Love by Proxy Read online

  “You insolent little…Who are you?” the voice demanded.

  “I’m the tooth fairy,” Amelia replied sweetly. “Do remember me if you shed any fangs.” And she put down the receiver, hard.

  He’d kill her, she thought miserably. But that horrible woman shouldn’t have been so rude and unfeeling.

  There were several other calls. She did the best she could, and finally, about nine o’clock, the phone stopped ringing. Thirty minutes later, Worth came in.

  “Well?” she asked, rising from the desk, stiff from so much sitting.

  He glanced at her, rubbing a weary hand around the back of his neck. He looked worn. His face needed shaving, and there were new lines around his dark eyes, his tight mouth. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he was carrying his light jacket over one arm. He tossed it into a chair and stretched.

  “She’s awake and cussing like a sailor,” he said dryly. “They’ve given her something for pain. In the morning, after they’ve run the angiogram, Dr. Simpson can tell me more.” He sighed and sat down beside his jacket in the chair. “Amy, he thinks it may be a blockage. Or several of them. He mentioned the possibility of bypass surgery. Her enzymes are normal. He says that means it wasn’t a heart attack. But she’s short of breath and she has an arrhythmia. If it’s what he suspects, it will get worse, and eventally she will have a heart attack. She’s been having weak spells, but she didn’t want to worry me, so she didn’t say anything.” He laughed mirthlessly.

  “I know about bypass surgery,” Amelia said, searching his tired face. “It has a very small risk factor, and most patients are back at home only a week later.”

  “So he told me,” he returned. “But it’s going to be a damned long few days.”

  “I’ll keep you going,” she said, and smiled. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “I don’t think I can eat, Amy.”

  “Some coffee, then? Or a stiff bourbon?”

  “The bourbon, and then coffee,” he said. He went to the desk and thumbed through the notes. He scowled and glanced at Amelia warily. “How long ago did she call?”

  “Mrs. Cade, you mean?” She felt uneasy and averted her eyes. “About an hour or so,” she said.

  He stared at her. “What did she want?”

  She shifted from one foot to the other. “She didn’t say,” she said coolly. “She only said it was urgent.”

  He got up while she poured his bourbon into a glass and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said absently. He was still staring at the piece of paper.

  “She’s very rude,” Amelia blurted out, avoiding his eyes. “And I was rude, too. If she’s a friend of yours, I’m sorry.”

  “She was a little more than a friend, several months ago.” He turned away. “I’ll return these calls now. Good night, Amy.”

  She knew exactly what that meant. Thanks, kid, but get out of my way, I’m busy. He didn’t have to say it, his attitude did.

  “Baxter asked if you’d call him, too, and tell him how Mrs. Carson is,” she said as she went toward the door.

  “Baxter can damned well wait,” he said curtly. He sat down behind the desk and picked up the receiver. He didn’t even look up as he dialed the Cade woman’s number.

  Amelia felt sick all over. She closed the door gently behind her.

  Well, now she knew who Mrs. Cade was, she told herself. Obviously, that was one of his women.

  She felt empty and cold. She went to the guest room and put on her simple white cotton nightgown and took down her long hair. Well, it looked as if she was very soon going to be out of a job. If Mrs. Carson had to have that bypass, she’d need a nurse, and she wouldn’t be in the market for a companion. And while Worth had tolerated Amelia, and teased her, and even made a small pass at her, it wouldn’t cost him any sleep if she left. He’d told her often enough that he never wanted to commit himself again. Where, where, did that mysterious woman belong in his life? Was that the kind of woman he liked, insensitive and uncaring and aggressive? Apparently his ex-fiancée had been such a type as well. She laughed bitterly. How sad that she herself was such a wilting wallflower. Perhaps if she hadn’t been a repressed virgin, she could have rushed out in her gown to seduce him. Hmmm.

  Seduce him. She thought about that for all of one wild minute, and then quickly dismissed it from her mind. What a time to be thinking of such a thing, when his grandmother was desperately ill. Poor old Jeanette. She liked her employer very much. She was going to miss the feisty old lady.

