to go.
Clint slammed his pickup into Reverse, conscious that all the New Yorkers were still staring at him. But he only wanted to see the brunette with the smart mouth and tempting curves in his rearview mirror. She was sexy as hell and, because he wasn’t a total idiot, he’d noticed her attraction to him.
Clint barreled down the driveway and tossed his Stetson onto the empty seat next to him. He’d seen her checking him out and suspected she liked what she’d seen, up to a point. He’d worked hella hard to build his core, chest and back muscles. Women liked his top half but, these days, his bottom half caused him problems.
Hell, both the women—his mom and his girlfriend—he’d ever loved had been unable to come to terms with his disability…
The memories rolled back and Clint forced himself to face them. On returning from Afghanistan, he’d spent a couple of months in hospital recovering after his amputation and when he got back to the ranch, he’d spent a few more months in bed, sleeping and smoking and drinking.
Carla, his long-time girlfriend, had immediately moved in to take care of him and she’d run around, waiting on him hand and foot. It didn’t matter to her that he could afford to hire teams of nurses, doctors and physiotherapists. Family money, lots and lots of money, gave him access to the best health care on the planet but Carla only allowed the bare minimum of people to have access to him.
She’d insisted on fussing over him herself, coddling and mothering him. But, as his depression lifted, he realized that he didn’t like the flabby, bloated, unhealthy man he saw in the mirror. He’d always been a fitness fanatic and because he was sick of feeling sick and miserable, he turned two rooms of his ranch house into a state-of-the-art gym.
As he got fitter, and more adept with his prosthetic, he became more independent and Carla had mentally, and physically, retreated. And when his sex drive finally returned, she’d retreated some more. When he’d finally convinced her that he was well enough, strong enough, for sex and taken his prosthetic off, she bolted.
Never to be seen again.
Thanks to his frequent absences due to his career in the military, they’d drifted apart and his accident pulled them back together again. She adored his dependence on her, loved being so very needed and had he stayed that way, she might’ve stuck around. But being weak wasn’t something Clint did. Weakness wasn’t part of his DNA.
His sex life didn’t improve after she left. He’d tried a couple of one-night stands and neither were successful. One woman left when she saw his leg, another, the next morning, acted like she’d done him the biggest favor by sleeping with him and Clint decided that climaxes with strangers weren’t worth the humiliation.
It had been two years since he got laid and, yeah, he missed sex. And when he met someone he was instantly, ridiculously attracted to, as he’d been to that brunette back there, he missed it more than ever.
But sex was just sex; he wouldn’t die from not getting any.
He didn’t think.
Clint felt his phone vibrating in the back pocket of his jeans and lifted his butt cheek to pull it out. Glancing down at the screen, he saw the Dallas area code and recognized the number as one of his mother’s.
The mother he no longer spoke to.
Clint briefly wondered why she, or more likely her PA or another lackey, was calling. It had been years since they’d last spoken but he didn’t answer the call. He had nothing to say to his mom. Not anymore…
Mila had blown into the hospital to visit with him before his operation and he’d been cynically surprised by her show of support as she’d never been an attentive, involved mother.
Back in his room after the operation that took his leg, he’d hadn’t felt strong enough to deal with his intense news-anchor mother and he’d pretended to still be under the anesthetic, hoping she’d go away. He’d just wanted the world to leave him alone but his hearing hadn’t disappeared along with his leg and Mila’s softly spoken words drifted over to him.
So, I’m here, he’s still out so what now?
I’ve arranged for the press to photograph you leaving the hospital after visiting your war-hero son. Clint had recognized the voice as Greg’s, Mila’s business manager, whom he’d met a few times over the years. He was, so Mila said, the power behind Mila’s rise to being one of the most famous, powerful and respected women in Dallas.
So, try to look worried, distressed. And proud.
I’m going to have to act my ass off, Mila had moaned. He’s, like…repulsive.
Jesus, Mila, he’s your son, Greg had said, sounding, to his credit, horrified.
I like pretty and I like perfect. He’s never been perfect but before he went off to play at war, he was at least pretty, Mila had retorted. Thank God he has that girlfriend because I’m certainly not prepared to be his nurse.
Wow. Her words laid down just another hot layer of pain.
With her words bouncing off his brain, Clint had slipped into sleep and a six-month depression. Carla and his mother were the reasons he’d worked his butt off to become, as much as possible, the person he was before the surgery. He never wanted to be dependent on anyone ever again, not for help, sex or even company. Carla had wanted to help him too much, his mother not at all, but Clint was happy to be shot of them both.
All he wanted was for the few people he chose to interact with to see past his injury to the man he was. And he couldn’t do that if he flaunted his prosthetic so he never, ever allowed anyone to see his bionic leg.
And if giving up sex was the price he paid for his independence then he’d happily live with the lack of below-the-belt action. Nothing was more important to him than his independence. And his pride.
But some days, like today, a woman came along who made him wonder, who made him burn. But he was nothing if not single-minded, and like the others he’d felt a fleeting attraction to, he wouldn’t act on it.
No woman was ever worth the hassle.
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