SAY AHHH...

by Donna Sterling

  He'd done his level best to forget her.

  It hadn't worked.

  Tonight, for the first time since she'd bolted from his examination room, he'd managed to stop thinking about her, thanks to the distraction of Lorna's party. Then, in the middle of telling some silly story, he'd glanced up and she was there.

  The surprise of it knocked the words right out of him. She looked pale, and fragile, and so damn pretty with her hair escaping its heavy upsweep and curling in wisps around her face that he simply couldn't help staring. What was she doing here?

  Serving coffee, obviously.

  Before he had time to think much about that, she'd lifted her incredibly sensual gaze to him, and thinking became impossible. Her face warmed to the color he remembered from their first meeting, when he'd touched her. A powerful longing welled up in him to touch her again—at his leisure this time, in ways that would make her tremble and groan. Wicked, wonderful ways that would set them both on fire…

  It unnerved him, this crazy desire provoked by the mere sight of her. He was stronger than that—a man of principle, and logic, and reason; not a slave to carnal impulse. He would ignore the heat she ignited down low in his body. Ignore the musings of what she'd look like, what she'd feel like, in his bed.

  But then she turned away without the slightest acknowledgement, as if she'd never seen him before, and all thought of resisting her evaporated. She meant to ignore him, did she? Pretend they'd never met? Not if he could help it…

  He had to grit his teeth and reminded himself that she had every right to pretend they'd never met. As a patient, she was guaranteed absolute confidentiality.

  Yet, on a purely personal level, he couldn't tolerate her ignoring him. He wanted to tease her into a response. Even the slightest response—a smile, or a frown, or an acknowledging gaze—would do. She owed him that much, for all the sleepless nights she'd caused him.

  With a cleverness he felt rather proud of, he interjected her complaint about his callused hands into the story he'd been telling.

  She didn't give herself away by much—not enough for anyone else to notice. But her spine stiffened; her voluptuous mouth tightened; and for a moment, he thought she meant to dump the pot of coffee in his lap.

  The interaction with her, low-key though it was, brought him strangely alive. He was ready to dodge whatever she might throw at him, grab her, whisk her outside … punish her with long, thorough kisses…

  Yes, indeed, he was ready.

  Instead, she turned and stalked from the room.

  Where had she gone? Was she leaving? What had she been doing here, anyway? Did she work for Lorna, or maybe for the country club, as André did? Was it a onetime gig?

  Would he see her again?

  Tossing his napkin aside, he pushed himself away from the table. Something had to be settled between them, one way or another.

  "Excuse me," he murmured to Lorna and the others who seemed to be watching. "I have some business to take care of." Before anyone could ask for details, he headed in the direction his mystery woman had taken.

  He wouldn't let her get away from him so easily this time.

  * * *

  3

  « ^ »

  She wasn't in the kitchen, or down the connecting hallway, or in the utility room near the back door. Just when he reached the conclusion that she'd left the premises altogether, he caught sight of movement through a window.

  She was out there, in the backyard.

  His heart turned over. He had another chance. He pushed through the door onto the deck and descended the steps to the brick walkway that led through the blossoming, rain-scented garden. The rain had ceased, but a light mist clung to his face as he walked.

  She'd stopped on the small decorative bridge that crossed a rushing mountain stream. Leaning against the white rail, she stared out into the mist. His footsteps alerted her, and she turned with a start.

  Her look of dismay stopped him on the brick walkway. They stared at each other in tense silence. Her midnight hair was damp and curling in loose tendrils around her pale, oval face … a face he'd seen often in his daydreams lately.

  "What are you doing out here?" she finally asked, her eyes wide and wary, the same silver gray as the mist surrounding them.

  He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and assumed a relaxed stance. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had failed to welcome him anywhere, unless he counted his last meeting with her. "Funny, but I was going to ask you the same."

  "That's none of your business, Dr. Wade."

  "Connor," he said. "My name's Connor."

