Doctor's Orders Box Set (Babies in the Bargain, Right Name, Wrong Man, No More Lies)

by Risk, Mona

  Hubert tilted his head and squinted. “Honorable solution? That phrase used to be a synonym for marriage.”

  Yves rubbed his neck as if a noose slowly slithered around it and strangled him.

  “Out of the question. The countesses of Marancourt never boasted of being happy wives. My mother and grandmother have cried in their rooms. Others before them had followed their husbands’ examples of unfaithfulness. I can’t expose Mary-Beth to such a life of misery.”

  Hubert rolled his eyes. “Why do you anticipate infidelity before even marrying?”

  “Because from what I have seen in the Marancourt family, marriage meant arguments, fights, adulteries, and a painful life for the children.”

  “Not always, my boy. When there is love in a marriage—”

  “Don’t talk to me about love. I loved Rose-Anne with all my heart, with all my energy. I was young and intrepid when I fought to marry her. Was she happy?” He shook his head and clenched his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. “No. She lost our baby, and then the cancer invaded her body. Our marriage caused her death. Two years of hell for her.”

  “It’s not your fault that she was so frail and sick. You did your best to alleviate her suffering.”

  “I was an arrogant third year medical student who thought he knew it all. I couldn’t save my sweet angel. If I had listened to her father when he said her health didn’t allow her to marry and have a family, maybe she wouldn’t have weakened herself with a pregnancy. Maybe she’d have better coped with the chemo and survived.” He lowered his head, his jaws set in a tight grip.

  “Don’t torture yourself with sad memories.”

  “Don’t you understand? My life shattered as I watched her suffer and die. I promised her on her deathbed I will never forget her. Never.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if his sweet angel could hear him and be reassured of his everlasting love.

  “Mon petit, Rose-Anne loved you too much to hold you to such a ridiculous promise. I’m sure she’d like to see you happy. You will never forget her, but it’s time to live again and love.”

  “I can’t afford that all consuming love again. I can’t expose myself to such a torment,” he muttered when two years of constant pain played before his eyes like a sad movie with a horrific ending.

  “Mary-Beth is healthy and strong. You shouldn’t compare her to your delicate wife.”

  “Regardless. Why are we even talking about marriage?” He shrugged. “Marriage is not for me. And probably not for Mary-Beth. She told me she wanted to enjoy life and didn’t plan to marry.”

  “A woman says those things and doesn’t mean them. But you, my boy, have developed a mortal allergy to the word and what it entails.”

  “There should be a safe compromise between marriage and losing her.” He punched his open palm, hating the gut-wrenching loneliness he knew he’d face if he let her go.

  “So you want her. But you can’t pay the price for making her your own.”

  Yves cursed under his breath. As if he could. His gut twisted at the confused glances she’d thrown his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. If only she knew about the confusion roiling in his gut.

  “I have to find a solution before her time in France is over.”

  “Why does she have to leave so soon? Does she have a job to report to?”

  “No, no job, no fiancé, nothing urgent.” Yves studied his wine as if an answer to his dilemma would pop out of the burgundy liquid. He wished he had more time to sort his feelings, to convince her she was special.

  “Why can’t she stay longer?”

  “She could if…if she had a job here.” He raised his head and stared at the old man who focused a concern glance at him. “A fellowship. That is the solution. Hubert, you are a genius.”

  “I know.” His butler chuckled. “But I hate to tell you that you are not making any sense.”

  “Mary-Beth mentioned she wanted to apply for a fellowship in Neonatology at Columbia. Instead, I will get her one for three years at our Hôpital de la Santé. During the day, we will be together at the hospital where she can continue her training. And in the evenings …” He broke into an ecstatic grin.

  “I can see the picture.”

  “Now I have to convince her to stay in France and give us more time to know each other better.”

  “You mean to give you time to digest the ideas of commitment and marriage.” Hubert clapped him on the shoulder. “All in due time, mon petit.”

