by JoAnn Ross
The three of them laughed at the long-running joke.
"Besides," Maggie said as she made her way slowly and painfully, Caine noticed with alarm, to a chair, "I haven't been up in a plane for so long I probably couldn't remember how to take off."
"I doubt that, Gram," Caine said. "Everyone knows you were bom to fly."
"You're right about that," Maggie agreed, smiling her thanks to her husband, who'd placed a mug of coffee liberally laced with milk in front of her. "Of course I had a heck of a time convincing others of that fact, back in the old days."
She blew on the coffee, took a sip, then gazed down into the light brown depths as if seeing herself as she'd been in those days so many years ago. As if on cue, Les Brown's "Sentimental Journey" came over the radio.
"They wouldn't let me solo, so I couldn't get my license."
Caine knew the romantic story of his grandmother's life by rote. Maggie O'Halloran, nee Margaret Rose Murphy, had been bom in New Orleans in 1910. When she was fifteen years old, she'd run away from the convent school her wealthy parents had sent her to and become a singer and dancer on the Orpheum circuit.
It was during her days on the stage that she'd met a dashing former World War I flying ace barnstorming his way across America. He'd taken her up in his Lockheed Vega and although the pilot had moved on the following morning, Maggie's love affair with the airplane had lasted the rest of her life.
Caine had heard innumerable stories of Maggie's exploits while growing up, including how Devlin, who loved the way Maggie Murphy looked in her scandalous khaki trousers, had vowed to win the heart of the hot-tempered, flame-haired aviatrix.
Noticing the familiar warm light shining in her eyes, Caine was more than willing to sit through the story again.
"But eventually you got it," he said, on cue.
"Sure did." She chuckled, then took another sip. "Of course, it was still a man's world, and I got turned down for every airline job I applied for, but then one day I showed up at this itsy-bitsy airfield in Glendale, Cali-fomia, where they were having a pylon race. Won myself a trophy, which I ended up pawning to pay for fuel for my next three races."
A reminiscent smile wreathed her face, softening the lines earned from a lifetime of working outdoors. "Boy, I loved beating those egotistical swaggering pilots with their goggles and their flowing white silk scarves. Why, by the time Amelia Earhart handed me that crosscountry trophy in 1937,1 had more flying hours than she
did."
"Looked better in trousers, too," Devlin drawled.
"And you were always a silver-tongued devil, Devlin O'Halloran." A soft flush colored her cheeks, and Caine experienced a twinge of envy at this couple who, after more than fifty years of marriage, were still so much in love.
He was still considering exactly how they'd managed such a remarkable feat when his grandmother's head dropped to her chest.
"Gram?" He was on his feet and around the table like a shot.
"She's been droppin' off like that regular," his grandfather assured him. "Nora says it's normal."
"But she just woke up."
"And now she's sleepin'. Let it be, Caine."
But he couldn't. There was something wrong with Maggie. Something his grandfather wasn't saying. And if Devlin wasn't going to tell him the truth about his grandmother's condition, he had no choice but to get it from Nora.
"Thanks for the breakfast," he said. "I'll do the dishes."
"No need to worry about them. I'll stick them in the dishwasher." Devlin gave Caine a warning look. "Maggie wouldn't want you goin' off half-cocked, making a fuss about her."
"But she's sick."
"She's old," his grandfather corrected. "Let it be, Caine," he said again.
Caine shrugged. "Sure, whatever you say."
They both knew it was a lie.
Caine gave his grandfather a farewell hug and walked back out to the car, feeling as if the entire weight of the world was lying heavily on his shoulders.
JOHNNY Baker ms SEVEN years old. His uncombed hair was the color of butterscotch candy, his bare feet were dirty and his eyes were older and more resigned than any seven-year-old's eyes had a right to be.
In a way, Johnny was lucky. His bums, which his mother alleged he'd received when he'd accidentally overturned a pot of boiling water, were no worse than a medium-harsh sunburn. If the circumstances had been different, Nora would have sent him home with a tube of analgesic ointment.
