"Oh dear," George giggled. "Are you certain someone as important as you should be pushing me. You'll cause a scandal!"
"Unfortunately," Elliot said dryly, "the night nurse in the emergency room has the biggest mouth in San Francisco. Even the janitors will know that I carried you in at three a.m. with you wearing nothing but my bathrobe."
"You're forgetting my panties, Elliot."
"Would you please be quiet?"
"Does this mean you're hopelessly compromised?"
"It means I might be arrested for child molestation," he said acidly.
"Just wait until I put on some lipstick and my new knee socks," she said.
He grinned, unable to help himself, but the events of the night soon brought a crease of worry back to his forehead.
"It will be all right, Elliot," she said calmly, easily reading his thoughts. "When we get back from Aspen, I'll submit myself to the knife."
He grunted, but said nothing.
When they arrived at Elliot's house, the knee socks weren't mentioned. They both fell into bed and slept until the afternoon.
Over dinner that evening, Elliot was abstracted.
"You are acting morose," George said severely, eyeing him over her salad.
"I want to know where you'll be staying in Mexico City. And if anything happens, George, I want you on that phone immediately."
"Yes, sir," she said, snapping him a salute.
Elliot slowly laid his fork over his plate and sat back in his chair. His long fingers formed a steeple, and he slowly drummed them together. "I want to know why you didn't tell me when you first had the pain. And no more jokes, George."
"All right, no more jokes. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. And it did, at first."
"Why didn't you wake me up last night?
She toyed with her salad, spearing a piece of lettuce, and plucked it off her fork with her fingers. "Please don't be upset with me," she said finally. "I thought it would go away, and when it didn't it hurt too badly for me to think clearly. I'm not used to pain, and I don't think I really believed it was happening to me. What caused the cyst, Elliot?"
"No one really knows," he said. "It might possibly occur again sometime in the future."
"So I'm genetically deficient?"
"Probably too much sex in too short a period of time."
"That's dreadful!" she exclaimed, not seeing the twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, you jerk! Well, at least you're no longer morose."
He laughed and left the dining room to make them coffee. When he returned, it was George who was silent, staring down at the tablecloth.
"What is it, sweetheart?"
She raised her head, trying to think of something clever to say, but the concern in his eyes stopped her. "Will it hurt?"
"Yes, somewhat. But not nearly as much as last night. You'll feel fine after a couple of days, and then just weak and a bit sore for about a week."
She smiled at him, unwilling to let him know she was afraid. It was silly, she told herself, but she had never known a moment's illness in her life, and the thought of somebody actually cutting into her made her realize what a coward she was. Because she didn't want Elliot to worry, she said quickly, "You promised to teach me how to make coffee like yours."
"I don't know if you're up to it, George," he said gently mocking. "It requires a great deal of talent and intuition—male intuition, like all the great chefs have."
"What about Julia Child?"
He waved a dismissing hand. "An aberration."
"And Marty? You like her clam sauce."
"If you don't stop that, I'll have to concede."
"Elliot," she said, waving her fork thoughtfully at him, "you are far too intelligent to be a chauvinist. Now, if you're interested in real talent, let's watch TV. Maybe I'll be on."
Elliot groaned. "Relegated not only to TV, but to waiting for the commercials!"
George frowned, "Unfortunately, I doubt they'll be shown with sports shows. It's bound to be sitcoms."
It was. About an hour later, the commercial she had shot in England in December came onscreen. She was riding a white mare bareback, dressed in a flowing white gown, her feet bare. She rode toward a medieval castle and pulled up her horse, staring dreamily up at the crenellated ramparts. A man riding a black stallion suddenly rode out of the castle. He was as dark as she was fair, and dressed like a buccaneer, all in black. His stallion snorted at the mare, reaching out to nip her neck. The man lifted George off her horse and set her before him.
