Prescription For Love (Destiny's Child Book 1)

by Zee Monodee

  “The painkillers knocked her out yesterday, so I braided her hair to prevent it from tangling while she slept. Emma awoke late in the morning, and when she undid the braid, her hair came out wavy.” She paused, to heave a sigh. “She wanted stick-straight hair today, and we had no time to use the flat iron.”

  Jamie tilted his chin up and laughed.

  She yearned to sock him one for making fun of her predicament.

  He sobered, though the laughter never left his eyes, apparent in the soft crinkles at the outer corners. “And that’s it?”

  She didn’t deign to answer; she snorted. To hell if he heard.

  “She said you ruined her whole life.”

  Just perfect. “What else is new?”

  “Don’t stress. I’m pretty sure it’s just the hormones talking.”

  She frowned. What was he on about?

  He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “PMS,” he said, with a raised brow.

  Seriously? “You’re out of your mind.”

  He coughed. “Emma is a, um, young woman, you know.”

  “She’s eleven!”

  The expression on his face told her not to kid herself.

  Lord.

  He coughed again. “You didn’t know?”

  Another hint of ‘you must be an awful mother’ in his manner.

  I’m not! She did the best she could. How dare he, or anyone else, have the cheek to think otherwise?

  “I’ve had her for only three weeks. Contrary to what I desire, Emma doesn’t want to get chummy with me. Half the time, she hates me, despises me for having abandoned her.”

  Margo shut her mouth; she headed down a descending slope, on an accelerating roll, and if she didn’t stop, she’d cry.

  When was the last time she’d cried? Tears had not touched her cheeks even when David, the man she’d lived with for four years, had died. She’d believed her lachrymal ducts had dried up when Emma and Cora had left.

  Witness my shame. She whipped around, unable to bear the thought that he’d see her in such a weak moment.

  “Margo, take it easy, okay?”

  The gentleness in his voice worked like a magnet. It pulled her towards him, and she couldn’t resist its attraction.

  Caring etched on his features, and, at that moment, she reckoned he must be a very good doctor. He had the human touch, the warmth necessary to reach out to people and help them along the healing path.

  “Sorry.” Squaring her shoulders, she straightened her spine and drew up to her full height of five-foot-ten. The instinctive command to stand tall came, as if on automatic pilot, making her body conform to the movement while, in her mind, she doubled over in pain and distress. After all, she’d had practise, needing to present a stoic, detached façade to the police and the people in the lab, never mind how much every victim she had to autopsy brought her to the edge of a pit of despair.

  Brain over heart, always.

  “Emma is just going through a phase. She’s been through a lot lately.”

  She nodded.

  Jamie pushed his hands into his jeans pockets. The gesture made him look sheepish, the expression accentuating when he played with the gravel using the tip of one of his trainers.

  His behaviour set off warning bells in her head. “What?”

  “Emma mentioned something,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “She said you weren’t her birth mother.”

  A fist hit her in the stomach. Emma must really hate her to go and say that to a virtual stranger. Again, a lump blocked her throat.

  She quelled it, called on all her professional competence. “It’s true. She’s the daughter of a woman I loved very much.”

  “But you were there for her when she was little, innit?”

  “Cora and I lived together.”

  Her mind returned to that time. She had held Emma first, a wailing baby slick with amniotic fluid, wrapped in a blanket she’d seemed eager to shrug off. She smiled at the memory. Even then, Emma had been a force to be reckoned with.

  “Then what happened, if I may ask?”

  Her high spirits crashed. “We went our separate ways.”

  And I let Emma down when she needed me. She should never have let Cora leave with that good-for-nothing pianist. Her friend had been in love, though, and everything Margo had told her had been met with growing denial and defiance.

  Cora had held an ultimate weapon—Emma—and she’d wielded it that final Sunday. She’d taken Margo’s little girl away because Margo had tried to take her away from Serge, her lover.

