by Amy Ruttan
Charlotte nodded and disposed of the syringes and gloves in the medical waste. Rosie and George cleaned up the rest of the stuff to send for sterilization.
“I’ll help you take Wavell home in a couple of hours, Sam,” George said. “Why don’t you hit the hay, too, Doc Charley? You look beat.”
“Thanks, George. I think I will.” Charlotte washed up, and then headed back to her office. She was beat. It’d been a long, emotionally draining day. The office was dark and she gently rapped on the door, but there was no answer. Peeking inside, she spied Quinn slumped on the old worn couch. He didn’t look comfortable, couldn’t be comfortable. She’d crashed on that sofa many a time. And she was a lot smaller than him and even she couldn’t fit quite right on it.
The name of the Couch of Gibraltar, as Quinn so lovingly called it, suited it. Although, if her memory served her correctly, she and Quinn had done more than just sleep on that couch when they had been in med school.
Charlotte smiled. He always looked so innocent like this. Too bad his acerbic wit didn’t match the angelic impression he gave when he was asleep.
He had been a bit of a wild boy in college. Whereas she’d been quiet and studious, working her way through school on scholarships and odd jobs.
They were such opposites.
What did I ever see in him?
She knew exactly. He was exciting, sexy, thrilling. When he’d first walked into anatomy class with such an air of confidence, it had been like she’d been woken up from a daze. From the moment her dad had died she’d thrown herself into her work, studying, getting the best grades so she could tread in her father’s footsteps. She’d ignored guys, had never gone on dates or had a hobby.
Then Quinn Devlyn had waltzed into her life and she’d found herself yearning for more. He had been talented and passionate about his work. Although animal attraction and mind-blowing sex was not what one should base a relationship on. She’d learned that the hard way. Case in point: when she’d needed him most, as she’d lain in that hospital bed after the miscarriage, he hadn’t been there in the way she’d needed him to be.
He’d gone to New York to pursue a career in neonatal surgery and she had come here to take over where her father had left off, as a general practitioner in a remote community. What she’d set out to do the moment she’d had to say goodbye to her dad.
Charlotte shook her head, dispelling the painful memory, and then frowned as she looked at Quinn again. This forced cohabitation for the sake of Mentlana was going to test her to the very limits. She tiptoed over to her desk and wrote a note for him, telling him where he could find her. Then she pulled out an afghan and covered him up, but as she bent over to straighten the blanket, which had bunched up on one side, she caught sight of the scars on his right hand.
Surgical scars.
What had happened to him?
From the patterns of the scars it was as though his hand had been broken, severely. He’d had what appeared to be multiple orthopedic surgeries.
The blood drained from her face and she straightened, backing away from him. What if he couldn’t hold a scalpel? That thought was too terrifying.
He can operate. He has to be able to.
If he couldn’t, Mentlana’s life was at risk. Was he really that arrogant about his surgical abilities?
Yes.
She dismissed the idea. He had to be able to, or he wouldn’t have a license and he wouldn’t have come. He would’ve told her the truth.
Really?
Her throat constricted, her stomach knotted with dread. Charlotte backed out of the room and shut the door behind her. She wanted to believe Quinn was still the best fetal surgeon, but her instincts told her he was hiding something, while her heart, her traitorous heart, wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Surgeons have had their hands injured before and had still been able to operate, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall a single name of a surgeon who had done so. Neonatal surgeons needed steady hands for their delicate work. Were Quinn’s hands still steady?
Mentlana’s baby was like blood to her, and Charlotte couldn’t lose another child.
Instead of closing the connecting door between her home and the clinic, she left it slightly ajar, in case Quinn woke up.
Charlotte wandered over to her bookcase, where there was a picture of her father and herself. She took it down and held it, lovingly running her fingers over the glass, as if trying to reach through and touch his face once more.
Dr. Cecil James had been a brilliant surgeon in Toronto. An innovator, a lot like Quinn. But then he’d met a nurse, Amber Lees, who’d had the drive to help others. Her father had given up his practice and headed to the North with Amber, and then they’d had her.
Her father’s love of the North, even after the loss of his wife, had been instilled deep into Charlotte’s being.
She set the picture back on the shelf and rubbed the ache forming in the back of her neck, trying not to think about the prospect of losing someone else she loved, because if Quinn failed it would be her fault for bringing him up here.
Dammit.
She shouldn’t trust him. She couldn’t. He’d deceived and hurt her before.
And she wouldn’t let him do that to her again.
CHAPTER FIVE
“QUINN.”
He woke with a start at the faint whisper of his name. When he prized his eyes open he realized he was in a bed and he hadn’t the foggiest idea how he’d ended up there. As he surveyed the room he realized he was in a king-size bed, and the walls were covered in rich cherrywood paneling. Like something found on a fine estate. How had he ended up here? The last thing he recalled was sitting down on the old brown couch in Charlotte’s office, waiting for her to come back and take him to her home.
