Coming Home To Wed. Renee Roszel

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      He stared at her in disbelief. “You want what?”

      “ID, buster. Anybody can say he’s a doctor. An ax murderer can say he’s a doctor.”

      “For that matter ax murderers can be doctors.” He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. Flipping it open, he showed her his American Medical Association membership ID. “My ax murderer cards are still at the printer’s.”

      She gave the ID a thorough once-over, then reached up to flip the plastic holders until she found his driver’s license. For a long minute she scowled at the words Marcus G. Merit, MD.

      “Well?” he coaxed.

      She cast him a quick, sideways look, opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of arguing. “Okay, so you’re a doctor,” she grumbled. “But like you said, doctors can be ax murderers.”

      Marc flipped his wallet closed and replaced it in his pocket. “Yes, but statistically you have a better than even chance of running into a doctor who’s more interested in keeping you well than in hacking you up.”

      “That’s charming!” Chewing her lower lip, she considered him. Marc had a feeling she was figuring her options. “I don’t like it,” she mumbled, “but I guess I don’t have much choice.” Grasping the gunwale she flung up a leg but wasn’t quite able to get her deck shoe hooked over the top. Marc grasped her waist and hoisted her far enough so she could get her leg over, then returned his grip to the gunwale to keep from toppling into the ocean.

      Once on board, Mimi straightened and steadied herself, replacing the handkerchief on her wound. Before she had time to turn and glare at him, he’d boarded and taken her by the arm. “Sit down. If you’re going to faint, you’ll be closer to the deck.”

      Though he didn’t look directly at her, he could sense her glower as he guided her to the seat beside his at the helm.

      “You have a captivating bedside manner, doc,” she muttered. “Where did you train, the Beavis and Butthead Institute for Sensitivity?

      He slashed her an irritated glance. She was one of the most aggravating woman he’d ever run into—or more correctly, who’d ever run into him. “My boat is damaged, thanks to you,” he said. “How cheerful do you expect me to be?”

      He saw her flinch at the reminder. She opened her mouth to retort, closed it and turned away, muttering, “You don’t have to be such a sorehead.”

      “Since you have the resident sore head, chances are I caught it from you.” He winced at himself for that remark. He should have let the comment go. She was hurt and shaken up. People in her condition sometimes lashed out at any available target, occasionally the doctor. It didn’t mean anything. When her lower lip began to tremble, he felt like a jerk for being short with her. It wasn’t her fault the fog had rolled in and she’d gotten lost.

      Apparently the boat she was sailing didn’t belong to her. Marc had no idea what kind of problems that detail would cause. The faded jeans she wore were far from new. The white nylon sweater looked more discount than designer. On her left wrist she wore a white sweatband that was too lumpy to be covering only a wrist. She was probably protecting a watch or bracelet. Unless the jewelry was sprinkled with diamonds, she didn’t appear to have a huge reservoir of ready cash for the repair of damaged catamarans.

      Flipping off the lights, he carefully maneuvered around so the boat he towed followed in their slow wake. Glancing her way, he asked, “Who’s cat is it?”

      She slumped back in the tall, beige leather seat and took the handkerchief off her head, refolding it to find a fresh spot to soak up the oozing blood. Marc was impressed by her control. She wasn’t a coward when it came to dealing with the sight of her own blood. He’d seen more than one senior medical student go woozy and sick when confronted by his own smashed finger or lacerated scalp. Maybe she really had set her own broken leg.

      “Oh—it’s just this guy’s,” she said, looking straight ahead. “I was practicing to enter the Habitat Race next weekend.”

      “What race?”

      She glanced his way. The look was brief, but long enough for Marc to see the glitter of tears.

      “The catamaran race to help build a new habitat for polar bears in the Portland zoo. The entry fees go toward building the habitat.”

      Marc had heard nothing about it, but he hadn’t had time to visit a zoo in a decade. Even reading the daily paper was a luxury he could rarely indulge in. He watched her troubled profile for a long minute, then asked, “How’s the head?”

      She closed her eyes and slumped in the chair, appearing small and remote. “Peachy,” she mumbled.

      “You’re not going to sleep, are you?” he asked, worried.

      She flicked him an unhappy look. “Don’t panic, doc. If I fall into a coma I’ll make sure to sprawl to the deck so you’ll be the first to know.”

      He felt an urge to chuckle at her wry wit, but stifled it, concentrating on maneuvering his cruiser through the fog. “Thanks. I’ll listen for the thud.”

      Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her loll her head so she could see him better. She watched him with those silver eyes. Her quiet stare affected him strangely and a prickly restlessness surged through him. When he turned to look directly at her she didn’t even blink, clearly unembarrassed to be caught staring.

      Intrigued by this spitfire with so much passion and gall, he stared back. She had fuller lips than he’d first thought. Really great lips. If his hot-to-trot nurse had had lips like those—

      “I was going to donate part of the grand prize money to the zoo.” She heaved a sigh. “And use the rest to get to Java.”

      His unruly thoughts about her lips went up in heated smoke. “To where?”

      She shrugged and shifted to face the windshield. “There’s this orangutan preservation group I belong to that’s trekking through Java in a couple of weeks. The money was to get me there.”

      Marc chuckled, incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

      She turned. “Why would I kid about something like that?”

      He lifted a brow to indicate his skepticism. “Even on the off chance that you won the race, why would you do something like that?”

      She frowned. “Because the whole world is my backyard, doc, and I care about my backyard. Don’t you?”

      He studied her narrowed eyes and full lips, now thinned in idealistic defiance. After a drawn-out moment, he turned his full attention to docking his cruiser and its crippled floating baggage. A weird sense of frustration washed over him. Too bad such an attractive, spirited woman had to be a flighty loon.

      Mimi had never expected to spend this evening sitting in a seaside cottage on some isolated island, having her head sewn up by a grumpy stick-in-the-mud who thought saving the Javanese orangutans was laughable.

      She had to say one thing in the doctor’s favor. He might be cynical about the plight of the world’s endangered plants and animals and have a cranky bedside manner, but his touch was heavenly.

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