  Today, she wanted to believe that Cora had recognized the error of her ways. Why else would her friend have appointed her as her daughter’s guardian? If only Cora had gotten in touch. If only Margo hadn’t thought a clean break would be best. Edna Milburn wouldn’t have been able to keep her and Emma in the dark then. Edna, who’d hated Margo with a vengeance, who’d held her responsible for her son Harry’s death, his suicide coming on the coat tails of her refusal to marry him after years of emotional limbo and suffering. In Edna’s eyes, her precious son could do no wrong, so Margo had to have been responsible for him taking his life.

  Margo had taken her son, so Edna had snatched her child. The old woman had bided her time. Cora had chosen to stay with Margo even after Harry’s death, taking her side. Edna had not tolerated that, either.

  And then Emma had come, a year later, and she and Cora hadn’t looked into the past any longer.

  “There’s no point beating ourselves up over what’s already happened,” Jamie said. “We can only move forward.”

  “Hmm.” True, but regrets had a way of living on, even when firmly slaughtered. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  How could she have agreed so easily?

  He smiled. “Good.”

  She returned his smile, for once letting a spontaneous expression take over when she stood around another adult.

  He is dangerous.

  She brushed the warning aside. Who cares?

  “Dr. Nolan? Ah, there you are.” The estate agent, a chubby woman in her late forties, ambled over.

  Jamie’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re a doctor?”

  “Forensic pathologist.”

  He whistled. “You took on a further six years of histopathology studies on top of your medical training? That takes dedication.”

  “I love my job.”

  “You must, to have undertaken all that training. I couldn’t wait to be out of the classroom, after nine long years of studying, to get a life. Yet, you signed up for six more.”

  The smile and the awe on his face took any edge off the words. However, if she read between the lines, she swore she detected a hint of ironic disapproval in his tone.

  She shook off the notion and turned to the estate agent. “Sorry to have left you stranded. I came to look for my daughter.”

  The woman flapped her hands, like a big, fat goose with open wings.

  “It’s all right, Dr. Nolan.” She nodded at Jamie. “Dr. Gillespie. I didn’t expect you’d come meet the potential clients.”

  “Dr. Nolan and I are acquainted. I felt I should say hello.”

  “How nice of you. Such a sweet lad.”

  Jamie blushed under the comment, and Margo stifled a laugh. The sound gurgled in her throat, and she camouflaged it into a cough.

  “Well, Dr. Nolan. I can hold the house for you until tomorrow morning. However, I will need an answer by then, if you please.”

  “Yes, certainly.” She acquiesced with a nod.

  “Lovely,” the woman said in a high-pitched trill. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go check on a few other things.”

  “You’re interested in acquiring the house?” Jamie asked, once the estate agent had left.

  Margo nodded. Suddenly, being close to him again, she wondered if it was really a good idea to come settle here. To have him all the time so near—wouldn’t that be courting trouble? Twice already, she’d seen how she wa
rped into a treacherous character that shook all the foundations and the ideals of her existence around him.

  Being a woman had never been part of her game plan. Jamie posed a serious threat that could throw wrenches in her strategy.

  Still time to step out, Margo.

  Some other house would come on the market. They could also move to a village nearby, if need be.

  “Emma is not pleased with the property,” she said. He wouldn’t expect her to do something that would further alienate her and her daughter, would he?

  He remained silent, and then started off towards the rear of the dwelling. “Let’s see if we can remedy that.”

  What? Wait, she wanted to yell. Her feet remained rooted to the spot, but she tore herself from the ground and followed him when he disappeared around the corner. No, no, no. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  “Emma,” he called out. “Where do you usually practise?”

  “School grounds. Why?” the sullen girl replied in a sulking tone.

  “Come over here.” He stood on the porch that made up the house’s other entrance, in front of the half of the mansion Margo wanted to acquire.

  Emma trudged to his side.