Quinn rubbed his eyes, trying to bring them into focus in the dim light of the room, but everything remained an unfocused haze.
“Quinn.” Charlotte seemed to appear from the gloom like an apparition. Quinn gasped at the sight of her, not because she was in his room but because of how she looked. Her red curls tumbled down loose over her creamy shoulders. As he let his gaze rove further down, his breath caught in his throat and his blood ignited into flames. She was wearing a long white silk negligee, slit to the thigh, cut very low and exposing the creamy tops of her breasts.
“Charlotte?” he asked, stupidly because he knew it was her. Who else could it be? He’d seen her in that negligee before, when they’d gone to Niagara Falls. Just thinking of that night of passion fired his blood, and it seemed like a lifetime ago when he’d experienced such a rush, such a hunger for her.
Quinn shifted and realized he was wearing nothing but a sheet draped across his hips. What’d happened to his clothes?
Who cared?
Had Charlotte undressed him? The thought aroused him. God, he wanted her.
Badly.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, as if reading his mind. She moved closer to the bed but stayed just out of reach. “I took the liberty of undressing you.”
Was she crazy?
“No, I don’t mind in the least.”
A devilish smile crept across her face as she moved to the end of the bed. “I’m so glad you came here, Quinn.”
“And I’m glad you asked me.”
Quinn got up and moved toward her, closing the distance between them. He took her tiny hand in his. It was so small and delicate. He entwined her slender fingers in his and could feel her pulse racing as he let his thumb stroke her wrist.
“Have you missed me, Quinn?” She bit her bottom lip and then smoothed back the hair from his forehead. “Please, tell me you have.” Charlotte pressed her body against his, just a thin piece of fabric separating them.
So close.
Her lips bru
shed against his throat. Just a simple touch of softness against his neck caused his blood to burn with the fires of a thousand suns. A groan rumbled deep in his chest and he slipped his arms around her waist, holding her close.
“Quinn, have you missed me?” she asked again.
Had he? Or was it just in this moment of lust, his need for her that made him want to drop down on his knees and pour out his heart to her.
Yes. He’d missed her, with every fiber of his being. “Charlotte...” But even in his dreams the words wouldn’t come out.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, her voice husky with promise.
Quinn leaned in.
* * *
A draft of cold air startled him awake. Pain traveled up his neck, resulting in a pounding headache at the back of his skull. Quinn glanced down and let out a groan of dismay when he caught sight of lavender.
“God.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, stubble scratching his palm. It’d been a dream. The whole thing. Of course it had been a dream. For one thing, he doubted she had a king-size bed and cherrywood paneling in her home. Also, Charlotte wouldn’t have come to him, not after what had passed between them five years ago, and this wasn’t the first time he’d had this dream, either.
When he first left her he’d dreamt of her over and over again. He’d tried to banish the ghost of her with nameless women, but it hadn’t worked. Instead, he’d focused on work. The dreams had faded and hadn’t come back so often. In fact, he hadn’t had such a vivid fantasy of Charlotte in a long time. He almost wished he hadn’t woken up, that he’d been allowed to savor the moment and be with her once more, even if only in a dream, because the love they’d shared once was only that, now.
A dream.
Quinn got up, his body stiff and sore from his sojourn on the sofa. Sleeping on a stone floor would’ve been preferable to the couch that time had forgotten. His bad hand was numb. He flexed it and the joints cracked. It was his own fault. He’d planned to do his exercises last night but had forgotten.
He shook his hand, trying to get feeling back into it, and then headed out of the office. There was a slightly open door and he headed towards it, following the rich scent of coffee in the air. Quinn paused in the doorway of a small apartment, his breath catching in his throat.
Charlotte was puttering around the kitchen. Her red hair wasn’t loose but was pulled back with an elastic tie. The silky negligee had been replaced with a short, pink cotton nightie covered with garish red hearts. The nightie did have an advantage over the lingerie in his dream, for when she reached up into the cupboard he got a glimpse of her bare, round bottom.
Blood rushed straight from his head to his groin. Charlotte’s bottom was like two round, ripe peaches ready for picking. He wanted to squeeze them and knead them with his bare hands.
Calm down.
Only, he couldn’t. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, bent over her books, twirling her red curls around her finger and totally engrossed in the text. She’d seemed oblivious to the world around her. The only female who hadn’t fawned over him because of his money or his looks. It had intrigued him.
It had been like a game, wooing her. He’d wanted to be the one to capture her, and he had.
As she had captured his heart.
Only he’d never let her know that because he hadn’t understood love. How could he, with parents who had shown him not one iota of affection while he’d been growing up?
Charlotte had, though. He missed that.
He leaned against the door, causing it to squeak, and Charlotte whipped around, her cheeks staining with crimson as their gazes locked.
“Quinn, you’re...you’re up.”
“Did you forget about me?”
“No.” She glanced down and her face paled. She started yanking on the hem of her nightgown as if trying to make it longer, but to no avail.
