thank you.”
He looked around the apartment, his expression revealing nothing of what he was thinking. Kristen was grateful. She didn’t want to see disapproval in his eyes.
Instead of sitting on the sofa across from him, she took the chair next to his. It put him to her right, which meant she could keep her scarred cheek away from his view. As long as she didn’t look him straight in the eye, he wouldn’t notice it. Since leaving the hospital, she had become adept at looking at people from an angle.
And the angle from which she viewed Tyler Brant told her his face was very different from the one she had etched in her memory. She found it fascinating that facial hair could change a man’s image so drastically. Without the beard, he looked much younger. He was also extremely good-looking, something she hadn’t really appreciated before. For four weeks she had thought of him as someone who’d rescued her, not as a man she might be physically attracted to.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he began.
“I assume it’s because of my letter,” she said almost shyly. Now that she was in the same room with him, she suddenly felt like a character from one of those old adventure movies. And she was afraid that that was exactly how she would sound if she tried to thank him for saving her life. Like some helpless, simpering female gushing over a big, strong, macho man.
She needn’t have worried. He was no superhero, she quickly discovered.
“I wish you hadn’t sent me that letter,” he said, still no emotion in his voice.
To her dismay, she blushed. “I simply wanted to thank you, Mr. Brant,” She shifted uncomfortably on the chair.
“It wasn’t necessary. I did what anyone would have done in my position.”
There was no hint of friendliness in his tone. No softening of the lines on his face, no understanding in those dark eyes. Nothing about him resembled the man who had worked frantically to free her from the plane and carry her to safety. The man sitting next to her could have been a complete stranger instead of the man who had tenderly administered first aid to her wounds.
“I don’t believe that’s true,” she told him.
“You’re entitled to believe what you want, Ms. Kellar.”
Kristen felt as if he had dealt her a blow. Why was he behaving this way? She had thought that when she saw him again it would be a warm, friendly meeting with hugs and smiles. Instead, she was sitting next to him feeling awkward and wishing that he’d leave.
“If you didn’t appreciate my letter, why are you here?” she asked, seeing no point in wasting any more time.
“I think we need to get something straight.”
Kristen’s heart pounded in her throat. “And that is?”
“I’m not going to do any interview regarding the plane crash—not for you and certainly not for your boyfriend. I don’t want him calling my house bothering my family and I won’t tolerate being stalked just so the two of you can improve your ratings.” The words were spoken so quietly Kristen might have thought he wasn’t overly upset. But one look in his eyes told her he was extremely upset.
She swallowed with difficulty, then said, “First of all, I didn’t arrange for anyone to call your house. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not working at Channel 12 at the moment and I have no intention of being a part of any story that has to do with the crash.” She leaned closer to the lamp that separated them. Then she turned her head and pulled the hair away from her cheek. “Do you honestly think I want the world to see this?”
Unlike Keith, Tyler Brant didn’t flinch at the sight of her scarred face. Nor did he look uncomfortable. For the first time since he’d entered her apartment, she saw something other than coldness in his eyes. For several moments, they simply stared at each other without speaking, as if they were once more two people struggling to survive. Kristen was the first to look away.
He was the first to speak. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, his voice sounding more like the one she remembered. At first she thought the apology was meant for her scarred face. But then he added, “I thought you were involved in the TV report. Your name did come up several times,”
“It shouldn’t have,” she said quietly, pulling the hair back down across her cheek. She moved away from the lamp, sitting back in her chair. “Believe me, Mr. Brant, you don’t have to worry about my wanting to do a follow-up story on the plane crash. I have no desire to relive that awful day.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Can I count on you to use your influence with management to stop any plans to the contrary?”
She chuckled sarcastically. “I’m only an anchorwoman.”
“I’ve seen the ratings. You’re very popular in the Twin Cities.”
“That was before this happened.” She was unable to keep the bitterness from her voice and immediately regretted letting him see her self-pity. She reached for her crutches and rose to her feet. “Look, I don’t know if it’ll help, but I’ll talk to my boss at the station. Now if you don’t mind, I’m rather tired. I haven’t recovered my full strength since the crash.” She didn’t look at him but at her crutches as she maneuvered through the maze of furniture in the living room.
“You don’t need to see me to the door,” he told her. “I can find my way out.”
“All right.” She watched him walk away, unable to help noticing his broad shoulders. No wonder she had found such comfort in his arms. Tyler Brant was not a weak man, either mentally or physically.
They didn’t exchange another word. It wasn’t until after Kristen heard the door shut that she sank onto the sofa, laid her head on the pillow and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Any hope she had been harboring that he felt a connection to her was gone. He was just a guy who had done what he had to do in an emergency situation. Now he wanted to forget it—and her. That much had been evident tonight.
“Some hero,” she muttered to herself, then swallowed back a tear that threatened but never did fall.
CHAPTER THREE
TYLER CHASTISED HIMSELF all the way home from Kristen’s. He shouldn’t have gone to see her. He could’ve telephoned and accomplished the same results. It would’ve been the wiser thing to do because he wouldn’t now be haunted by the look on her face when she’d shown him her swollen, bruised cheek.
He could still see that angry, defensive stare she’d given him as she thrust her face under the light. She’d thought he’d be shocked into some kind of negative reaction. What she hadn’t realized was that—compared with the way her cheek had looked when he’d last seen her—her face looked remarkably good.
She must have had the top reconstructive surgeon in the country. It only made sense. She made her living based on her looks. Maybe he should have said something positive about her face.
But he suspected that no matter what he might’ve said, she would’ve interpreted it as pity. And it was obvious she was already immersed in enough of that herself. Besides, he doubted that she would’ve believed him if he’d told her it didn’t look as bad as she
