Czytaj książkę: «The Doctor's Perfect Match»
Marci fingered the sample packet of antibiotic, her manner once more wary. “I’m not in the habit of accepting favors.”
“No strings attached, okay?” Christopher held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe that not all men were untrustworthy.
Marci searched his eyes, and after a few seconds he detected an almost imperceptible softening in her features.
He headed toward the door, and she stood to trail behind him. Pausing on the threshold, he withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you feel worse or things don’t improve by tomorrow, call me.”
A few seconds ticked by as she read the card. Blinked. Swallowed. Lifting her chin, she looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”
The words, delivered in a soft, shy tone, revealed an unexpected…and touching…vulnerability.
MILLS & BOON
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IRENE HANNON
Irene Hannon, who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels. Her books have been honored with the coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America (the “Oscar” of romantic fiction), the HOLT Medallion and the Reviewer’s Choice Award from RT Book Reviews.
A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time. In her spare time, she enjoys singing, traveling, long walks, cooking, gardening and spending time with family. She and her husband make their home in Missouri.
For more information about her and her books, Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.
The Doctor’s Perfect Match
Irene Hannon
I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of his calling.
—Ephesians 1:18
To Jo Ann Case—
My forever-young friend.
Happy 90th birthday!
Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
The woman was crying.
Christopher Morgan gave the blonde at the dim corner table a discreet glance over the rim of his coffee cup. He’d noticed her earlier, when the hostess had shown him to his favorite tucked-away table in the Nantucket eatery. With her pinup figure, slightly frizzy chin-length flaxen hair and emerald-colored eyes, she was hard to miss.
Yet the other patrons at the popular restaurant seemed oblivious to her. And to her distress. They were all focused on their companions.
He, on the other hand, was alone.
As was the woman.
His gaze swung back to her as she turned away from her bowl of half-eaten chowder to rummage in her purse, the sheen on her cheeks mute testimony to her misery.
Frowning, Christopher set his cup back on the saucer. He’d always been a sucker for people in need. That was one of the reasons he’d become a doctor. But despite his humanitarian inclinations, it wasn’t wise to offer assistance to strangers these days. Magnanimous gestures like that could arouse resentment or suspicion, or worse.
An image of his former girlfriend, Denise, flashed through his mind, and his gut twisted into a painful knot. He’d followed his compassionate instincts with her, and that traumatic experience had taught him a valuable lesson: crying women were a disaster waiting to happen. The safest course was to steer a wide berth around them.
Besides, after a busy shift in the E.R., he was in no mood to tiptoe through the minefield the blonde in the corner booth no doubt represented.
He watched as she dabbed away the evidence of her tears with a tissue, tucked it back in her purse and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. Laying it on the table, she scooted to the edge of the booth and swiveled on the seat.
Christopher started to glance away, but as the clingy fabric of her black cocktail dress inched up he found himself mesmerized by the best pair of legs he’d ever seen.
He wasn’t certain how long he stared at her, but suddenly the woman rose and yanked her skirt down until the hem brushed the top of her knees.
Looking up at her face, Christopher found her glaring at him, the color high in her cheeks as she tugged at a modest neckline below a single strand of pearls. Heat crept up his neck, fueled by embarrassment and regret. Not only did he feel like a teenage boy, he’d also made her uncomfortable.
And something more, he realized as their gazes locked for a brief moment.
She looked hurt. Defeated. And once again on the verge of tears.
Turning her back on him, she took the long way around the room to the door to avoid passing his table.
After swigging the rest of his coffee, Christopher settled his bill and headed toward the exit, wishing he could replay the last few minutes. He was supposed to be in the business of alleviating suffering, not creating it. But tonight he’d failed miserably.
Stepping out the door, he discovered that dark clouds had replaced the bright, sunny skies on this late May evening. A steady rain had also begun to fall, compelling the strollers and sightseers to seek refuge in the shops and restaurants that lined the streets in the heart of the old town.
All except one.
As Christopher drove up Main Street, he spotted a lone figure trudging through the rain. A blonde in a black cocktail dress.