  Would Mary-Beth agree to trust him when he’d already broken her heart before?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  What a week. Nonstop surgeries in Pediatrics during the day, and two evening consultations at the new Health and Beauty Clinic. Béatrice and Sophie had each brought a couple of friends who wanted Mary-Beth’s advice about healthy diet, weight loss, and restful sleep. It was no surprise that Mary-Beth hadn’t seen much of Yves.

  On Saturday morning, she had found his note stuck on her bedroom door. He would meet her at five o’clock on the terrace to take her to the wine festival. After a round at the hospital to check on three adorable babies, she came back at noon to eat lunch and nap. Time to practice what she preached at the clinic by sleeping a little more. Besides, she wanted to have fun tonight and enjoy a type of party she’d never attended in the U.S.

  At four-thirty, she dressed in the flared skirt, blouse, and sandals her friends had recommended to join in dancing on the grapes. She found Yves pacing on the terrace. She’d expected him to wear a casual outfit. He surprised her by appearing in well-pressed pants and white cotton shirt, his every-day attire at the hospital, except that he’d skipped the tie. She paused and surveyed him.

  He smiled and came to her. “Prettier than ever.” He kissed her on the cheeks.

  Why the three kisses now? She squirmed to disengage herself from his hold and frowned. Did he expect their plain friendship to resume after the night they’d shared?

  He grinned. “Tonight I want to have fun with my date.”

  “Your what?” she whispered on an indrawn breath. Her heart plummeted to her toes as she stared at him, trying to make sense of his cheerful smile. The first smile he’d granted her in a week.

  “Tonight, we have the opportunity to have a good time.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Are you planning to be difficult?”

  She stepped back and crossed her arms. Her heartbeat accelerated as her angst bubbled beneath her apparent calm, and old memories surfaced back. “We need to talk first. Seriously talk.”

  The emancipated woman she considered herself after breaking her engagement needed to assess the rules prior to playing the game, and discuss a few things with a cool head. She could do with no strings, but she’d never accept an unfaithful lover again.

  “We will talk right after the wine party.” He cupped her face. “I promise. Trust me, please.”

  “The last time I trusted you—”

  His kiss interrupted her sentence and the flow of her thoughts. A delicious earth-shattering kiss that buckled her knees and curled her toes. Gripping his shoulders, she steadied herself and pulled out of his arms. She shivered, suddenly cold, and covered her cheeks. They were hot, burning.

  Yves’s gaze eyes reflected the blazing desire that raged like an inferno in her belly. She stifled a groan and swirled around. God, why did she love him so much?

  “Let’s go. The party is about to start.” Yves took her hand and led her away.

  “What will the villagers think when we arrive together?”

  “Hand in hand you mean?” He completed her thoughts with an irritating chuckle. “As I said, they will think you are my date. Why do you care?”

  Really, why would she care? She shrugged without answering. She’d be gone soon.

  Her breath caught in her throat. In less than two weeks, she’d no longer see Yves, no longer talk to him, and worst of all, no longer kiss him.

  Only thirteen days left. She’d better make the most of them.


  Yves kept her hand tucked in his while they strolled to the village of Marancourt. A stage had been erected and long tables and chairs were arranged around the central plaza. The crowd stood to greet them. Yves walked directly to the podium sweeping her along with him. She looked at him questioningly.

  “Stay next to me, please.” He stepped onto the platform and faced his people.

  The crowd cheered. “Monsieur le Comte. Vive Marancourt. Long live Marancourt.”

  A band of five musicians played the national hymn, La Marseillaise. Yves and the villagers sang together. Delighted to share the place of honor with him, Mary-Beth listened in awe to his baritone voice and patriotic enthusiasm.

  When the last musical note died, Yves raised his arms to request silence. He addressed his people, wished them health and prosperity and announced the beginning of the new wine season and the escalation of production. “More work and higher salaries, as we enter the new wine in the Napa Valley Competition.” The crowd exploded in applause.

  “And now, I urge our lovely young ladies to crush the first grapes.” He pointed to a circular wooden tub set on the stage and half filled with grapes. “Ladies, come up front.”