But there was something about the bums themselves that bothered her. The skin on both too-thin reddened arms had dear demarcation lines; there were none of the splash marks she would have expected above the burned area.
And there were other faint scars, on the insides of the boy's arms and buttocks. Small, round, wrinkled white scars. Nora had seen marks like that before.
When the X rays showed what Nora had feared, she placed a call to Children's Protective Services and began filling out the admission form that would keep the little boy in the hospital until an investigation could be launched.
She'd just finished the paperwork when her office door opened. She glanced up, then had to fight the unbidden pleasure that surged through her when she saw Caine standing there.
"Hi." She started to rise, then changed her mind, not wanting to give up the three feet of polished desk between them. "This is a surprise."
"I need to talk to you."
"Oh, Caine. I told you—"
"It's not about us," he said quickly. "It's about Maggie."
"Oh." She folded her hands atop the manila file. "I take it you've seen her."
"This morning. And it's obvious that something's wrong with her, but my grandfather refuses to talk about it."
"I know." Nora sighed. "It's hard on him. The thought of losing her."
"My grandmother's dying?" She'd confirmed Caine's worst fears. Pain ripped through him, more brutal and severe than anything the Olson boys could have dished out.
"We're all dying, Caine," Nora reminded him quietly. "It's just that Maggie's time is getting close."
"What's wrong with her?"
She gestured toward a chair on the visitors' side of the desk. "Please, sit down. Would you like some coffee?"
"This isn't a damn tea party, Nora," Caine growled. "You don't have to play hostess. I just want to know what's wrong with my grandmother."
"Other than old age?"
He snorted in a disbelieving way. "She's only eighty-two, dammit. Both her parents lived into their late nineties. We were talking and she fell asleep in the middie of a conversation. You can't tell me that's normal. Even at her age."
"No." His face was as dark and threatening as a thundercloud. Nora tried to decide where to begin. "A few years ago, Maggie was diagnosed as having sideroblastic anemia."
"I remember that. Mom wrote me about it. But she said that so long as Gram received regular transfusions, she'd be fine."
"And she was. Until recently. Devlin came to me when I first opened my practice, worried because she kept falling asleep. He couldn't talk her into going to a doctor, so he wanted my help."
"Gram always did like you."
"I love her," Nora said simply. "The problem is, as you know, your grandmother's a fairly stubborn woman."
"That's putting it mildly. When Maggie Murphy O'Halloran digs in her heels, she can put a pit bull terrier to shame."
"Exactly. Finally, after a great deal of unprofessional pleading and cajoling, I managed to talk her into going to Seattle for some extensive tests."
"And?"
"She has hemochromatosis, Caine."
"What the hell is that?"
"The diagnosis is complex, but the gist of it is that the iron deposits from all the blood transfusions are keeping her heart from contracting effectively. Which is why she can't stay awake. Her heart can only pump effectively for a short time, then it has to rest."
"So get her a new heart."
"I wish it were that simple. But it's not."
"Sure, it is. I made thre
e million dollars last year."
"The papers said four point five."
If he weren't so worried about Maggie, Caine would have found it interesting that Nora had bothered reading about him.
"They were wrong. It was three. But that's still six zeros, Nora. Surely that's enough to buy Gram a new heart."
"Even if you could just run to a body-parts store and pick up a new heart, which you can't, a transplant is not an option in Maggie's case."
"Why not?"
"In the first place, Maggie isn't well enough to survive the wait for a donor heart, even if we could get her on the list.
"In the second place, if a heart did become available in time, I doubt she could survive the surgery."
"It's worth a try."
"Not to her."
"What?"
"Maggie categorically refuses to consider any dramatic efforts to keep her alive."
Caine ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "That's ridiculous."
"It's her decision. And," Nora added softly, "one Devlin and I happen to agree with."