The woman from the restaurant.
She didn’t have an umbrella. Yet she wasn’t hurrying. It was as if she were completely unaware of the weather.
Slowing the car, Christopher watched in alarm as she stumbled in her high heels on the uneven brick sidewalk. Walking around Nantucket in shoes like that was an accident waiting to happen, as he well knew. He’d treated any number of women who’d chosen fashion over comfort.
But she righted herself and moved on.
As he approached his turnoff to Orange Street, she continued on Main, her shoulders slumped. She paid no attention to the low rumble of thunder that reverberated through the still air, or the flash of lightning that zigzagged across the sky in the distance. She was either oblivious to the storm—or she didn’t care about the danger, Christopher concluded.
Both scenarios disturbed him.
Torn, he watched as she veered left on Fair Street and disappeared from view, the story of the Good Samaritan echoing in his mind. Like the traveler to Jericho who had been beset by thieves, this woman seemed in need of a helping hand.
But so had Denise.
Shoring up his resolve, Christopher turned left onto Orange Street and headed toward ’Sconset, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the troubled blonde.
Yet as the miles slipped by, he discovered it wasn’t quite as easy to distance himself from the image of those defeated green eyes.
Chapter One
“Are you getting a cold, dear?”
Stifling a sneeze, Marci Clay continued to wash the china plates by hand as Edith Shaw, her new sister-in-law’s Lighthouse Lane neighbor, bustled in from The Devon Rose’s dining room with another tray of glasses. It had taken them all afternoon and into the early evening to put the tearoom back in order after yesterday afternoon’s wedding reception.
“I hope not.”
“You’ve been working too hard since you’ve been here.” Edith tut-tutted as she slid the tray onto the stainless-steel food-prep station in the middle of the kitchen. “It was a very generous gesture, offering to manage the tearoom while Heather and J.C. are on their honeymoon. But that’s a lot to take on with very little preparation.”
In hindsight, Marci had to admit Edith was right. Given her meager cash reserves, however, it had been the best wedding gift she’d been able to offer. Volunteering to keep Heather’s tearoom running during their absence had allowed her brother and his bride to take a longer honeymoon—a gift they’d assured her was priceless. And with her just-earned diploma in hand and no job yet lined up, she had the time.
She’d also assumed her years of waitressing experience would be a sufficient background for the duties at The Devon Rose. But during her indoctrination last week under Heather’s tutelage, she’d quickly realized that the world of high tea and Ronnie’s Diner were at opposite ends of the spectrum.
The only thing that had kept her from panicking was Edith’s willingness to help—plus the invaluable support of Heather’s capable assistant, Julie Watson. Knowing she could count on those two women to back her up, Marci had convinced herself she could pull this off.
What she hadn’t counted on was getting a cold.
“Having a few second thoughts?”
At Edith’s question, Marci regarded the older woman. Her short contemporary hairstyle might feature silvery gray locks, but she radiated youthful energy, and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm—and insight.
“Maybe.” Marci shoved a springy curl out of her eye with the back of her wet hand. “I’ve done a lot of waitressing, and I’m a decent cook, but this is a really high-class operation. I feel a little out of my league among all this linen and fine china and sterling silver.”
“Join the club.” Edith chuckled and planted her hands on her ample hips. “I’m more of a chilidog-and-French-fry gal myself. And I’m sure Emily Post or Miss Manners would have a field day critiquing my table etiquette. But if I can get the hang of this tea thing, you can, too.”
“I appreciate the encouragement.” The words came out scratchy as Marci continued to work her way through the pile of plates.
“Goodness!” Edith gave a sympathetic shake of her head. “I hate to say it, but that sounds like the beginning of a cold to me.”
“I think I’m just tired.” She’d been working extra hours at Ronnie’s to build up her anemic savings account, had stayed up late and consumed far too much caffeine studying for finals and finishing term papers, then had rushed off to Nantucket to learn the ropes at The Devon Rose and participate in all the wedding festivities.
