He’d failed to earn that trust last night.

“Craig.”

His eyes blinked open. Her sleepy ones met his, soft and shadowed, wrenching his heart.

“Good morning,” he whispered. He had to use both hands to get up from the chair, and ignored the apprentice going wild in his head at even slow-motion efforts. He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine. Maybe a little sore. Everything’s…fine, except that I feel pumped full of drugs.” She smiled groggily, and then frowned. “Honey, what on earth are you doing here? You’re supposed to be flat on your-”

He motioned to the empty bed next to her, his choice of where he preferred being flat on his back totally clear.

Sonia’s smile was sleepy. “This is the women’s ward.”

“I like women.”

“You’d better not. You’re already in trouble with me, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh?” He made it back to the chair when he felt he could no longer stand, tugging it closer to her bed so he could touch her.

“You all but promised to make love to me last night,” she joked groggily. “Lord, what a tease. What kind of way was that to end the evening?”

“A frustrated one,” he said wryly.

Slowly, she eased herself up to a sitting position, letting the sheet fall to her waist. The hospital gown made her figure disappear; she looked ten years old with her disheveled mass of blue-black curls and huge turquoise eyes.

Totally disoriented from the sedatives the doctor had pumped into her, Sonia was finding it a monumental task to concentrate. “Craig, you have a concussion-”

“A light one,” he lied.

“Did they tape the rib?”

He shook his head. Slowly. “They don’t always do that anymore. It’s nothing, Sonia.”

It wasn’t nothing. As her vision cleared, she could see the terrible bruises, and beneath his natural tan there was a grayish pallor that terrified her. She reached over to touch his fingers. Their hands matched, forming a tent, fingertip to fingertip. “If you don’t lie down, I’m going to tickle you till you cry uncle,” she whispered.