  “Look at these grounds. What do you see?” he asked.

  The girl shrugged.

  Jamie whispered in her ear, and Margo’s dread grew along with the smile on the tween’s face.

  Emma beamed as she ran towards her.

  “Careful with that ankle,” she said, before the breath whooshed out of her lungs when Emma ploughed into her and wrapped her in a hug.

  “Mummy, you have to say yes. Please, please, please!”

  She peered down at her little girl with the big, shining grey eyes staring at her. Tenderness crashed through her like a tidal wave, and she brushed the fringe escaping from Emma’s wool skullcap.

  Here was the child she had left. For a moment, she had come back, and Margo didn’t want that instant to end. Ever.

  What on Earth had Jamie told her?

  She sought him out with her gaze, found him leaning against the porch’s pillar.

  Her lips parted, to say thanks, but the words didn’t make it out. Still, he grinned, having heard the expression of gratitude without her uttering it.

  “Mummy, please!” Emma jumped around in her excitement.

  “Watch your ankle, luv,” Jamie said.

  Emma heeded his instruction, and left Margo as abruptly as she’d flung herself at her.

  Margo made it to where he stood. What would she do? Emma’s dislike of the house had been her trump card. “What did you say to her?”

  He nodded at the land rolling in front of the residence. “That area is pretty much the same size as one half of a football pitch. Emma can practice midfield, winger, and free kicks here, once we set up a goal post.”

  She blinked right into his face. Spell that in Greek, please?

  “You’re not a football fan, are you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He peeled his sinewy, muscled body from the pillar and approached her. “You want the house. Admit it.”

  His voice came out low, like a breeze of warm air on her temple. He stood completely in her private space, something she hated, and didn’t tolerate, usually.

  So why did she want him to bridge the gap and mould himself to her?

  She plunged her teeth against her lower lip, needing the pain to jar her to reality again as she hovered in the trance-like, magical moment that bound her to him. Such interludes never happened to her.

  What did that bloke want, after all? Earlier, he’d behaved as if it proved a pain to be around her. But the way he drew close and lowered his head to her, his breath whispered in her hair that he wanted to be even nearer.

  Did he know she turned to putty when a man played with her hair, when he raked the tips of his fingers in a shivery caress over her scalp?

  She peeked up. Bad mistake. In his eyes, she witnessed the spark of passion blazing in the dark depths with the glinting whiskey-gold flecks.

  If he wanted her to surrender right then, she would. He would probably figure that out when she hitched a breath and failed to conceal the sharp intake of air.

  What is it you want, Jamie? What’s with the mixed signals?

  “Jamie,” she said softly.

  “Take it.” His breath tickled her cheekbone.

  She shouldn’t. He embodied too much of a menace to all she’d built. Even if he left in a few months, every day, every moment spent around him would bring jeopardy for her mind and heart.

  “Margo.” His voice hovered in a whisper.

  No!

  “Say yes.”

  If he stepped any closer, his lips would touch her cheek.

  She sucked in another breath, afraid to move, eager to move, because if she inhaled too deep, they’d touch. Don’t say anything, Jamie.

  “Please,” he said.

  Chapter Three

  Margo crashed the phone back into its cradle. Far from her usual behaviour to attack her working premises by vandalising her desk and its contents, but who knew dealing with movers could be such a frustrating business?

  Damn Jamie. All his fault.

  Kid yourself all you want, darling. You’re the one who said “yes.”

  She hadn’t been able to resist. Back to square one once more, bowled over by a handsome man.

  Exactly the way Harry had bamboozled her and made her yearn for him.

  She bit her lip. Harry had made the ‘teenage her’ giddy and giggly, while Jamie ... Jamie made the ‘adult her’ hot and bothered.

  She slammed her pen on the desk in frustration.

  “Ow!”