  A dozen young women sauntered toward him, took off their shoes, and primly raised the sides of their skirts. A young man lifted a woman up into the barrel and then another. The band played while the two girls danced, crushing the grapes under their bare feet. The men helped them out of the tub, kissed them, and assisted two more women into the barrel.

  “Mary-Beth, you too,” Yves said.

  Intimidated by the watchful crowd, she shook her head vehemently. “No.”

  “Please,” he urged with his breathtaking smile.

  She bit her lip, hesitating for a few seconds. The crowd chanted, “Allez-y. Go, go.”

  “I promise you’ll have fun.” Yves held his hand to her.

  A quick glanced around reassured her she was surrounded by friendly faces. No one would scorn the serious Dr. Drake for having fun like the locale women. With a nod, she yanked off her sandals and put her hand in his. Yves lifted her up and lowered her onto the grapes. “Just follow their example.” She laughed, grabbed the hem of her skirt, and danced like the others.

  Soon, the smell of the smashed grapes enveloped her. She breathed deeply. The fruity fragrance and the cheers of the crowd acted like an aphrodisiac. Giggling with pleasure, she danced, and swayed, and accelerated her pace, her hair bouncing over her back and shoulders.

  Her gaze never wavered from Yves who clapped his hands and sang with his people.

  A burning jolt zipped through her body when he hoisted her from the barrel and kissed her. “How was it?” he asked as he set her on the ground.

  Out of breath, she laid her forehead on his shoulder. “Fun. I’ve never laughed so much.”

  “Come, wash your feet here.” Her sandals swinging from his hand, he led her to the memorial fountain adorned with a statue. Bunching her skirt in her hand, she wadded in the clear water and then sat on a wrought-iron bench to slide her feet in the sandals.

  “Allow me.” He dried her feet slowly. Warm and tantalizing, his fingers lingered on her ankles in an erotic caress that shot hot flames along her legs and thighs. Was she Cinderella? Her Prince Charming laced her sandals and then let go of her feet to gather her hands in his and brush kisses on each wrist.

  “Now we drink wine.” His voice jolted her out of her daze.

  “Yes, of course.” How could she have forgotten for a moment it was a wine festival after all, and they were surrounded with people?

  Waiters circulated, holding trays with goblets of wine. Yves handed her a glass and took one for himself. When the young women finished crushing the grapes, Yves stepped back on the stage and raised his glass in a toast. “To the people of Marancourt.”

  “Marancourt,” the crowd chanted, as they clinked their glasses and laughed.

  “Now, we go to the buffet.” Yves escorted her to a long table covered with French delicacies. “Here are the plates. Help yourself. Let’s sit at this table with Roberto and Sophie.” Hubert and Béatrice came to join them.

  “Yves, I switched on the lights in the Pompadour room before coming,” Hubert said.

  “What room?” Mary-Beth asked Yves, her curiosity awakened by everything related to the chateau.

  “It’s a room in the North Tower of the chateau. It’s rumored that King Louis XV came to Marancourt for a hunting party. While he was here with his court, his mistress, Madame de Pompadour, had a tryst with the count of Marancourt. The king never heard of it, but the villagers were very proud of their count for seducing the king’s own mistress.”

  “They were proud?” Mary-Beth snorted. “Did they consider it an achievement?”

  “It was the mentality of the time,” he said with a very French shrug.

  “I don’t like cheaters.” She gave him a significant look he shouldn’t fail to understand.

  “These are famous historical people,” he said, his tone defensive as if she’d accused him personally. He rubbed his chin. “Anyway, the name stayed with the room. A very pretty room by the way. We keep it lit during our festival to commemorate the event.”

  “May I visit the room sometime?”

  “Sure.” His gaze rested on her face for a brief moment. “I can take you there tonight, right after the party, if you want.”

  Remember, you only have thirteen days left. She nodded and sighed.

