Fairly seething with all of the new information he'd gleaned about Elodie, Clay carefully locked the door behind him as he left her apartment. He spent the drive back to the hospital trying to piece together what he'd seen and heard, and come to grips with how unbelievably jealous he'd gotten as soon as he heard whoever it was on her answering machine.
Clay knew that his relationship with Elodie had progressed nicely into the wonderful intimacy they had experienced before she had her accident. They were taking it slow, she wasn't balking too badly at anything... but still, he remembered how he had felt when the cop had asked him if he'd known an Elodie West, and he'd reached over to feel the cold sheets.
She'd gotten up and left him instead of sleeping all night with him. Was it that she was having a hard time dealing with what had happened between them? Did she not like the bed, or him, or was being in the house that he had shared with April too much, what? He wished he knew what had been running through her mind when she had walked out the door. But more than that, he wished she had dropped something loudly enough to wake him up, so that he could have convinced her—one way or the other, he frowned at the thought—not to leave at all.
With a start, he realized that she was important enough to him that if it was the house that bothered her, he'd be perfectly fine with selling it and building another on another piece of his land. God knew he'd had enough of it. That house had been a reflection of April's tastes, and was very much a part of them as a married couple. But if it caused problems between himself and Elodie, then he would start construction on a new house the two of them could share.
Regardless, one way or the other, he was going to get her the hell out of that apartment.
And away from that damned Joshua, whoever the hell he was.
Chapter 14
When he got back to her room, she was awake, but just barely. She came to full alertness, however, when she saw what he had in his hand.
"You—" Elodie swallowed the boulder that had suddenly lodged in her throat. "You went to my apartment?"
Clay didn't address her immediately. He stowed her things in the cabinet nearby so that she would be able to get to them if she wanted them, then tucked the suitcase into the utilitarian closet. "Yes, I did."
Elodie's heart was trying to thump its way out of her ribcage. If she was going to have a heart attack, and it looked like she was, this was the place to do it, she thought. He had been to her apartment. He must have seen her work. The picture of April.
He had her suitcase.
He had been in her closet. Chances were pretty good he had seen the portrait of himself.
Why, oh why, hadn't she burned that damned thing instead of practically praying to it every night and obsessing over it endlessly? It had become her icon, her idol—and it should have been smashed to pieces long ago. Instead, Clay had seen it, seen himself through her eyes, and her naked desire for him played out in his own features.
Eager to be deferred from the topic that was seething between them like a chasm full of hot lava, Elodie asked the first question that came into her mind. "How did you get into my apartment? I don't remember giving you a key..." Then she answered her own question. "I didn't realize you'd kept the one I gave April."
Clay's eyebrows rose automatically in surprise at that simple answer, but then he pasted a blasé look on his face, saying in an overly casual way, "Oh, yeah, I kept it."
*****
He approached her and kissed her as gently as a soft breeze, then took up his usual residence—the subtly torturous hospital chair.
Before he delved into what he wanted to talk to her about, he asked quietly, "How are you? Is there anything I can get you? When did you have your last pain meds?" He wasn't about to let her be a brave little soldier about being in pain, even if he had to give her the shots himself.
"They just gave it to me. I was hurting, and I asked for it."
"Good girl," he praised. "At this point, you're healing and you don't need to be in pain. If—when—they make you do P.T., then you'll have to shake hands with it."
"Yeah, I know."
A relatively comfortable silence fell between them, until Clay said, "You're a fantastic painter."
Elodie drew a deep breath. "Thank you."
"You have enough canvasses. You should have a show."
She was shaking her head, very slowly, very carefully, back and forth.
"Why not?"
"No interest. I paint for myself, not anyone else."
"No one says that has to change."
"I don't want a show."
Well, he would come back to that eventually. "Who's Joshua?"
Elodie frowned. "How do you know about Joshua?"
Clay watched her reaction carefully when he had said his name. She looked surprised and puzzled, but not alarmed in any way. If he was someone she was involved with, then she should have looked a lot more worried.
A lot more worried, because Clay was going to kill him.
"He left a message on your answering machine." Clay couldn't get his voice above an angry growl.
Elodie tried to smile, although it looked as if it pained her to do so.