into his chair, he connected with Bishop Scaffolds’ server and brought up some recent specs. New dies were under discussion but he wouldn’t commit until he was certain the designs were exactly right.
With a background in engineering, he’d always enjoyed a natural affinity with machinery. Routinely he checked presses, calibrations and product tolerances. It wasn’t unusual to find the boss manning equipment should a worker be called away or need a few minutes off. This past week, after listing the company, he’d spent more time than usual in the factory where equipment was manufactured, stored and dispatched. He considered himself as much a part of the working machine, a cog in the wheel, as his employees, every one handpicked and valued.
But maintaining a manufacturing presence in Australia was a tricky ball to juggle. The uncertain slope of the Aussie dollar against other currencies, the force of reduced labor prices in neighboring countries, plus the quality versus cheaper options argument kept Bishop on his toes. The threat of any company folding to the sum of those pressures was real.
When he’d lost a couple of key contracts not long after his and Laura’s split, an unsettling sense of doubt had clung to him. He’d never failed at anything of real consequence, but if he could fail at something as important as his marriage, might he not fail in business, too? If he began second guessing himself, losing his edge, maybe it was time to get out and hand over the business to someone who had the mind-set to keep it strong. He wanted to be that man, but then he’d also wanted to keep his marriage solid.
He went into a few emails but found he couldn’t focus. Visions of Laura’s toned form, tucked under a light cover in the bed they’d once shared, had seeped into his mind and now he couldn’t shift them. Images of her chest softly rising and falling and the way her hair splayed over her pillow while she slept were glued in his mind. He thought of how perfectly her mouth had fit under his—how everything had seemed to fit—and for one frightening moment, he battled a tidal wave urge to stride down the hall and join her.
Growling, he pushed back his laptop and glared at the ceiling. Dammit, he’d never wanted his marriage to end. He’d fought to save it. But no matter what Grace thought about second chances, he’d be an idiot to entertain such a crazy idea. He was here because he had no choice. Laura would get her memory back and then they could each forget this episode and get on with their individual lives.
Laura woke with her heart hammering in her chest. The room was quiet, the walls stenciled with soft-edged shadows. The green numerals on the side table read 2:04.
Shivering and feeling inexplicably alone, she tugged the covers higher. Then she remembered Bishop and her smile warmed her right through. Carefully, she rolled over, reached out in the darkness … and that warmth dropped away.
The space beside her was cold and empty. Why hadn’t Bishop joined her? Because he worried about her bandaged head? Didn’t he know that his embrace was the only medicine she needed?
Well, if he didn’t know, she’d simply have to go and tell him.
After wrapping up in a long, soft robe, she padded out into the hall. Outside Bishop’s office, a wedge of light shone on the timber floor. Frowning, she huddled into the robe’s warmth more. He was working at two in the morning?
She headed off but stopped in the doorway, her heart melting at the sight. Bishop was sprawled out on his Chesterfield couch, an ankle hung over the far armrest, one foot on the floor, his left forearm draped over his eyes. He’d taken off his shoes and trousers, and his white business shirt was undone to his navel. The steady rise and fall of his beautiful big chest told her he was sleeping soundly. Familiar heat sizzled through her. God, how she loved him. How dearly she wanted him. And there was another feeling swirling through her blood … one that was strangely difficult to pinpoint or analyze.
She missed him. Missed him like she hadn’t seen him in years. The knowledge left her with a hollow ache in her chest. A chunk cut out of her heart. But she surrendered to a self-deprecating smile. He’d been away from their bed half a night. How would she cope if he left her for a week? A month?
She wriggled her toes on the cool floor. She wanted to go to him, wrap him up under her robe, rub her leg over the hard length and rouse him. Despite doctor’s orders not to overdo it, if her hands were to knead his body and she poured words of love in his ear, surely he’d relent and make love.
Or would he be unhappy with her? He worried so much about her health.
She was still making up her mind when the ridges of his six-pack suddenly crunched and Bishop woke with a start. Driving back a breath, he sat bolt upright as if a monster had chased him out of a dream. His gaze shot to the doorway, to where she stood. His dark hair was mussed and his bronzed legs beneath the white shirt looked as strong as steel pylons. The tips of Laura’s breasts hardened against the gentle fabric of her robe. How she longed to trail her fingers up over that steel, every blessed inch of it.
His blue eyes focused then narrowed slightly as they raked the lines of her body. A pulse began to beat in his jaw at the same time his eyes grew lidded and she knew he was visualizing the curves and valleys he loved to touch and taste.
Then he scrubbed a hand over his face and, shaking himself, sat straighter. His voice was thick from sleep.
“It’s late. Go back to bed.”
“If you come with me.”
He held her gaze then looked to his desk. “In a few minutes. I have some things to wrap up.”
She crossed the room, sat down beside him and gave him a level look.
“We can’t avoid it, you know.”
He leaned back the barest amount. “Avoid … what?”
“We need to talk.”
She put her hand on his thigh. He promptly removed it.
“Not in the middle of the night.” He pushed to his feet and, grabbing his hand, she pulled him back. He had the strength to resist, but a yielding expression touched his mouth, his eyes, and slowly he lowered back down.
“When I was old enough to understand about my condition,” she began, “that I would need to be careful about overexertion and such—I felt … different. My parents made sure every teacher knew which activities I could or could not do. Once, when we were short on numbers, Mrs. Carols insisted I moved off the sideline and team up for the 500m relay. When he found out, my dad hit the roof. He threatened the principal’s job and demanded an apology from Mrs. Carols as well as from the school.”
Bishop’s brows had knitted. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I want you to understand that I know better than anyone what I’m asking of you, of myself and of any children we have.”
As if he were considering her words, his gaze lowered. He saw his buttons undone and, deep in thought, he began to rebutton. “Laura, it must be close to three o’clock—”
“Junior school was lonely sometimes,” she plowed on. She didn’t care about the time. She needed to say this and he needed to hear it. “I couldn’t do cross-country or horse riding at camp. Kids can be cruel and some laughed behind my back. A couple even called me a cripple.”
Redoing the final button, his hands fisted in his shirt. “I wish I’d been there.”
“I
