For a wild moment he thought Lucy was going to dump the coffeepot and its contents over his head. “We’re separated,” she said. “We’re going to get a divorce.”

“So is that your decision?”

Her eyes blazed into his. “Yes.”

“Ah…in that case you won’t mind if I hang around for a few days. Obviously, if you’re going to divorce me, my presence shouldn’t matter to you one way or the other.”

“You ought to be down on your knees giving thanks that this is a coffeepot and not a carving knife,” she grated.

“Stop being insufferable, Troy, and go back to Vancouver.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the second of three scintillating books by Sandra Field. When Sandra first came up with the idea for Beyond Reach (#1806) she fell in love with her characters so much that she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. So she wrote another book. Then another…And SIGNIFICANT OTHERS was born.

“This series of three books crept up on me unawares. After Troy and Lucy met in the West Indies, I found myself curious to discover how marriage would change them. Hence Second Honeymoon, again set on an island, this time off the coast of Nova Scotia. Lucy’s laid-back friend Quentin and her uptight sister Marcia played minor roles in Second Honeymoon. Once Quentin had appeared on the scene, I knew I wouldn’t rest until I’d brought him face-to-face with Marcia, which I did in my next book, After Hours.”

Though all three books can be read on their own, why not follow Marcia and Quentin’s own romance in After Hours—coming soon in Harlequin Presents! Look for the special SIGNIFICANT OTHERS flash at your favorite bookstore—this is one series you don’t want to miss!

Happy reading!

The Editor

Second Honeymoon

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

UNTIL four that afternoon, it was a day like any other.

At four o’clock Troy Donovan strode past the receptionist’s desk, giving Vera a distracted smile and quite oblivious to the fact that the eyes of every woman in the room had swiveled to follow his progress.

Vera smiled back. “Your mail’s on your desk,” she said. Vera was very happily married to a civil servant who adored her, but she had long ago decided that the woman who could ignore the cleft in Dr Troy Donovan’s chin, not to mention the breadth of his shoulders and his sexy gray eyes, might as well be in her coffin. How his wife could have left him was more than Vera could imagine.

“Thanks, Vera.” Troy marched down the corridorenjoying the stretch in his long legs after the hours he’d spent in the operating room, rubbing at the back of his neck under the collar of his open-necked shirt. He was supposed to be at a meeting at four-thirty. He’d have time to glance at his mail and make a few phone calls first. He pushed open the door of his office and shuffled through the neat pile of envelopes on his desk.

The letterhead on a white vellum envelope leaped out at him. The institute whose name was printed in ornate script on the envelope was located in Arizona, and was the most prestigious center in the continent for pediatric plastic surgery—Troy’s speciality. But why would they be writing to him? Slowly he sat down at his desk and reached for his letter-opener.

Ten minutes later Troy was still staring at the thick sheet of vellum. He was being offered a job. A plum job. A prize job. The very pick of the crop. A job that any craniofacial surgeon in the world would yearn after. Teaching, surgery, opportunities for research—it was all there, and at a salary that made him blink.

A new start. A new country, a new hospital, a whole group of new people. None of whom would know about Lucy or Michael.

He could sell the house where he and Lucy had lived during the four brief years of their marriage. Where he had stayed by himself for the twelve months since she had gone. Sell it. Be rid of it and all its memories. Start afresh.

He buried his head in his hands, feeling the longfamiliar pain rip at his guts. Twelve months since she had left him, and not for one day of those months had he been without her presence. It walked down the hospital corridors beside him. Perched on the stool by the west window in the kitchen, the evening sun burnishing the mahogany curls. It lay alongside him in the big bed where they had taken such pleasure in each other.

Why move to another country? He’d only take her with him.

Jarring as an electric shock, the telephone shrilled in his ear. Automatically he picked up the receiver. “Donovan speaking.”

Vera said, “There are two people here to see you if you have a minute, Dr Donovan. Trish and Peter Winslow. They do realize they don’t have an appointment.”

Troy remembered them instantly. Two years ago their little girl had sustained third-degree burns, and had—mercifully, in his opinion—died. Pushing the letter from Arizona to one side, he said, “Send them in, please, Vera.”

