“Such as? I do know you race fast cars.”
“Used to,” he joked. “I think it’s gonna be a while before I get behind a steering wheel again. Or ski. Or sky-dive, or mountain-climb, or deep-sea-dive. And I’ve put my Harley in storage for the seeable future.”
The list confirmed her suspicions that Nelson spent his life looking for the next expensive and dangerous toy to play with.
“You do like dangerous sports,” she said with a forced grin. “You remind me of that old saying, if your life bores you, risk it.” The concept went against everything she believed in as a healer, but she hid her thoughts.
Keep it light, Bailey. One date, remember? “Is that what you’re doing, Nelson? Risking your life because you’re bored?”
He smiled and gave a small shrug, but again she caught a glimpse of something dark and troubled swirling in his aura.
The waiter arrived just then with their food and he didn’t respond to her question. After they’d begun to eat, he said, “How about you, Portia? What do you do for sport?”
“Yoga.”
He laughed, as she’d expected he would. “I’ve never tried that. Sounds kind of tame.”
“You’ll probably be familiar with some of the moves by the time you’re done with physio,” she joked, and laughed again when he grimaced.
“Besides yoga, what else? What sports do you enjoy?”
“Walking. Swimming. Biking. Dancing, I love dancing, but I haven’t done it in so long I probably don’t even remember how. I don’t do anything that’s the slightest bit dangerous. I guess I get enough of an adrenaline rush at work. A friend of mine always calls the ER docs adrenaline junkies.” Portia grinned. “Joanne oughta know. She’s one herself.”
They talked for a few moments about Joanne, and how good she was at her job. Portia explained that Joanne had cut back on her career to raise her twins.
“Is that what you eventually want, Portia?” His tone was serious. “Marriage, kids and a career, as well?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I guess every person who’s single is lonely sometimes. It would be nice to have someone to go to the movies with once in a while. As for kids, I helped raise four half brothers as well as my little sister, Juliet. So babies aren’t high on my priority list, at least at the moment. And Juliet still needs a lot of attention. She’s mentally challenged.” She grimaced. “Guess all those siblings threw my biological clock out of whack.”
They ate in silence for a few moments and then he said, “How old is Juliet?”
“Twenty-four. She lives in a group home and works at a bakery over on Commercial Drive. She’s very independent, but she still needs a lot of help with decisions.” Portia waited, curious and more than a little apprehensive, to see how he’d react. She’d had dates run for their lives when she explained about Juliet.
Nelson seemed interested instead of disturbed. “Was it a birth defect?”
Portia nodded. “She’s cognitively impaired. Portions of her cerebral cortex never developed.”
“I guess that’s just another area that medical science can’t do much about.” There was irony in his tone. “Seems there’re lots of things they have a label for but no cure.”
“They’re working on it. Clinical trials are under way using drugs to improve intelligence for the severely mentally impaired. It’s unlikely they’ll be available in time to help Jules, but the day will come when people like her can benefit.”
“Do you find yourself wishing that time was now?”
He asked perceptive questions. Tough ones. “I guess you can’t help wishing. But Juliet has such marvelous qualities, such innocence and honesty. And such a huge capacity for love.”
He’d been listening intently. He was quiet for a moment and then he said, “She’s lucky to have you. You have a fascinating family, Portia.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Dysfunctional, I’d call them.”
“All families are dysfunctional these days, aren’t they?” He said it lightly, and she laughed and agreed, thinking that there were varying degrees of dysfunction, and that hers was probably at the high end of the scale.
Besides divorcing every few years, her mother did psychic work for police forces around the world. Portia had grown up thinking it commonplace to have her mother converse with people no one else could see and envision horrific crimes in detail.
Nelson didn’t know the half of it, and she wasn’t about to tell him, she decided. Instead, she turned the conversation back to him.
“You have brothers and sisters, Nelson?”
“Nope, I was an only child. My dad’s been dead for some years now. My mother lives in Florida.”
“Do you see her often?”
He shook his head. “Not as often as I should. She’s stayed very close to my ex-wife, though, and I’m grateful for that. They don’t live too far apart, so they get to visit often. Elaine’s kids think of her as another grandmother.”
There was a wistful quality when he spoke of his ex.
He was a strange man, Portia concluded, and, she guessed, a lonely one. He was also a man who exuded sex appeal. Portia was powerfully attracted to him. Any woman with a normal libido would be, she assured herself. Although confined to a wheelchair, Nelson Gregory had the ability to make her blood run hot.
There was also something heavy and dark and fearful that he was hiding.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY TALKED ABOUT THEIR work after that. Nelson explained his job as a commodities broker.
Portia knew very little about the stock market, and he managed to make his explanation both informative and interesting. He wasn’t a man who went on at great length about himself, however. Now he adroitly turned the conversation back to her, asking questions and listening to her answers with an intensity that was flattering, if a trifle unnerving.
