A DOCTOR'S VOW

by Christine Rimmer

  She suggested softly, "Maybe you felt like a baby. Defenseless…"

  He kissed her temple, ran his hand over her hair. "Maybe so. I know I felt … connected to that baby. As if I should have been there, to pick him up, to hold him, to whisper the things you whisper to a baby, those little soothing noises, so that he'd feel safe. And protected. And loved…

  "But I wasn't there. And for that, I hated myself. I know there was no logic to it. But I'm not talking about logic here."

  She made another small, tender sound, then moved her head against him. He felt her lips brush the side of his neck. She cuddled closer once more.

  He said, "About then, with that baby I couldn't touch wailing through my dream that had somehow turned into a nightmare, I'd wake up sweating and moaning. Tanner would be standing over me, with his thumb in his mouth, holding the little dirty scrap of a blanket he slept with until they took him away to his first foster home.

  "Tanner would pull that soggy thumb from his mouth and he'd put his hand on me, on my shoulder. Or over my heart. And he'd say, 'Bad dream. It's okay. Go back to sleep…'

  "Not even four years old, younger than Griff, and he'd say that to me. The same as, if I woke up and he'd kicked the covers down, I'd sneak over and cover him back up so he wouldn't be cold. We … took care of each other."

  She raised her hand, stroked the side of his face. "I'm glad you had that. Each other…"

  He thought of himself and Tanner, just the day before, standing on the street in front of the Pembroke Building beneath an incongruous clear blue sky.

  I'm looking a Chapter 11 in the face, his brother had said.

  "Did you know that Tanner's the general contractor on the new wing?"

  He heard a small, regretful "Yes…"

  "He could go belly-up from what's happened. A general contractor pays his people up front."

  "I understand."

  "Do you? And do you know how many jobs this project created, how many it would have created in the future?" He didn't wait for her answer. "All of those jobs. Lost. A lot of people out of work right now, and a lot more who won't get jobs in the future because the jobs won't be there. A lot of sick people who won't get the kind of treatment they deserve. Services we won't be able to provide because we simply do not have the facilities."

  She stirred. "Ryan, don't—"

  He couldn't stop. "And then there's me. I'm a little … tarnished. Yeah. Tarnished. That would be the word. Not the golden boy, the fund-raising genius I was a few days ago. But I've still got my job. It's unlikely I'll lose it. No one would ever say this mess was my fault."

  She lifted her head, gave him a stern look. "Because it isn't."

  He wanted to shout at her, which was truly pitiful. She hadn't done anything but make tender love to him—and then offer to listen while he went against all his ingrained ideas of himself and poured out his woes.

  "Shh." He smoothed her hair again, until she went still in his arms. Then he confessed, "I should have known."

  "You should have known what?"

  "What Axel was up to."

  "How? How could you have known?"

  So he told her. She sat very still, hardly breathing, it seemed to him, as he repeated the details of his final racquetball match with Axel Pembroke.

  At last, he said, "That little bastard just couldn't resist the temptation to rub my nose in what he'd done. I should have been alerted."

  She kissed him again, this time on the edge of his jaw. And then she slid off his lap before he could grab hold of her and make her stay. She planted herself in front of him, propped her hands on her hips and demanded, "This … suspicious behavior of Mr. Pembroke's. It occurred when?"

  "Saturday."

  "And he disappeared when?"

  "Sunday, from what the papers say."

  "Well." She threw up both hands. "Isn't hindsight a marvelous thing?"

  He scowled at her. "You're defending me. I don't need defending."

  "Yes, you do. You need someone to look at the facts here. Someone who isn't you, with your exasperating tendency to feel responsible for things you can't possibly control—not that I don't completely understand that tendency. As a doctor, I spend a lot of my professional life feeling exactly what you're feeling now. Because there are so many things we just don't know yet about the human body and what can go wrong with it, things we can't help feeling we should know, when our patients look at us for all the answers we simply do not have."

  "This isn't the same thing."

  "It is. Oh, it is. You hooked up with those Pembroke people in good faith. And from what I understand, that foundation is an old and respected organization. It's never reneged on its commitments before, has it?"

  "Of course not."

  "Well, there you have it. You did a fabulous thing, to get that huge amount of money out of them. And that last encounter you had with that Pembroke fellow, well, no one—I repeat, no one—could have known by the things he said to you then what he had up his sleeve. And even if you had known, what could you have done about it in the time between your conversation with him and his disappearance? Obviously it was already too late to stop him from stealing the money."

  She flashed a triumphant little grin. "But maybe you could have gone to the police. You could have told them, 'I played racquetball with Axel Pembroke a few hours ago, and he said some things that have been preying on my mind. Things like how I should understand if he grabs his chance. And how I'll never be off the hook where he's concerned.' Big deal. I'm sure they would have run right out and arrested him from that." Her red-gold eyebrows drew together. "That does bring a point to mind. You probably should tell the police about it. He might just have said something that meant nothing to you, but could give them a lead."

  He let out a long breath. "I already have. I called them yesterday."

  "And?"

  "They took my statement over the phone and said, 'Thank you very much.'"