  Minutes later, she was sitting in front of the vanity mirror, brushing her long hair, when the door suddenly opened and Worth stepped into the room. He looked worried. His jacket was back on and there was a dark, grim look in his eyes. For a few seconds, she didn’t think he even realized that she was dressed for bed.

  “I have to go out,” he said abruptly. “Will you listen for the phone, and take any messages? I’ve called the hospital already to give the number where I can be reached.”

  Her pale blue eyes searched over his face like loving hands. His face was hard and drawn and his own eyes looked bloodshot. He was worried enough about his grandmother, why did that awful woman have to come along now to upset him even more? Amelia knew that was where he was going, he didn’t even have to tell her.

  “I’ll listen for it,” she promised coolly.

  He seemed to notice then what she was wearing; she could see the sudden spark of interest in those haunted eyes. He smiled slowly, noticing the thinness of the white gown and the subtle contours of her body so nicely revealed by the lamplight shining through the sheer fabric. With her long, dark hair like a silky curtain around her shoulders and down her back, she had the look of a fairy.

  “Well, Miss Glenn,” he murmured thoughtfully, “I expected that you’d wear pajamas.”

  “Actually, I prefer sleeping in briefs and nothing else,” she said sweetly, “but that’s when I’m at home.”

  “Don’t mind me,” he mused. “I’d hate to interrupt your routine.”

  “I told you before, Mr. Carson, I don’t do private performances,” she reminded him. She put the brush down. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes. But I don’t have time,” he said with a wicked glance at her body and then at the bed.

  “Stop that,” she said stiffly.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Her eyes followed him. He seemed to find that disturbing, because his own narrowed, quietly assessing. And all at once, he pushed the door shut and moved toward her.

  “No,” she whispered. She got to her feet. That made it worse, because the gown was cut low in front, and the curves of her breasts were sharply revealed.

  But he kept coming, stopping when he was practically against her. His big, warm hands rested on her shoulders, caressing, while his eyes feasted on her.

  She could feel her heart going wild, her body reacting to that closeness. She adored him. The masculine scent and feel and warmth of him was getting to her.

  “You have to go out,” she reminded him breathlessly.

  “I know.” He touched her hair, sliding his fingers through it in a silence that throbbed like a heartbeat. Or was it her own heart, audible?

  “Worth,” she breathed, and looked up at him.

  His hands framed her face. He searched her eyes, finding quiet anguish there, but not understanding it.

  His dark eyes closed. He rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t be afraid of me, Amy,” he said quietly. “I don’t want anything. I just want a little reassurance, okay? Something to help me make it through the next few hours.” His nose nuzzled hers. His big hands moved down to her waist, lightly caressing. Then suddenly and swiftly, his long fingers spread, until the tips of them were just under her breasts. Until she could feel the teasing pressure, and her body began to tremble, because she wanted to know how it would feel, if he put his hands there, and she could feel their warmth and expertness.

  “Then why…why don’t you go to her?”
she asked bitterly, hating the way her body reacted to him.

  He straightened. His head lifted, studying her face. “Well, well,” he murmured dryly. “Is that where you think I’m going, Amy, to work off my worry and frustration in some woman’s bed?”

  “Aren’t you?” she asked stiffly.

  “Wouldn’t that be like sitting on a clam bed and sending out for baked clams?” he asked.

  Her eyes sparked at him. “I’m a repressed virgin, remember? I don’t even know how!”

  He laughed softly, as if her jealousy delighted him. “Amelia Glenn, you delight me beyond bearing sometimes,” he murmured. “Mrs. Cade, for your information, is no longer a lover. She is now the executive vice-president of one of my subcontractors.”

  Her face froze, and she echoed, “Executive…?”

  “Vice-president,” he repeated. He looked down at her taut breasts, the dark, hardened tips outlined under the too-thin fabric. “And the urgent business has to do with that South American venture of mine. She’s the contact person for the project; she’s been making all the overtures to the government. She just got in, and I’m going over to discuss with her, and her husband,” he added emphatically, “how to proceed.”

  She bit her lower lip. “Oh.”

  “Are you cold?” he asked suddenly.

  “No,” she said absently. “Why?”