The walk home in the rain last night from the restaurant hadn’t helped, either. She should never have indulged in that pity party—nor let regrets about her own bad choices overshadow her joy in J.C.’s well-deserved happiness.
“I’ll tell you what.” Edith surveyed the kitchen. “We’ve got most of the mess cleaned up. The tearoom’s closed tomorrow and Tuesday, so there’s nothing urgent that needs to be done today. Why don’t you turn in and let me finish up? It’s better to throw off a cold early than to run yourself down and end up sicker.”
That was true, Marci conceded. Besides, she was feeling more lethargic by the minute.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind, I think I will.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Edith shooed her away from the dishwasher and pushed up the sleeves of her I 
Nantucket sweatshirt. “Heather’s been like a daughter to me, and with her married to J.C. now, that makes you family. And families help each other out.”
Not all families, Marci amended in silence as she thanked Edith and headed upstairs. Hers hadn’t been anything like that. Except for J.C, who’d stuck by his brother and sister even through the dark times, despite their efforts to push him away.
Now, thanks to him, she and Nathan had gotten their acts together. But they both had a lot to make up for on the one-for-all, all-for-one front. That’s why she was determined to follow through on her commitment to keep The Devon Rose running during J.C. and Heather’s absence.
Crawling into bed, Marci pulled the covers up to her chin, closed her eyes and hoped that whatever bug was trying to establish a toehold would give up and retreat.
“Thanks for stopping by, Christopher. Sorry to interrupt your holiday weekend.”
Christopher frowned as he followed Edith to the front door of her house. What holiday?
Then it dawned on him. This was Memorial Day, a time of fun—and rest—for most people. For him, it was just another workday.
“No problem, Edith. I needed to come into town anyway to visit a few patients in the hospital. And I’m on duty in the E.R. later.”
“Don’t you ever take a day off?”
He smiled. “Now and then.”
Shaking her head, she stopped at the door, her hand on the knob. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that. Anyway, I hated to call you, but Kate worries so much about Maddie that I get paranoid over even the slightest sniffle when I’m babysitting the girls.”
After his numerous visits to Kate’s small cottage, which was tucked between Edith’s house and The Devon Rose, Christopher was well aware of the charter-fishing captain’s worries about her daughter. “It’s better to err on the side of caution with asthma. I’m glad it was a false alarm.” Shifting his black medical bag from one hand to the other, he checked his watch. “I’d better be off if I want to get to the E.R. on time.”
To his surprise, Edith didn’t budge. “I hate to delay you any further, but I’m a little concerned about Heather’s new sister-in-law.”
“Heather Anderson? From The Devon Rose?” He saw the tearoom owner regularly at church, though they weren’t well acquainted.
“Yes.”
“She got married this weekend, didn’t she?”
“Yes. A small, intimate wedding. Very romantic.”
“What’s the problem with her sister-in-law?”
“I hope nothing. She’s supposed to manage the tearoom while Heather and J.C. are in Europe on their honeymoon, but yesterday she seemed to be getting sick. If she’s still feeling under the weather, would you mind popping in before you head to the hospital? I could rustle up a loaf of pumpkin bread for you to sweeten the deal.”
Christopher grinned. “Sold.”
Her eyes twinkling, Edith waved him to a chair. “Give me one minute while I ring her.”
The minute stretched to five, and when Edith returned with a plastic-wrapped loaf of pumpkin bread in hand, her face was etched with concern.
“She sounds terrible. But she said asking you to stop by is too much of an imposition and not to bother.”
“As you pointed out, I’m here anyway. It’s no bother.” Christopher picked up his bag from the chair in Edith’s foyer.
“I couldn’t convince her of that. But between you and me, I suspect her reluctance is more related to finances than inconvenience. According to J.C., she’s been pinching pennies to put herself through school. Plus, she may not have much, if any, insurance.”
“I’m running a special today. Buy one house call, get one free.” He winked at Edith. “At least that will be my story when I show up at her door. What’s her name?”
“Marci Clay.” Edith twisted the knob and stepped aside to allow him to pass. “She’s a very nice person. Pretty, too. I’m surprised she’s not married.”
