A Doctor in His House. Lilian Darcy

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      Her first sight of Daniel Porter was the thing that stayed with her, and she must have given something away in her face or her body language … She must have been more naked than she knew. Because he began to smile at her when they passed each other in a corridor or met up at a desk. Soon, he was saying hi and pausing to talk.

      The conversations grew longer, and he didn’t seem in a hurry to bring them to an end, even though the subject matter was usually pretty trivial and sometimes he seemed to find talking a challenge or an effort, and then one day—

      Yeah.

      A drink. A meal. Bed.

      She was so horribly on the rebound at that point, from the ugly unraveling of her marriage. Kyle had remarried so quickly, it had felt like a studied act of revenge. Maybe it was. Kyle was like that. She would never have taken him back, and she wondered about the new wife, but still her emotions from the breakup were raw.

      Maybe the reason she’d responded to Daniel so strongly was purely that he seemed so polar opposite to her ex, in so many ways.

      But you couldn’t make a relationship work when it was based on choosing the opposite to what you’d had before. And with the painful timing, it could never have worked with Daniel, no matter what kind of a man he’d been. They’d both been crazy even to try.

       Chapter Three

      Was Scarlett asleep?

      Daniel wasn’t sure.

      She hadn’t moved or spoken for a while now, and her breathing was very even. It was almost three o’clock, and Andy should be back with the prescription pain medication any minute. The TV was spewing out another crime show rerun. He preferred hospital shows for when he needed to unwind in front of a screen.

      There was a symmetry about it, he realized. Scarlett was a doctor and liked TV crime. He was a cop and liked TV medicine. Neither of them wanted to revisit their working environment in their time off.

      Healthy.

      Something in common, too, in an upside-down kind of way.

      Only problem was that this particular TV crime show was killing him with its implausibility.

      He tried to find in Scarlett’s face and body the same woman he’d known six years ago, but couldn’t, and maybe that was good. She’d been quite defiantly blonde back then. Now her hair color was a natural golden brunette, but that wasn’t the biggest difference.

      Where were the big, liquid, intelligent brandy-brown eyes and the sensitive, full-lipped mouth? The softness and curves? Lost in fatigue and stress and weight loss and pain. He’d eventually recognized her, but only just, and even now he couldn’t put his finger on what had finally clicked. Not her voice.

      Something harder to define.

      Something—and this appalled him, when you got down to it—that had its source in his memories of her body when they’d made love. The way she’d closed her eyes and surrendered so totally to the moment. The way she’d moved. The way she’d been possessed by the strength of their physical connection to the same degree she was now possessed by the blurred vision and pain.

      They’d only been involved for a few weeks, but he hadn’t known sex like it before or since.

      He hadn’t known certainty like it before or since, either.

      Hell, what kind of an admission was that? What did it say about his life? Was this why he hadn’t said anything to her about their past acquaintance? Because he was afraid that his memories of their time in bed, and his memories of how she’d made him feel, would color his voice and she would hear it? Because if they talked about the past, then she might guess how much he’d never gotten her out from under his skin?

      How could you say a calm, casual, “Remember me?” in a situation like this?

      Better—way better—to let it go and say nothing.

      For now, at least.

      Scarlett began to feel human again when the stronger pain medication kicked in at around six o’clock. Andy had brought the pharmacy bag into the house, grabbed his overnight bag and left for the city almost at once. After she’d taken the medication, Daniel had left for the store, and now she could hear that he was back. He still had the key from under the flowerpot, and when he let himself back in the house, she heard the rustle of the shopping bags.

      He closed the door behind her, put down the bags and came through into the living room, to Scarlett’s couch. “What can I do for you next?” He sounded like a cop, again. Voice deep and clipped. No words wasted. No hesitation or doubt.

      “Find another crime show before I murder one of those designers …”

      He didn’t laugh. Well, okay, she wasn’t being that funny. Humor was all in the timing, and hers had disappeared along with her vision. She heard him pick up the remote and start channel surfing, stopping at the first show he came to. She listened to it for a moment, then they both spoke at the same time.

      “Sorry, I can’t handle—” from her.

      From him, “Sorry, do you mind if we—?”

      “Please,” she agreed. “Switch.”

      “Sitcom?”

      “One with an audience, not canned.”

      “Let’s see what we have here … And then can I heat you some soup?”

      “Please.”

      She managed to sit and sip soup from a mug, in between bites of toast that Daniel had rested on a paper napkin, and when she opened her eyes the multiple images had resolved down to two, the blurriness was lessened and the light didn’t hurt anymore. She still couldn’t see clearly, but the progress felt good.

      Daniel came and took the empty mug from her hands without her having to ask.

      “Thanks. I’m feeling a lot better, painwise, even if the vision still isn’t that great.”

      “You’re looking better. Way better color.”

      “The soup really helped.”

      “I can heat you some more.”

      “Actually, yes, another mug.”

      “More toast, too?”

      “Please. It’s really settling my stomach. How come you’re so good at this?” she blurted out.

      There came a long beat of silence, then, on a reluctant growl, “My mom was sick for a long time. From when I was a kid.”

      A shock ran through her. He’d never told her that, six years ago. Never once. Not hinted at it, or—

      Nothing.

      She’d worked out that he’d had a challenging history—well, he’d ended up rubbing her face in it, with deliberate anger—but she hadn’t known about his mom. СКАЧАТЬ