My eyes and nose stung. I passed a sleeve over my eyes to blot them. "So he won't have any problems from this in the future? No gimpy spleen or anything?"

"Oh, no. I'd expect a full recovery."

"Oh, my God." I let out a shuddering sigh. It was one of the best moments of my life. No, the absolute best. I was electrified and weak, and breathless. "I'm so relieved, I actually feel sort of queasy from it. Is that possible?"

"It's either relief," Dr. Whitfield said kindly, "or the waiting room coffee. Most likely the coffee."

The hospital rule was that intensive care patients could have twenty-four-hour visitation. The catch was, you could only stay fifteen minutes per hour, except in special circumstances as approved by the nursing staff. I asked Gage to pull whatever strings he could to make sure I could come and go at will. My brother seemed vaguely amused by this, and reminded me about how I had once objected to using power and money to get special treatment. I told him that when you were in love, hypocrisy won out over principle. And Gage said he certainly understood that, and he went and got me special permission to stay with Hardy as long as I wanted.

I dozed in a reclining chair in Hardy's room most of the night. The problem was, a hospital was the worst place in the world to sleep. Nurses came in hourly, exchanging IV bags, checking the monitors, and taking Hardy's temperature and blood pressure. But I welcomed each interruption, because I loved hearing about how well he was doing, over and over again.

At daybreak Gage came to the hospital and told me he was going to drive me back to my apartment so I could shower and change. I didn't want to leave Hardy, but I knew I looked like something the cat dragged in, and it was probably a good idea for me to clean up some.

Hardy had woken up when I came back at seven, and he was not pleased, to say the least, to find himself in a hospital bed and hooked up to monitors. I walked in to hear him arguing with a nurse, demanding that she take the IV out, and categorically refusing the pain medicine that he obviously needed. He didn't want to be poked and prodded, he said. He felt fine. All he needed was a bandage and an ice pack.

I could tell the nurse was enjoying the argument with the big, blue-eyed male who was at her mercy, and I didn't blame her a bit. He looked lost, a little anxious, and utterly appetizing.

And he was mine.

"Hardy Cates," I said, coming into the room, "you behave, or I'll step on your tube."

The nurse seemed taken aback by my unsympathetic bedside manner.

But Hardy's gaze met mine in a moment of bright, hot voltage, and he relaxed, reassured in a way that cooing sympathy could never have done. "That only works if it's a breathing tube," he told me.

I went to the tray on the bed-table and picked up the Vicodin tablets the nurse had been trying to get him to take, along with a cup of water. "Take these," I said. "No arguing."

He obeyed, shooting a glance at the nurse, whose eyebrows were slightly raised. "She's little," he told her, "but she's mean."

The nurse left, no doubt wondering why such a hunk hadn't been able to find a nicer girlfriend. When the door had closed, I fussed over Hardy a little, straightening the covers and readjusting his pillow. His gaze didn't stray from my face.

"Haven," he muttered, "get me out of here. I've never been in a hospital before. I can't stand being hooked up to all this crap. All I need is — "

"Surrender to the process," I told him, "and you'll get out of here a lot quicker." I kissed his forehead. "Will you behave if I get in there with you?"

Without hesitation, Hardy maneuvered himself over to the side, grunting in pain at the effort. I slipped off my clogs and climbed in carefully, resting in the crook of his arm. He sighed deeply, a sound of contentment.

I nuzzled gently into his warm neck, breathing him in. Hardy smelled antiseptic, medicinal, like he'd been sprayed with eau-de-hospital. But underneath the sterilized blankness I found the familiar fragrance of him.

"Hardy," I murmured, stroking his wrist, "why did you take that stupid deal from Dad and T.J.? And why'd you call it off?"

His hand found mine, long fingers folding over my palm. "I went a little crazy after I saw my dad on Friday night."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"I bailed him out and dropped him off at a motel with some money. And I told him to get lost. But what I didn't tell you . . . I should have . . . is that he and I talked for a few minutes. And he said — " Hardy stopped, gripping my hand more tightly.

I waited as he took a few unsettled breaths.

"He got pissed when I told him what I'd do to him if he ever called Mom again," Hardy muttered. "He said that was funny coming from me, because . . . I was the reason they'd gotten married. Mom had stopped going out with him, but then she had to go back to him because she was pregnant. It was my fault she ended up with the son of a bitch. Her whole life has been hell because of me. She's suffered — "

"No. Hardy . . . " I lifted up and stared into his dark blue eyes. My chest ached with sympathy. "You know that's not right. You know it wasn't your fault."

"But it's a fact that if I hadn't come along, Mom wouldn't have married him. And once he got her, her life was ruined."

I understood Hardy's feelings even if I didn't agree with his logic. But his anguish and irrational guilt couldn't be solved with convenient platitudes. He needed time, and love, to come to terms with the truth. And I had more than enough of both to give him.