Page 24 of Leather and Longing
Adam stepped into the office and inclined his head upward. “What do you think the likelihood is that right now, my dear sister is upstairs, snooping?” he said in a whisper.
Paul thought it extremely likely, especially when the ceiling above him creaked. That was his room. “Do you think she buys it?” he said in an equally hushed tone. After all, it was quite the transformation from the Adam he’d met.
If Caroline knew her brother well, she might smell a rat.
“I don’t care if she does, as long as it keeps her from coming out here whenever she feels like it.” Gone was any semblance of warmth: Adam’s voice was ice, sending a shiver through Paul.
The sound of Caroline descending the staircase brought a halt to their conversation. She came to the door and glanced at Paul. “Well, I think I’ll be going. If I could have my briefcase?”
Paul nodded. He went around to the other side of the desk to retrieve it. Adam didn’t move.
“So glad you could visit, Caro.” He gave a thin smile.
Caroline regarded him in silence, her forehead furrowed. “Take care, Adam. It’s good to see you’ve decided to join the human race again.” She turned to Paul. “You are to be congratulated, Paul. You appear to have wrought a miracle.” With that, she crossed the hallway and left the house.
Paul stared after her, a fluttering deep in his stomach.
Something really odd is going on here.
“What is it?” Adam demanded. “There’s that weird silence again.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, it’s…” Paul struggled to make sense of what he’d seen and heard.
“Don’t do that,” Adam growled. “Either tell me what’s bothering you or say nothing.”
Paul sighed in silence. It seemed the truce was over. He thought hard about how to frame his thoughts. “Her mouth said one thing, but her expression said something else altogether,” he said at last.
Adam jerked his head in Paul’s direction. “Explain.”
“You heard her, right?” Adam nodded. “Well, if I only had her facial expression to go on, I’d have said she wasn’t happy. Not happy at all.” But that didn’t make sense. Paul was doing the job she’d hired him to do, wasn’t he? Why would she be unhappy about that?
Adam had become silent.
Paul looked over to where Adam leaned against the office door, an air of fatigue surrounding him. There was no trace of the man who’d greeted Caroline.
“I’m going up to my room.” His voice was flat. “I’ll have my lunch there.” He turned on his heel and entered the library next door. Seconds later he emerged, cane in hand, and crossed the hallway to the staircase.
Paul waited until he heard Adam reach the landing. He’d walked up slowly, his cane swinging, his hand clutching the balustrade.
He did it. Paul breathed a little easier.
He went into the kitchen and dropped into one of the chairs. Some chilling out time sounded very appealing. He’d really thought they’d had a breakthrough, but Adam seemed to have regressed. Certainly, the man who’d just gone upstairs was nothing like the Adam who’d teased him the previous day, who’d shown emotion for the first time since they’d met.
That Adam was gone, and Paul felt very insecure about his job prospects.
Chapter Eleven
Dinner was over.Adam had taken it in his room, unwilling to spend more time in Paul’s presence than was absolutely necessary. He needed a clear head to contemplate what to do next, and Paul messed up his radar.
It had seemed a simple enough idea to convince Caroline he was coping. But in the process of setting the scene for her, Adam had regained something vital, his own sense of self. Paul had shown him that hecouldcope. Better than that: Adam had realised he didn’t need Paul.He didn’t needanyone.
So you’re happy going up and down stairs now? It’s suddenly become easy? You can even do it without the cane?
Adam knew his successes of the last day or so were minor. He still had to use his hands on walls and furniture to track where he was, and despite his trip to the salon, he was nowherenearready to venture outside on his own.
I’ve managed for two months. I can keep on managing.
Except it had been more a case of existing, and he knew it.