Trish came in first, her blue eyes smiling; the last time Troy had seen her they had been filled with desolation. Her husband Peter, raw-boned and inarticulate, followed her. With a nasty jolt in his chest Troy saw that Peter was carrying a baby.

Trish said shyly, “We were here for my six-week checkup and we wanted to come and see you…We’ve never forgotten how kind you were. We thought you’d like to know we have a new baby; we called her Sarah. Show him, Peter.”

Peter came round the desk, bumping into a chair on the way; for all his clumsiness, he made intricately carved pine furniture that won awards at the local craft fairs. He proffered the baby rather as if she were a chunk of wood.

Every nerve protesting, Troy took the small bundle in his arms. Sarah, disturbed by the transition, opened smoke-blue eyes, yawned, and fell asleep again. Her dimpled fist and the tiny ovals of her fingernails were perfectly formed and perfectly beautiful. Not sure he could trust his voice, Troy said tritely, “She’s lovely. You must be very happy.”

“Yes.” Trish’s smile included her husband. “No one can ever replace Mandy, but we needed a new start—didn’t we, Peter?”

The very words that he himself had used, Troy thought numbly.

Peter rubbed his jaw, staring at the desk rather than at Troy. “You were straight with us, Doc,” he said. “I don’t like anyone tryin’ to hide the knotholes from me. Doesn’t do any good in the long run; you find ’em anyway. You never did that. Not once.”

Sarah whimpered in her sleep. Troy said—and at one level it was true—“I’m very happy for both of you, and I wish you and the baby all the best…Here, Peter, you’d better take her before she starts to cry. And do sit down, please.”

“You got kids, Doc?”

“No,” Troy said. It was the simplest answer, the easiest; yet he hated himself for making it. He tried to pay attention, because Trish was telling him about the addition Peter had built on their bungalow and about the crib he had hand-carved for Sarah.

Then she said, “We must go. I know you’re always so busy. I hope things are going as well for you as they are for us.”

She clearly had no knowledge of his personal life. Troy said heartily, “Fine, thanks, Trish. I’m really glad you dropped in. And it was a pleasure to have met Sarah.”

As the door closed behind them he let out his breath in a long sigh and wandered over to the window. Above the downtown highrises soared the peaks of Grouse and Seymour Mountains, where he and Lucy had often skied together. It was an enviable view and he didn’t even see it. Trish and Peter’s marriage had held firm under the onslaught of tragedy, he thought heavily, and they’d had the courage to bring a second child into a world that they knew all too well could be both cruel and capricious.

Trish and Peter had done better than he and Lucy. They’d earned their new start.

He’d take the job, he thought fiercely. Take it and get the hell out of here. It couldn’t be any worse in Phoenix than it was in Vancouver, and it might well be better—at least there’d be no memories of Lucy there. He’d get out more, too, start dating on a regular basis—maybe remarry.

To remarry he’d have to divorce Lucy.

Divorce Lucy? The idea was ludicrous.

With a low growl of frustration Troy picked up the sheaf of notes Vera had collected for the meeting and left his office. And if he was more than usually intolerant of the bureaucratic bunglings and asinine government cutbacks that were part and parcel of all the hospital meetings nowadays, he wasn’t about to apologise to anyone for his bad temper.

The meeting ran late. Troy hurried back to his office and changed from the casual cotton trousers and shirt that he wore around the hospital into a gray business suit and a formal white shirt. After adjusting his silk tie in the mirror he ran a comb through his hair. Because it was blond and thick, and streaked by the sun, no one but Troy would have noticed the few gray hairs over his ears. He knew they were there, though. After all, he was thirty-seven years old.

He’d be forty soon. If he was going to make a new start, he’d better get a move on.

He read the letter from the institute once again. That they were offering him the job before they opened it for competition was to say the least flattering. The letter concluded with the polite hope that they would hear from him by the first week of September.

First thing tomorrow he’d get Vera to fax them. He should fly down there and check the situation out before making a decision. He had three weeks’ vacation starting next week, and while he’d tentatively arranged to go sailing with his long-time friend Gavin for about ten days he could cancel out of that with no difficulty. The timing was ideal.