His face took on that familiar, stubborn expression she knew all too well. His eyes turned to flint, his jaw jutted forward.
"Gram's always listened to me. I can change her mind."
"Caine, don't do this."
Nora rose from her chair and went around the desk to stand in front of him. "Maggie's made her decision. She's comfortable with it. Please don't upset her."
Caine was on his feet, as well. "I'm trying to save her life, dammit!" "That's just the point." Nora put her hand on his arm and felt the muscle tense beneath her fingertips. "You can't save her, Caine. No one can."
Caine muttered a litany of harsh expletives. "I am not going to let her die."
Nora remembered the paramedics trying to tell her that Caine had been shouting the same thing while the rescue team cut Dylan out of the mangled red Corvette.
"I'm sorry, Caine. Truly, I am."
"Goddamn it!" He pulled away from her and slammed his fist into the wall, punching a hole in the plasterboard. Unsatisfied, he gave the wall a vicious kick with the toe of his boot. The impact sent a jolt of lightning through his healing ribs.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." He flexed his fingers. "See?" His tired gaze took in the ragged hole. "Send me the bill for your wall."
"Don't worry about it."
"I said, send me the damn bill."
'Tine, I'll send you the damn bill."
"Good." He nodded. "I'm going to get a second opinion."
"You have every right to do that," Nora told him. "But I have to warn you, Caine, all the specialists who saw Maggie agreed with the diagnosis. And she doesn't have the strength to have you dragging her all over the country."
"Shit." He threw his long frame onto the office sofa, put his head against the back cushion and covered his eyes with his hand. "Now what?"
"I suggested Maggie enter a hospice program so she can stay at home, instead of spending her last months in the hospital." "She'd hate being stuck in some dreary hospital room," Caine said glumly. "So is she in this program?"
"She hasn't made up her mind yet. Perhaps you can help convince her."
Caine nodded. "I'll give it my best shot." He gave her a long, probing look. "What's the prognosis?"
"I told you—"
"I know." He cut the air with a swift slice of his hand. "You've convinced me that my grandmother is going to
die, Nora. I want to know when. And how."
She'd seen that expression on his face before. When he'd been waiting for word of their critically injured son. Immersed in her own fear, Nora had refused to acknowledge his pain. This time, she found it impossible to ignore.
"It's hard to say," she said softly. "She could have a heart attack, or a stroke, or some other type of seizure. Or she might simply fall asleep one of these times and not wake up."
"Not a lot of nifty options, huh?"
"I'm sorry."
He looked at her, taking in her neat blond hair, her starched white jacket, the little rectangular name tag above her right breast. She seemed both familiar and foreign at the same time. Caine wondered if Nora realized that the severe tailoring of her professional clothing made her appear all the more feminine by contrast. Softer.
"I never could really think of you as a doctor."
"I know." It was one of the things they'd fought about on a regular basis.
"But you're pretty good. I'm impressed."
The faintest of smiles played at the comers of her full, serious mouth. "Thank you. I needed a kind word today."
He glanced over at the light box she'd left on. "Trouble with one of your patients?"
"A seven-year-eld boy. His mother brought him in with bums she said he'd gotten from pulling a pan off the stove."
"I hope they're not too bad."
"Actually, they probably won't even blister. But I had a funny feeling about it, so I ordered some X rays."
"And?"
"See these?" Nora picked up a pencil and began pointing to various faint lines on the gray film.
Caine pushed himself off the couch and came over to stand beside her. "Those wiggly lines?"
"Those are old fractures left to heal by themselves."
"The kid was beaten?"
"Apparently. And there're more." Nora turned off the light. "There were scars about the size of a pencil eraser."
"Or a lighted cigarette." Caine felt suddenly sick.
"Or a lighted cigarette," Nora agreed flatly.
Caine wondered how it was that he and Nora, who'd loved Dylan so much, had lost him, while some other parents could deliberately hurt their child.
