Regret Not a Moment by Nicole McGehee

fury grip her. Pity! He pitied her! Men begged for a smile from her and John dared to feel sorry for her!
    “You!” she screamed. “You should be grateful. You don’t understand how men want me, you don’t—”
    “Of course I do, Loretta,” he cut in, trying to placate her and avoid an ugly scene.
    How dare he humor me, Loretta fumed. She knew that tone of voice. It was the tone the wardrobe designer used when she demanded changes. Or the hairdresser when she insisted on a more elaborate hairdo. It was the tone of a man who wished to smooth things over so that he could get on with his own life. It was not the voice of a man who loved her, or was even interested in her! He was indifferent to her!
    “How dare you use that tone with me!” She was sobbing now. “You think I’ve been sitting around this place waiting for you? Well, I haven’t! Whitney Ross has promised to divorce his wife and marry me,” she lied, wanting to humiliate him as he had humiliated her.
    “Loretta,” John cut her off, recognizing the lie and wanting to save her from making a fool of herself. He looked at the wreckage of the beautiful blonde star before him. Her carefully applied makeup was a messy smear, mixing with her tears. She looked older. She looked desperate. Soothingly, John said, “Loretta, I understand that you’re angry. I enjoy being with—”
    “Enjoy? What do you think I am, your maiden aunt?” She let out a mirthless laugh. “Don’t you dare patronize me! I’m not waiting around for anyone. I’ve waited around too long for you. Now get out. Get
out!”
she cried. She grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the door. Then sank to the floor in a flood of tears.
    John hastily headed for the door—then stopped. He did not want to leave Loretta in this state. Turning, he approached the sobbing woman. “Loretta. Let me help you up,” he said gently.
    No words could have inflamed her more. There it was again: pity. Lifting her head, she stopped crying for a moment. She wiped her eyes with the cuff of her robe. Then she looked at John with such pure hatred that he recoiled.
    “I hate you, John Alexander,” she said fiercely, in an ominously quiet voice. “I hate you and I’ll never stop hating you.”
    The two stared at each other for a few seconds.
    “Get out,” she growled in a voice that, in its very quietness, was more threatening than her screams.
    John had no choice but to obey.

CHAPTER 8
    THE first sensation of Devon’s return to consciousness was not pain but darkness. She tried to open her eyes and realized with horror that they were already open. Then she felt the pain. It was like a mummifying wrap covering every inch of her body, leaving no part of her untouched.
    “She’s awake, I think.” Devon heard her mother’s voice, anxious, but at the same time calming because it was her mother. A warm hand covered hers. Her left hand. Her right hand was encased in something. She did not know what. She did not know because she could not see. Her stomach clenched in fear as she tried to speak.
    She heard a creaky, guttural sound. Her voice, barely recognizable, whispered brokenly, “I… can’t… see.”
    “Devon, I
thought
you were awake!” her mother said with great relief.
    “Thank God. Thank God.” Devon heard her father, murmuring hoarsely to himself.
    “Don’t try to talk,” said a gruff, firm voice. Dr. Hickock. She had known him since childhood. But she could not obey him. She had to talk. There were things she had to know.
    “I… can’t… see.” Even though Devon’s voice rose barely above a whisper, the imploring quality of it was impossible to miss.
    “You’ve suffered a severe concussion, Devon,” said the doctor. “Your head is bandaged. We’ve covered your eyes, but it’s just temporary,” he said reassuringly.
    “I… hurt,” she said in a fractious voice, stronger now. She was bewildered. She did not remember why she was in such pain.
    The doctor smiled in victory at