by Jo Leigh
He wondered if he should say something. Ask her what happened. Or maybe the right thing to do was to let her off the hook. Give her an excuse to bail as soon as dinner was over. He’d stepped outside the line yesterday and taken her with him, and truthfully, he had no right to do that. The woman had offered him simple human comfort and consolation, and he’d taken advantage of her. Not terribly surprising, considering his record.
Maybe this was a trip he had to take on his own. That he’d wanted a beautiful woman to ease his pain wasn’t a stretch. He’d always gone for what was easiest, safest, coziest for himself.
But not this time. He wasn’t willing to lose Rachel in the E.R. She was the kind of doctor the hospital needed, and if he got involved with her, it would inevitably end in disaster. For her, at least.
So this time, he’d give it a break. He’d planned to ask Rachel for help in finding Stan, but he could hire a private detective. As for Heath, Guy had access to a world of medical experts. Rachel was a luxury, and off-limits.
He finished reducing the glaze just as the salmon completed cooking. Then he checked on the pot of orzo, which was perfect. He added spices, spooned it into a dish, then took that and the salad to the table.
“Come sit,” he said. “Serve us salads. I’ll be right back with the salmon.”
She took her glass and went to her seat. He got the rest of the dinner and brought it with him, then sat down across from her.
“This smells fantastic,” she said.
“I hope it tastes even better.”
She smiled, took a bite of the salad. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my.”
He grinned as he arranged the main course on two plates. “Another bonus to cooking. Immediate gratification.”
“I’ll say.”
He settled back in his seat, watching her as he sipped the wine. “I’m pretty good at that.”
“I know. This salad is unbelievable.”
“No, I mean the immediate-gratification part.”
“Ah.”
He was hungry, but for the moment, he didn’t pick up his fork. “Why did you go into medicine?”
“When I was a teenager, I had a friend who got sick. I spent a lot of time at the hospital, and all I wanted to do was help.”
He nodded. “Sounds like you found your calling.”
“I’m lucky.”
“You went to UCLA?”
“And Baylor. And I’ll confess, it wasn’t easy. My roommates hardly studied, and I was constantly hitting the books. I had to read everything twice. God, it was a nightmare.”
“I was like your roommates. It wasn’t difficult for me.”
She arched her eyebrow. “Way to make friends, Dr. Giroux.”
“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. It was just an observation. Most things in my life came easily. Although I’m beginning to think it wasn’t such a gift.”
“Are you kidding? I would have killed to get through school like that.”
“But you did this incredibly difficult thing, slugged it out the whole way, and now you know.”
“Know what?”
“That you can do it. That you have what it takes to do the hard stuff.”
She looked at her wine. “I suppose so.”
Guy leaned forward, putting both elbows on the table. “We—my family—were all about medicine. Getting into med school, making sure we lived up to my father’s reputation.”
“Those were big shoes to fill. Everyone knows about Paul Giroux.”
“Yeah. He was a great doctor.”
“But?”
“Not such a great father.”
“He had a lot on his plate.”
“Yeah, and the three of us were a side dish.”
“You and I both know how hard it is to do what we do and have a family. There aren’t enough hours in the day. Not enough energy to go around.”
“True. It’s a bitch. Although I’ve seen people do it.”
She moved her salad plate to the right and tasted the salmon. Her appreciative noises made him grin. Then she became serious again. “Something has to give, Guy. You can’t be all things to all people. Either you’re a great trauma doctor, or you’re a great father. Not both.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t work that way. Who do you know that has it all?”
“Emmett Rosen.”
“Emmett Rosen is a consulting surgeon. He doesn’t work full-time.”
“But he’s a great doctor.”
“Part-time.”
“He’s a great father.”
“That’s what he chose. His family is his priority. But he couldn’t do your job and have the same quality of life at home.”
Guy stabbed his salad. “I suppose.”
Rachel looked at him. “You aren’t responsible for Heather’s death.”
“Whoa. Big leap there, isn’t it?”
“I know you’re beating yourself up for not knowing that Heather was pregnant. That she was caught up in a dangerous situation. But what you’re forgetting is that while you were living together, you made a difference in her life. You know you did. Maybe if you’d been her real father—”
“I was as real as it gets. At least for a while. And you know how I made a difference? I wasn’t mean. I took her out on the boat. When it was convenient, I listened to her. When it wasn’t, I walked away without a backward glance. She was grateful to me because her real parents were, if it’s at all possible, even more self-obsessed than I was. It wasn’t love she had, it was leftovers. Table scraps.”
“Guy, stop it. Right now. You may not have been “Father Knows Best,” but you did what you could. And it mattered to Heather.”
He ate, hardly tasting the food. This was torture, and he hated it. What had happened to the life he’d so carefully built for himself? Everything had been running smoothly. He had his E.R. and the house he loved. When he had time, he had the boat. And then there were the women. So beautiful, so eager. Wanting to please him in every way, and he lapped it up. When they got too close, when they wanted something back, he walked. Bailed. Congratulating himself the whole time that he’d never lied to any of them. He’d told them up front that he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, then proceeded to milk them dry.