  She looked away from him, out over the brook, her profile lush and beguiling. She was doing it again, he noticed. Ignoring him. He had no idea how to break through the barrier she was erecting, or why she felt she needed it.

  "Do you work for Lorna?" he asked, doubting that she did. Maybe she'd volunteered for some reason to help out at the party.

  "Yes, I do."

  That surprised him. He didn't particularly like the idea of her working for Lorna, nor did he understand it. Something didn't fit. "As…?"

  "A maid."

  He had a hard time seeing her in that role. Her refined manner of speaking and regal bearing gave him the impression that she'd been highly educated and raised to mingle at the most exclusive society functions. What had led her to take this job as Lorna's maid?

  More questions, he realized. Every moment he spent with this woman only piled new questions on top of old ones. He intended to have answers to every one of them before he was through with her. "You didn't make an appointment for a follow-up visit. Are you taking my other advice—bed rest, vitamins, no heavy lifting?"

  She rounded on him, her face alive with indignation. "I won't make another appointment with you, and I won't answer to you about my health. I thought I'd made myself clear. I don't want you as my doctor."

  He strolled closer and gazed more directly into her eyes. "And I don't want you as my patient."

  Surprise glittered in those rain-gray depths—surprise, and maybe a little affront. Unable to stop his gaze from wandering, he noticed mist beaded on her skin. And her lips, like a pale pink rosebud, glistened with dewy moisture.

  "Then what do you want?" she breathed.

  You. He didn't say it, but he felt it, and from the way her face warmed with color, he sensed that she read him perfectly. She backed away from him slightly; a telling movement.

  He rested his forearms on the railing beside her. "You always seem to be running away from me. Why?"

  She let out a soft, exasperated breath. "What does it matter? You don't know me, and I don't know you. That's not about to change. You should go back in to the party. They'll be looking for you."

  "Tell me."

  Her lips compressed and she looked away. He continued to study her, thoroughly intrigued by the emotion she fought to suppress. At least she felt something toward him.

  After a few silent moments, his patience paid off. Her mouth quirked in surrender, and she confronted him, full face. "If you must know, you embarrassed me in there."

  He frowned, baffled. Although he had deliberately teased her about the calluses, he didn't see how she could be embarrassed by a joke that only she and he would understand. "How did I embarrass you?"

  "You mean you don't know?"

  "No."

  "You stopped in the middle of your horse story and … and gaped at me."

  "'Gaped'?" He thought back to when he'd first seen her tonight, unsure of how he had acted. He'd been aware only of her. "I gaped?"

  "Yes, you gaped. Which made everyone else gape at me, too. And then you had to bring up—" she hesitated, looking discomfited "—your calluses."

  "So?"

  "So! You did it deliberately," she accused. "You know you did."

  "But not to embarrass you. I don't see how it could. After all, no one else there knows how you feel about my hands."

  Her lips parted in protest. "I don't feel
anything about your hands!" In her pique, she had lost a good deal of her stiffness and her eyes sparkled with lively annoyance.

  He couldn't have been more enchanted. "Then why did you complain about them in my office?"

  "I wasn't complaining about them." Her embarrassment flared visibly. "I just … noticed them, that's all. Their hardness, I mean." She bit down on her shapely lower lip, and her hands gripped the railing. After a moment, she admitted in a soft, pained voice, "I had no business noticing something like that. Something so … personal. I'm sorry."

  "It didn't bother me." Other things about her bothered him, though. Like the apple-blossom scent of her hair, the luminescent quality of her skin, the inviting smoothness of her mouth and the way her damp cotton blouse clung to her, almost transparent in places. Private, intriguing places that he longed to explore. To feel. To taste…

  He struggled to speak past the heat rising in him. "So my hands aren't the reason you don't want me as your doctor?"

  "Of course not," she scoffed.

  "Then what is?"

  A stillness settled between them, and he swore he could hear her heart pounding in double time. Or maybe it was his heart, or both of theirs, beating in unison.

