Abilene.”
    She turned to look at him again.
    His gaze didn’t waver. He sat absolutely still at the threshold of her bedroom, waiting.
    She asked, “But why?”
    â€œWhy, what?”
    â€œWhy did you come in here in the first place? I mean, it’s one thing to look out a window and see me in the pool. It’s another to wheel right into my bathroom when you can hear the shower running and have to be reasonably certain