"It's a fantasy sequence," George said unnecessarily. "You would not believe how long it took Eric to get it right. The idiot barely knew the front of a horse from its rear. Now he's nuzzling my neck, most suggestive, the director thought. He had the wettest mouth, Elliot. He's English, you know."
Elliot, who had been feeling a surge of black jealousy, was forced to laugh. "As if that explains it all, huh?"
"Well," George said candidly, leaning back against him, "the only way I could look enthralled with him was to think about you."
She turned in his arms, pressing her breasts against his chest. "Well?" she asked softly.
"Well what?" he murmured, kissing her ear.
"Men," George said firmly, "are always supposed to want to make love. At least that's what I've read."
"It's true, but some men like to tease—just a bit, you understand."
She slipped her hand up beneath his sweater and began to caress him. "It's always bothered me," she said, tangling her fingers in the hair on his chest.
"What?"
' 'Well, women who like to make love a lot are considered, you know, promiscuous. But men can sleep with a different woman every night and it makes them more exciting. It's not fair."
"It makes them more exciting to women. Talk to your own sex, George."
"Ha! You, Dr. Mallory, thought I slept around, and it disgusted you. Admit it!"
"No, I thought you were a hooker. Vastly different. He pulled her up into his lap and nibbled her throat. "I didn't think I could afford you."
"You liar," she said poking him in the ribs. "You refuse to be serious."
"I'm through teasing," he said and lowered his mouth to hers. "I'm a simple man, George," he said between kisses. "I can only think of one thing at a time."
She felt his hands lightly caress her breasts and arched her back to offer herself more fully to him. But she was slow to respond, her mind returning again to the terrible pain and the operation. She tried to tell herself that it would be a very simple matter, but her fear of the unknown was powerful. She felt Elliot's hand on her belly, his fingers gently kneading her. She would not disappoint him, she thought fiercely, and moved sensuously against him.
"George," he said quietly, his hand now still on her stomach, "you don't have to do anything you don't want to. I don't want you fake anything with me. Do you understand?"
"I'm sorry," she said, burrowing her face against his throat.
He shook her slightly. "Don't be an ass. There's no reason for you to be sorry. You're afraid, and I don't blame you."
"Then make me forget it, if for just a little while."
"If you'll try to make me forget it, too."
"I read in a neat book once that the last perfect man lived in the twelfth century. You must be a throwback."
She felt his deep laughter and snuggled against him.
"Just wait until we have an argument," he said, pulling her to her feet. "I can be a real throwback then."
"I don't think that's going to happen any time soon," she said, and tugged him toward the bedroom.
Elliot tightened his arm about George as she slept that night, and obligingly, she moved more closely against him, her sleep unbroken. He loved her. There, he thought ruefully, he had finally admitted it to himself. What saddened him and frightened him was that she cared about him, too. She would be hurt, and there was nothing he could do about it. He thought about her perfect man and he knew himself to be very imperfect. But ther
e was a reason to wait now. He would wait until after her operation, when she was well again, to speak to her of the future, her future. He wondered if he was rationalizing his cowardice.
Elliot sat across a table in the hospital cafeteria from Dr. Margaret Smith. He took a bits of his comed beef sandwich, grimaced and placed it carefully back onto the paper plate.
"So, Maggie," he said, "what do you think of this Norman Greenberg? Do you agree with David's choice?"
"You buy me this expensive lunch and expect to soothe my professional feelings. You know, Elliot, George prefers women doctors. She must have been very angry with you for having David come in and poke about."
"Actually, she was out of it and didn't know a thing. I think her preference for women doctors is just economic not modesty. She wants women to get rich, not men. Now, Maggie, do give me your opinion about this Greenberg fellow."
"Oh, all right," Maggie said, chewing on a french fry. "Consider my sensibilities soothed. Greenberg is just the person you want. If he leaves more than a barely visible scar, I'll be surprised. Does George want me to assist?"
"I'm sure she does."