And he hadn’t cared. That was the beauty of it. He hadn’t given one damn about the consequences. He’d figured they were grown women, and as long as he didn’t lie, everything was copacetic.
He wanted that life back. He let go of his fork and pushed his plate away. “Damn it, I did not ask for this.”
Rachel sat up straighter. “I know. But Heather went to the only place she could. She wanted to be safe, to save her child, so she came to you.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t understand.”
He stood up and looked at her plate. She wasn’t half finished, so he couldn’t just ask her to leave. He had to calm the hell down. “It doesn’t matter. Go ahead and eat. I’m just going to get the wine.” He went into the kitchen so she couldn’t see him. Then he closed his eyes, willed the past two days to go away.
But they wouldn’t go away. Heath was still on the fourth floor. The child had no one else but Guy. For now, at least.
He opened his eyes. Tammy was on her way. The thought made him instantly feel better. Tammy was Heath’s real grandmother. The boy was her responsibility, not Guy’s. That didn’t mean he’d just walk away. Guy intended to find that bastard Stan and make sure he paid. But in the end, Heath was not Guy’s concern. When the baby was well enough to go home, it would be to Europe. To Tammy’s. And Guy’s life could go right back to normal.
He grabbed the wine bottle and took the pie out of the fridge to let it get to room temperature. When he went back to the table, he felt one hell of a lot better. “So,” he said, “you like sailing?”
Rachel blinked at him. Her pretty little mouth opened just enough for him to get a glimpse of the tops of her even, white teeth. “P
ardon?”
“Sailing.” He topped off her glass, then his own. As soon as he sat down, he dug into his food as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks.
“Yes, I like sailing, I suppose.”
He swallowed. “Then you haven’t really been sailing. It’s the most incredible…When the wind fills the sails, flying over the water. It’s—”
“Amazing.”
“Right.”
“Okay,” she said. “What just happened?”
Guy laughed. “Stress, my friend. Or the release thereof. I’m sorry. I’ve been a real needy pain in the ass, and I promise, that’s over. Look, after this, I’ve got a killer dessert. I promise you’ll love it. And then we can go back to our lives, okay? Just the way things used to be.”
“Sounds great,” she said. “Totally unrealistic, but great.”
“Ah, now, why are we bursting bubbles?”
She hesitated, then met his gaze. “Heath.”
He nodded slowly. “Heath.”
“That little guy is still in a lot of trouble.”
“True. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make him well.”
“That’s going to take a great deal.”
“I know.” The tension was coming back. And deeper than that, the fear. God, the fear. “I know,” he said again, giving up dinner as a lost cause. He stood up, unable to sit in his chair another second. “What he needs is a mother, but he doesn’t have one.”
“He’s got you, and—”
“And his grandmother? Look, the woman is a beauty, I’ll give her that. But as I told you, she never won any mother-of-the-year awards. Heather was a healthy, alert child. She had to be. She had to take care of herself. As for her father, shit. He was so busy going from one harebrained scheme to another, it’s amazing he even remembered he had a daughter.”
“Right now, what Heath needs is someone to care for him. I can’t think of anyone on earth who could do a better job. That’s it. That’s all you have to do. Don’t look ahead to tomorrow. It’ll come no matter what, and if you’re not a hundred percent on task today, Heath loses.”
He was going to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he simply looked at the woman sitting at his table. She was really something, especially right at this moment. Strong, in charge. She would have been a great general, a terrific ship captain. Instead, she was his colleague, which was great, but he wanted more. How much more, he wasn’t sure. Just…more.
“What?” she asked. “Is it so hard to do that?”
“No. You’re right. Whatever happens with Tammy, I’ll deal with it. The only thing I can afford to think about is Heath. Which is why I need you to help me.”
“Uh, Guy—”
“Hear me out, okay? All I’m asking is that you make a few phone calls.” He sat down in the chair, next to her. “I know this guy. He’s a lieutenant in the LAPD. Maybe he knows something about Stan, about this possible scam he might running.” He put his hand on her arm, feeling much more than warmth where his palm met her sweater. “And you mentioned homes for unwed mothers. Jeez, I don’t even know if they have those anymore, but you could call around. I know, it’s a lot to ask, and you have your hands full in the E.R.—”
She put up her free hand, stopping him. “Wait.”
He sat back, breaking the connection between them—at least the physical one. He hoped there was still something else going on between them on another level.
“I’ll do what I can, okay? Let’s have some coffee. Fill me in on this policeman you know, and I’ll call him tomorrow. I’ll follow up on the pregnant-women thing, too. All you have to worry about is Heath.”
Guy sighed. “Great. That’s so great.”
Rachel got up, but not before he saw a flush brighten her cheeks. She faced him, her expression calm and professional. “It’s about friendship.”
“Right. Friendship.”
“Why don’t you get the coffee ready while I check out your bathroom.”
He laughed. “It’s down that hall, to your left,” he said, pointing past the living room.