And if he was into new starts, Troy thought, tucking his wallet in his inner pocket, he did have a date tonight. A bona fide date with the female ophthalmologist who’d set the eye clinic on its heels when she’d arrived from Montreal six months ago.

Dr Martine Robichaud was intelligent, beautiful and sophisticated, and a brilliant diagnostician to boot. And, unless he was misreading all the signals, she was in serious pursuit of him. While this was their third date he had yet to touch her, other than a casual hand on her elbow, an arm around her shoulders to adjust her raincoat. Maybe tonight he should change that, too. It was time—past time—that he quit being incapacitated by the past. Time to let go of the woman who no longer wanted him and to find one who did.

He gave himself a defiant grin in the mirror, picked up his car keys and ran down the stairs to the parking lot. He was meeting Martine at a bar on Robson Street at seven; he’d better hurry.

He got there five minutes before her, and thus had the pleasure of watching her walk across the room toward his table. Heads turned; conversation stilled. She was, he sensed, both aware of this and unaffected by it. He stood up, rested both hands on her shoulders—rediscovering with a small shock how much shorter than he she was—and kissed her cheek. Contradicting the tailored linen dress and classic gold jewelry, her scent was complex, sensual—even a touch flamboyant.

He was quite sure the contrast was deliberate. With a twinge of excitement he pulled out her chair, watching the swing of her straight dark hair, the grace of her movements, and was not surprised when the waiter came to their table as soon as she was seated.

“Extra dry martini, no olive, please,” she said in her impeccable English, which was flavored with the slightest of accents from her Francophone heritage. “I’m sorry I’m late, Troy. Another of these cutback meetings—they manage to cut back on everything but my time.”

He smiled at her. “I behaved disgracefully at the surgery meeting. Not that it’ll make any difference.”

They talked easily about hospital matters, then moved to the trip Martine had taken to San Francisco and the conference Troy had attended in Texas. And all the while Troy was aware that the whole conversation was window-dressing—interesting, urbane and witty, most certainly, but window-dressing, nevertheless.

When they had almost finished their second drink, he said casually, “Shall we move on? I thought we might have dinner at the new place on Granville Island that everyone’s raving about.”

“Or,” Martine said, “we could go to my apartment.”

Her dark brown eyes were unwavering, her purpose clear. “You’re very direct,” Troy said.

“I almost always know what I want.”

He looked down at his hands. A couple of months ago he had tried taking off his wedding-band and putting it away in his bureau, and had found himself unable to do so. So he had compromised, and now wore it on his right hand. “Technically I’m still married,” he replied. “Even though I haven’t lived with my wife for the last year. Do you know that, too?”

She nodded. “I noticed you the very first time we met at the general staff meeting. So I checked out your marital status and was told you were separated. At the time, I have to admit, you seemed only half-alive. Then one day in the canteen I saw you laugh out loud at something someone had said, and that’s when I knew I wanted to go to bed with you. The difference was as day to night.”

“You see me as a challenge, in other words,” he said drily.

“I am not promiscuous,” she said, and put down her glass.

“I never thought you were,” Troy responded, and realized it for the truth. Her offer was, in its way, as flattering as that from the institute in Arizona.

Lucy might not want him, but other people did, he thought with sudden underlying fury, and drained his own glass. “Let me drive you to your car, then I can follow you to your apartment.”

Fifteen minutes later he was standing in Martine’s living-room. It exhibited the same cool, uncluttered elegance as the woman herself, although the great jug of vivid silk peonies in one corner hinted at climes other than coolness. She had poured him a drink and then excused herself; he took a big gulp of an exquisitely smooth malt whiskey, and wished he didn’t feel so much like a teenager on his first date.

The room was warm. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie, and prowled around looking at the serigraphs on the pale pink walls and the books on the shelves—all of which demonstrated a taste both individualistic and eclectic. Why, then, did he feel so hollow inside?

From behind him Martine said lightly, “Have you read the latest Atwood? I always buy her books in hardcover because I can’t wait for the paperback.”

