He was just drifting off when the doorbell rang, jolting him awake. Adrenaline shot through him as he ground out a curse. It was MacAuley of course. Come to hassle his patient, damn his conscientious hide.
Luke gave a few testing breaths, then lifted his head. The groan exploded before he could bite it back. Slowly he returned his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. The sound of his front door opening had them popping open again. It was then he remembered the house key he'd given Stace a few years back so that she could take in his mail while he'd been in New York for a conference.
"Get the hell out of my house, MacAuley, before I call the cops and have you hauled off for trespassing," he hollered over the sound of approaching footsteps.
He smelled her an instant before he opened his eyes to see an angel in shimmering yellow framed in the doorway, her glorious hair drifting around her face. The ding had dulled his will, so by the time he remembered he was supposed to separate himself from his personal feelings, he'd already noticed the ripe curves of her breasts and the pale pink perfection of her mouth.
"I should brain you over the head with that ugly monstrosity of a lamp for putting yourself through this," she muttered as she crossed the room toward him.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, then winced at the harsh croak that he'd meant to sound firm.
"You should be in the hospital, getting ready for the operation you should have had six weeks ago. And don't blame Boyd for breaking a confidence," she added when he was about to do just that. "He refused to say a word. I found out from another source."
"It seems," he muttered, "I need to have a talk with a certain copper-haired nurse."
"It wasn't Prudy, and stop guessing."
She took a breath, her eyes suddenly huge. He fervently hoped those weren't tears he saw glistening. Because he was damn sure he couldn't handle tears on top of the embarrassed anger fermenting in his mushy brain.
"You canceled it because of me, didn't you?"
"It's discretionary surgery, Maddy. I postponed it a few more months, that's all."
"I heard you fainted in the operating room." Her voice wobbled and he nearly groaned. He hadn't seen this coming.
"I didn't faint." Maybe the lights had gone dim for a couple of seconds, but he hadn't been out. Not even close. Something popped in his jaw, and he forced the muscles to relax. It was then he remembered he was sprawled on top of the bed naked because it hurt too much to draw back the covers.
Being helpless made him want to rage. At himself mostly. "I appreciate your concern," he said tightly, "but I don't want you here."
If she heard him, she gave no sign. "Your back is in spasm, isn't it?"
"No, it's a little sore, that's all." Even as a kid he'd been a lousy liar. Once he'd figured out he was going to get whomped on twice—once for lying and again for whatever he'd done wrong—he pretty much stuck with the truth. The expression on her face now had him wishing he'd worked a little harder on perfecting his lying technique.
"Where's your heating pad?"
"Damn it, Maddy, I'm your doctor, not your patient."
"Not any longer. You're fired."
"The hell I am," he shouted, then sucked in as the pain nearly took him under.
Nostrils flaring, she advanced on him. "Six weeks ago you did your best to get rid of me."
"I didn't—"
"And they say women are fickle."
"That isn't funny."
"I mean it, Luke. As of this moment I am Dr. Winslow's patient." She slipped her purse from her shoulder and dropped it to the floor by the bed before glancing around. "Where do you keep your extra pillows?"
The painkiller was filling his head with gray cotton, but he managed to keep his attention focused on her long enough to demand, "What the hell do you want pillows for?"
"My father had back spasms, and it always helped him to put two pillows under his knees and two under his head."
"Madelyn, go home. This isn't doing either of us any good." His voice came out rough and angry, startling her into looking at him.
"Shut up, Luke. I'm going to take care of you, like it or not." He was already scowling when he saw the emotion turning her eyes liquid. God help him, it looked like love.
Something raw and desperate staggered out of the darkness inside him. It was the need to be loved and to love in return, he realized, the kind that came from the depths of a man's soul.
He didn't deserve a second chance. Maybe she wasn't even offering. Right now, this minute, he only knew he was tired of being alone. Tired of wanting what he couldn't have. Later, when he wasn't hurting, he would sort things out with his conscience.
"Suit yourself," he muttered. "But for God's sake throw a sheet over me before I curl up and die of embarrassment."
She let out a little yelp of laughter. "I've seen you naked before," she said, her voice way too sultry for a man in his condition to handle.
"Yeah, but not half-dead and … puny."
"Not on your worst day," she murmured, or maybe he just hoped that was what she said.
"Linen closet's in the hall."
Frustration ran though him as she disappeared, only to reappear a moment later to spread a sheet over him. Her hands were efficient as they smoothed it over his chest. He felt himself sinking again, his tired sore body desperate to shut down. Not once in all the years since his mother had walked out while he'd slept had he allowed himself to sleep while someone else in the house was awake. Especially a darlin' sexy female who smelled like a whole field of wildflowers.
His eyes drifted shut and he forced them open again. But his lids were so heavy and his damned lashes screened all but a wedge of suntanned throat framed by her lapels. Silk against silk again, he thought, then imagined himself slipping those pearly little buttons free one by one until there was only the silk of her skin and the ripe curves of her breasts.