  "Okay then. You've done what you reasonably could have done when it comes to Axel Pembroke."

  "Except to track him down and kill him with my bare hands."

  She pretended to consider that idea, then let out a delicate grunt. "Not your style. And besides, you haven't got time for revenge."

  "It wouldn't be revenge, I'd think of it as justice."

  "Call it what you want, it's a luxury you can't afford. You've got too much to do here in Honeygrove, trying to find a way to get the funding you need to finish that new wing."

  He swore under his breath. Right then, that task seemed just about impossible. "I think I'd rather just take off after Axel."

  "But you can't. And you won't."

  They both knew she was right.

  She came back to him then and pushed him down on the bed. She crawled in beside him and pulled the covers up over them both. She kissed his ear and then whispered into it, "And right now, you shouldn't do anything—except get a few hours' sleep."

  "Right now, I should go back to my own bed."

  She sighed. "Probably so." She pushed the covers back. "Go on. I won't stop you."

  But he didn't want to leave. Not yet. He grabbed the covers and hauled them up around his neck. "Maybe just for a couple of hours."

  "I could set the alarm."

  "Do it. Set it for four."

  She rolled over and reached for the clock, then she settled under the blankets with him, turning her back to him, so he could wrap himself around her.

  He actually dozed a little, a feat he would have deemed impossible a couple of hours before.

  But eventually, the feel of her so close was too tempting by half. He caressed her shoulder, smoothed her hair out of his way and kissed the side of her neck. She turned to him, sighing, wrapping her sweet arms around him, pushing her mouth up to his.

  Her beeper went off before the alarm. It was three-thirty. She slid from the bed and fumbled around until she found her pajama top—which he'd tossed halfway across the room the second time they made love. He w
atched her through the shadows, still barely awake, as she pulled it on. Then she disappeared into the other room.

  He sat up, turned on the lamp and waited for her to return. She didn't take long.

  "Sorry," she said wryly, stopping at the dresser just inside the door. "Three-year-old girl with a high fever. The parents are frantic. I'm meeting them at Children's Hospital right away." She pulled out a pair of underpants and a bra, opened another drawer, found some socks.

  He watched her, enjoying the sight immensely as she tossed her pajama top on the end of the bed and put on the underwear. Then he pushed back the covers and reached for his own clothes.

  She let him out the back door, kissing him one last time before he left, promising, "Tomorrow night, if you need me, I'll be here."

  "I'll need you."

  "Then I'll be here."

  He couldn't resist teasing, "Barring any emergencies with your patients."

  She wrinkled up her freckled nose. "That's the way it goes when you get involved with a doctor."

  "As long as the doctor is you, I'm willing to put up with it."

  "Good. Now, I—"

  "I know. You have to go. And so do I."

  When he got back to his own room, he actually fell asleep again. He woke at seven, cleaned up, got dressed, grabbed his briefcase and went downstairs.

  Lily was standing at the stove, scrambling eggs. "There you are. I'll have these ready in a jiff."

  Ryan set his briefcase on a chair. "Never mind. Just coffee. I'll get something later, at the hospital."

  "You're sure? You have to eat."

  "I will eat. Later. I promise."

  She got a mug, poured him coffee. He took the cup from her. "Thanks."

  She went back to the stove. He stood at the counter, sipping. "The kids?"

  "Getting dressed. Or they'd better be." She slid him a glance. "Oh. I forgot to mention last night that Dr. Powers dropped by."

  Had she really forgotten? He doubted it. More likely she'd decided that Ronni's message could wait.

  Lily continued, "She said she'd read about the Pembroke Fund in the newspaper. She was … concerned."

  He went ahead and told the truth. "I know. I've already talked to her."

  Lily stopped stirring the eggs and shot him another look, this one accompanied by a tight frown. "You talked to her since midnight?"

  He set his mug on the counter. "Yes, Lily. I did."

  "Well," she said, then repeated "Well" again.

  His gut felt as if some unseen hand had grabbed it and tied it into a long chain of hard knots. He had another hellish day of what-do-we-do-now meetings ahead of him. And his mother-in-law, his mainstay on the home front, was looking at him as if he'd committed adultery.

  And maybe, to her mind, he had.

  He made himself say it. "Ronni has become very important to me, Lily."

  She glared at him. "Do you really think you have time for such nonsense right now?"

  Her question came at him like a slap in the face. He spoke quietly. "That was uncalled-for."

  Her face crumpled. He felt like a heel.

  Lily turned away, switched off the flame beneath the eggs and muttered miserably, "I … you're right. It's none of my business."

  No, he thought, that's not so. Lily was a very important part of Ryan's and his children's lives.

  But if he and Ronni went on together—and right now, he couldn't imagine giving her up—and if Lily refused to accept Ronni…

  Well then, big changes would have to be made. Tough changes.

  Lily had collected herself. She turned a tight, brave smile on him. "Let's just let this subject go, for now. You have enough to worry about as it is. And we have no way of knowing what the future will bring."

  She was letting him off the hook, temporarily, anyway. He shouldn't have felt such utter relief. But he did.

  Right then, Griff came bouncing in, waving an action figure, with his shirt on inside-out. "Gramma! Daddy! I'm all dressed! And I'm hungry!"