An odd nuance in Edith’s inflection put Christopher on alert, but when he paused on the porch and turned, her expression was guileless. Must have been his imagination.
“Call me if you have any more concerns about Maddie.”
“I’ll do that. But at the moment, I’m more worried about Marci.”
“I’ll check her out.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Edith’s mouth as she handed him the pumpkin bread. “Sounds like a plan. Enjoy the treat.”
She closed the door with a soft click—but not before he caught a suspicious gleam in her eyes. And that was not his imagination.
But it didn’t matter.
Because no matter how nice or how pretty Marci Clay was, he wasn’t interested.
Maybe someday he’d test the waters of romance again. Maybe. But during his two years living on Nantucket, he’d steered clear of all eligible women. And he didn’t intend to change course anytime in the near future.
No matter what Edith might be planning.
As the doorbell chimed for the third time, Marci groaned and rolled over.
Go away!
She wanted to shout out that order, but her throat hurt too much to talk, let alone yell. It felt as if someone had taken sandpaper to it. Besides, whoever was at the door probably wouldn’t hear her from her second-floor bedroom even if she could holler at full volume.
She’d fallen back asleep immediately after Edith’s phone call, so she had no clue how much time had elapsed. But based on the angle of the sun slanting through the sheer curtains, it was still early.
Too early for visitors.
Except this one didn’t seem to realize that, she concluded wearily as the bell chimed again. Nor did her persistent caller appear to have any intention of going away.
With a resigned sigh, she swung her legs to the floor and snagged the ratty velour bathrobe that had wrapped her in its fleecy warmth and comforted her through many a cold, lonely Chicago evening. Shrugging into it, she shuffled down the hall on unsteady legs and took the stairs one at a time, clinging to the banister.
Whoever had parked a finger against the doorbell was going to get an earful, she resolved, gritting her teeth.
Flipping the deadbolt, she tugged on the door and opened her mouth, prepared to give her visitor a piece of her mind.
But the words died in her throat as she came face-to-face with a tall, thirtyish man holding a black bag.
It was the preppy guy from the restaurant. The one who’d given her the blatant perusal.
She shut her mouth and stared.
He stared back.
When the silence lengthened, he cleared his throat. “Marci Clay?”
She gave a tiny nod.
“I’m Christopher Morgan. Edith called about me stopping by to…uh…check you out.” His face grew ruddy, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “She said you weren’t feeling well.”
The guy who’d ogled her legs was the doctor Edith had offered to send over? A shiver rippled through Marci, and she edged back.
“I’m okay.” She tightened her grip on the door and started to ease it closed. No way did she want this jerk anywhere near her.
“You don’t look okay.”
Given how she felt, she figured that was the understatement of the century.
“I asked Edith to tell you not to bother.” The words scraped painfully against her raw throat.
“And I told her this was your lucky day. Two house calls for the price of one.” The ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “You can’t pass up a bargain like that.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “No one does house calls anymore. Especially for free.”
“I do. On occasion.” He examined her flushed face. “What’s your temperature?”
She lifted one shoulder. “I haven’t looked for a thermometer yet.”
“I could save you the trouble. I have a disposable one in my bag.”
Marci studied the thin blue stripes on his white dress shirt as she debated her next move. She wasn’t keen about getting up close and personal with this guy, but if she wanted to fulfill her obligations at The Devon Rose she needed medical attention. And in light of her shaky finances and bare-bones health insurance, free sounded awfully good.
“Look…about Saturday night. I’m sorry I stared.”
Surprised he’d broached that subject—and taken aback by the apologetic tone in his baritone voice—she lifted her chin. And noticed several things she’d missed on Saturday. Eyes as blue as the Nantucket sea on a sunny day. Shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the heaviest of loads. A firm chin that conveyed strength and resolve. Light brown hair sprinkled with the merest hint of silver at the temples. And fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes that spoke of caring and compassion.
Her attitude toward him softened a fraction.