  She turned a solemn gaze to him. "Why don't you," she whispered, "want me as your patient?"

  "Because," he replied with a huskiness he couldn't help, "I want you in another capacity altogether."

  The admission electrified something between them; something as elusive as the garden-scented mist, but no less real.

  The guarded look returned to her face. "Then the problem should be easy to understand. I'm only in the market for a doctor. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do." She made a move to pass by him.

  He realized he'd made a grave tactical error. He'd given her a concrete reason to avoid him. "Sarah." He blocked her way, impulsively catching her by the shoulders to hold her fast, to keep her from escaping him again. "I wasn't trying to come on to you. I was just being honest. Can't we have that between us, at least—simple honesty?"

  She didn't pull away from him, as he half expected, or order him to let her go. She went perfectly still, then lifted her face to his, as if arrested by what he'd said.

  "Honesty?" A rueful smile softened her mouth. "Thank you for your honesty, Connor." The sound of his name in her low, feminine voice pleased him, but he barely had time to savor it. His attention was riveted by the surprising gentleness in her gaze—a warm, womanly gentleness that magnified her beauty tenfold. "I'm flattered to know that I'm not the only one feeling this … this chemistry between us."

  Before he could find his voice to reply, her eyes had darkened, her gaze dipped to his mouth, and her gentleness took on a sensual hue, making his body harden and his blood rush. Her fingertips grazed his face—a brief, tender caress that he felt to his very core. "But I can't get involved with you. So please," she implored, "stay away from me."

  Before her words registered clearly, she eased out of his grasp and hurried down the walkway.

  He stared after her, mesmerized by the promise of heaven he'd found in her eyes, her voice, her body … and stunned by the blow of her words. Stay away from me.

  He shook his head to cast off the dazed feeling and struggled to make sense of what she'd said. Had she really gazed at him with such honeyed softness, touched him with such tender warmth, stirred him with such blazing sensuality … and told him to stay away?

  Did she really think he would?

  If so, he'd have to add one more symptom to her medical chart. Delusional.

  By the time she reached the house, the mist had turned into a cold drizzle, and her sensual reaction to Connor Wade had turned into an uncontrollable trembling. She wished she could forget about the party in progress and rush to the privacy of her small attic bedroom.

  But as she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she nearly plowed into Lorna, who seemed to be waiting for her like a spider in a web, ready to pounce.

  "There you are. I've been looking all over for you." Lorna inspected her with barely disguised disapproval. "You're wet. Where have you been?"

  "Outside. I needed a break."

  "A break? I see. I should have known a rainstorm wouldn't interfere with that." Her mouth thinned, but after a moment, relaxed again, and her voice lost its cutting edge, although Sarah clearly sensed her tension. "Did you happen to see one of my guests? The gentleman who was sitting next to me at the table?"

  "No, I didn't." She couldn't afford to alienate Lorna with the truth, and hoped she'd never learn of the white lie.

  Lorna seemed somewhat mollified, but not entirely. "You do know who I'm talking about, don't you? Dr. Connor Wade."

  "I believe so."

  "Then … you do know him?"

  "By sight, I suppose."

  Lorna allowed herself a small, tight smile. "He must have gone to some private corner to take a call. A definite downside to dating a doctor—they always seem to be on duty."

  Sarah took that to be notification of the fact that Lorna was dating him. She apparently had noticed the attention Connor had paid her at the table. Good thing Lorna hadn't heard or seen him in the garden, whispering that he wanted her … holding her with his hard, warm, controlling hands … gazing at her as if he intended to kiss her senseless.

  Warmth tingled through her at the memory. At least she knew now that the intoxicating attraction she felt for him wasn't entirely one-sided. Still, she couldn't allow herself to be swept away by physical longing. She couldn't afford to form attachments of any kind.

  Even if she could, she'd keep her distance from him. For all she knew, he might make a practice of flattering and seducing vulnerable women while dating wealthy socialites like Lorna. For some reason, it hurt too much to entertain that possibility.

