Love by Proxy by Diana Palmer Page A

instead, and then tried to keep busy at the house answering the phone and wondering how she was going to survive when she had to leave Worth.
    It was late when Worth came back from the hospital, and the staff had long since gone home. Amelia had waited up, taking time to fix a platter of cold cuts and ready the coffeepot just in case he wanted food. She walked out into the hall to ask if he’d like anything. But he didn’t even see her. He went straight into the den, and closed the door.
    She kept thinking that eventually he’d come out. She made coffee and put some sandwiches on a platter, and then tried to think what to do. She remembered the long days before her grandmother had died, the anguish of waiting, the nearness of death and the hopelessness of being able to do nothing. It must be worse for a man, she thought. Much worse.
    She paced the kitchen, her blue eyes troubled, her jeans and T-shirt confining. She was tired and wanted her bed, but she couldn’t possibly just go to sleep and leave Worth alone.
    Risking his anger, she put a cup of coffee on the tray with the sandwiches, knocked at his door and boldly walked in.
    He was sitting on the sofa, an open bottle of whiskey and an empty glass on the coffee table in front of him. His head had been in his hands until she walked in. He glared at her, as if the whole situation was her fault, with stormy dark eyes in a face laid bare by grief and worry.
    “What the hell do you want?” he demanded.
    “I came to feed you, and please stop growling at me,” she returned, not at all put off by his cold temper. She knew what was causing it; she could see through the anger to the pain.
    “Well, I’m not hungry,” he returned. He poured another glass of whiskey. “Go away.”
    She put the sandwiches down on the coffee table and sat beside him. He was wearing suit slacks with a totally unbuttoned white shirt. His dark, hairy chest was bare and this, added to the slight growth of beard on his broad face, gave him a disreputable look.
    “I said…” he began again.
    “I heard you. Have a sandwich and some coffee.” She picked up a full cup and saucer and began to sip her own.
    “Damn you,” he said with a rough laugh.
    “Old maids are stubborn,” she told him. “But if you humor us, we go away.”
    “I’m not sure I want that.” He took a sandwich and bit into it. “Chicken salad. My favorite.”
    “I must be psychic,” she murmured, but she’d watched him, and she knew his preferences in food.
    “Really? These are good.”
    “Thank you.”
    He finished the sandwich and sipped coffee, staring straight ahead. “What will I do if she dies, Amy?”
    “A tough old bird like you?” she scoffed, refusing to take him seriously. “You’ll manage, just as she would, if the situation was reversed. But I wouldn’t give up on her, if I were you,” she added. “A woman who takes up break dancing at the age of seventy-five is not really likely to let an operation get her down.”
    He turned and looked at her for a long time, frowning. “You’re always like this,” he said quietly. “Always optimistic, encouraging. You’re unique, Amy.” He sipped some more coffee. “I’ve never had anyone except my grandmother. I suppose, in the past year, I’ve more or less built my world around her.” He looked up, his eyes narrow as they met hers. “She talks when she trusts people. And she trusts you. She told you about Connie, didn’t she?”
    It was no time to lie. “Yes,” she confessed.
    “She did.”
    He studied his hands. “She tried to tell me, and I wouldn’t listen. I was so crazy about that damned woman that I wouldn’t let myself believe what she was. Because of it, Grandmother had a heart attack. I’ve lived with the guilt ever since.” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve lived like a monk ever since, except for an occasional lapse. I haven’t let anyone come close. I’ve been afraid to.”
    “Are you going to punish yourself for the rest of