  It wasn’t the pen that crashed against the wood, but her little finger. Goddammit. She needed all her fingers in working order to do her job. Already afternoon, yes, but a new case—or cases—could slide in anytime. Like they all loved to say here, death and homicide knew no nine-to-five schedule.

  She stood and walked, with the hope that moving about would prove a distraction against the dull throb of pain in her hand.

  A knock sounded at her door. She glanced at the foppish blond head that poked itself into the doorway.

  “Hey,” the man drawled, with a lopsided grin.

  She groaned. A rookie chief inspector, probably just transferred here from Lord knew where. Worse than the seasoned, cynical old guns, rookies thought themselves God’s gift to the Metropolitan police force.

  The one here also clearly thought he was God’s gift to women.

  He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “I’m looking for Dr. Marco Nolan.”

  She grimaced, and took care to conceal her expression. The staff was at it with that game again, playing the standing Marco/Margo joke on the bloke. They expected her to bring him down to Earth.

  At first, when they’d started that prank, she’d grown angry and discomfited. She didn’t look like a Marco. She acted like one, though, they all said. Miffed, impulse had won, and thank goodness, her response hadn’t backfired. She had from then on made it a point to always appear ultra-feminine and classy whenever she didn’t need to be in scrubs in the autopsy rooms or in the protective coverings required on a crime scene. Hence, the tailored suits, perfect blow-dried hair, subtle makeup, and high heels. Her behaviour also carried those physical manifestations of professional, yet feminine, competence.

  She’d thus turned from the butt of the joke into the one who rallied with the staff to show the rookie inspectors who ruled the lab. The science geeks, not the hotshot guns.

  Who cared if no other pathologist got to the crime scenes in stilettos and took her sweet time changing into the overalls and the paper shoes? She did her job, and she did it well—that’s what mattered.

  Margo trained her attention back on the new chief inspector. Cocking her head to the side, she eyed him from head to toe.

  His grin widened, probably thinking he had scored with her.

  Then she narrowed her g
aze and infused frost into her tone. “It’s Dr. Mar-go Nolan.”

  She stifled a smile when he straightened and the grin disappeared off his face.

  “Mam.”

  “Doctor.” She emphasized the title, once again, to correct him.

  “Yes, ma—um, doc—of course.”

  “You need something? May I know your name?”

  He snapped at attention. “Uh, yes, mam. I mean, Doctor. It’s Clifford. Chief Inspector Clifford.”

  She rolled her eyes and moved to the desk. The joke proved funny only until the cops who thought themselves avenging angels had their soaring wings clipped. Afterwards, it got tedious. She wanted nothing else but to dispatch that bumbling fool, still wet behind the ears, from her office. How old were the officers they promoted lately? That one must’ve finished the academy only a few years ago.

  After a quick browse through the neat pile of folders on the table, she mentally sorted the cases. Most of the homicides came to her assigned, and her biggest workload pulled from the child murders. The bloke had to be on a fairly low-profile affair.

  “Is there something you needed, Mr. Clifford?” she asked with a glance at him. At the lab, they called all cops by their name and not their titles.

  He cleared his throat. “The Havisham case?”

  Havisham? Immediately, she thought of the Dickens character, and put two and two together. “Why didn’t you simply say the old woman found dead at the bottom of her staircase? It’s hard to keep up with all the names when we have so many cases on our hands.”

  “Of course, Doctor. I’m sorry.”

  She swore he’d gritted his teeth when he’d replied her. She shrugged. If she bothered with each and every cop’s sensibilities, she’d be a basket case and unable to do her job.

  She found the Havisham file at the bottom of a pile of folders near her opened laptop.

  “No evidence of foul play—at first glance. We’ve sent blood to the lab for tox reports, and SOCOs are analysing the clues. The autopsy hasn’t been scheduled yet.”

  He cleared his throat. “Okay. Umm, fine, Doctor.”

  She returned her attention to her caseloads. After a few seconds, she looked up, to find him still standing there. “Yes?”