  "André was concerned when he couldn't find you," continued Lorna. "He's serving the after-dinner cordials now, and then he'll be leaving. He doesn't do dishes. It's not in his job description." Her slight emphasis on the word "his" reminded Sarah that dishwashing was certainly in her job description.

  Gripping the edge of the marble kitchen counter, Sarah fought off the gray, smothering fatigue that pressed in on her. She'd started work so early that morning, and had barely taken a break or eaten a bite. Not that she was hungry. Her stomach felt too knotted, her eyes too heavy, her head too light. She truly felt as if she might pass out.

  If only she could sleep at night, the days wouldn't be taking such a toll. But the questions and the nightmares refused to let her rest. She was caught between long days and sleepless nights. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight she'd sleep.

  "Would you mind if I do them tomorrow?" she managed to ask. "I'll have them done first thing, bright and early."

  "You mean, you want to leave all these dirty dishes in my kitchen overnight?"

  Sarah's heart sank. Lorna obviously meant to have no mercy. She wouldn't lower her pride by asking again. She wouldn't give the woman the satisfaction. She'd rather wash every damn dish in the house, if it took her all night.

  She swayed on her feet.

  "I'll pay André extra to do them." The deep, brusque voice from the kitchen doorway drew both women's attention. "Or I'll do them myself."

  "Connor!" Lorna's face had flushed, her voice had risen in pitch, and her hand fluttered to her hair to smooth it. "Don't be silly. Why in the world should you—" Her exclamation broke off as she stared at him.

  He leaned against the doorjamb in his water-stained sport coat, his hands in the pockets of his damp trousers, his short hair darker and spikier than usual, glistening with moisture.

  Lorna's gaze slowly returned to Sarah, whose clothes were also damp, whose hair also sparkled with rain. No one could doubt that they'd both been outside. Most likely, together.

  Sarah stood clinging to the kitchen counter in mute dismay.

  "It doesn't take a medical genius to realize that she's on the verge of a collapse," Connor remarked, his gaze connecting with
Sarah's. "I suggest she take it easy for the next couple days and get some bed rest—along with plenty of fluids and vitamins. She's obviously not far from physical exhaustion."

  "Physical exhaustion," Lorna repeated. "I had no idea." With only a stiff lip indicating her dismay, she schooled her features into a semblance of courteous interest. "Is she a patient of yours, Connor?"

  "No!" Sarah finally managed to exclaim. "I am not a patient of his." She realized then that she'd blown the only excuse that might have explained why they'd been speaking together in private. "I mean, I'm not technically a patient of his. I went to see Dr. Brenkowski, who happened to be out of the country—" she hadn't meant to tell Lorna any of this! "—but there's absolutely nothing wrong with me."

  "Maybe not, but until Doc Brenkowski gets back, I'm in charge of all the patients, and what I say goes." A wry gleam entered his hazel eyes. "Medically speaking, that is."

  Sarah drew in an angry breath. "You are not, and never will be, my doctor."

  "Sarah," Lorna admonished. "Really! Let's not forget our manners. He is, after all, my guest."

  Ignoring Lorna's interjection and pacing a few steps closer to Sarah, Connor warned, "Ignore my advice, sweetheart, and you'll end up in one of the beds in my clinic."

  "Oh, my," Lorna murmured. "We don't want that."

  "My name's not 'sweetheart.'" She realized she was grasping at straws now, but didn't care. Maybe the word wouldn't have bothered her as much if he hadn't succeeded in making it sound like an endearment. She couldn't take any form of endearment from him right now. She was simply too worn down and angry and vulnerable to keep it in perspective.

  "Go to bed, Sarah," he commanded, "and stay there."

  "By all means, go to bed," Lorna concurred. "I insist." Her jade-green eyes now glittered with what could pass for concern. "Either André or I will do the dishes. You concentrate on taking care of yourself, hmm?"