  “Then you must be damned aroused, Amy,” he murmured wickedly, and brushed a long forefinger over a hard nipple.

  She gasped and started to move away.

  “This won’t get you pregnant,” he promised, sliding a hand behind her shoulders to hold her there. “Look, darling,” he whispered, coaxing her eyes down to the gown.

  His slender, elegant hand unfastened the ribbons that held the bodice together, one by one, and slowly peeled it away from her full, high breasts, baring their cream and rose beauty to his eyes.

  Her breath caught and she started to lift her hand to pull the gown together again, but he brought her hand to his lips and settled it against his hard, warm chest.

  “Just stand still,” he murmured softly. He eased the gown down to her waist while she trembled at the newness of a man’s eyes on her body, and then he moved away and looked until she blushed.

  “If I didn’t have to see Terie,” he said softly, “I’d carry you to the bed and strip you, and I’d let you feel my mouth on every inch of your body.”

  Her lips trembled. Her body trembled. She was being burned by a fever she’d never experienced in her life, at the mercy of unfamiliar hungers. “H…here, too?” she whispered, and brushed her fingers against her breast.

  “Especially, there,” he said. He caught her waist and lifted her up, so that her breasts were within a breath of his mouth. His lips parted and he brought her close, swallowing one taut, trembling nipple in the moist warmth of his mouth, savoring it.

  She arched backward, her hands holding his thick, dark hair, holding his mouth over her, and she moaned.

  His breath quickened, as if the sound aroused him. Blind, deaf and dumb, she felt him lift her, carry her, toss her onto the bed. And she suddenly felt cold and alone.

  Her eyes opened, to find him standing over her with dark, unreadable eyes in a face like stone as he looked down at her partial nudity.

  “That,” he said quietly, “is highly addictive and leads to a kind of exercise you haven’t experienced yet. I’m not in the market for a sensual virgin, Amy, although I’m flattered by the offer.”

  With tremendous dignity, she sat up and replaced her bodice, trying not to let him see the tears that were welling in her eyes.

  She even smiled, although she didn’t look at him. “Oh, well, you can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said lightly. “We old maids have to get our experience where we can.”

  “You’re no old maid. You’re a beautiful, compassionate, sexy woman. And I want you like hell. But not tonight.”

  “No, you have work to do,” she said for him.

  He started to say something, scowled blackly, and turned away. “Yes. I have work to do. Listen for the phone, please.”

  He went out without looking back and slammed the door behind him.

  She lay awake until the early hours of the morning, when she finally heard him come back. Well, maybe he’d worn himself out enough to sleep, she thought drowsily. She only hoped the angiogram wouldn’t show any need for Mrs. Carson to have open heart surgery. Since his grandmother was the only person Worth loved, it would be horrible for him.

  Amelia would have to stay with him, for the time being. He might not want her body enough to risk commitment, but he did need someone, and who else was there? As odd as it sounded, she was probably closer to him than anyone except his grandmother. They’d talked a lot over the weeks and she felt that she understood him. She could give him comfort, she thought bitterly, if nothing else. She could give him that, even if he didn’t want her to love him.

  The next morning, she went with him to the hospital. The angiogram was run, and much later that afternoon, the doctor told Worth that his grandmother’s need for a bypass was imperative, and urgent. The surgery was scheduled for early the next morning.

  Worth went in to see his grandmother and came out looking wild and restless. Amelia tried to get him to eat something, but he wouldn’t. She went back home finally to tell the staff what was happening and answer the mail.

  She hadn’t gone in to see Jeanette, because Worth was reluctant to let her. He seemed to feel that it might be upsetting for the older woman. Amelia didn’t agree, but she wouldn’t have argued with him for the world. Any kind of major surgery had its risk factor, and she knew even if Worth didn’t that the seventy-two hours following that surgery were very precarious. The elderly woman could die. He had to know that, though, and was hoarding these last few visits with her. Amelia didn’t want to deprive him of a single minute. So she sent her love 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 t
o 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 your life for that one time you didn’t believe her?” she asked gently. “She wouldn’t want that, Worth.”

  “It’s easier said than done. I don’t trust my judgment, Amy. I don’t trust women.”