“Thanks.”
Guy watched her as she walked away. He liked the way she held herself, so tall and straight. And the way her smooth, glossy hair swung down almost to the small of her back. He wished it wasn’t in a ponytail, though. He’d like to see her hair free, loose. He’d like to see Rachel the same way.
Carefree, abandoned, wild. Lying underneath him, naked, in his bed. The images came tumbling, one after another, and like a randy kid, he felt himself harden. “Oh, shit,” he whispered. What the hell had just happened? Not five minutes ago, he’d decided to stop crossing the line. To let Rachel get back to her rightful place in his life.
His good intentions had gone to hell, along with everything else. Guy stood up, wanting very much to punch something. Heading into the kitchen, he pushed the button on the coffeemaker. As the brewing started, he put his hands on the granite counter and stared at nothing at all. “What the hell’s happening to me?” he said out loud.
No one answered. All he was left with was the knowledge that he could take only one tiny step at a time, and try like hell not to make too big an ass of himself. It wasn’t going to be easy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RACHEL RAN HER HAND over the pink marble countertop in Guy’s bathroom. It was a beautiful room, well appointed with elegant sconces, brass hardware and a unique pale stone floor. But it had a different feel from the kitchen. That felt like Guy’s room, as if he’d really put himself into the space. The bathroom was more of a decorator’s dream, and it reminded Rachel of her own home.
She remembered the line she’d read from Heather’s diary, that she wanted so much to decorate a house. Rachel hadn’t had the time or the patience to do any decorating. She’d hired a woman from a local interior design firm and pretty much left her to it. And Rachel had gotten what she’d paid for. Everything was perfectly coordinated, even the artwork. But it wasn’t Rachel.
She had to laugh at that. She had no idea what she would have done if she’d been faced with the task alone. Style? Her clothing was more utilitarian than stylish, and her hair was about as simple as it could get. Even her makeup served her purposes—to make her look professional, in charge.
Other priorities crowded her life, and yet every once in a while, she regretted not being able to do the things other women found time to do.
But that was hardly important now. She’d agreed to help Guy, despite her reservations, and what she had to do now was swing their conversation into the concrete. Ask him about the police lieutenant, find out exactly what Guy wanted her to do.
Rachel left the bathroom and headed back to the kitchen. Guy was in the living room, however, and on the coffee table he’d placed a tray with a carafe of coffee, two cups, all the accoutrements, and a large bottle of Courvoisier XO Imperial next to a delicious-looking cream pie.
“How do you like your coffee?” he asked, ushering her to the leather club chair beside the couch. “I’m hoping you’ll try a little of the cognac. It’s considered to be one of the best in the world.”
“I don’t know if I should.”
“Tell you what. You fix your own coffee and I’ll go get the snifters.”
She busied herself doing just that, and was settled in her chair when Guy came back holding the glasses.
“May I tempt you?”
“A little, but that’s all.”
He honored her wishes, pouring a bit into the curved bowl of the snifter. The liquor was dark and rich, and it reminded Rachel of the color of Guy’s eyes. When he handed her the glass, he hesitated, meeting her gaze. His smile came slowly, as if he’d seen something that surprised him. Delighted him.
She felt her cheeks heat and turned away to look at the stone fireplace that was the centerpiece of the room. “Did you live here with Tammy?”
He sat down on the couch, sipped the cognac and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he looked right at her. “I bought this ho
use for her. She didn’t want to move to Courage Bay, so I had to make the package sweet.”
“Why didn’t she want to move here?”
He nodded. “We met in Los Angeles. That’s where she lived—had lived her whole life. I was teaching at your alma mater, working on trauma protocols. She was a guest at a friend’s party. We hit it off.”
“I see.”
“God, she was something back then. A little thing, no bigger than a minute, but she lit up a room. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”
“How long after you met did you get married?”
“Five months.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” He leaned back on the couch pillows and put his feet on the coffee table. “In retrospect, it wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever done.”
“So you moved Tammy and Heather up here?”
“After a fight, yes. She had friends in Los Angeles. She fancied herself a painter.”
“Well, if she was into that—”
“Actually, she wasn’t. She did, however, like to buy supplies, hang out with artists, talk about art. Only she never actually finished anything. Not in all the time I knew her.”
“And how was it once you got here?”
“She found the art community here. Decorated this house. Had an affair with one of the nude models that posed for her in class.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. To say Tammy and I weren’t good for each other would be an understatement.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was sorry, too. Sorry for myself. But the truth was, Dr. Browne, she was acting out of self-defense. I was a rotten husband. I moved her away from everything she knew and loved, and then I left her to fend for herself. I figured if I let her spend my money, she’d be fine. That’s not how it worked out.”
“Guy—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He sipped some Courvoisier, waving his hand in her direction. “No more of this blasted personal talk. I promise.”
“You said something about a police lieutenant?”
“Right. Richie Montgomery. Good ol’ boy from Natchez, Mississippi, transplanted to Los Angeles in the early 1970s. Hell of a sailor.”