He hadn’t come here to talk about Canadian literature. Troy turned around. She had shed the linen dress in favor of a flowing black jumpsuit that revealed her creamy shoulders and clung to her hips. In the soft light of the single lamp her eyes and her hair also looked black. He said flatly, “Where’s your bedroom?” and pulled off his tie, flinging it on the plump leather couch.

Her lashes flickered. “This way,” she said.

She had lit a candle on either side of the wide bed, and had pulled back the covers. The room looked like a stage set, Troy thought. Seduction Scene—take one. He began unbuttoning his shirt with furious haste.

Martine murmured, “There’s no hurry; we have all night.”

“I haven’t been with anyone except my wife since the day I met her,” Troy said, noticing with a distant part of his mind how he was avoiding the use of Lucy’s name in this room.

“Ah…then I am flattered.”

He didn’t like Martine using the same word he had used in his thoughts. Quit thinking, for God’s sake, he told himself. This isn’t about your brain, it’s about your genitals. You’re going to break out of the cage you’ve been in for what seems like forever. So get on with it.

As he hauled his shirt out of his waistband Martine ran her fingers up his chest and raised her face for his kiss. Without finesse he pulled her close to his body and began kissing her—hard, almost angry kisses. With one hand he stroked her hair—its smoothness another shock—and with the other found the rise of her breast under the sensuous black fabric.

And somehow, in the confusion of desperation, incipient desire and raw novelty that was tumbling through his brain and his body, Troy knew that he had expected to find the full curve of Lucy’s breast—so familiar, so desirable—not the small, firm peak of another woman’s. A woman who was a stranger to him.

A woman who wasn’t Lucy.

His hand felt like a lump of ice. Or was it his heart that felt that way? With an inarticulate groan he pulled his mouth free, let go of Martine and sat down hard on the corner of the bed, running his fingers through his hair and realizing dimly that the harsh breathing he was hearing was his own.

Resting his hands on his thighs, because his fingers were trembling and he didn’t want Martine to see that, he said hoarsely, “I’m sorry…more sorry than I can say. I can’t make love with you, Martine. I just…can’t.”

“You’re still in love with your wife.”

He glanced up. Her voice had been level, her face was expressionless, and he had no idea what she was thinking or feeling. Both were well hidden, he thought, with a stab of entirely irrational rage. “I don’t know the answer to that. If I am, I’m a damn fool.”

“What is her name?”

“You mean no one’s told you about her?”

“I endeavor not to listen to gossip,” Martine said coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I only asked about your marital status for my own protection.”

“Her name’s Lucy.”

“Why did she leave you? Because I am presuming the separation wasn’t of your choice.”

“You got that right,” Troy said, more bitterly than he’d intended, reaching for his shirt where it had fallen on the carpet and shrugging into it. He hated talking about Lucy, but he owed Martine, minimally, the decency of an explanation. “Can we go back into the living-room?”

“Better than that. We will go to the kitchen and I will make an omelette,” Martine said composedly.

For the first time since he had entered the apartment, Troy really looked at her. “You’re not surprised by what happened,” he said slowly. “Or rather, didn’t happen.”

“No. But I thought you worth the risk.”

“Playing games with me, Martine?”

She gave a very Gallic shrug. “Wanting you in my bed-that’s all.”

Discovering that he thoroughly disliked someone else anticipating his reactions before he knew them himself, Troy said, “Why weren’t you surprised?”

“Not long ago I overheard three of the nurses in the laser clinic bemoaning the fact that you never dated anyone. Since I saw no overt signs that you were homosexual, I could only assume you didn’t feel yourself to be free.”

He had been more than competently diagnosed; trying to shrug off his distaste, both for Martine’s objectivity and her accuracy, he said, “I can’t believe you want me so badly that you’d risk the kind of rejection I just subjected you to—and no, I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“Then you’ll get none.” She widened her dark eyes. “A Spanish omelette?” she asked.

“To really put the lid on my lack of romantic sensibility, I’m extremely hungry,” Troy said in faint surprise. “Why don’t we blow our cholesterol counts and make it a six-egg omelette?”

“Four,” she said, leading him into a kitchen that looked dauntingly efficient. “Three for you and one for me.” Opening the massive refrigerator, she put red and green peppers and a bunch of green onions on the counter. “You may chop these. Very fine.”