"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
She looted up into his face and read her own troubled thoughts in his pained gaze. "Yes." Her voice came out in a whisper. "It does."
They stood there, only inches apart, looking at each other, bittersweet memories swirling in the air between them.
"Nora." He ran his palm down the silk of her hair and watched the awareness rise in her eyes.
"Oh, Caine." It was little more than a whisper.
He leaned closer.
"This is a mistake," she warned.
"Probably. But no worse than any of the others I've been making lately." His knuckles caressed her cheek in a slow, seductive sweep. "And I'm willing to bet it'll be a helluva lot more enjoyable than most."
7
As HIS LIPS TOUCHED hers, the intervening years spun away and all the reasons why this was a mistake dissolved like mist over the treetops.
Holding Nora brought not the pain of lost love he would have expected, but a rightness—almost a contentment—Caine hadn't expected to feel. How could he have forgotten how sweet she was? And how responsive.
He felt her sigh against his mouth—a slow, shuddering breath that echoed his own pleasure. Time tumbled backward, taking them past the pain to a passion that had been even more exquisite because it had been so liberally laced with love.
"God, I've missed this." Caine drew her closer, then closer still, until the rising heat threatened to fuse their bodies. "I've missed you." Although he'd never realized it, it was true.
"Don't talk," she whispered breathlessly. "Just kiss me. And hold me." Her arms wrapped possessively around him; her lips fused with his, again and again. "Tight."
Dear Lord, he was lost in her. In her touch, her taste, her scent. Nora was everything he'd been wanting, without even knowing he'd been wanting it. She was everything he'd been needing without knowing he'd been needing it. She was heaven.
She was home.
Home. The word, which once had represented unwanted strings and unwelcome commitments, now seemed like a prayer.
Caine skimmed his lips along the line of her jaw, then up her cheek to linger at her temple. Desperate to know how her body had changed during their years apart, he slipped his hands inside her lab coat. When his wide hand cupped her breast, a ragged moan escaped her
parted lips.
He tugged her blouse loose, then her camisole, inching his way beneath the ivory silk. "Tfbu feel so good."
His fingers moved upward to stroke her breasts, finding them as smooth and firm and fragrant as he remembered.
He wanted to take those taut peaks in his mouth. He wanted to feel her body, hot and eager and open against his. He wanted to possess her, mind and body and soul, as he'd done on so many nights so long ago.
He was actually considering the logistics of making love to her here and now in her office, when her intercom buzzed sharply.
Like a man immersed in a sensual dream, Caine was aware of the intrusion and fought against it.
The intercom continued to buzz.
"I have to answer that." Her flat tone told him it was not her first choice.
Without removing his hands from beneath her camisole, he tugged her pearl earring off with his teeth and dropped it onto the desk before nibbling at her earlobe. "Don't tell me this hospital will come to a halt if you don't answer your intercom?"
"No, but the ER derk has a habit of just barging in."
Knowing that the idea of being caught in a heated clench with her ex-husband was more than Nora could
handle, Caine reluctantly released her, then reached out to steady her when she suddenly swayed.
"You okay?"
"Of course." But her hand trembled as she finger-combed her sleek hair.
"Remind me to stop by Richie Duggan's hardware store and get a Do Not Disturb sign for your office door."
"Please, Caine." She struggled to tuck her blouse back into her waistband. "Don't do this."
They were on familiar turf again: Nora backing away, Caine pressing her for more than she wanted to give.
"I didn't do it alone."
"I know." Her eyes, her voice, revealed her regret.
There was a sharp knock on the door. A moment later, Mabel entered the office.
"Is everything all right, Dr. Anderson?"
The elderly woman's gaze reminded Caine of a curious bird's as it flicked from Nora to him and back to Nora.
"Everything's fine," Nora answered in a tone that was not nearly as strong as her usual professional voice.
"You sure?" Knowing eyes searched Nora's flushed face.
"Of course."
"You didn't answer the intercom."
