Aftershocks

by Catherine Coulter

  Elliot grunted in reply and left. He made coffee and fiddled with some papers on his desk. He eventually gave up trying to concentrate and waited impatiently for Lisa to come in. Her first words to him were, "Don't worry, Elliot. I've got a hot line to the OR."

  "I suppose everyone in the hospital knows George is here?" He leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a resigned look.

  "Probably. When you brought her in nearly a month ago, it was all over the hospital by nine o'clock the next morning that you carried in a beautiful woman in your arms dressed only in a bathrobe."

  "She was in my bathrobe. I was dressed appropriately enough."

  "Forgive my syntax," she said, shaking her head at him. "How was your skiing trip?" "Fine," he said shortly.

  "Don't feel like you have to make conversation with me, Elliot. Just consider me a stick of furniture."

  "Sorry, Lisa, but I'm—"

  "You're worried sick," she finished for him. "Natural enough. I'll quit picking on you. Tell you what. I'll call Dr. Janis. He wants to talk to you about the NMR. Okay?"

  "Why not?" Elliot said. "Lord knows how stimulating that will be."

  Elliot was quite nice, if vague. When Lisa finally poked her head through the door and told him everything had gone just fine, he shot out of his chair and extended his hand to Dr. Janis. "Please excuse me. We'll speak about this again tomorrow," he said over his shoulder on his way toward the door. He stayed with George in recovery until she came to. To his bemused surprise, she was speaking French to him, and to anyone who came within earshot. At least the accent sounded French. The words made no sense, of course, and David went into peals of laughter.

  "Everyone reacts differently," he said. "Once a guy was declaiming Shakespeare." "Where's Greenberg?"

  "He'll be around in a little while. He did an excellent job, Elliot. But I thought he was going to faint when the team stripped George down on the table."

  "You would have to bring that up," Elliot said. "Hansen wasn't there, was he?"

  "Ah, jealousy. Come on, Elliot, I was just pulling your leg. I think George is in better shape than you are."

  At that moment, George started singing something that sounded like the French national anthem, and even the nurse, a stern-eyed individual, doubled over in laughter.

  George recovered her wits about thirty minutes later, and the first person she recognized was Elliot. She gave him a crooked smile. "I've been cut," she said succinctly.

  "And sewn back together. Any pain, George?" She thought about it for a moment. "No. But it's the oddest thing. I know the pain's there, only I can't feel it."

  "Morphine's like that."

  "Something else strange, Elliot. Was there someone in here singing songs? In French?" He squeezed her hand. "As a matter of fact, therewas. They took her back for brain surgery." He was on the point of explaining when Dr. Greenberg walked in. He nodded curtly to Elliot and turned a beaming smile on George.

  "You look pleased with yourself, doctor," George said. "You got the stitches in straight?" "A tiny incision, Miss Hathaway, and very few stitches. Unfortunately I have to fly back to L.A. toay. Dr. Smith will remove them next Monday." He shot a sideways glance toward Elliot, cleared his throat and said, "Do you ever visit Los Angeles, Miss Hathaway?"

  "Oh, yes. Every couple of months or so."

  He cleared his throat again, still looking toward Elliot, but Elliot just stared at him. "Perhaps the next time you're down, you would like to have lunch."

  "A nice idea, doctor," George said in her friendliest voice. "Thank you for coming up to take care of me."

  "Not at all, Miss Hathaway. It was my pleasure."

  Dr. Greenberg stretched his visit another fifteen minutes. After he had left the room, Elliot muttered, "I bet he has a wife and four kids at home."

  "No," George said, twinkling at him. "He told me last night that he was divorced three years ago."

  "Oh great! He's old enough to be your father!"

  "True." George agreed blandly. "Quite true. Now, doctor, how about that light lunch?"

  Chapter 15

  "It is so good to be home," George announced, squeezing Elliot tightly around his neck as he stepped into the foyer, and gazing about with immense satisfaction.

  "No dashing up and down the stairs for a while George," he said, hugging her to him. "I have a surprise for you."

  "We're not at thirty-five thousand feet," she sighed. "It's bound to be a letdown.''

