I’m not riding in that with some puny little wisp of a thing pushing me through the halls. My legs are just fine.”
She backed the chair up a foot or so to give him room. “Let’s see you move it, then. The therapy room is down the hall. I’ll give you five minutes to get there.” She spun on her heel and headed for the door, taking the wheelchair with her.
“Something tells me I’m not the one with the attitude problem today,” he observed, still not budging from the bed, arms folded across his chest.
Jenny abandoned the wheelchair, moving so fast her rubbersoled shoes made little squeaking sounds on the linoleum. Hands on hips, she loomed over him, sparks dancing in her eyes. The soft moss shade of yesterday was suddenly all emerald fire.
“Buster, this attitude is no problem at all. If I have to bust your butt to convince you to do what you should, then that’s the road I’ll take. Personally I prefer to spend my time being pleasant and helpful, but I’m not above a little street fighting if that’s what it takes to accomplish the job. Got it?”
Frank found himself grinning at her idea of playing down and dirty. In any sort of real street fighting, she’d be out of her league in twenty seconds. He gave her high marks for trying, though. And after what he’d put her through the previous day, he decided he owed her a round. He’d let her emerge from this particular battle unscathed.
“I’ll go peacefully,” he said compliantly.
She blinked in surprise, and then something that might have been relief replaced the fight in her eyes.
“Good,” she said, a wonderful smile spreading across her face. That smile alone was worth the surrender. It warmed him deep inside, where he hadn’t even realized he’d been feeling cold and alone.
“I had no idea how I was going to haul you into that chair if you didn’t cooperate,” she confided.
“Sweetheart, you should never admit a thing like that,” he warned while awkwardly pulling on his robe. “Tomorrow I just might get it into my head to stand you up for this therapy date, and now I know I can get away with it.”
“Who are you kidding?” she sassed right back. “You knew that anyway. You’re nearly a foot taller than I am and seventy pounds heavier.”
“So you admit to being all bluster.”
“Not exactly.” She gestured toward the door. “I have a very tall, very strong orderly waiting just outside in case my technique failed. He lifts twice your weight just for kicks.”
“Which confirms that you weren’t quite as sure of yourself as you wanted me to believe.”
“Let’s just say that I’m aware of the importance of both first impressions and contingency plans,” she said as she escorted him to the door.
Outside the room she turned the wheelchair over to the orderly, who was indeed more than equal to persuading a man of Frank’s size to do as he was told. “Thanks, Otis. We won’t be needing this after all.”
The huge black man grinned. “Never thought you would, Ms. Michaels. You’re batting fifty-eight for sixty by my count. It’s not even sporting fun to bet against you anymore.”
“Nice record,” Frank observed wryly as they walked down the hall. “I had no idea therapists kept scorecards. I’d have put up less of a fight if I’d known I was about to ruin your reputation.”
“Otis is a born gambler. I’m trying to persuade him that the track is not the best place to squander his paycheck.”
“So now he takes bets against you?”
“I’m hoping eventually he’ll get bored enough to quit that, too. I think he’s getting close.” She peered up at Frank, her expression hopeful. “What do you think?”
What Frank thought, as he lost himself in those huge green eyes, was that he was facing trouble a whole lot more dangerous than the condition of his hands. His voice gentled to a near whisper. “Ms. Michaels, I think a man would be a fool to ever bet against you.”
Her gaze locked with his until finally, swallowing hard, she blinked and looked away. “Jenny,” she said, just as softly. “You can call me Jenny.”
Frank nodded, aware that they were suddenly communicating in ways that went beyond mere words. “Jenny,” he repeated for no reason other than the chance to hear her name roll off his tongue. The name was simple and uncomplicated, not at all like the woman it belonged to. He had a hunch he’d done a whole lot of miscalculating in the past couple of days. It might be fascinating to discover just how far off the mark he had been. “And I’m Frank.”
“Frank.”
They’d stopped outside a closed door marked Therapy and might have stood right where they were, awareness suddenly throbbing between them, if Otis hadn’t strolled past, whistling, giving Jenny a conspiratorial wink. Suddenly she was all business again, opening the door, pointing to a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
Frank stepped into a room filled with ordinary, everyday items from jars to toothbrushes, from scissors to jumbo-size crayons. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this dime-store collection of household paraphernalia. He hooked his foot under the rung of an ordinary straight-back chair and pulled it away from a Formica-topped table so he could sit. He eyed the assortment of equipment skeptically. He suspected his insurance was going to pay big bucks for this therapy, and for what? So he could play with a toothbrush? His spirit of cooperation took another nosedive.
“What’s all this?” he asked derisively the minute Jenny joined him.
“Advanced therapy,” she retorted. “If you’re lucky and work hard, you’ll get to it in a week or two.”
He regarded her incredulously. “It’s going to take two weeks before I can brush my teeth? I thought you were supposed to be good.”
“I am good. You’re the patient,” she reminded him. “Two weeks. Could be longer. The bandages won’t even be off for three weeks. Think you can handle it sooner?”
There was no mistaking the challenge. “Give me the brush,” he said.
“Get it yourself.”
He reached across the table and tried to pick it up. He managed it with both hands, by sliding it to the edge of the table and clamping it between his hands as it fell off. At least his quick, ball-playing reflexes hadn’t suffered any.
“Now what?” Jenny said, all bright-eyed curiosity. The woman was just waiting for a failure. Frank was equally determined not to fail. He was going to set a few recovery records of his own.
He pressed harder to keep the brush from slipping and tried to maneuver it toward his mouth. “Do you have to watch every move I make?” he grumbled, sweat forming across his brow with the taxing effort.
“Yep.”
Irritated by his inability to manipulate the brush and by her fascinated observation of the failure, he threw it down. “Forget it.”
“Maybe we ought to work up to that,” Jenny suggested mildly.
