by Leanne Banks
A Date with Dr. Frankenstein
Leanne Banks
Special thanks to Jean Randolph, PICU night nurse, and Dr. Warren Nance, head of Human Genetics at VCU/MCV.
This book is dedicated to my father, Thomas Minyard, for passing on his persistence gene to me; my mother, Betty Minyard, for teaching me the joy of the Three Little Fishies; and last, but not least, my husband, Tony Banks, for explaining scientific stuff and loving me.
Congratulations!
Dear Readers,
Congratulations! The word conjures up dozens of special memories. Major events like graduation, marriage, two babies, a new house and first book. But one of the quirky things about life is how the small memories stick with us.
When I got my driver’s license, my father shook my hand to congratulate me. Then, with the resigned wisdom of a man who’d nurtured two other daughters, he paid the insurance premium and prayed. The prayer was justified considering I backed over there mailboxes that first year.
As a parent, one of my most thrilling moments was when my three-year-old son finally decided he would use the potty after all. We celebrated with M&M candies.
The images come fast and furious—my husband winning a tennis match, my daughter’s first time on the honor roll, my son earning his brown belt in karate, a friend getting the news that the lump was negative.
In most of these instances, there was a struggle involved, a challenge to be met, and sharing the victory multiplied the joy. Perhaps the best part of all of these moments is that they were shared celebrations. And I’m of the opinion that life is too short to waste an opportunity to celebrate. It doesn’t have to be big. It can be as simple as making it through another day.
Leanne Banks
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
Wallowing in the sensation of crisp, clean sheets against her just-bathed skin, Andie Reynolds buried her nose in her pillow and sighed. The pediatric intensive care unit where she’d just pulled a twelve-hour graveyard shift might as well have been located on the other side of the world. More than food, more than money, more than the multiple orgasm she’d yet to experience, more than anything, Andie wanted sleep.
A delicious lethargy took over, and with the shade pulled down to shut out the encroaching sunlight and spring day, she was wooed like a lover toward blissful oblivion. Her breaths deepened and sweet silence reigned...for a moment.
A persistent buzzing filtered through her barely cracked bedroom window.
Her eyebrows twitched. It will go away, she promised herself.
It got louder. A percussion rhythm gave the buzzing sound form.
She frowned. Loath to entertain the idea of opening her eyes, she groaned and shoved her head under the pillow. The sound, however, got louder. Screaming, high-pitched, unhuman voices contorted a popular song. If she’d been asleep, Andie would have suspected she was smack-dab in the middle of a nightmare played out in stereo.
She was not, however, asleep.
And someone with a death wish was blaring out Alvin and the Chipmunks’ latest musical collection on the other side of her new neighbor’s hedge.
Again.
Just in case it was her imagination, she counted to ten, as she had often done in the past two days. Maybe it would go away. When the assault on her ears continued, she tumbled out of bed and slammed the window closed.
Heaven help her, she could still hear it.
Her eyes half-closed, Andie fought her way out of her nightgown and pulled a cotton dress over her head. Stepping over her sleeping dog, she grumbled about his selective hearing, pushed her hair out of her face, and stumbled toward the front door.
She’d done this two other days—gotten dressed, marched around the perimeter of her neighbor’s property and walked through the wrought-iron gate.
On both occasions, the music had abruptly ceased as soon as she walked through that gate, and she had stopped midstride, waiting to see if it would begin again. It didn’t. By that time, she was awake enough to realize how foolish she would feel complaining about the loud music when there was none. So she’d returned to her bed, stared at the ceiling for two hours and eventually fallen asleep.
Today, she vowed as she strode past the ominous hedge, she was going all the way.
The old neighbors whispered that the reason her new neighbor hadn’t trimmed his hedges was that he had something to hide—bodies in his basement. After all, wasn’t he some kind of scientist doing experiments at the research facility in Raleigh, North Carolina? He probably cloned people in his home laboratory.
Even in her sleep-deprived state, Andie snorted at the ridiculous notion. As she opened the creaking gate and made her way up the cracked walkway, however, the back of her neck prickled with unease at the sight of the eerie Addams family style house.
Dismissing the unwelcome feeling, Andie rubbed her neck and pushed the doorbell. It made a deep gonging sound. She heard the approach of her sleep thief as the volume of the Chipmunks increased. He’d obviously hidden inside the house after waking her. Within seconds the heavy, battered door opened and a small child appeared, holding “My First Boom Box” as the speakers shuddered under the strain of the maximum decibel level.
Andie shuddered, too.
The little boy with sandy brown hair and a solemn face regarded her intently with his remarkable green eyes. He seemed to arrive at some decision and moved one of his stubby fingers toward the Stop button.
Alarm shot through Andie, and she acted instinctively. “Oh, no, you don’t!” This was the only evidence she had that the Chipmunks were disturbing her peace. She reached for the boom box at the same moment she heard a man’s voice.