  "I can't imagine you having such a one-track mind with those stitches in your belly. No, what you need is a nurse for the next couple of days and I'm going to be it. You can order me around as much as you like."

  "Good heavens," she said, startled. "Can you afford the time, Elliot?" she asked him seriously. "Really, you don't have to.''

  "So that's how you treat gift horses?"

  "Gift stallion," she murmured in his ear. He laughed and laid her gently on the bed. "It also means that you have to do what I tell you. Okay?"

  'It's all a sham. I knew it. You want to be a dictatorial gift stallion."

  "I just don't want you to be too exuberant."

  "Will you sleep with me?"

  "Perhaps. We'll talk about that later." He looked toward the calendar set beside the clock. Wednesday. He closed his eyes a moment. On Sunday, he'd be talking to her about important things.

  "Just sleep, Elliot. You're awfully big and warm."

  "I know, and you forgot cuddly," he said, forcing a smile. "How do you feel?"

  "There's a little discomfort, but nothing dramatic. You really don't have to stay at home with me."

  "I want to. We'll go for a short walk this afternoon so you can begin getting your strength back. On Friday, I'll race you up the stairs. You'll be at nearly a hundred percent by Monday."

  "Good. Ben is agitating. He called me three times in the hospital to make sure I'd be.. .exuberant within the next two weeks. Braden-Tyrol has already set up the next commercial. You'll never believe it, but this one will be in a wheat field in Nebraska. I think they're going to braid my hair and have me running through the fields with Rin Tin Tin."

  "Maybe you'll see Millie waving her apron at you."

  "She was so sweet. She even gave me her address." Elliot shook his head fondly.

  "She.. .ah.. .wanted an invitation to our wedding," George said, watching her fingers pleat the bedspread.

  Elliot said nothing. "How about some soup for lunch, kiddo? I'm hungry."

  George nodded, not looking at him.

  Elliot turned at the door. "I bought you some novels so you won't be climbing the walls."

  "Thank you," she said, her voice expressionless.

  After lunch, Elliot forced her to take another pain pill that promptly put her to sleep. He wandered into the kitchen and mechanically went through the motions of straightening up. He jumped when the phone rang.

  "Yes?"

  "Elliot? This is Dorothy Hathaway. I'm trying to find George. Is she there?"

  Damn! "No," he lied fluently. "I believe she had a photo session this afternoon. Shall I have her call you?"

  "I would appreciate it. I just wanted to tell her the news. Tod and Mariana are getting married next month here in Michigan. Mariana wants George to be her bridesmaid."

  "Wonderful news, Dorothy. I'm sure George will be delighted. I will have her call you, probably this evening. She'll be here for dinner." That, at least, wasn't a bold-faced lie.

  "Thank you."

  They talked for some minutes longer, then Dorothy rang off. Elliot stared at the phone a minute, shrugged and walked to his study.

  * * *

  "I just can't get over it," George said to Elliot as they were walking down Broadway Friday afternoon. Tod, married. I talked to Mariana yesterday, as you know, and she was calm as ever. She is the most placid, mellow person I think I've ever met. I think she'll keep Tod in line."

  "A true Californian."

  "Do you want to come to the wedding with me?"


  Elliot looked down at his feet. "We'll see," he said finally. "You're looking great, George, and standing up straight again."

  She laughed. "I kept thinking that if I did stand up straight, my stitches would pop. I can't wait to have them out." She stopped a moment and looked out over San Francisco Bay. The sky was a light blue and filled with fluffy white clouds. Scores of sailboats

  dotted the Bay. "Isn't it beautiful? More beautiful, I think, than the Mediterranean. They don't have San Francisco, after all."

  "It helps when there's no fog."

  "If it's nice tomorrow, could we go sailing?"

  "If you like," he said. "Let's see how zippy you feel tomorrow morning."

  Elliot never should have doubted George's zippiness. They packed a picnic lunch and were on the Bay by twelve o'clock. They docked at Angel Island, and wandered about a bit, until Elliot called a halt, and they at their lunch next to the World War II bunkers that faced the Golden Gate.

