The MacGregor Brides

by Nora Roberts

  ring. "Maguire."

  "Hello, it's Gwen Blade. Thank you for the roses, they're lovely."

  "Good. Did they work?"

  "Work?"

  "Did they soften you up enough for you to give me an hour?"

  "No. But the message I got from my grandfather did. I didn't realize our mothers went to college together."

  "A couple semesters, I'm told. Mine went on to interior design, and yours, apparently, went on to a variety of things. My mother says that Serena MacGregor was interested in everything."

  "And still is. I can meet you at two. Downtown would be best. I've got some shopping to take care of." Two, Branson mused. After lunch, before dinner. Clever woman. "Two's fine. How about meeting me at the Boston Harbor Hotel? They serve a pretty great tea."

  "Yes, I know." She looked down at the yogurt, thought of rich, creamy pastries. Her neglected stomach growled. "Fine. Two o'clock, in the main lobby."

  Gwen was exactly on time, a habit her cousin Julia called her most irritating. She'd taken that long, hot bubble bath, which had done wonders for the stiffness in her neck. And had paged through a paperback copy of Die a Fine Death by Branson Maguire. She'd read it before, but she'd wanted to familiarize herself more with his style of writing before the meeting. She would have given precisely the same review and thought with a patient's history before treatment, or an acquaintance's personality before buying a gift. She was a thorough and meticulous woman, one who had graduated from medical school years before the norm and was now the youngest surgical resident to ever serve on the staff of Boston Memorial. She'd worked for it, and she knew she'd earned it. There was no discounting the advantages she'd grown up with. Her family was loving, supportive, generous. They had backed her in every decision she made along the way. She also understood that wealth, the kind the MacGregors could claim, smoothed many bumps in many roads.

  But it was the love of medicine, the mystery, the art, the science, of it that had sealed her destiny. She wandered through the hotel lobby, appreciating the grandeur, the grace of the ornate coffered ceiling, the huge urns filled with towering and exotic flowers, the marble and the gilt.

  And she looked, Branson thought as he stepped off the elevator and saw her, like a rich man's college-age daughter come to town. She'd changed into a tailored gray jacket and slacks, and she had a black overcoat draped across her arm. Minimum and classic jewelry, he observed. Heirloom-quality locket-style lapel pin, small, scallops of gold at her ears, slim watch with black leather band. She also looked alert, refreshed, and not nearly as fragile as she had the night before.

  "You're prompt," he said as he walked to her.

  "Yes, an annoying habit of mine."

  "I like prompt women." He took her arm and turned her toward the elevators. "Wasting time should be saved for when it can be most enjoyed." He used a small key to access a floor, then turned to smile at her as the doors slid shut. "You look great. Got some rest, I'd say."

  He was wearing a soft navy sweatshirt, arms shoved up to the elbows, over dark jeans. His high-top sneakers appeared to have seen many a mile. "Thank you, yes. Where are we going?"

  "Up to my suite."

  Her eyes deepened, her lids lowered. "Oh?"

  He had to laugh. "Gwendolyn, you really shouldn't be so trusting and naive. People will take advantage. Relax," he added before she could speak. "I've ordered tea. We'll sit in the parlor. It's very conventional, and it's more convenient for me to take notes and avoid interruptions from hovering waiters. No hidden agenda."

  "All right, since I happen to be very hungry. I thought you lived in Boston."

  "I do." He took her arm again, to lead her off the elevator. "I live here. The press figures it's an eccentricity, the writer living in a hotel. What it really is is a high-class apartment building, with daily maid service, room service, and a really quick turnover of tenants. You've got a great smile. Why are you finally giving it to me?"

  "My parents essentially lived in a hotel until after Mac, my oldest brother, was born. And they often still do. Both of my brothers live in hotels, year-round, and my younger sister, Amelia, would if she could get away with it. I don't consider the choice the least eccentric."

  "Right, I'd forgotten. Casinos. Vegas, Atlantic City, New Orleans, Europe. Your family's cost me some money—indirectly."

  "There's nothing we enjoy more." She waited for him to unlock one of a pair of wide double doors, then walked into the spacious and smartly appointed parlor. She noted the sleek little laptop, with full-size monitor attached, on the end of the walnut dining room table. There were stacks of books, papers, coffee cups.

  "I'd say this would be a very quiet and convenient place to work."

  "It does the job for now. Occasionally I get a low-grade itch to buy a house, mow a lawn, paint some shutters. It usually passes, but I expect it's going to stick one of these days."