  Lily glanced at him, then gave a weary sigh when she saw his shirt. "Go on. Sit down. Your breakfast is ready."

  Ryan picked up his briefcase again. "Gotta go." He went to his son, kissed the top of his blond head. "Be good for Grandma."

  "Daddy! I'm always good! Have a nice day working!"

  A nice day. Right. "I will." He turned to Lily. "I'm afraid I'll probably miss dinner again."

  "All right."

  He headed for the back door.

  The day wasn't quite as bad as the two before it had been. The first frenzy of hair-tearing was over. They were starting to focus on what to do next. Community efforts had raised more than ten million toward furnishings and equipment, earmarked for spending after the wing itself was complete. They were now looking into rechanneling that money, trying to free it up for immediate use. And since Memorial was a not-for-profit institution, they could probably dig up some emergency government funding. But whatever they did, it wouldn't bear fruit tomorrow or the day after. And construction couldn't get going again until Tanner had some money in hand.

  Ryan met with the doctors' wives and society matrons from the hospital's auxiliary, Friends of Memorial, at one. They were very concerned about the problem with the new wing—and about the speech their chief administrator was expected to give at the Heart Ball the next night. What could he possibly say about the situation right now that wouldn't put a damper on the evening they'd worked so long and hard to plan? Perhaps he should just skip his little talk…

  Personally, Ryan would have liked nothing better. He did not relish the idea of getting up before Honeygrove's best and brightest and admitting that the loud sucking sound they heard was Memorial's new wing going down the drain. But they couldn't pretend it wasn't happening, either. He said he'd prefer to remain on the program.

  Murleen Anniston, wife of a prominent cardiologist and this year's chairwoman of the Heart Ball Committee, threw up her plump hands and cried, "But we've worked so hard! We've chosen an Oriental theme this time, and everything is just beautiful. You have no idea what it's like, every year, trying to make this a special, one-of-a-kind event. We're looking forward to a lovely evening, an evening people will remember in a positive way, in spite of this recent catastrophe. We just don't want to invite any more discomfort than everyone's already feeling over this."

  "I understand, Mrs. Anniston. And I promise you I will not deliver any gloom and doom." That's a hell of a promise, Malone, he thought bleakly. One he was going to be hard-put to keep.

  "How can you help but deliver gloom and doom?" Mrs. Anniston demanded.

  He had the urge to say Trust me but quelled it. He already felt too much like some two-bit snake-oil salesman lately, someone who'd promised miracles and then hadn't delivered. No need to sound like one, too.

  He said carefully, "I think it's important that we face this situation head-on, that we don't try to pretend there's nothing wrong when everyone knows that's not true."

  Murleen Anniston's ample bosom rose and fell visibly with her agitated breathing. "But it was all supposed to be so beautiful. A truly gala event, an evening to remember!"

  Maggie MacAllister, the wife of Memorial's chief of staff, spoke up then. "Murleen. I think Mr. Malone is right." Ryan cast the trim brunette a look of sheer gratitude, to which she responded with a gracious smile. "We can't bury our heads over this," she said. "Our chief administrator must remain on the program, just as we originally planned. He is a highly skilled speaker, as we all know. I'm sure he'll say just the right thing to put everyone's mind at ease."

  Ryan waited for Mrs. Anniston to cry, Like what?

  But she didn't, thank God. She laid her hand over her heaving bosom. "Well. I am very nervous about this. But if you really think there's no other choice…"

  "That is exactly what I think," Maggie said.

  The other ladies started talking then. Their comments amounted to a chattery chorus of agreement with Maggie MacAllister's point of view.

>   Ryan's "Look How Far We've Come" speech remained on the program for the Heart Ball.

  He had three more meetings after the one with the auxiliary. By then, it was seven at night. His secretary had gone home and the office was quiet. He settled in at his desk to write a new speech.

  By ten, he had started and dumped a countless number of drafts.

  He simply couldn't figure out an angle. Each approach either dripped the gloom and doom he'd sworn he would avoid—or sounded as if he was singing "My Heart Will Go On" when everyone knew the damn ship was sinking.

  At ten-thirty, he gave up. He shut down his computer, turned off the lights and went home, where the Garfields and Rugrats and crooked purple hearts danced in the front windows.

  Lily and the kids had already gone to bed. The house seemed too big, too silent, too dark.

  He got out of his business clothes and into chinos and a sweater. The damn speech he hadn't written nagged at him. He stood before the windows that looked out on the front lawn and tried to think of what the hell to do about it.

  Nothing came to mind. So he went out, across the backyard, to the light that glowed through the French doors at the back of the little house.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  « ^ »

  He tapped on the glass and she answered immediately. She opened the door, pulled him in, shut it and drew the curtains as she had the night before. She was still in her clothes—a pair of green leggings, fat socks and a big red sweater. He thought she looked like one of Santa's elves.

  A very sexy elf, to his mind.

  He reached for her. She came into his arms, lifting her mouth to his. He kissed her all the way to the bed and down onto it. In no time at all, with two sets of eager hands working at it, they were both without clothes.