“I want you to know I’m not generally that rude.” His gaze held hers, steady and sincere. “My mother raised me to treat women with respect, and I didn’t do that Saturday night. Please forgive me.”
Was this guy for real? Marci scrutinized him for any sign of deceit, any indication that this was a standard line. And she’d heard plenty of those in her life. But unless this guy was a world-class actor, he meant what he’d said. He truly was sorry. And he hadn’t been too proud or arrogant or conceited to admit his mistake.
In other words, he was a gentleman.
Not a species she’d often run across in her world.
The question was, how did one deal with a man like this? She was far more used to tossing sassy comebacks at guys who flirted with her at Ronnie’s, where she often spent as much of her shift deflecting advances as she did taking orders and delivering food, than she was to accepting apologies from gentlemen.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. So why not let me make amends? I can check out your temperature, get a little history, maybe figure out what’s wrong. Edith tells me you’re planning to manage The Devon Rose for the next couple of weeks, and it’s obvious you’re in no shape to do that right now. Helping get you back on your feet is the least I can do after my faux pas on Saturday.”
Interesting how he’d positioned his assistance as a favor to him, Marci mused, leaning against the edge of the door as a sudden weariness swept over her. His offer sounded good, but there had to be a catch. There always was.
The man’s eyes narrowed, and instead of waiting for her to respond, he stepped in. Literally. Taking her arm in a firm but gentle grip, he edged her back into the spacious foyer, shut the door with his shoulder and led her to a straight chair beside the steps.
“Where can I wash my hands?”
She motioned toward the restroom in what had once been the butler’s pantry, unwilling to irritate her throat by speaking.
As he strode across the hardwood floor and disappeared through the dining room archway, she let her head drop back against the wall beneath the stairs that wound to the second floor. In general, high-handed men riled her. Yet despite his take-charge manner, Christopher Morgan came across as caring and competent rather than autocratic. Besides, she couldn’t afford to take offense. She needed to get well, and it would be foolish to pass up free medical help.
But if he pulled out a stethoscope and aimed for her chest, she intended to smack him.
Talk about weird coincidences.
As Christopher washed his hands, drying them on one of the disposable guest towels beside the sink in the rest room, he wondered what the odds were of crossing paths again with the woman in the restaurant.
They had to be minuscule.
Unless more than chance was involved.
So often in the past, occurrences he’d written off as coincidence had turned out, in retrospect, to be part of God’s plan for him. This could be one of them. Perhaps it was best to put the situation in the Lord’s hands.
As he approached the foyer, his shoes silent on the large Chinese area rug in the dining room, he saw that Marci’s head was resting against the wall, exposing the slender, delicate column of her throat. Her eyes were closed, the curve of her long lashes sweeping her cheeks in a graceful arc.
His step faltered. On Saturday, he’d been distracted by her great figure and fabulous legs, but today they were camouflaged by a worn, faded pink robe that covered her neck to toes—and directed his attention to her face. Her halo of blond hair softened a chin that was a tad too sharp, while well-defined cheekbones gave her features a slight angular appearance, adding a dash of character that kept her from being just another Kewpie-doll blonde. Full, appealing lips completed the picture.
In other words, Marci Clay was the kind of woman who would catch any man’s eye.
But perhaps not for the right reasons, Christopher acknowledged. And her reaction to his appreciative perusal Saturday night indicated she knew that.
Her eyelids fluttered open, propelling him forward. If she caught him staring again, he suspected she’d hustle him out the door faster than a sand crab could scuttle back to its hole.
That suspicion was confirmed by the wariness in her deep green irises as he approached. While he couldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that sparked in their depths as he pulled up a chair beside her, he did his best to ignore them.
Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he withdrew a disposable thermometer from his bag and tore off the wrapping. “Open up. We’ll have a reading in sixty seconds.”
He slid it under her tongue, and as they waited he took her wrist to check her pulse. Strong, if a bit fast. No problem there. He was more concerned about the subtle tremors beneath his fingertips. They could be due to weakness. More likely, though, they were fever-related chills. From the heat seeping through his glove, he knew he wasn’t going to like her temperature.
