“Ms. Moran?”
She jerked her head around to stare at the surgeon hovering in the doorway. Jumping off the couch, she wrung her hands in front of her. “Yes?”
Marc stood more slowly at her side.
“Your father made it through surgery,” the surgeon announced, slipping a hand across his bald head. “He’s got a good shot at recovery.”
“Really?” Her voice trembled.
“The next twenty-four hours will be tricky.” He pushed his glasses up his long nose and peered at her.
“Okay.” Her heart dipped and dove, stuttered inside her chest.
“He will get the best care.” The dark growl of Marc’s voice steadied her emotions.
She took a deep breath in.
“I have no doubt you will make sure that will happen.” The surgeon’s wry smile lit his tired face.
“Si.”
“Well, then.” The older man smoothed his hands together. “I’ll be in touch with the nursing staff and will check in tomorrow morning to see how our patient is doing.”
Marc strode over to the man and ushered him out the door, their low voices uttering indistinguishable words.
Darcy slumped onto the couch.
Her pop was okay. He’d made it this far. It was a minor miracle. She knew that. She’d seen the look on the surgeon’s face before going into surgery. She’d heard the whispers of the nurses as they’d wheeled her pop from the room. She’d felt the deep, dark dread in the center of her stomach these past six hours. Knowing, hoping, worrying. Praying.
Another chill ran through her, zipping along her spine. It blended with the earlier chill, making her hands cold as ice. She shuddered.
“Carita.” His tone was harsh.
She wrenched her gaze up to meet the silver flash of his own.
“You are trembling.” His big hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her into his arms. “It’s not needed. Your father will be fine.”
A sob choked her throat. No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself to be such a wuss. A wimp in front of this man? No.
“If you say so.” She forced the words through the growing chill with a bit of her usual spirit.
He murmured an Italian word. One of his hands moved across her head, smoothing his fingers into her hair as he pressed her face to his chest.
Another sob escaped her control, breaking her determination to be strong.
He sighed. “Cry, carita. Let it go.”
She let herself go in his arms.
* * *
He held her until she finally ran out of her seemingly-endless supply of tears. The sprite appeared to have stored quite a lake of sorrow inside her tiny body. She quaked and quivered in his arms for what seemed like hours. Her hands clutched at his shirt as she burrowed deeper into his grasp. Somehow they’d ended up sitting once more, and she huddled by him, her slight body molding to his side.
Her touch did not arouse any thoughts of sex or lust.
Only concern. Only a fierce desire to console her.
Her weeping also did not inspire in him a need to run or ridicule. The tears did not elicit his usual response to attempted manipulation: a cynical putdown or mocking rejection. His mother used tears as a weapon, as had Juliana. He’d learned the lesson well. Learned to not be moved.
Yet this was very different. This time with this woman.
The realization shook him. However, now was not the time to dissect these emotions coursing through him. Now was the time to concentrate on comforting Darcy.
Her wet cheek nestled into the crook of his shoulder. She gulped another low cry.
The thing, the thing tied to her, twisted inside him.
He was absolutely positive the nymph didn’t even realize she had him in the palm of her dainty hand right at this moment. That she could ask him for anything, the moon, the stars and at this moment of time, he would move heaven and earth to get it for her. With every gulping gasp, his heart ached. With every warm tear falling on his neck, he tightened his grip on her, trying to pour reassurance into her soul.
Finally, finally, the sobs faded into small hiccups. Then silence.
He slid his palm along the fragile bones of her spine.
“How embarrassing,” she muttered, her words brushing on his skin.
A chuckle escaped him at the disgusted tone in her voice.
“Now you pour humiliation upon humiliation.” Her head popped up. The red rims of her eyes only highlighted the deep blue. A defiant sparkle lit the depths. “Laughing at me.”
“I am merely amused you would be embarrassed for crying. Every woman cries.”
“I don’t.”
“After the last few moments, this is clearly untrue.”
She wiped at the tears lingering on her face. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“It was not a problem.” His keen gaze never left her face. “I am used to womanly emotions.”