  "If it does, you should call my cousin Julia. She's an expert on real estate."

  "Ah, the First Jule."

  Gwen angled her head. "Yes, the press dubbed her that when Uncle Alan was president. She thought it was amusing. Even at seven, Julia had a well-developed sense of the ridiculous."

  "Would have been a kick growing up in the White House. Let's see, her brother D.C.'s an artist. Then there's the lawyer cousins. One of them just had a big, splashy wedding last spring."

  "That's right. Are we here to discuss my family or your book?"

  "Just making small talk." Prickly, he thought. Protective. "Daniel likes to brag. I've heard enough about his kids and grandkids that I feel as though I know them. He's very proud of you."

  "I know." Gwen's eyes softened again. "I tend to be defensive about my family. Another habit."

  "An attractive one. That'll be food and drink," he said when the bell sounded. "Just make yourself at home." She decided the most efficient place to sit was at the dining room table, at the opposite end from his workstation. She smiled at the room-service waiter, listened to Branson joke with him, argue good-naturedly over some football game, then watched a folded bill slide discreetly from Branson's palm to the waiter's.

  "How the guy can live in this great city and be a Dallas Cowboy fan is beyond my understanding." Branson lifted a bottle from an ice bucket. "Champagne?"

  "No."

  "Just covering the bases." He screwed it back into the tub of ice. "We'll put it back for another time. Dig in." He swept a hand over the plates of sandwiches, scones, pastries. "You said you were hungry."

  "And you said you wanted to discuss your book with me." She picked up the teapot, poured two cups.

  "Yeah, okay, so what I've got," he began as he sat and piled something of everything on a plate, "is a psychopathic doctor."

  "Lovely."

  "She is. Just a stunner."

  "She?"

  "Yeah. I figure you don't see enough good female psychopaths today. What I want to do is a kind of play on Jekyll and Hyde, with a twist of black widow and Lizzie Borden." He took a bite of a lady-size tea sandwich. "You're really perfect."

  "Am I?"

  "Absolutely. You've got the looks—not just the beauty, I mean the air of fragility, the delicate bones. The grace and the efficiency. I'd been thinking of making her tall, lush and deadly," he continued, his eyes slate-colored, narrow and intense on Gwen's face, "but now I realize the contrast is better. Much. I couldn't ask for a better prototype."

  She decided to be amused, rather than insulted. "For a psychopath?"

  "Yeah." He grinned, and his eyes went from cool to warm smoke. "Do you mind?"

  "I think I'm oddly flattered. So your villain is a doctor, a woman, who heals with one hand and kills with the other."

  "There you go. You're quick." He slid forward a bit in his chair, his fingers tapping idly on the edge of his plate. "She's absolutely in control, knows exactly what she's doing. She enjoys it. The power of healing, the thrill of destroying. Of course, she's insane, but that's a different level. So if I made her a surgeon,
what would her life be like? She'd be older than you. I don't want to complicate it by having her be a genius on top of everything else."

  "I'm not a genius. I'm just a good student."

  "Gwendolyn, you're in med school at Harvard years before you're old enough to drink in most states, you're a genius. Live with it." He reached for another sandwich as she blinked at him. "So, how much pressure is she going to have to deal with as a female surgeon?

  That's still primarily male territory, right? The boys' club. Then there's the God complex, that arrogance and ego that comes from having your hands inside the human body."

  "Arrogance and ego?"

  "You've got them. I could see it when I watched you work on those kids yesterday. You snap out an order, it never occurs to you that it won't be obeyed—immediately obeyed." He saw it in his head again, a perfectly cued loop of film. "You stride from one room to the next, and people come to attention. You don't notice, because you're used to it. You expect it. I want that for her, that expectation of absolute respect and obedience, that confidence in herself. While on the other hand she's boiling with rage and frustration. You have much rage and frustration, Gwendolyn?"

  Good Lord, he moved fast. "Now, or in general?"

  He beamed at her. "I really like your voice. High-class, frosty sex. Anyway, what I'm after is the female take on what you have to do to get ahead in the field. How you handle both the subtle and overt sexual harassments and advances on the job. See, I figure she moonlights mutilating men because she finds them inferior, irritating, obstructive and obnoxious." Her smile bloomed again, coolly amused. "I'm beginning to like her."