  "I can always tell when you're slowing down," Elliot told her, slowing their pace down the trail back to the dock. "You stop talking."

  She was silent a moment, and kicked a pebble with her sneakered toe. "Do you think I talk too much?" she asked finally.

  "Don't be an ass, George," he said sharply, ruffling her hair. "That was a fond observation, not a criticism."

  "There must be something about me you don't like," she said hopefully. "Something you'd like to change?'

  "Hmmm," he said. "Let me cogitate on that. I'm sure there's at least a dozen things, but at the moment,, I'm sated on food and sailing. My critical brain is at rest." He didn't mean to say anything more, but the words came out without his permission. "And what would you like to change in me?"

  You 're evasive as hell and I don't know what you 're thinking. "Well, you're awfully smooth."

  He cocked a black brow at her. "What does that mean?"

  "You're always very controlled."

  His eyes crinkled in laughter. "You mean like the time at Aspen when I played the caveman and embarrassed the hell out of both of us?"

  "You're right. Maybe I should find another word. Although," she added thoughtfully, "that was the first time I've ever seen you do something that made you uncomfortable. Most of the time, unlike me, you think before you act or say something."

  "I've had quite a number of years to learn that I can usually avoid making a fool of myself if I exercise a bit of thought before opening my big mouth.''

  "So you believe that by the time I've reached your exalted years, I'll be wise enough to keep my mouth shut?"

  "Something like that," he said easily. "Look at the cormorant, George."

  Evasive as hell, she thought, but dutifully gave her attention to the long-necked bird preening on top of a piling.

  When they reached Elliot's house, George gave him no arguments and snuggled into bed for a nap before dinner. She hated feeling fatigued. It made her feel somehow not in control of herself. She awoke much refreshed, but was careful to conserve her energy during the evening. They watched TV for an hour, George in her usual place on the floor with her back against the sofa, between Elliot's legs. She tilted her head back at ten o'clock. "You even look handsome upside down," she said, grinning at him. "No, don't say it," she added, holding up her hand. "You've had years to perfect that pose."

  "Okay, kiddo, I won't say it. You ready for bed?" She nodded, and quickly lowered her head so he wouldn't see the gleam in her eyes. "Are you coming up now too?" She smiled at her normal tone. He had treated her like a sexless patient all week. "Yeah," he said, helping her to her feet. "I guess so."

  "I think I'll take a shower," she said matter-of-factly.

  "Be sure not to get your stitches wet." Elliot was reading one of his medical journals in bed when she came out of the bathroom, scrubbed and wearing a blue flannel granny gown. She gave a convincing yawn and slipped into bed.

  "I hope you didn't overdo it today," Elliot said. "You make me forget that you were in surgery five days ago."

  "Yes," she said, "but don't forget that I'm a woman, and women have more endurance than men."

  "I never should have shown you that article," he said, and turned out the light.

  She leaned over and he gave her his usual sexless kiss good-night. Very slowly, she wriggled out of her nightgown.

  "Are you having trouble getting settled?" he asked. "Oh no, I'll be perfectly settled in just a moment." She eased over and pressed herself against his side. She heard him take a sharp breath. She rose on her elbow and pressed her breasts against his naked chest. "George," he began.

  She eased her leg over his belly. "You can't escape me now, Dr. Mallory," she whispered, and clasping his face between her hands, she kissed him.

  He felt her smooth thigh rubbing lightly over his belly, and despite all his noble intentions his body reacted swiftly.

  "No," he said into her mouth. "No, George." He clasped her shoulders, wanting to pull her away, but he felt her soft breasts against his chest, and his control slipped.

  "I feel perfectly marvelous and I want you, Elliot. please."

  But I don't want to feel like a perfect louse!

  Her tongue slipped between his lips, and instead of pushing her away, he drew her closer. One last time, damn it, one last time, George.

  Her hand gently closed around him, and he heard a rough groan in his own throat. He hated himself as he turned toward her and pushed her gently onto her back. "George," he tried one last time, "I don't want to hurt you."

