Aftershocks

by Catherine Coulter

  He looked at her outstretched hand, then clasped it in his. "My pleasure, George." He stood on the front porch until Esmerelda roared out of sight.

  She wasn't at the pool the next day, and Elliot, coming out of the water after a full hour, his toes and fingers wrinkled as prunes, realized he still didn't have her damned phone number.

  Chapter 3

  "Toss your head, George! That's it, baby, chin up. I wanna see your long neck."

  "I feel like a giraffe," George called out to Clyde, but obligingly did as he directed.

  "I want men to want to smell the perfume on your neck. Turn your head a bit, as if you're inviting that special man closer."

  George thought of Elliot and proceeded to invite him.

  "Beautiful!" Click, click, click. The whir of the camera was the only sound on the set.

  Ben Bernstein sat back and folded his hands over his comfortable stomach. George had more class and pizazz than Charlie any day, he thought, inordinately pleased with himself, and with her. Next week she would be presented by the PR people at Braden-Tyrol House as herself, Georgina, their top model and representative for all their cosmetics and perfumes. Braden-Tyrol didn't even mind that George was allergic to perfume; as for their makeup, George, a health nut to his mind, hadn't balked all. Thank God and their scientists for those natural ingredients with weird names Ben couldn't begin to pronounce.

  Ben watched her toss her head seductively again toward Clyde; the shimmery purple in the dress she wore caught the violet lights in her eyes. Smart cookie, his George. Unlike his other models, George had set her own terms and, through him, had negotiated her very lucrative three-year contract.

  "Is that it, Clyde? Is it noon yet?"

  "Hell no, George. Where you been? It's nearly one-thirty now."

  George felt like punching him out. She sent a reproachful look toward Ben. She had told both Clyde and Ben that she had to leave the shoot by noon. No wonder her beautiful giraffe neck felt like it would break in two with fatigue. She tossed the vial of perfume toward Clyde and stalked off the set. "Thanks for nothing," she called back over her shoulder.

  Clyde's studio was on Lombard Street. Even driving fast enough to bring the San Francisco cops down on her head, she wouldn't make it in time. She shook a fist toward the two men, who were standing in jovial conversation, the two of them looking for all the world like a comedy team. Ben, short, plump and balding, and Clyde, tall, skinny and redheaded. She called them Coral and Hardly. Now she'd like to call them vastly different names.

  Well, she reasoned, after changing into jeans and a pullover, Elliot would call her, and she would simply explain that she had gotten tied up. He can't call, you idiot! He doesn 't have your phone number!

  Here I go again, she sighed, resigned, chasing him again! She got his secretary, Lisa, on the phone.

  "Is Dr. Mallory there?" George asked, trying to sound confident and professional.

  "I'm sorry, but Dr. Mallory is in conference and can't be disturbed. May I tell him who called, or give him a message?"

  George chewed on her lower lip. "Do you know when he will be free?" she hedged. Her voice sounded squeaky, like a teenager's, she thought, disgusted at herself.

  Lisa Dickerson smiled into the phone. She recognized the woman's voice. It was the same woman who had put Dr. Mallory into an unaccustomed snit for several days the week before. "Miss Hathaway?" she inquired into the phone.

  "Yes," George said.

  "Ah. I believe that Dr. Mallory will be free and ready to leave the hospital around six o'clock this evening."

  "Can one visit the hospital at six o'clock?"

  "I think it can be arranged," Lisa said without a quiver. She then proceeded to give Miss Hathaway directions. When she hung up the phone, she vowed to stay late.

  I can't keep running after him like this, George thought, dragging her feet slowly toward the hospital elevators. He'll think I'm a total jerk, that I'm infatuated with him. She managed to talk herself into a state of incoherent insecurity by the time she reached Dr. Elliot Mallory's office on the third floor. She gazed nervously at the sign on the oak door. Chairman of Radiology. She had turned and was on the point of leaving when she heard a woman's voice behind her.

  "Miss Hathaway?"