“Fletcher!” Concern and exasperation warred in his tone. “Fletch, I told you not to open the door to people you don’t—”
The man stopped directly behind the boy and stared at her. Sandy brown hair, solemn face and remarkable green eyes.
Andie blinked. She wondered if the cloning rumor was true. The grown-up version was about six feet tall with a lean, muscular build. He wore a white open-neck shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders and had a spray of chest hair that she technically shouldn’t be noticing at this particular moment. She technically shouldn’t be noticing the way his jeans fit, either.
The man’s gaze fell to the boom box.
Andie saw that his earphones rested around his neck. No wonder he hadn’t heard. She punched the Stop button and began to explain herself. “Hi. I’m Andie Reynolds, your next-door neighbor, and I really wish we could have met under other circumstances. I just got home from my night shift at the hospital.” He was looking at her so intently that she felt nervous, and when she was nervous, her sentences ran together. “I’d love to go to sleep, but I keep hearing the Chipmunks right outside my window and...”
The man frowned in confusion. “Chipmunks?”
Andie hit the Play button for a few seconds.
Realization crossed his features. He looked down at Fletcher and sighed. “We better keep the boom box inside the house, Fletch.” He glanced back at Andie and his lips twisted in irony. “At least until we master the concept of volume control.”
Fletcher’s lost expression tugged at her heart. “Here’s your boom box,” she said, handing it to him. She tried t
o think of something nice to say about the Chipmunks, but Andie didn’t like to lie to children.
She cleared her throat. “Well, thank you.” Feeling the curiosity in the man’s gaze, she began to back away. “I really appreciate—”
“I didn’t introduce myself,” he said abruptly, as if he had to remind himself to perform the social courtesy. He extended his hand. “I’m Eli Masters, and this is my son, Fletcher.”
“I know.” Andie allowed his warm hand to enclose hers.
Eli frowned. “You know my name? We haven’t met before.”
Andie shook her head, thinking that he had a great voice for a man the neighbors called Dr. Frankenstein. It was smooth and very masculine, the kind that would send ripples through a woman when he spoke close to her ear.
“No,” she said, as she dismissed the idea of ripples. She didn’t need this kind of ripple in her life. “I meant that I can tell Fletcher is your son. He looks so much like you.”
“My dad’s a lot older than I am,” Fletcher interjected, extending his own hand. “He’s a lot taller, too. His face is hairier, and he’s got bigger arms.” He gave a little shrug. “Everything on his body is bigger.”
His gaze caught hers at the same time that he muttered, “Thanks a lot, Fletch.”
If she were a different woman, she would have tossed back a flirty, mischievous gaze at Eli and said something scandalous like Is that so? Everything’s bigger? But Andie knew she wasn’t vamp material. She’d learned that lesson the hard way. She slid her hand from Eli’s to Fletcher’s smaller one. “I was thinking of your hair and green eyes.”
Fletcher’s face deepened with sadness. “I got a dimple from my mom.”
Wondering at his forlorn expression, Andie felt another tug at her heartstrings. “You did? I haven’t seen it yet. You can only see people’s dimples when they smile.”
Fletcher grimaced, and sure enough the dimple came into view.
“There it is,” Andie exclaimed, gently touching the indentation. “I hear you get a dimple if an angel kisses you before you’re born.”
Eli watched Andie Reynolds work magic with his son and felt the bite of envy, failure, and reluctant admiration. She’d met Fletch less than three minutes ago and was completely at ease and natural with him. Eli was not at ease with his son, even though he’d had the advantage of knowing Fletch since birth, with joint-custody visits after the divorce and full custody since his ex-wife’s recent death.
“My dad says dimples are determined by genetics,” Fletch told her.
Andie shot Eli a mildly disapproving glance that amused him. He gave his next-door neighbor a second assessing look. Mid-twenties, he estimated, with chin-length auburn hair and sleepy eyes the color of caramel. She was appealingly mussed from her failed attempt at sleep, yet she still looked fresh and young.
That struck him immediately, because in contrast Eli felt old, far too old for a thirty-four-year-old man. Her loose cotton dress didn’t cling, but he suspected her body was lean and compact beneath it. She wore no makeup or bra, he noted, when he saw the outline of her nipples against the dress, which billowed in the soft morning breeze.
Natural and warm, with a subtle hide-and-seek sensuality that would make a man look. And wait. And look some more.
In the middle of his looking, Eli abruptly recalled that when it came to women, he had the judgment of an amoeba.
She was a neighbor, though, he acknowledged, the first one to darken his new doorstep since he and Fletch moved in two weeks ago. Though social niceties had never been his forte, he would have to make the effort now. “Would you come inside for a few minutes?” he asked. “I think I can manage to make a cup of coffee.”
Andie shook her head. “I really shouldn’t. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll—”
“Just a few minutes. We haven’t met any of the neighbors yet.”
She sighed, looking from Fletch to Eli. “I...” She gulped, feeling a sinking sensation. It would be downright unfriendly to walk away, but there was something about Eli that unsettled her. Strength and purpose were stamped on his masculine features. He wasn’t the least bit fidgety, yet there was a compelling energy in his gaze that reminded her of those tropical drinks with the little umbrellas. At first taste, they went down smooth and easy. It was only after you were fooled into drinking two or three that you got hit with a big bang.