Obediently Troy did as he was told. As the small heap of red and green cubes accumulated he heard himself say, “I was offered a job today in Arizona.”

“Ah? Tell me about it.” After he had given her the details, she said, “And will you take it?”

“I plan to go down and check it out.”

“So is this another rejection?”

The oversize apron she had tied round her waist made her look more human, more approachable. He put the knife down and said straightforwardly, “Martine, it’s clear to me—and must be to you as well—that I’m not ready for an affair. Serious or otherwise. Nor do I really want to bare my soul and tell you all about the breakdown of my marriage.”

Moodily he pulled at the rubber bands from the bunch of onions. “I need to get away. Out of Vancouver. Away from nurses who think I should be dating—away from everyone who knew Lucy and me as a couple in the days when I was happy…I need a new start. And Arizona might very well give me that.”

“You’d be missed,” Martine said obliquely.

The thought that she might possibly be falling in love with him filled Troy with dismay. “For a while I might be missed. But not for long. No one’s irreplaceable.”

“Not even Lucy?” she flashed with the first show of temper he’d seen.

Her question flicked him on the raw. And, of course, he had no answer for her. “Shall I chop all these onions?” he said evenly.

“Half would be plenty.” Whisking the eggs vigorously, she added, “I’ve never married, Troy. I’m beginning to feel it’s time I did. Particularly if I want a child.”

The knife in his hands didn’t even falter. “You’re an exceptionally attractive woman. Any number of men would find it a privilege and an adventure to be married to you.”

“But not you.”

“No, Martine. Not me.”

She banged the bowl of eggs down on the counter so hard that the yellow liquid swirled to the rim. “Later on I’ll no doubt be grateful that we had this conversation. That you didn’t take me to bed. But for now I feel anything but grateful.”

Troy was damned if he was going to feel guilty; as far as he was concerned he hadn’t done one single thing to encourage her to fall in love with him. Quite suddenly the stark, efficient kitchen, the perceptive and beautiful woman glaring at him across the expanse of countertop, the false domesticity of the scene, were all too much for him. He said, “Martine, why don’t we skip the omelette? I suspect neither one of us is in the mood for food or small talk—and we seem to have said anything else there is to say.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “You can see yourself out.”

He stood up and said truthfully, “If I’ve done anything to hurt you that wasn’t my intention, and I’m sorry. Goodnight.”

Grabbing his jacket and tie on his way through the living-room, he flicked the lock on the door and stepped out into the corridor. The door shut smartly behind him. He chose the stairs rather than the elevator, taking them two at a time and feeling rather like a little boy let out of school.

He’d learned one thing this evening. He wasn’t ready for any kind of emotional involvement.

It wasn’t until Troy unlocked his own front door and stepped into the house where he’d lived with Lucy that his new-found sense of freedom evaporated. Although Lucy’s clothes were gone from the front closet, although her scent no longer lingered in the hallway and her voice didn’t call a welcome from upstairs, her stamp was everywhere—in every corner of the house.

He walked across the hall and stood in the doorway of the living-room. It wasn’t an elegant room, like Martine’s, but it was full of color and unexpected treasures—ranging from the seashells Lucy had collected in the Virgin Islands, where they had met, to a collection of Tibetan singing-bowls they had found in a bazaar in India. She had had a brief craze for embroidering cushions, the rather uneven results of which were lying on every chair, and the vibrant, Impressionistic watercolor she had fallen in love with in Provence, and which he had taken enormous pleasure in buying for her, hung over the fireplace.

Nothing matched; Troy knew that—an interior decorator would have thrown up her hands in despair. But somehow the room was redolent of Lucy’s warmth and love of life.

He didn’t want Martine. Or anyone else like Martine. He wanted Lucy.

In his mind’s eye he could picture the rest of the house very easily. The kitchen had never been Lucy’s favorite room, although she could make cheesecakes that melted in the mouth and she liked stir fries because no two ever came out the same. She had never used the copper pans that hung from the ceiling; rather, she had loved the way the sun shot turquoise fire from them late in the afternoon. The bathroom she had decorated in forest-green and scarlet as soon as they had moved in, because, she had said, every day with him felt like Christmas Day.

