The ambassador looked at his watch then, and at Bill, and decided he had stayed long enough. Grace was right. He looked terrible, and within five minutes he left. And to Bill suddenly, the older man who had seemed like his father only days before, now seemed vital and young and full of life, and all because he could walk out of the room under his own steam.

The hours seemed to drag by after that. Bill slept for a while, and the specialist came in late that afternoon. Bill hadn't heard from Cynthia, but he suspected she was at Claridge's, licking her wounds. He was still certain that, however painful this was, she'd be better off in the end.

The specialist didn't have anything very encouraging to say. He spelled all the possibilities out for Bill, from worst case to best. From the X rays he'd seen, and the documentation of the surgery, he thought it unlikely Bill would ever walk again. He might regain some sensation eventually, but enough damage had been caused to his spine that he would most probably never regain full control of his legs. Even if he could feel them eventually, he would not be able to stand. They could fit him for braces, and with training, he might be able to use crutches and drag his legs, but he thought Bill would have more mobility and greater ease if he used a wheelchair. That was the good news. The bad news was that if the nerves degenerated further, combined with the damage to his neck, he might not regain any sensation at all below his waist. Arthritis could set in, and cause further deterioration to the bones, and coupled with what he already had, he could endure a lifetime of pain as well. But at fifty-two, he thought Bill had a good chance of recapturing at least some use of his legs, even if he never walked again. The doctor estimated that Bill's neck would take four to six months to heal, and the rehabilitation work on his legs would take a year or more. There were one or two additional surgeries they could do, but he felt that the benefits would be minimal, and the risks far too great. If they tried to improve on what he was left with now, he could end up fully paralyzed from the neck down, and he strongly urged Bill not to take that risk. He warned Bill that some surgeons might want to experiment with him, and promise him improvements they couldn't guarantee, but he was very outspoken in saying that any surgeon who took it on would be a fool to take the risk, and listening to him, Bill agreed. The picture he painted was a livable but not an easy one, and it took immense courage to face. He told Bill honestly that he would have to work like a dog for the next year to achieve some degree of use of his legs, and he would have to strengthen his upper body to compensate, not to mention the work he had to do on his neck. But with time, and hard work, he felt certain that Bill could lead a good life, if he was willing to make the psychological adjustment to the limitations that had befallen him in the accident. He said bluntly that it was a damn shame, but it was not the end of the world.

And then, reading Bill's mind easily, he answered the question that Bill was still too afraid to ask. It was clear that he would never walk again, and he would be wheelchair bound. But he had no idea whatsoever of what was in store for him in terms of a sexual life, if he would have any at all, and he was silently panicked over it. The doctor explained practically and openly that there was a good possibility that Bill would regain sensation sexually and be able to lead a relatively normal life, although it was still a little too early to tell. He told Bill that it was difficult to predict. But he was hopeful and encouraging, and anxious to relieve Bill's mind, as best he could. Eventually, Bill would have to try it out, but he hadn't progressed far enough in his recovery yet. It was bad enough to never walk again, but the doctor didn't want Bill to lose hope entirely about the rest.

“If your wife is patient for a while,” the doctor said, smiling at him, “things could go very well.” Bill didn't explain to him that in a short time, he would no longer have a wife, and he couldn't imagine experimenting with women he tried to date. But at the very least, he wanted to know that if he chose to experiment sexually, it would work. But no one could promise him that. He would just have to wait and see, which was agonizing. What he was planning to do, once he recovered, was what he had always done, throw himself full tilt into his work. More than ever now, it was all he had left.

After the doctor left, Bill lay in bed and thought for a while. He was severely depressed. A lot had happened in a few hours, and it was a great deal to absorb. It was hard to wrap his mind around the idea that he would never walk again … never walk again … he kept saying the words in his head. But he knew it could have been worse. He could have been totally paralyzed, or dead, his head injury could have left him permanently impaired mentally. But in spite of the mercies he knew he should be grateful for, the possible loss of his manhood seemed to outweigh them all, and he lay in bed, worried and depressed. And as he thought about it, his mind wandered to Isabelle again. He lay there and closed his eyes, thinking of the time they had spent together earlier that week. It was hard to believe it was only four days before. Four days ago, he had been dancing with her at Annabel's, feeling her close to him, and now he would never dance again, and she was hovering near death. It was impossible to believe that he might never talk to her again, might never hear her voice, or see her lovely face. Thinking about it, and everything that had happened to him, brought tears to his eyes. He was thinking about her, with tears running down his cheeks, when the nurse walked in. She knew the specialist had been with him for a long time, and that the news hadn't been good, and she thought he was disheartened over that, and gently tried to cheer him up. He was a handsome, vital man, and she could only imagine what it must mean to him to know that he would never walk again. The nurses had guessed it would turn out that way almost from the first day. His injuries had just been too severe.

“Would you like some pain medication, Mr. Robinson?” she asked, as he looked at her.

“No, I'm fine. How is Mrs. Forrester? Is there any change?” He asked every time he saw one of them, and none of them could figure out if he felt responsible for the accident in some way, because she'd been out with him, or if he was in love with her. It was hard to tell. The only one who knew was the one nurse who'd been there when he visited her the night before, and she had sworn to the doctor she wouldn't say a word about whatever she heard.