  "Good, I want you to. I want the reader to, even while they cringe." He piled more food on her plate as he spoke. "She's bright, she's ambitious, she's unapologetic. A couple of the guys she takes out in the beginning are slime, so that makes her more sympathetic. Then she gets into it, gets to enjoy it a little too much. That's when she'll turn the corner. And the demands, the pressure, the stress of constant life-and-death issues and decisions—I figure that'll be what finally snaps the connection she has on her humanity." Gwen decided it was more productive to be amused and intrigued than to be annoyed. She selected a watercress sandwich from the hodgepodge he'd served her. "Well, the pressure is outrageous. A number of good doctors wash out simply because they can't handle hospital work, the vicious hours, the miserable bureaucracy. Emergencies, budget cuts, interrupted personal lives. She won't have much time for play unless she's very flexible. I'm assuming she's on staff at a major Boston hospital."

  "Right." He pulled a notebook over and began to scribble. "How many hours would she put in a week?"

  "Oh, forty to a million."

  He smiled at her, put a gorgeous, glossy chocolate éclair on her plate where the sandwich had been. "Keep going." The hour had run to ninety minutes before she remembered to look at her watch. "I'm running behind. I have to go, if I'm going to finish my Christmas shopping before my shift."

  "Finish? It's November."

  "I'm an obsessive overachiever." She rose, got her coat.

  "Listen, I'll go with you."

  "Shopping?"

  He was up, helping her into her coat, before she could do it for herself. And if he took the opportunity to sniff her hair, roll his eyes in approval over the top of her head, she didn't know the difference. "I have excellent gift-buying taste. And I can pick your brain some more while we're at it. Then I can run over to the hospital with you."

  "Another obsessive overachiever."

  "There you are. I love my work." He grabbed his coat, took Gwen's arm again. "You know, I was thinking of having her fall for Scully. They could have some pretty great sex, complicate their lives, break each other's hearts." He paused, took a moment to study Gwen's face, to enjoy it. "So, do you think he's her type?" Gwen cocked her head. She knew a line when she heard one, however cleverly it was delivered. "Rough, tough and cynical, with an affection for poetry? He might suit her… and she'll undoubtedly enjoy trying to kill him."

  "That's what I thought." He slipped his hand down to hers, linked their fingers and pulled her out the door.

  Chapter 13

  Contents - Prev | Next

  "So when am I going to meet him?"

  Because she was cutting wrapping paper with a surgeon's precision, Gwen didn't glance up. "Who?" Julia picked up a silver bow from the color-coordinated piles Gwen had stacked on the dining room table. "The guy who's good for you." She briefly considered hauling out some of her own gifts and getting to work on them. But it was only the Sunday after Thanksgiving. And she was feeling lazy.

  "Good for me." Gwen laid the shirt box on the paper, neatly folded the edge of the wrap under, then brought the sides up to overlap exactly one inch.

  "Flower guy." Julia yawned, and sipped her coffee.

  "Branson?" After applying the tape, Gwen began to fold the first end. "You want to meet him?"

  "Well, you've been seeing him for nearly three weeks and I haven't even gotten a peek."

  "I'm not seeing him." Gwen turned the box around to deal with the other end. "I'm just helping him with some research." Julia sat back in her chair. She adored Gwen, her innate tidiness of habit and mind, her generosity of self, her quiet humor, her unshakable loyalty—and her amazing lack of self-awareness. "He's very attractive."

  "Hmm."

  "That wasn't a question. I've seen his photo on the back of his books, caught a couple of his interviews on the morning shows. He's very attractive."

  "I wasn't going to disagree." After a brief debate, Gwen decided on the red ribbon and began to calculate the proper length.

  "So, you're not interested in him on a personal, man-woman type level?"

  "I haven't thought about it."

  "Gwen."

  With an impatient sigh, Gwen set the ribbon aside. "I'm not interested in being interested. And you're beginning to sound just like the MacGregor."

  Julia grinned, dark eyes dancing. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

  "You know very well Grandpa'd like nothing better than to see all of us married and raising a dozen children. He thought he was sly at Thanksgiving dinner, all those questions about what boys we might be seeing. Boys!" She rolled her eyes, then gave up and laughed.

  "He'll never change."

  "Who'd want him to? He was a little more specific with you. 'Ah, Gwennie love, how are you getting on with my young writer friend? A fine boy that Branson, clever brain. And the Irish know the value of family.'"

  Gwen shook her head and neatly tied the ribbon over the box. "He's obviously fond of Branson."

  "He set you up."