The bedroom, for the sake of his sanity, he had stripped of all her touches.

Reluctantly Troy came back to the present, to the reality of a house empty but for himself and his memories. As though pulled by an unseen hand, he walked upstairs and into the den. The photographs that had been in the bedroom were now in here. Lucy’s face laughed at him from within a gold frame on the bookshelves and in the informal snapshot on the pine desk her arms were wrapped around him, the blue waters of the Virgin Islands tingeing her eyes with the same vivid blue, her tangled mahogany curls standing out from her head like an aureole. Tall, beautiful Lucy, who, when she had married Troy, had made him happier than he had thought it was possible to be.

And then, side by side on the shelf, there were the photos of Michael.

Michael, their son. Who had died when he was seven months old, a year and a half ago. Who was the reason Lucy had left Troy alone in the big house on the bay.

Blond curls, eyes the same color as Sarah’s, and a toothless grin that bespoke Michael’s delight in the world in which he had found himself.

Troy turned on his heel and left the room, passing the door to the nursery as he went—a door that remained closed all the time. He walked downstairs again, his footsteps echoing in the hall, and in the kitchen took a pizza out of the freezer and thrust it in the oven. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he went to stand by the window, where the trees’ serrated black edges cut into a starspattered sky, and was achingly aware of the silence of the house, of his solitude and his loneliness.

He was in limbo. Nowhere. Alone yet unable to be with anyone. Divorced from laughter and the small, cumulative pleasures of living with the woman he loved. Cut off from his sexuality and the deep erotic joy he had found in Lucy.

He was thirty-seven years old.

He wanted another child. He had loved being a father, and the thought of remaining childless filled him with a nameless dread. All too well as he stood there he could recall Sarah’s tiny movements, and her miniature perfection as she had lain trustingly in his arms. He wanted a family. Like sex, this was a normal enough human urge. Yet Lucy was denying him both of them.

He moved his shoulders uneasily. The job he’d been offered today wouldn’t interest him nearly as much if Lucy were still living with him. He knew that as well as he knew that the sun would rise in the morning. He loved his present job—was more than fulfilled and challenged by it in every hour he spent in the hospital.

So yet another thing that had been stolen from him was decisiveness. He was allowing his future career to depend on Lucy. He’d never sold the house they’d lived in because he kept hoping she’d come back to it. He couldn’t even take a lover, for God’s sake.

What kind of a man was he?

An empty shell, like the whelks and angel wings Lucy had scattered round the living-room.

So what the hell was he going to do about it? Eat frozen pizza in a house that held nothing but memories for the rest of his life? Stay celibate because no other woman was Lucy?

It was five months since he’d seen her. Last April he’d flown to Ottawa, where she was living, and pleaded with her to come back to him. White-faced, she’d refused. And like a beaten dog he’d crawled back home, only wanting privacy to lick his wounds.

Dammit, he thought, that’s not good enough. Once, years ago, she’d told him that there was no use begging anyone for anything. So why had he wasted his time begging her for something she didn’t want to give? He’d never do that again. Never.

His mind made another leap. Maybe, Troy thought, he was kidding himself that he was still in love with her. If he saw her again he might realize that he was clinging to something that existed only in his imagination: a prettified notion of undying love, a romantic fantasy that had no basis in reality.

Like a limpet glued to its rock, he was still clasping the words he’d said on their wedding-day, and had meant with all his heart. “Til death us do part”. Death had parted them, all right. Though not quite in the way the marriage ceremony had pictured it.

Could it be true? Might he discover, if he saw Lucy, that the ties binding him to her had unraveled of their own accord? Or even rotted from disuse, thereby freeing him?

He didn’t know the answers to his own questions. He did know he was sick to death of being half a man, a hollow man, a man of straw. He was tired of feeling frustrated, trapped and unhappy…How long before his friends got bored with him, before women like Martine started viewing him as a crabby old bachelor who was better avoided?

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Second Honeymoon

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Table of Contents

“Lucy, you haven’t kissed me good-morning.”

CHAPTER ONE