“She's about the same. Her husband was here for a little while, and he just left. I think he's going back to Paris for a few days. There's nothing he can do here.” Except be with her, and talk to her, and beg her to come back. Bill hated Gordon as he thought of him. He was so icy cold, and so rotten to her. And then it occurred to him, if Gordon had left the hospital, then he could visit her again, and he mentioned it to the nurse. She knew he'd been in to see her the night before, and their mutual physician had allowed him to, but she had no idea what he'd think about Bill doing it again. But when she saw the look in his eyes, she could see what a hard day he'd had, and how affected he was by it, and her heart went out to him.

“I'll see what I can do,” she said, and disappeared. She was back five minutes later with two orderlies, who unlocked the brakes on his bed, and rolled him slowly toward the door. She had to unhook some of his monitors, but he was well enough now to be without them for a little while, and she knew how determined he was to go across the hall and see Isabelle.

Her nurse held the door open for them, and the orderlies rolled his bed gently across the hall into the room, and placed it next to hers. The shades in her room were drawn, and the respirator was making its familiar whooshing sound, as the nurses backed away into a corner of the room to leave them alone. Bill turned toward her as best he could, which was extremely limited, and took her fingers in his hand again, just as he had the night before.

“It's me, Isabelle … you have to wake up, my love. You have to come back. Teddy needs you, and so do I. I need to talk to you, I miss you so much.” Tears rolled freely down his cheeks as he talked to her, and after a while, he just lay silently holding her hand. The nurses were about to suggest that he go back, as he lay quietly in his own bed next to her, and he looked strangely at peace. He almost seemed about to drift off to sleep, when the door opened, and Gordon Forrester stood looking around the room. Both nurses gave a start, and the orderlies were right outside, as Gordon spoke sharply to his wife's nurse.

“Please take Mr. Robinson back to his room immediately.” It was all he said, and Bill said not a word as they wheeled him from the room. There was no mistaking what was happening there, or why he had been brought to her, and as he rolled past Gordon, Bill felt a ripple of fear. He was sure that Gordon would insist that Bill not visit her again. But if he was leaving for Paris soon, Bill would see to it that he was brought to her again. He was lying in his room, thinking about it, and how lifeless she looked, when Gordon Forrester strode into his room.

“If I find you in her room again, Robinson, or hear that you've been there, I'll have you removed from this hospital. Is that clear?” He was shaking with rage, and his face was pale. Bill was poaching on his territory, and he wasn't going to tolerate it. As far as he was concerned, he owned Isabelle, and he was going to make it impossible for Bill to get anywhere near her, whatever the nature of their relationship was. She belonged to him.

“I'm not impressed, Mr. Forrester,” Bill said quietly, looking him firmly in the eye. “I think Ambassador Stevens would have something to say about my being removed. But I don't need him to fight my battles for me. Isabelle and I are friends, we have been for a long time. She's never done anything you'd disapprove of, I can assure you of that,” other than one kiss that night in the car, but Gordon didn't need to know that, it was only between them. “I'm concerned about her. You're a lucky man. She's a wonderful woman, and I want her to survive just as much as you do, maybe more. Teddy needs her, even more than you do. If talking to her, or being there, or simply willing her to live because I give a damn about her, can possibly help her now, then it's at least something I can do for her.”

“Stay away from her. You've done enough. You damn near got her killed with you. What did you think you were doing, out at that hour? Didn't you have any idea how it would look? You got yourselves photographed by the paparazzi, made fools of yourselves, and of me. I suppose you thought you'd get away with it. Well, you didn't obviously. And now the best thing you can do is stay the hell out of her room, and our lives. We don't need a scandal, involving you.”

“You don't have a scandal involving me,” Bill said, sounding fierce.

“I'm not so sure of that. And whether I do or not, I forbid you to enter her room. Have I made myself clear?”

“Why do you hate her so much?” Bill asked as Gordon reached the door, and then froze and slowly turned at his words.

“Are you insane? I don't hate her. She's my wife. Why do you think I'm here?”

“What other choice do you have? Could you actually not be here and still pretend that you care about her to anyone? Hardly. We both know why you're here. You're here for appearances, and because you have no choice. You're responsible for her. You don't give a damn about her, Forrester, and I doubt if you ever did.”

“You're a son of a bitch,” Gordon spat at him, and then walked out the door. But he couldn't help wondering as he did if that was what Isabelle had said to him, that her husband hated her, and he wondered how much Bill knew about their domestic life. It sounded to Gordon as though he knew far too much.

Bill was still thinking about their exchange when Cynthia and the girls came back to see him that afternoon. The girls had been to the flea market and bought a pile of silly things they loved, and Cynthia had gone for a long, thoughtful walk, thinking of everything he'd said. But neither of them mentioned any of it, or their legal plans, in front of the girls. It was too soon. They stayed until dinnertime, and Olivia fed him with a spoon. He tried to feed himself, but with the cumbersome neck brace on, he spilled his food everywhere, especially the soup.

“What did the doctor say?” Cynthia asked him quietly before they left.