Withdrawing the thermometer, he checked the reading. The number didn’t surprise him. “A hundred and two.”
She grimaced.
After slipping the thermometer into a small waste bag, he gave her his full attention. “Any idea what’s going on?”
She shook her head.
“When did this start?”
“Yesterday.”
“Anything hurt?”
“Throat.”
“Any other symptoms?”
Again she shook her head.
Withdrawing a tongue depressor and penlight from his bag, he scooted closer to her. “Let’s have a look.”
As she opened her mouth, he inserted the tongue depressor and flashed the light to the back of her throat. Swelling and severe inflammation. Depositing the depressor in the waste bag, he reached over to gently feel the lymph nodes in her neck. Puffy.
She winced and tried to pull away. “Hurts.”
“Sorry.” He let her go and leaned back. “I think we may be dealing with a case of strep throat.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, and he watched her lashes grow spiky with moisture.
“Hey, it’s not the end of the world.” To his surprise, the reassurance came out soft and husky. He cleared his throat. “You’ll be back on your feet in a few days with the right care.”
“I don’t have a few days.” She opened her eyes, blinking away the tears as she rasped out the shaky words.
He heard the panic in her voice and knew she was thinking about her duties at The Devon Rose.
“We’ll get you well as fast as we can, okay?”
“Wednesday?”
He’d have liked to say yes, but he couldn’t lie. “I doubt it.”
“When?”
“Why don’t we verify the strep diagnosis first?” Once more he turned to his bag, pulling out a small kit. “This is a rapid strep test. It will give us an answer in a few minutes. I see quite a few pediatric patients in my family practice, so I always have one of these with me. They come in handy, especially for the younger set. Not that you’re over the hill, by any means.” He smiled, trying to put her at ease as he set up the test.
The ploy didn’t work. She eyed his preparations and gestured toward the kit. “How much?”
It took a moment for him to grasp that she was asking the price of the test. As Edith had implied, money must be tight.
“I get free samples all the time. I try to pass that benefit on to my patients.” While that was true, this kit wasn’t a freebie. But she didn’t have to know that.
Without giving her a chance to pursue the subject, he instructed her to open her mouth again and proceeded to swipe her throat with a long cotton swab. When he finished, he dipped the swab in a solution and placed a few drops on a test strip.
“While we wait for the results, let’s assume it’s strep and talk about treatment.” He peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the waste bag. “Do you have any medicine allergies?”
She shook her head.
“Good. Let’s go with penicillin.” He started to pull a prescription pad out of his pocket.
“Won’t this…” She stopped. Swallowed. Winced. “Won’t this go away by itself?”
The money thing again, he realized.
“Yes. Usually in three to seven days.” Leaving the prescription pad in his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Maybe I’ll get lucky, and it will be gone in three days.” She pulled her robe tighter as a shiver rippled through her.
“Maybe. But antibiotics shorten the time you’re contagious.”
“By how much?”
“Most people stop being contagious twenty-four to forty-eight hours after they begin treatment. Without the pills, you could pass germs for two to three weeks, even if your symptoms go away. Not the best scenario in a restaurant.”
As he checked the test strip, he tried to think of a diplomatic way to offer further assistance. Flipping it toward her, he indicated the test window. “Positive.”
She groaned, and her expression grew bleak.
Dropping the strip into the waste bag, he sealed the top. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a few samples of penicillin that will get you started.” He removed a packet of four pills from his bag and handed them to her. “On my way back from the hospital later, I’ll swing by my office and raid the sample closet. I think I can come up with enough to see you through. That way you won’t have to run out to a pharmacy to get a prescription filled and spread germs all over town. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for creating a public-health menace.” He tried another grin.
It didn’t work.
Marci fingered the sample packet, her manner once more wary. “I’m not in the habit of accepting favors.”
At her suspicious look, he concluded that other men who’d done favors for her had expected a payback.
The thought sickened him.
“No strings attached, okay?” He held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe that not all men were crass or untrustworthy.