Knowing he would burn in hell for violating his oath, he let his gaze linger on the swell of her belly—not as a doctor but as a man who wished with all his heart and soul that he'd put that sweet little baby boy in her womb. Because he was too tired to fight anymore, he lifted a hand to that glorious belly, earning himself a good hard kick in the middle of his palm. Atta boy, tiger. Don't take nothin' from nobody.
"You picked out a name yet?" he asked, or tried to.
"No, not yet."
"Tough little guy, needs a … strong name."
"I'll remember that."
He tried to stay awake when he felt her hands in his hair, stroking the sweat-damp strands away from his face, but he didn't seem able to find the strength, so he simply tucked her hand against his chest and stopped fighting.
* * *
Luke was still sleeping soundly at midnight when Madelyn wandered into the kitchen in search of something to eat. These days she slept when the baby slept, which wasn't all that often. At the moment her little toughie was wide awake and playing a particularly wild and woolly game of kickball.
Pausing at the door between the kitchen and dining alcove, it took her a minute to find the light switch. The kitchen was small, but streamlined, the appliances built in, the counters nearly bare and gleaming white. Like the rest of the rooms she'd seen, it was as austere as a monk's cell. Wincing at a particularly painful kick in the vicinity of her left kidney, she pulled open the fridge door and rummaged through the pitifully bare shelves, looking for sustenance.
The two packages of Snickers bars tempted her briefly, but she made herself reach for the extra-large jar of peanut butter, instead. The bread was stale, but she was too hungry to care.
She ate in the dining alcove off the kitchen, at a chrome-and-glass table in front of a window overlooking a part of the city she'd never seen before. Lights twinkled like fireflies in the purple darkness, and in the distance, traffic moved in a serpentine pattern on the valley floor.
Living here in a house hanging over the side of a hill was akin to living in an eagle's nest, she thought, sipping juice. A solitary
lair for a solitary man. There was no yard for children to play, no neighbors to drop in with pizza and chocolate, no sense of family and belonging. The perfect place for a loner who filled his days with work, instead of the wife and children he needed so desperately. Just as she'd filled hers with her own work and charity functions and gardening. Anything to keep from feeling too deeply.
She suspected it hadn't really worked for either of them.
Feeling sad and a little disoriented, she poured herself another glass of juice, carrying it with her into the master bathroom. Damp towels lay in a heap next to the oversize tub still filled with water that had grown cold long ago.
His clothes were there, too, scattered on the tile floor where he'd dropped them. Since the rest of the house was almost surgically neat, she suspected he'd been hurting too much to tidy up after himself.
After setting her glass on the marble sink, she set about draining the tub and hanging up the towels. His shirt and jeans and dark blue briefs went into the wicker basket that served as a hamper. When the room was tidy, she picked up her glass and went to check on him again.
He was still lying on his back, one arm flung out toward the empty side of the queen-size bed, the other fisted on his bare chest. A funny little shimmer of purely female appreciation ran through her at the sight of those magnificent shoulders.
At seventeen she'd never seen a more perfect example of manliness. One look and she'd wanted him to be the first to make love to her. According to one theory, sexual attraction was purely chemical, an inexplicable mix of pheromones and neural receptors. Nature's way of bonding a fertile female with a potent male. According to another, it was mystical, one soul calling to its mate. Whatever it was, it was still there, that overpowering need to be in his arms.
Instinct told her he didn't like himself very much. She suspected he hadn't liked himself for a very long time. Perhaps forever. She knew the feeling of course, but the therapy she'd undergone as part of her training had helped her cope with the guilt.
She wanted to help him, but she wasn't sure how to go about it. She wasn't sure about anything when it came to Luke. She just knew he was important to her—and not just as her doctor.
He was going to be angry when he woke up, she decided, trailing her gaze over the character lines that hadn't been part of his face at eighteen. Angry and embarrassed that she'd seen him at his most helpless.
Well, she'd been embarrassed, too, darn it. That morning in the Mallory. He'd simply bowled over her protests and went about caring for her. Two can play that game, Lucas Oliver Jarrod, she thought with a private little smile as she set the juice on the nightstand next to his beeper.
Five minutes later, wearing one of his shirts over her bra and panties, she eased herself down next to him on the bed. His lashes fluttered, and he frowned.
"Maddy?" His voice was rusty and threaded with disbelief.
"Go to sleep, Luke," she soothed, turning on her side and taking his hand in hers.
"Baby?" he muttered.
"He's fine."
His mouth moved. "Sorry … not mine."
"So am I," she murmured on a suddenly shaky breath. And then, just as he'd once done, she lifted his hand to her lips and brushed a kiss over his scarred knuckle.
He smiled then, a soft dreamy smile that should have looked odd on such a masculine face, but seemed poignantly touching, instead. "Keep you safe, sweetheart," he murmured. "Even from me."
It was then, at that moment, she realized she still loved him.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
Madelyn awoke to a gray morning and the steady drumming of heavy rain on the roof. Still drowsy, she experienced a moment of blank confusion before she recalled the night before.
Life in Oregon was anything but boring, she decided as she rolled to her back. Surprise shot through her when she saw that Luke was awake and watching her.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly.
"Better."