Margaret toyed with another french fry. "When are you going to marry her, Elliot?"
"I'm not."
"I suppose from your cold tone that you don't think it's any of my business?"
Elliot smiled at her. "Right," he said. "I do wish you'd call Greenberg and go over George's history with him. I think David's already scheduled the OR."
"Yes, he has. My chairman isn't a big spender like you. He only gave me a free phone call."
"I'll chew him out if you like. He could at least have sprung for a Big Mac."
Margaret laughed and rose from the table. "David told me the delay is to let you go skiing. Don't let George break a leg, Elliot. That would complicate
things."
"George tells me she can ski rings around any miserable doctor, me included. I'll probably be the one who comes back in a cast."
"I wonder," Margaret said, eyeing him thoughtfully, "if she would stay home and nurse you? I'd supply a copy of the Kama Sutra."
"Can it, Maggie."
Chapter 11
George came through his office door looking fit, beautifully tanned and impeccably groomed in a white linen suit. She wore a light blue felt hat tilted rakishly over her forehead, and large, blue-tinted sunglasses.
"Incognito, lady?" he asked, rising to walk around his desk.
She hugged him close and laughed in his ear. "I read this book on the plane going to Mexico City that said I needed to be mysterious to keep my man."
He ignored her teasing and studied her closely. "You've felt all right?"
"Perfect, doctor, I promise."
He kissed the tip of her nose and set her away. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lisa, the picture of benevolent curiosity, standing in the doorway.
"Thank you, Lisa," he said, "for bringing Miss Hathaway in."
"Well, you know how she is, Elliot," Lisa said. "She saw your door closed, assumed, as she always does, that you were immersed in assuring the survival of the human race and wanted to bolt."
George whistled in admiration. "All that without taking a breath, Lisa! But I think I've been put down as a groupie."
"Oh no, not at all." Lisa smiled, and said to Elliot, "Shall I cancel your appointment with Dr. Howell?"
"Damn," Elliot said. "I didn't think you'd be here for another hour, George."
"No problem. I'll go home, get changed into something Aspenlike, and drink a spritzer." She nodded briskly to Elliot and Lisa, and said over her shoulder from the doorway, "I'll even dust the cobwebs off your skis. I don't want you looking like a complete duffer." "Thanks," Elliot said dryly. He turned back to see Lisa frowning at him. "Doesn't George know that you were state champion in Connecticut?"
"No," he said, grinning. "But she'll find out soon enough. The look on her face will be worth it!"
To Elliot's surprise, George's notion of Aspenlike clothing was not the wool pantsuit he was expecting, but a flowing black jersey dress. He cocked an eyebrow at her and said, "Is this in chapter ten of Being Mysterious?"
"Oh no," George said airily, whisking up her coat, "I just want to be comfortable."
"The flight is not that long, George. The skis look good. Thanks for your labor."
She laughed and followed him upstairs to his bedroom. She sat down, crossed her long, tanned legs and watched him change. He turned his back to her when he unzipped his slacks. "George," he said over his shoulder, "would you please stop staring? We're cutting the flight close as it is."
George said nothing for a moment, her eyes on the spot at the base of his spine that she loved to kiss. "I suppose now is not the time," she said.
He pulled on a pair of dark brown corduroy slacks and turned to face her. She eyed the sexy line of black hair that spread downward from his navel, and sighed. "George," he said, his voice muffled by the thick wool sweater he was jerking over his head, "prepare to be celibate. I can't imagine your mother and father wanting you sleeping with me under their parental roof."
"I hadn't thought of that," George said thoughtfully.
"Well, I have, and it's going to kill me. Come on, kid, let's get going. Believe me, this is the last flight out or I'd have booked a later one."
They made it to the boarding gate with five minutes to spare. As usual, the man assigning seats behind the counter took an unnecessarily long look at George. They were traveling first class, a treat to Elliot, since he always flew tourist. He was a. bit chagrined to hear her say, "I always have seat five. Is it available?"