  The band played while a singer entertained them with French songs. Yves led Mary-Beth to the dance floor where they swayed and twirled to the fast tempo tune. Then the music slowed to a languorous melody. Yves gathered her to him and pressed his cheek against her hair. “Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?”

  She chuckled. “As a matter of fact, you did.” He was so tender with her tonight, her heart melted and her pulse raced. How could she not love him? If only he shared her love, life would be much simpler.

  He kissed the top of her head and exhaled. “Mary-Beth, you are very special to me.” The incandescent light in his eyes dazzled her. Could it be true?

  How special, Yves? A special friend? A special date? Or a special woman he …? The word died in her thoughts. She closed her eyes, tucked her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and let the music lull her. She wanted so badly to be special to Yves.

  Why did he have to be a French aristocrat who didn’t believe in love and commitment?

  The music stopped, and they eased apart. Yves held out his hand. “Come, the fireworks are about to start. We can see them better from the fields.”

  She put her hand in his without hesitation. His fingers closed on hers, strong and warm. Prickles of awareness shot up her arm as they strolled away from the lights of the plaza and the din of the crowd. Soon darkness surrounded them.

  He paused and turned around, his head tilted toward the sky. She raised her head too. Behind her, Yves wrapped his arms around her waist and she leaned against him, her body thrumming with a new hunger. Together they watched the display of colored lights illuminate the blackness and fade. Would her dreams fade in the same way?

  “About your dream …” Yves started. Had he read her mind? She spun to face him, her pulse racing. “About your dream to apply for a fellowship in pediatric surgery,” he repeated.

  “Oh, that dream.” She grimaced. Men. What did they know about dreams? A fellowship in pediatric surgery represented a goal and a plan, not a dream.

  “You said you want to go to New York and train at Columbia University.”

  “Yes.” She shrugged. Would he have a better offer?

  “I have a better idea.” He drew her closer to him. “How about remaining in France and doing your fellowship here? With me.”

  Her breath lodged in her throat. She looked at him, not sure she understood.

  “I know our Hôpital de la Santé is not as glamorous as Harvard or Columbia. However, you already have those elite references on your résumé.”

&n
bsp; “You want me to stay in France for three more years?”

  “Oui,” he whispered against her hair. “And even longer.”

  Her heart somersaulted. She eased away and tried to read his eyes. His mouth took hold of hers before she could voice her concern.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed him back, teased his tongue the way he’d taught her last week. His hand gently fondled her breast. She moaned and pressed against him. Nothing compared to Yves’s kisses.

  Dare they glide to the ground and make love in the fields?

  Yves released her mouth and rained kisses over her face. “Ma chérie. Stay in France, please.”

  Her face flushed. Stay as what? Was it an attempt at proposal or a convenient escape from commitment?

  She stole a glance at his rugged profile, her pulse accelerating as contradictory thoughts churned in her mind.

  Stay in his arms. Stay as his one and only love. Or just stay to work and… and sleep with him when he had time for her?

  She wrapped her arms around her chest, her heart about to explode with hope. “I have to think about it.” In the dark fields lit by a full moon, she tried to read his eyes and waited for …the rest.

  “You don’t look well. Are you too tired?”

  Her shoulders slumped, and she exhaled. Yves had offered the maximum he could offer, considering he had deleted the word marriage from his vocabulary. During the past month, she’d often repeated to herself she wanted no strings, but deep in her heart was she ready for his type of relationship?

  He grabbed her hand. “Come. Let’s go back.”

  Her stomach flipped and her gaze dropped to the ground. “To the festival?” she asked as she struggled to control her disappointment.

  “No, to the chateau. The Pompadour room. You wanted to see it.”

  “Yes. Let’s go,” she said, her voice firm. They strolled in companionable silence. She was more eager to be en tête-à-tête with Yves in a quiet place than admire a room that was a tribute to the Malroux’s infidelity.

  Behind them, people still drank, danced, and sang. The breeze carried notes of French melodies as the chateau appeared in front of them, all dark except for one light at the top of a tower.