She studied him a moment, then decided he was telling the truth. Beneath the inky stubble, his skin was still too pale, but the jagged pain splintering his eyes was gone. Exhaling in relief, she eased awkwardly to the side.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked when he continued to watch her without speaking.
"A while." The lines bracketing his mouth deepened. "You were dreaming. I was afraid to wake you."
She frowned. "How did you know?"
Silently he brought one hand to her cheek. His blunt fingertips came away wet. His jaw turned hard as he curled those strong skilled fingers into a fist against his belly.
She had been so wrong about him, she thought. Years and years wrong. A part of her grieved for all they'd missed. "It's a dream I have a lot," she admitted, stretching her legs nervously. "You were teaching Jenny to ride and she was laughing." Madelyn offered a quick smile. "Like the twins."
"I have this dream, too. She comes to me as a patient and I … turn her away. And then she…" He broke off, his jaw white, but the nightmare image was already in her head. Failing the ones he loved most was his worst fear, she realized with sudden insight.
"Don't hate yourself anymore, Luke," she pleaded. "You don't deserve it."
"You don't know how much I want to believe that." His gaze shifted to the ceiling, his face stony, his breathing quickening. His sadness was a living thing. "I don't know how to make things right, Maddy. Not for her. Not for you."
"But you did try to make things right," she said, rushing her words in an effort to reach him. "Boyd told me you came back for me."
"Man talks too much," he muttered.
She couldn't prevent a small smile. "I think he was trying to plead your case with me."
He considered that, then sighed. "It was my damn ego. I wanted to look good for my girl, so I stopped in El Paso to buy a suit. It was too tight in the chest and the tailor had to alter it. I should have just showed up in my jeans."
He sounded so disgusted she had to fight to keep from laughing. "I thought of you on my wedding night," she said, turning to her side. "My friend Emily gave me this French silk negligee with yards of lace. It was wonderfully slippery against my skin, and when I put it on, I imagined your hands slipping under all that lace—"
His head turned fast, his eyes hot. "What's really going on here, Madelyn?" he demanded, his voice barely controlled.
"I'm trying to tell you I want to make love with you again, you obstinate mule!"
Those hot needy eyes went blank, and then a hard flush took over his face. "It has to be the meds." He reached out to brush her hair away from her face with a hand that visibly trembled.
"Don't look so scared, Luke." Because she was terrified she lifted her chin and smiled. "I'm not asking you for any kind of commitment. In fact, that's exactly what I don't want. For the first time ever I'm free to make my own choices and live my own life. Right now, I want to find out if what I think I feel for you is real or … some leftover fantasy."
Giving in to her own repressed longings, she burrowed her fingers through the hair on his chest. The muscles beneath the sun-burnished skin rippled, beyond the control of his will. Air whooshed from her lungs as his hand whipped down to grab her wrist.
"Maddy, stop. I'm just hanging on by a thread here."
She inhaled the clean scent of his skin and her senses scrambled. "Is it your back? If it hurts, I—"
"It's not my back, damn it." His chest rose and fell in a ragged sigh. "I desperately want to kiss you, but I can't kiss you without wanting to make love to you."
"But that's what I want, too! And I have it on the best authority that it's safe, as long as my partner is gentle." She touched his face, saw emotion flash in his eyes. "You're the gentlest man I know."
"Physically it's safe, yes, but—"
"Please, Luke. I've been so empty for so long." She pressed against him, her belly rubbing his as she arched upward. "Make love to me, Luke. Please."
He looked a lit
tle stunned. "You need to know the way it has to be, Maddy. If I kiss you, I can't deliver your baby. Even if you change your mind, I won't change mine, so if you're not sure, tell me now."
"Do you trust Dr. Winslow?"
"I do, yes." His answer came without hesitation and with his gaze steady on hers. Like a sigh the last of her reservations fell away.
"Then I won't change my mind."
Luke thought he groaned. He was pretty sure he shuddered. He framed her face with his hands and angled his head. Her gaze was intense on his, her lashes half-closed, her lips parted slightly in an invitation that would tempt a stone statue. These past weeks had taught him just how far from stone he was inside.
He drew back, breathing hard. Fumbling a little, he piled pillows behind him before drawing her into his arms. The part of him that had been missing slipped into place, and he breathed a silent heartfelt prayer as he cuddled her closer, while one hand stroked her hair.
"I never forgot, Maddy, not for one minute. Even when I told myself I had, I remembered how sweet you tasted."
He kissed her then, because nothing could stop him. It was the kind of kiss without passion, one that he'd never given any woman but her. One that came from deep inside where he hid dreams too fragile to expose to the light. It wasn't only sex he wanted, though God knows he did. No, it was healing he sought, for them both.
She made a little sound, her hands curving over his shoulders. Her lips were moist and eager as she sought to deepen the kiss. Gladly, eagerly, he complied, shaken now by the depth of the feeling she aroused in him.
"You were always with me," he told her between kisses. "In my dreams, during the day when I thought I couldn't read one more word, digest one more fact." He stroked her cheekbone, using the back of his hand because his fingertips were too callused to use on that soft skin.
"I dreamed about you, too," she whispered, nuzzling his hand. "A thousand times I regretted sending you away."
DADDY BY CHOICE Page 13