So much for the treat, he thought ruefully.
Once their carry-on luggage was stowed, George sat back in her seat and sighed deeply. "It's been a long day," she said, closing her eyes.
"You only called me once," Elliot said, buckling his seatbelt.
"I felt disgustingly healthy," she said. "No Montezuma's revenge, no nothing."
"You have to eat to get that."
"True. I can gain two pounds, and believe me, with my mom's cooking, I'll be dieting by day three."
The plane rose smoothly into the air, and George turned to the window to see San Francisco below them. "I never get tired of this view," she said. "I always thought I wanted to live in New York, but after being in San Francisco for two years, the thought
pales."
"Would it be better for your career if you did live in New York?"
"Perhaps, at least in the future, after my contract with Braden-Tyrol runs out." She turned back and smiled at him. "We'll see."
A flight attendant came to get their drink orders. Elliot ordered a Scotch and George a ginger ale.
"I don't know why you travel first class, George. The only benefit I can see is a few more inches between seats and free drinks. And you don't even drink."
"You're right," she said quite seriously. "I never thought about it."
They had reached a cruising altitude when the flight attendant, a tall, very pretty woman, stopped at their seat.
"Excuse me," she said, a bit embarrassed. "You are the Braden-Tyrol girl, aren't you? Georgina?"
Elliot saw George's smile change just a bit to her public smile, he realized. "Yes, I am."
"Would you mind autographing these napkins for me? I promise to keep everyone else away from you."
"I'd be delighted.. .Marissa? What a lovely name."
"And one to Tommy and one to Candice."
Elliot leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He heard the flight attendant say in excitement, "It's such a pleasure to see you in person. I love that commercial of you in Central Park."
"Thank you. That commercial was lots of fun to make."
He heard the rustling of paper and cocked open an eye. The flight attendant was walking back down the aisle, smoothing the napkins in her hands.
"Does this happen often now?"
"Not if I wear my hat and sunglasses. But I don't mind. People are usuall
y so nice."
George fell silent, her lovely brow furrowed in thought. Then she drew a deep breath and lightly laid her hand on Elliot's thigh.
"Dinner won't be served for another thirty minutes," she said. "You're anxious to start gaining those two pounds?"
Her hand moved slowly up his thigh. "No. There's something else I want to do."
He looked into her eyes and said violently, "Don't be crazy George. We're in an airplane, remember?"
Her hand was caressing the inside of his upper thigh. "There's plenty of privacy in the lavatory."
He felt a surge of desire, but resolutely shook his head. "There's not enough room in the lavatory."
"It's been a week, Elliot. Aren't you just a bit interested?"
Elliot shifted in his seat. "So that's why you wore a dress," he said, shaking his head at her. "You've been planning this."
He crossed his legs, but trapped her hand between them. "It's bound to be like making love in the back seat of my father's car."
"We'll see," George said.
"Damn it, George, we'll never fit!"
She gazed at him limpidly. "We always have," she said softly.
He uncrossed his legs, only to feel her fingertips lightly touch him.
"Okay?"
He shook his head at himself. "Maybe," he said.
"Give me two minutes, then tap on the door."
He watched her walk down the aisle and disappear through the door. He looked down, thankful they were in first class, with no rows of people to notice his arousal or watch him walking after her.
He checked his watch, feeling like a complete idiot. But he was out of his seat the second the two minutes were up. He tapped lightly on the door. It opened, and he managed to squeeze inside. They were pressed together like two cards in a deck. Elliot started laughing. "George, you idiot, this is ridiculous!"
"Oh no," she said serenely. "I've thought it all out. First, you kiss me."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her. Just the touch of her, the sweet scent that was peculiarly her own, made his heart race. The jersey dress outlined every curve of her, and he was content for the moment to caress her through the material.
"You are interested," she murmured into his mouth between kisses. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing herself into a better fit against him.
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