in a deep breath, he knocked on the half-open door.
"Come in." Her voice was just as he remembered it. Soft, with a touch of huskiness. Gabe felt his palms break out in cold sweat. He'd rather have faced a drugged-out junkie with an AK-47 than walk through that door.
Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and pushed open the door. Charity was propped up in bed, a pale pink bed jacket over her shoulders, her honey-blond hair pulled back with a matching ribbon. She was paler than he remembered, her skin almost translucent. She looked so fragile, so young.
Gabe stopped just inside the room, waiting to see the smile in her eyes change to hatred when she realized who he was.
"Mr. London." The smile reached her mouth, her lips curving. "Come in."
Gabe moved forward, walking carefully, as if the ground might shift under his feet at any moment, which was exactly how he felt. Didn't she remember what had happened?
"Hello." He stopped beside the bed. He was unable to sustain her gaze, and his eyes dropped to the roses.
"Those are beautiful," Charity said after a minute, when he showed ho signs of speaking.
"They're for you." He thrust them out.
Charity took them, bent to breathe in the rich scent. "They're wonderful." When she lifted her head she was still smiling. Gabe didn't respond, only stared at her, as if he wasn't sure what he was doing here. "Would you mind putting them in water for me," she asked. "You could put them in that vase there. I think those flowers have about had it."
Gabe took the roses back from her mechanically. There was a mixed bouquet on the table next to the bed. The flowers were beginning to show their age. He dumped them into the trash and filled the vase in the little bathroom. Bringing it back into the room, he set it on the table and put the roses into it.
"They look perfect. And the scent is wonderful." She turned her head to smile at him. "Thank you, Mr. London."
"Call me Gabe," he said automatically. Shooting someone should surely put them on first-name terms, he thought, wondering if he was dreaming this visit.
Obviously she didn't remember what had happened, didn't realize that he was the one who'd shot her. He felt a wave of relief. He didn't have to see the friendliness turn to hatred, didn't have to hear her tell him that he'd destroyed her life.
"I'm the one who shot you," he said abruptly.
"I know."
Nothing changed in her eyes. She was still smiling at him. Gabe groped for something to hold on to, finally grabbing the rail at the foot of the bed.
"Don't you hate me?"
"No. Why should I?" She seemed genuinely puzzled.
"Why should you? Because it's my fault you're here. / shot you," he said again, in case she hadn't heard.
"But you didn't mean to."
"That's not the point."
"It was an accident," she said, handing him the same words he'd been hearing from Annie and the police psychologist ever since the shooting. "It wasn't your fault. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine for running in front of you like an idiot."
"You were trying to save the other woman's life," Gabe said, stunned to find himself defending her to herself.
"Well, as it turned out, she wasn't the one in the way." Charity shrugged. "It was just bad timing all around."
"And that's it? You don't want to tell me you hate me? You don't want to throw something at me? Yell and scream?"
"I don't think so. Would it make you feel better if I did?" Charity smiled at him mischievously, relieved when his mouth relaxed in a rueful smile.
"I don't know. I was so sure you'd be angry. That you'd hate me. I'm not sure I know what to say. Thank you, I guess."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd hated me."
"Well, I don't. If it wasn't for you, that poor old man would have been killed and probably a lot of others, including me. Besides, it's not as if I'm paralyzed for life," she said, hoping he couldn't hear the brittle note in her cheerful words.
"What do the doctors say?" She could
"Come in." Her voice was just as he remembered it. Soft, with a touch of huskiness. Gabe felt his palms break out in cold sweat. He'd rather have faced a drugged-out junkie with an AK-47 than walk through that door.
Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and pushed open the door. Charity was propped up in bed, a pale pink bed jacket over her shoulders, her honey-blond hair pulled back with a matching ribbon. She was paler than he remembered, her skin almost translucent. She looked so fragile, so young.
Gabe stopped just inside the room, waiting to see the smile in her eyes change to hatred when she realized who he was.
"Mr. London." The smile reached her mouth, her lips curving. "Come in."
Gabe moved forward, walking carefully, as if the ground might shift under his feet at any moment, which was exactly how he felt. Didn't she remember what had happened?
"Hello." He stopped beside the bed. He was unable to sustain her gaze, and his eyes dropped to the roses.
"Those are beautiful," Charity said after a minute, when he showed ho signs of speaking.
"They're for you." He thrust them out.
Charity took them, bent to breathe in the rich scent. "They're wonderful." When she lifted her head she was still smiling. Gabe didn't respond, only stared at her, as if he wasn't sure what he was doing here. "Would you mind putting them in water for me," she asked. "You could put them in that vase there. I think those flowers have about had it."
Gabe took the roses back from her mechanically. There was a mixed bouquet on the table next to the bed. The flowers were beginning to show their age. He dumped them into the trash and filled the vase in the little bathroom. Bringing it back into the room, he set it on the table and put the roses into it.
"They look perfect. And the scent is wonderful." She turned her head to smile at him. "Thank you, Mr. London."
"Call me Gabe," he said automatically. Shooting someone should surely put them on first-name terms, he thought, wondering if he was dreaming this visit.
Obviously she didn't remember what had happened, didn't realize that he was the one who'd shot her. He felt a wave of relief. He didn't have to see the friendliness turn to hatred, didn't have to hear her tell him that he'd destroyed her life.
"I'm the one who shot you," he said abruptly.
"I know."
Nothing changed in her eyes. She was still smiling at him. Gabe groped for something to hold on to, finally grabbing the rail at the foot of the bed.
"Don't you hate me?"
"No. Why should I?" She seemed genuinely puzzled.
"Why should you? Because it's my fault you're here. / shot you," he said again, in case she hadn't heard.
"But you didn't mean to."
"That's not the point."
"It was an accident," she said, handing him the same words he'd been hearing from Annie and the police psychologist ever since the shooting. "It wasn't your fault. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine for running in front of you like an idiot."
"You were trying to save the other woman's life," Gabe said, stunned to find himself defending her to herself.
"Well, as it turned out, she wasn't the one in the way." Charity shrugged. "It was just bad timing all around."
"And that's it? You don't want to tell me you hate me? You don't want to throw something at me? Yell and scream?"
"I don't think so. Would it make you feel better if I did?" Charity smiled at him mischievously, relieved when his mouth relaxed in a rueful smile.
"I don't know. I was so sure you'd be angry. That you'd hate me. I'm not sure I know what to say. Thank you, I guess."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd hated me."
"Well, I don't. If it wasn't for you, that poor old man would have been killed and probably a lot of others, including me. Besides, it's not as if I'm paralyzed for life," she said, hoping he couldn't hear the brittle note in her cheerful words.
"What do the doctors say?" She could
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