Still, Fletch looked like a little lost waif. It was just a cup of coffee, she promised herself. She smiled weakly. “Do you have decaf?”
“Sure.”
Within three minutes, however, Eli was searching through his bare cabinets while Andie stared in dismay at the kitchen. Moving boxes lined the walls, some opened, some not. The counters were covered with five, no, six pizza boxes, a jar of peanut butter and a bag of Oreo cookies. A box of Marshmallow Frosties cereal and a book, facedown and open, perched on one end of the square table. She glanced at the title—Parenting the Preschool Child.
A threatening sense of déjà vu came over her. Her emotional reaction was so powerful it became physical, and Andie felt her throat close up as if she were having an allergic reaction.
Her problems had started long ago and innocently enough, but Andie remembered the date and time when her life veered off course. At thirteen she had come home from school to learn that her father had been injured at work. Like platelets shifted during an earthquake, so had the very foundation of her family shifted. Her mother got a job, and since Andie was the eldest child, she had been left in charge of her three uncivilized younger brothers. For the next six years, she nurtured.
Those six years had shaped her personality, affected her occupational choice and, most deadly of all, etched out her identity with men.
She was the sister, the pal, the woman a man called when he was in a jam. She was not the woman a man called because he was so in love and lust with her that he couldn’t last another minute without her. And Andie had her own secret wishes about that scenario, wishes that she knew were painfully futile.
With her mind bumping along a familiar route that she usually tried to avoid, her thoughts turned to Paul and his little girl, and the family they might have been.
The memory was a splinter in her heart. She absently rubbed her hands together. She should have gotten over it by now. The hurt should have waned, and Andie did her best to conceal it. But she knew what had gotten her into trouble. It was this damn overdeveloped nurturing gene. It would ruin her if she didn’t control it. Ruin, destroy...
Eli poked his head out of the cabinet. “Excuse me. Did you say something?”
Fletcher looked up at her, his eyes inquisitive.
Andie blinked. She hadn’t realized she’d voiced her thoughts aloud. “Oh, no,” she said, smiling weakly.
He turned to the refrigerator. “I could have sworn I had some decaf. We have apple juice and Coke. Don’t suppose you’d want a beer at this time of day.”
How about a straight shot of whiskey? “Apple juice would be nice.”
He poured three glasses, and Fletch took his into the den. Joining her at the table, Eli marked the page and closed the book. He glanced at her, his face subtly shadowed. “Fletch’s mom died six weeks ago,” he said.
It explained a lot—Fletcher’s sadness, Eli’s weariness. Her heart went out to both of them. “I’m very sorry.”
He hesitated, his eyes flickering with regret and bitterness. “We were divorced,” he finally said.
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, and an uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Andie told herself not to wonder about the story behind the flat tone of his words. She took a sip, set down her glass and rubbed her thumb through the condensation.
Eli cleared his throat as if he wanted to expunge a dark memory. “I think Fletcher will be okay,” he said. “The Realtor mentioned that there are plenty of kids in the neighborhood, but we haven’t seem them yet.”
Andie tried to think of a tactful way to tell him that the neig
hbors feared being drafted into participating in his experiments. She took another sip. “Well, have you thought about trimming the hedges? They can be a little intimidating.”
He looked at her. His gaze was intent, very masculine. And focused directly on her. Andie felt a punching sensation in her stomach.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said in a low confiding tone that turned the punch into a flutter, “but I’ve been so busy sorting through the boxes I haven’t even noticed the hedges.”
She would believe the world was flat if he said it in that same sexy voice. Her self-defense mechanism kicked in. Oh, no, she wouldn’t. Andie sat back in her seat. “Have you thought about getting some household help?”
He nodded. “I’ve signed up with two agencies and interviewed two women, but when they saw the house, they weren’t interested.” He looked around. “I know it’s a relic, but I needed something fast, so I bought it for the space and neighborhood. Everybody said Cary, North Carolina, is a great place to bring up a kid.”
Andie opened her mouth and almost volunteered to put the word out at the hospital for Eli. She stifled the urge because it wouldn’t end there, she told herself. She would get sucked into Eli’s and Fletcher’s lives, and pretty soon she would be covering for Eli when Fletcher got sick or the baby-sitter didn’t show. After a while, Eli would see how convenient it was to have Andie around, and he would confuse convenience with some deeper, more dangerous emotion.
Andie knew she was blowing this out of proportion, but she also knew helping people was as natural to her as brushing her teeth. It had gotten her into more emotional messes than she cared to think about.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone to help you soon,” Andie murmured and wondered why she felt like such a slug.
Eli shrugged philosophically. Then, pausing, he turned his head toward the hallway and stood. “Hear that?”
Silence filled the house. Baffled, Andie shook her head and came to her feet too. “I don’t hear anything.”