Quinn didn’t mind in the least.
“I think you did,” he teased.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Did you spend the whole night on the couch?”
“Yes.” He rubbed the crick in his neck. “It’s been a long time since I passed out on that thing. I remember it being a bit more comfortable.”
“It was never comfortable. You’re just older.”
Quinn chuckled and took a seat in one of the mismatched chairs surrounding her retro vinyl kitchen table. She slid a cup of coffee in front of him. “Thanks.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” He took a sip of coffee, savoring the warmth spreading down his throat and chipping away at the bitter cold that crept in from outside.
“Why are you shivering?” she asked. “It’s not cold in here.”
“I can feel the cold seeping in.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes again and shook her head. “Pansy. I’m not surprised you’re hungry. You didn’t eat yesterday.”
“Au contraire. I had a delightful five-dollar packet of peanuts on my flight to Iqaluit.” His stomach growled. “But I’ll take you up on your offer of breakfast.”
“Good choice. But first I think I’ll change.”
“Why? It makes no difference to me.”
Charlotte blushed again. “All the same.”
Quinn watched her head down the hall, savoring the sight of her thighs. Thighs he wished were parted for him right now. He shifted in his seat, his erection pushing against his scrubs. It was like he was some kind of hard-up adolescent again.
Charlotte returned with her nightgown covered up with a long terrycloth bathrobe. It was a shame. He’d seen her in less, but that short cotton nightie was just as appealing as the silken lingerie of his fantasies. At least the robe was much better than the scrubs he was wearing, which did nothing to hide his arousal.
“Are my bags here?” he asked.
“Just down the hall. The door to the left.”
“I think I’ll change.” He slipped out of the seat as discreetly as he could. His room was easily found and he removed the scrubs, tossing them in the nearby hamper. There was a small basin in the bedroom and he washed his face. He’d shower later, after he’d had something to eat. The scent of bacon drifted down the hall, followed by the familiar sizzle from the stove that made his stomach growl again.
Loudly.
“Just in time.” Charlotte grinned as he entered the kitchen and sat back down. She slid bacon and a fried egg onto a plate and set it down in front of him. Quinn couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good home-cooked breakfast like this.
Probably the last time I was with her.
When he’d moved to Manhattan he hadn’t cooked at home. Even during the last two years in Toronto he hadn’t spent his free time mastering the culinary arts. He’d spent his free time wining and dining, until the accident. After the accident he’d started doing photography, but even then he’d been out taking pictures, not lounging around at home where the hum of silence made him feel utterly alone.
The fork dropped out of his hand and clattered against the plate, his hand frozen and numb. He looked up at Charlotte but her back was turned as she continued frying eggs.
Quinn rubbed his fingers until he could feel them again, wiggling them slowly. He’d just picked up his fork as Charlotte sat down across from him with her plate. He would have to do his exercise later.
After breakfast.
“I could do with a shower,” he said, just to break the silence. “That won’t be a problem or interrupt your clinic or any appointments, will it?”
She shook her head. “No. Why should it? Anyway, it’s Saturday and the clinic is officially closed, so no one should bother you.”
Silence descended heavily on Quinn as they ate.
“And what will you do today?” he asked casually, because he had no idea what he was going to do t
o pass the time. Other than maybe venture out and take some pictures of snow.
“Oh, this and that. I’m always on duty.” Charlotte finished eating and took her plate over to the sink.
“Don’t you ever get a break?”
“Not really. I’m the only physician around these parts.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of hiring another doctor?”
Charlotte’s brow furrowed in thought. “Yes, and I have tried, believe me. Mostly it’s recent grads who come up, but they don’t stay long. They stay long enough to get another job.”
“Government incentive, then, eh?”
Charlotte nodded. “You’ve got it. They work the hours required to get med school paid for and then they’re off to greener pastures.”
“Smart kids.”
Charlotte’s eyes turned flinty and her spine straightened. “You think so?”
“I do.”
“Is that why you came up to Yellowknife with me after residency?”
“Yes.” There was no point in hiding the truth from her. His parents hadn’t supported him through medical school. Even though he was their only child, they’d still felt he shouldn’t have any handouts. When he’d followed Charlotte up to the wilds of the Canadian North it had been for purely selfish reasons and he’d told her why when they’d first got together. Charlotte must’ve forgotten. However, his presence here this time was because of her.
“I see,” she said. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line. He’d seen that look before. She was not pleased with him.
“Look, it’s the truth and I’m sorry, but I was always up front about that. Perhaps you forgot?”
“No, you’re right. You were up front and you had no qualms about leaving when you were presented with an out.”
“You could’ve come with me,” he whispered.
“I didn’t want to. I love the North. This was the path I wanted to take.”
“I know. I make no apologies for the reasons I came to the North.”
“Yes, to flesh out your curriculum vitae. I’m painfully aware of that and don’t need the reminder.” Charlotte snorted.