He wanted to know about her medical training, and she found herself telling him anecdotes about medical school and her work in the ER, although she carefully avoided any specific mention of cases this time.
A bottle of red wine followed the champagne. They drank it leisurely as they finished the delectable meal and shared a chocolate dessert, talking now about books and movies and music. They argued and hotly defended their favorite choices. Portia loved murder mysteries; he read nonfiction. She adored romantic comedy; he preferred suspense. She enjoyed classical music; he listened to jazz.
Portia kept thinking how much fun it was to talk to him.
Outside, the sky had darkened and a row of lights blinked on along the waterfront. When the waiter came for the fourth time to refill their coffee cups, Portia glanced at her watch and admitted it was time to go, in spite of her reluctance.
“Work tomorrow, the early shift,” she groaned.
“How did you get here?” Nelson asked as he settled the bill. “Did you drive or take a cab?”
“Cab. Parking is a pain down here.”
“Will you allow me to take you home?” His eyes twinkled. “I’ll sign a peace bond promising not to stalk you, if you let me drive you to your door.”
“What a coincidence. I have one right here in my bag,” she joked. “I take it on every first date, along with the pepper spray and my trusty handgun.” They laughed together—Portia couldn’t remember when she’d laughed as much with anyone—and then she said, “I’d love a ride home, but how are you going to manage it?”
“No problem.” He pulled out a cell phone and dialed. “Okay, Charlie, we’re ready to roll.”
She stared at him, flabbergasted. “Don’t tell me you have a chauffeur as well as a tailor?”
“Actually, I do.” He appeared slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t before the accident, though, so don’t look at me like that. Right after the accident, I got thinking about having to special-order those taxis that cater to people in wheelchairs, and I didn’t figure I could stand the inconvenience. So I bought an old limo, had it made wheelchair friendly, then hired Charlie Matousek.�
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The limo was waiting at the curb when they walked out of the restaurant, and it was all Portia could do to keep from bursting into laughter again when she spotted the chauffeur.
Charlie Matousek was perhaps forty, well over six feet tall, impressively muscular, with a blond brush cut, soulful dark brown eyes, a form-fitting purple velour tracksuit and a wonderful wide grin that revealed perfect teeth. And she had a little girl voice that conjured up visions of Marilyn Monroe.
“Nice ta meet ya, love,” she half whispered when Nelson introduced Portia. Charlie handed her into the luxurious leather interior and then turned to Nelson.
“Just let me get you in and anchor that chair in place, honey,” she murmured to him.
Nelson avoided Portia’s eyes as the chauffeur expertly flipped down a ramp, rolled in the chair and positioned it in special hollows on the floor that had been designed for wheelchairs. Charlie clamped restraints on the chair so it couldn’t move, brushed off the knees of her tracksuit and softly asked, “Now, where we headed?”
Portia recited her address and Charlie nodded, slamming the car door, then taking her place behind the wheel. The luxurious vehicle pulled into traffic, smooth as good wine and silent as snow. The glass partition was closed, and Portia leaned close to Nelson and whispered, “Your chauffeur calls you ‘honey’?”
He blew out a breath and gave Portia an exasperated look. “She came highly recommended, and she’s an excellent driver. What can I say?”
“You could try darling, or sweetie pie, or lamb chops.” Portia couldn’t control her giggles. “Or there’s always cara mia, or chérie, or dumpling…”
“Enough out of you, wench.” He tried to appear irritated, but laughter danced in his blue eyes. “Truth is, I’m damned scared of her. She’s bigger than I am. She met a couple of the guys in my pit crew this afternoon, and she had them totally intimidated within the first five minutes. Andy used some off-color language and in that voice of hers she told him in detail which bones she’d break if he ever swore in front of her again. She added that her father was a famous wrestler back in the days when wrestling was an honest sport, and that he taught her to take care of herself.”
“I adore her.” Portia was convulsed. “She’s one of a kind,” she gasped.
“So are you.” His voice was low, and held no humor now.
Her amusement subsided and anticipation replaced it as he leaned toward her and put his arms around her. It should have been awkward with the wheelchair, but somehow he managed it with grace. He was about to kiss her, and she very much wanted to be kissed; the evening had been romantic, funny and enjoyable, and it was far too long since a handsome, sexy man had kissed her.
But the moment his lips met hers, she knew it was a mistake. The sexual tension that had simmered harmlessly between them all evening, adding spice to their conversation, became suddenly a force beyond control.
His mouth burned like fire and ice against her lips, and she recognized the sound of astonishment he made deep in his throat as the kiss deepened and grew more intense. His hand cupped the back of her head and drew her as close as the wheelchair’s constraints allowed, his fingers weaving through her short hair and making her tremble as they stroked her nape and touched the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
The car stopped at a traffic light, and Portia drew away. She was breathing unevenly, and he was, also.