  George spun around on her heels to face a tall, very kind-looking woman about the age of her mother, who was standing in the open doorway of Elliot's office.

  "Yes," George managed, holding her position.

  "You've come to the right place. Dr. Mallory is in his office and should be through in just a couple of minutes. Won't you come in?"

  "Perhaps I shouldn't," George began, backing away. "He's probably too busy."

  "Nonsense," Lisa said cheerfully. She was having a hard time not staring at the vision in those black slacks and the dark-green silk blouse. Even her ears are beautiful, she thought. No wonder Dr. Mallory had tongue-lashed the entire staff. "Come along." Once she had Miss Hathaway inside her office, she quickly shut the outer door. "He's running a bit late," she observed with a smile, "because he spent a longer time at the pool today than usual."

  "Oh," said George.

  Dr. Mallory's door opened at that moment, and Elliot emerged, wearing an expensive three-piece charcoal-gray suit, and a pale-blue button-down shirt. The man beside him wore a white coat and looked nervous.

  Elliot stopped in midgrowl, much to Dr. Dysan's confusion and relief. "George," he said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  George was on her feet in an instant. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come and.. .bothered you. I'll leave now. Goodbye."

  "Just a moment. Sit down!"

  George sat.

  "Ralph, I believe we've finished for the day. Lisa, there is no need for you to.. .work any longer today. George, come in my office."

  Just like a Nazi general, George thought, but she nonetheless walked past him into a beautifully furnished corner office, its ceiling-to-floor windows providing a magnificent view of the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. The room was paneled in dark wood, one wall covered with built-in bookcases, the other painted cream and covered with prints of ships. The desk, piled with papers, magazines and X-ray films, was a large, mahogany affair, probably a beautiful antique if enough of it could be seen. There was an inviting light brown leather sofa with two matching chairs flanking it. George walked to the windows.

  She heard the door close.

  "More of this and that?" came a sarcastic voice.

  She turned and said blankly, "This and what?"

  Elliot would have liked to fan his ire a bit longer, but he saw she was staring at him, her eyes traveling slowly down his body. He felt a shock of sheer lust and forgot his sense of ill-use.

  He would have liked to toss her on the sofa and peel off her slacks. Instead, after she had completed her examination, he said, "I'm sorry I missed you today."

  "I got.. .tied up. I wanted to speed over here, but the cops go crazy at the sight of a Porsche."

  "Likely." He smiled. "They might have fancied themselves as Dirty Harrys. Are you hungry? Are you free for dinner?"

  She gave him a delighted smile. "I'm relieved that you were the one to ask!"

  "Would you like an omelette at Cliff House?"

  "Fine with me." She hung back a moment, worried that perhaps he was just being polite to a pushy female. "Are you certain I'm not taking you away from something?"

  "Yes, you are," he said, waving a dismissing hand toward the piles of papers on his desk, "and I appreciate it."

  "I like your office," George said.

  "Impressive enough for such an important fellow?"

  She gave him a dimpled smile, and he gazed fondly again toward the sofa. "Are you ready?" he asked abruptly.

  "Yes. I'll follow you in my car."

  Elliot ushered her from his office and locked the door. "What tied you up?"

  "My job."

  He couldn't help the frown. "You seem to...be called at odd times."

  "No
t really," George said, aware of the sudden sarcasm in his voice but not understanding it. She cocked her head at him.

  "I don't suppose," Elliot continued, not looking at her, "that I could.. .hire you myself."

  "I don't think you could afford me," George said, still unaware that her teasing was not being returned in kind.

  Elliot stopped dead in his tracks. He grasped her arms and pulled her around to face him. "Just how much do you charge?"

  She finally understood. Oddly enough, his suspicion didn't make her angry, it made her want to laugh. She fluttered her eyelashes. "Well," she said in a soft voice, "I used to charge by the hour. But now, since my.. .reputation has spread, I can get more money under contract."

  "Contract! Are you telling me that someone owns you exclusively?"

  "Oh, never that," she assured him, watching his face flush darker with anger. "Say that a group hires me, not just one single person."