  "If you are my gift stallion," she whispered, "then for tonight, you'll do what I like."

  "Damn it," he said roughly. "It's been so damned long." He kissed her fiercely, and his hands roved down her body. She felt his fingertips lightly probing her, and she was lost to the sensation of his touch. When he lifted her over him, he shuddered as he entered her, but he teased her, holding her about her waist, not letting her feel him completely. "Please,'' she whispered.

  Then he was filling her, caressing her with his fingers, drawing her forward to kiss her breasts.

  Her body convulsed as she reached her climax, and her soft keening cries filled the silence. It took all his control to hold off his own release. "I love you," she cried, and sobbed softly into his shoulder. He felt twisted with guilt, but his body ignored his mind, and he exploded deep inside her.

  "Jesus," he groaned some moments later. He eased her forward until she lay full length on top of him. He was still deep within her, and when he tried to move, she held her body rigid. He could feel her heart pounding against him, and a light sheen of sweat covered her.

  "I thought I was going to die," she said, her voice still shaking slightly. "In fact, it's still a close thing."

  He stroked her back, soothing her, wishing the simple movement of his hands would soothe him as well.

  "I'm too tired to move," she said, sighing deeply.

  "Then you can be my blanket tonight." He paused a moment, aware finally of the bandage on her belly. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  "I will only be hurt if you leave me," she said.

  "I'm only a man, George. You know, no endurance."

  "No staying power?" she asked, moving sensuously over him.

  To his chagrin, he felt himself growing hard again within her.

  "That's nice," she murmured, and saved him by falling asleep, her cheek nestled in the hollow of his throat.

  He lay awake for a long time, staring up at the darkened ceiling. "Some control, you randy bastard," he muttered, his voice filled with anger at himself.

  George awoke, a soft smile in her eyes and on her lips. She reached for Elliot, but she was alone in bed. She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed toward the alarm clock.

  "Good heavens," she said aloud. It was nearly eleven o'clock. She hummed softly as she showered. To her surprise, clothes were laid out for her on the bed when she emerged from the bathroom.

  "Thank you," she called downstairs, and giggled at the knee socks Elliot had pi
cked out. They were white wool, covered with red cabbage roses.

  She felt marvelously happy, and was still humming when she made her way downstairs.

  Elliot emerged from the kitchen, and she stood staring at him for a long moment. He was wearing brown corduroy jeans and a ribbed turtleneck sweater. "Forget what I said about your control," she said, smiling at him. "You're perfect just the way you are."

  He didn't meet her eyes, and she cocked her head to one side in silent question.

  "Come on in the kitchen," he said finally. "I've made you some pancakes and bacon."

  Whenever George felt uncertain, she chattered. "I weighed myself and I'm down a pound. Lots of pancakes, if you please. Oh, and the bacon is perfect, crispy, just as I like it."

  Elliot smiled painfully, but did not interrupt her. He sat down at the table and drank a cup of coffee, watching her eat.

  ".. .So if you really don't mind, doctor, I think I'll forgo a five-mile jog today. I hear there's a new exhibit at the museum, but the aquarium's always fun. Maybe-"

  He felt a cold sweat on his forehead. He knew she sensed there was something wrong. He found himself memorizing the sound of her voice, the way she lilted upward at the end of a sentence.

  "So what do you think, Elliot?"

  He looked up, studying her face. He forced himself to smile and it felt like his face was cracking. "Are you finished eating?"

  She nodded and patted her stomach. "I wish you'd teach me how to fix pancakes like yours."

  "It's not hard. You read the directions on the box." Jesus, he sounded like a cold bastard. He rose from his chair. "George, would you please come into the living room?"

  He saw her glance at him warily, and quickly strode out of the kitchen. She followed him, sat on the edge of the sofa and proffered him a mock salute. "Yes, sergeant major?"

  He drew a deep breath. "We must talk, George."

  He ran his hand through his hair. Damn, he thought, furious with himself, furious with the situation. "I can't marry you, George," he said abruptly.

  There was utter silence. George felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. Yet she wasn't surprised, not really. She heard herself ask, quite clamly, "May I ask why?"