  "No, that was my first reaction, but I realized I'd misjudged the situation. It's harmless." Julia opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. "Okay, if that's the way you want to look at it. You ask me, he'd have pinned you to the wall over it, if Laura and Royce hadn't announced they were expecting. Then he was too busy wiping his eyes, making toasts, slapping Royce on the back and beaming to remember his plots."

  Gwen picked up a huge red bow and sighed. "We're going to be aunties. Laura looked so happy, didn't she?"

  "Yeah." Feeling a bit misty herself, Julia sniffled. "And a year ago, she was telling herself—and us—that she wasn't the least bit interested in a relationship. Just like you're telling me you're not right now."

  "For heaven's sake—"

  "Door." Julia bounced up, grinning. "Finish off that patient, Doc. I'll get it." Doesn't have a clue what's going on, Julia decided as she made her way through the house. The woman could cut open and sew up people from morning to night, list every bone in the body in alphabetical order, diagnose a multitude of diseases, conditions and traumas, but she didn't know when she was becoming involved in a relationship.

  Julia opened the door and saw the other half of that relationship holding a glossy white bakery box.

  "Doughnuts or Danishes?" she demanded.

  "Both."

  "Well, come right on in."<
br />
  Branson stepped inside, studying with interest the curvy woman with wild red hair, eyes the color of rich chocolate and skin as pure and smooth as top cream. She was wearing a thick chenille robe in dizzying stripes, and fuzzy bunny slippers.

  "Branson Maguire, nice to meet you." Julia smiled and held out a hand that glittered with rings. "I recognized you."

  "Julia MacGregor, nice to meet you." Branson took the long, narrow hand in his. "I recognized you."

  "Isn't that fun? I like you already. Any man who shows up at the door at eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning with baked goods instantly becomes my friend."

  "How do you feel about Bavarian cream with chocolate frosting?"

  "My best friend. Gimme." She snatched the box out of his hand. "Take off your coat, stay awhile. I think I can find some coffee to go with these."

  "That was the plan. I thought if Dr. Dish was—" He broke off, grimaced. "Oops. Little slip."

  "Dr. Dish?" Julia's eyes danced with delight. "I like it. And since you brought me a few million calories, it can be our little secret."

  "I'd appreciate it." He laid his coat over the newel post "Is she around, or do we get to eat all of those ourselves?"

  "She's operating in the dining room. This way."

  "Great house," he commented as they started down the hall.

  "It's my favorite. That's why we live here."

  "That's right. You like to buy houses."

  "Buy, sell, rehab, restore. You like to tell stories."

  "Mmm." They moved through a room with cozy sofas, a small stone fireplace. A large flute-edged bowl in bleeding blues and greens caught his eye, had him stopping to take a closer look.

  "My mother's work."

  "Fabulous. She'll have an interesting place in history, won't she? Both as a brilliant artist and a dynamic First Lady."

  "I really like you."

  "I did a report on your father when I was in high school." He flashed a smile. "I aced it."

  "Former president Alan MacGregor always had a strong stand on education. He'll be very pleased." And because she was, too, Julia took Branson's hand and led him into the dining room.

  "Look who's come bearing gifts," she announced.

  Gwen's head came up. The scissors she had in her hand snapped closed. "Oh." The little lurch in her stomach surprised her, as did the quick urge to fuss with her hair. "Hello, Branson."

  "He brought us pastries, so I've decided I'm in love with him. I'll get some coffee, put these on a plate. Don't let him get away, Gwen. I think I might want to keep him." Julia winked at Branson and carried the box out into the kitchen.

  "Actually, I think I might be in love with your cousin, too." Without waiting for the invitation, he pulled out a chair and sat beside Gwen.

  "Well, that was quick."

  Was there a faint edge of irritation in her voice? Branson wondered. Hoped. "Don't you believe in love at first sight, Doc?"

  "No." That was a lie. She believed in all manner of foolish things, when it came to the heart. "Why did you bring us pastries?"

  "You don't eat unless someone supplies it." Idly he picked up a blue bow, studied it. "And it's my small way of thanking you for the time you've been giving me."

  "It's very nice." When he set the bow down in the pile of gold, she automatically removed it and set it in its proper place. "And unnecessary. It hasn't been any trouble."

  His lips twitched. Deliberately now, he picked up a red bow. "Trouble or not, it's your time, and you've been a lot of help." He set red on green.

  "Is the book going well?" She shifted the bow.