  Elliot dropped his hands to his sides. He was more disgusted with himself than with her. How else could a girl as beautiful as George own a Porsche, a house and God knew what else?

  "Is something wrong?" George inquired in what she thought sounded like a seductive voice.

  "Yes," he snapped. "I just remembered that I have a meeting. I'll take you to your car."

  He really thought she was a.. .hooker! She watched him punch the elevator button as if he wanted to kill it.

  They rode to the lobby in silence.

  "Just a moment, Dr. Mallory," George said. "Could you come here please?"

  His frown didn't ease as he watched her pick up a magazine from the counter and quickly thumb through it. She set it down and picked up another.

  "I suppose I've been putting you on," she said, turning to him, the magazine in her hand. "Here."

  He took the magazine from her and looked down at the glossy color advertisement. George, dressed in a white jumpsuit, her hair piled high atop her head, smiled at him from the page. Behind her was a race-track. In her hand she held a vial of perfume. "Jesus," he muttered. Slowly, feeling like an absolute fool, Elliot said, "You're a model."

  "Yes, for five years now."

  "Why the hell did you let me think that you were..."

  "A hooker?" she supplied when he stalled. "Actually, once I realized what you thought, I decided to tease you a bit."

  "What I thought isn't funny, George."

  "No, not at all. Perhaps the next time you meet someone who just happens to be young and owns a Porsche, you won't jump to conclusions so quickly."

  "I never would have thought anything of the sort if you hadn't made all sorts of glib, obscure comments. Oh, hell," he added, running his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. Talk about being out in left field. Will you forgive my stupidity?"

  "Yes, this time."

  Elliot smiled at her ruefully. "Lord, let's get out of here. I see Dr. Stone coming. The man's a dead bore."

  It took them fifteen minutes to get out of the hospital parking garage. George followed his silver Jaguar for a few minutes, then cut over to Clement Street. He was waiting for her outside Cliff House, and he wasn't smiling. So much for his apology, she thought. She'd given him too much time to chew over her part in making him draw the wrong conclusion. But living with three brothers had accustomed her to any male aberration involving their own sense of ill-use, and she didn't pay him much heed.

  They were no sooner at their table looking out over the water than Elliot said stiffly, "I don't like games. Why didn't you simply tell me you're a model?"

  She sipped thoughtfully on her Perrier. "You're right," she agreed readily. "I shouldn't have done it. Will you forgive me?"

  She saw that he was torn. He felt like treating her to a livid tirade, but she had spiked his guns.

  He hung on stoutly. "Then why did you do it? It was infantile."

  "I didn't want you to think that I'm just a pretty face." She added candidly as she watched him chew over this bit of information, "You see, most men believe that if a woman looks good, especially if she's got blond hair, she's a dummy. When they find out she's a model, they're sure of it. I'm not a dummy."

  A waiter appeared and George ordered her favorite number eight omelette, bacon and avocado, Elliot ordered a hangtown.

  "Oh, no," George groaned suddenly. "And I did so much like coming here!"

  Elliot looked up, perplexed, to see a stout woman with dubious red hair approaching their table. She was clutching a piece of paper and a pen. "Miss Hathaway? Miss Georgina Hathaway?"

  "Yes," George said and took the paper and pen.

  "Please write it to Agnes."

  George nodded and scribbled on the paper.

  "Oh, thank you, Miss Hathaway! Wait until I tell my sister! Such a thrill to see you in person!"

  "Does that happen often?" Elliot asked after the woman had left.

  "No," George said in a clipped voice.

  Elliot reached his hand over the table and lightly touched his fingers to hers. "Forgive me, George."

  George was staring at his long, blunt fingers and the sprinkling of black hair on the back of his hand. When he touched her, she blinked. She raised her head and gazed at his mouth, every delightful sensation she felt mirrored in her eyes.

  "George," he began, "if you don't stop that, I'm going to throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here! In fact," he continued in a husky voice that made shivers dance up and down her back, "...oh, damn!"

  He withdrew his hand as the waiter set their omelettes down. George stared blankly at her plate. She felt shaken, breathless and tongue-tied. She decided she enjoyed it.

  She watched him wolf down the omelette, knowing well what he was thinking. That shook her, too.

  Even his wretched voice is sexy, she thought. It appeared she was going to get exactly what she wanted. But it was too soon. She had to know him better before she decided.

  Elliot was taken aback when she began talking blandly about the seals on the rocks below. She had withdrawn, and he couldn't for the life of him understand why. He had never before been chased so blatantly, and with such beguiling sophistication. He wondered about a model's life; surely she had her pick of men. She was probably just out for a fling, and he fully intended not to disappoint himself or her.

  "Yes, the seals are fascinating, aren't they?"

  "Look at the spotted one! How old are you, Elliot?"

  He blinked. "I'll be thirty-eight in January."

  "Randy says you're very young to be a department chairman."

  "True, but I'm also very bright." Elliot sat back in his chair to enjoy her gams. He would likely figure out the rules before long.

  "Have you ever been married?"

  "I could tell you it's none of your business."

  "I'm sorry."

  "But I won't. Yes, I was married. She was an ICU nurse and we were married in my fourth year of medical school. Unfortunately, we didn't survive my year of internship."

  "What was her name?"

  "Elaine. She's married to a urologist now, has been for the past seven years. She's got a couple of kids and lives in Omaha."

  "She divorced you?"

  Elliot grinned at the disbelief in her voice. "Seems impossible, doesn't it?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "Do you have disagreeable habits or something?"

  "Do you mean do I believe in wife beating?"

  "Nothing that extreme. Surely you weren't all that perfect though."

  "I snore, but I don't believe that particularly bothered Elaine. I was young, George, and very intense, determined to be the best. One changes, thank God."

  "Oh."

  "You still have about fifteen questions left."

  "I don't mean to be nosy, precisely," she said with disarming candor, "but I do want to get to know you. You're not at all boring, I think."

  "Thank you," he said dryly. "Are you ready?"

  She shot him a quick look that said volumes. Did her men have to pass some sort of test before she hopped into bed with them
? He shook away the thought. There was something in her eyes that didn't fit. Well, he wasn't a horny kid anymore, and was quite willing to bide his time.

  He walked her to her car. "Would you like me to follow you home?"

  "No! I mean-"

  "You've got an early call tomorrow."

  "Precisely," she said with great relief, if not honesty.

  "George, before I let you get away again, would you give me your address and phone number?"

  She nodded, delved into her purse and wrote on the back of a business card. "Here," she said, smiling up at him.

  "Thank you." At least now, he thought, he was a step up on Dr. Randy Hansen. She thrust out her hand, and he ignored it. He leaned down, not touching her, and lightly kissed her mouth.

  "Good night, George," he said, and walked away.

  She stared after him for a moment, words trembling in her throat. She wanted him to come back and kiss her again. Instead, she climbed into Esmerelda and drove thoughtfully home.

  Chapter 4

  >He didn't call for a week and a half.

  George had just turned the key in her front door when she heard the peal of her phone. "Come on, you dumb thing," she grated at the hapless key. She had just finished jogging two miles and was still breathing hard when she got to the phone on the fourth ring

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, George," came a voice she had been waiting a week and a half to hear. "You sound like you've just run the marathon."

  "Only two miles of it," George said, easing down into the hard-backed chair next to the phone.

  "You jog?"

  "Yes."

  "I haven't seen you at the pool. You'll never beat me by Christmas at this rate."

  George stared into the phone. "I've been swimming in the mornings," she said.

  "Why?"

  George wanted to be calm, to show him that she was sophisticated and knew how to handle men. Instead, she blurted out, "How can you be so damned obtuse? I've done nothing but chase you! If you thought I was going to keep throwing myself at you, you're--" She broke off at his deep laugh. "What," she demanded, clutching the phone all the harder, "is so funny?"

  "I've got a couple of tickets to the symphony tomorrow night. Are you free?"