“Curses on this wheelchair,” he said softly, passionately. “You’ll have to extend a rain check, Doc. I’d give anything right now to be able to hold you properly.”
Portia didn’t answer. For the rest of the short ride, she sat in silence, the music from the sound system filling in the void that had sprung up between them.
When Charlie parked the car in front of her house, Portia gathered up her shawl and her bag.
“Thank you, Nelson.” Her voice didn’t tremble the way she was afraid it might. “It was a wonderful evening.”
“I thought so, too. We’ll do it again soon.”
Once more, Portia didn’t reply. When Charlie opened the door, Portia got out, forcing a smile and a cheerful little wave for Nelson, another smile and a sincere thank-you for Charlie. She hurried up the walk.
Behind her she heard the motor start, but the limo didn’t pull away until she’d unlocked the front door and closed it after her. She didn’t turn on any lights. Instead, she watched through the window as the vehicle drove off, and then she turned and tossed her bag and shawl on the sofa, before collapsing into one of the overstuffed armchairs.
“You can’t go out with him again, you know that, Bailey,” she admonished herself in the shadows that filled the room. “He’s dangerous. He’s sexy, and charming, and funny and quirky, and before you know it, you’ll be in bed with him, casts or no casts. And then before you know it, you’ll find out you’re in love with him, and he’s a playboy, he’ll give you heart disease big-time, ’cause he’s not a keeper. Remember the lady he tossed out of his room at St. Joe’s. He’s only in it for the thrills, and once they wear off, he’ll be gone. And you’ll still be here, trying to mend a broken heart.”
She knew that her words were the truth. She knew that for safety’s sake, she had to stay away from Nelson Gregory. But her lips still tingled from his kiss, and she smiled sadly, thinking of the laughter she and he had shared.
They meshed in some indefinable fashion. She remembered something Cedric had once quoted: “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.”
She wanted to see Nelson again, but it couldn’t happen.
Nelson Gregory was dangerous to her health.
AS THE CAR LEFT Portia’s house, Nelson said, “Charlie, do you mind if we go for a drive around the park?”
“No, sir, boss. It’s a great night for a drive. Look at all those stars.”
His pride had prevented him from telling Portia that Charlie was more than just his chauffeur. She was also a practical nurse, hired to help him with the physical tasks that he couldn’t manage. That he needed help with things he’d never given any thought to—like getting his clothes on and off and hanging them up, getting in and out of bed, reaching things on high shelves—embarrassed him.
He’d asked the employment agency to send a man, but they’d insisted none was available. Charlie was; her last job had ended abruptly when the dear old man she was caring for had passed on, she’d told Nelson.
“What kinda music you want?”
“You choose. You want a bottle of Perrier?”
“Thanks.” He leaned far enough over to reach the small fridge, extracted two bottles, tossed one up to Charlie and opened the other for himself. Settling back in his chair, he sipped it, scarcely seeing the twinkling lights of the boats on the inlet, or the span of the Lions Gate Bridge, arched like a glittering rainbow above the water.
The music Charlie chose was soft and romantic, and Nelson let his mind center on Portia…how her intellect, her humor, her physical beauty, her energy, had so delighted him. He remembered something she’d said at dinner about a patient, and over the gentle sound of the music, he asked Charlie, “You ever heard of a disease called ALS?”
“Sure have,” she replied. “One of my friends who’s a home-care nurse has a man with it. It’s a bad one. You know somebody who’s got it?”
“Portia has a patient.”
“Poor person.” Compassion filled her voice. “It’s pretty much a death sentence—no treatment for it.”
“Yeah, that’s what Portia said.” Nelson’s throat was dry, and he swallowed two big mouthfuls of water, wondering what the hell had possessed him to mention ALS to Charlie. It was way too similar to Huntington’s.
“Most of the time people die because they can’t breathe or swallow,” Charlie was saying. She went on talking about the physical aspects, and the problems her friend had encountered from a nursing point of view, but Nelson was no longer listening.
Instead he was comparing the two diseases. Nelson had what amounted to a
specialist’s knowledge of Huntington’s. He should have by now; he’d studied it for years. There were definite similarities, all right. Both diseases led to a breakdown of the muscular system, and certain death. Huntington’s just took longer to do the job.
When he found out that he could have a time bomb ticking inside him, he’d divorced Elaine. It had almost killed him to do that, because he loved his wife, but he’d watched his beautiful mother grow prematurely old, her face marked with the pain of witnessing her beloved husband’s painfully slow death. Nelson vowed he’d never put a woman he loved through that ordeal.
Over the years, he’d deliberately distanced himself from his mother because he didn’t want her around if—when—the Huntington’s began to affect him. He’d seen her with his father…feeding him, trying to communicate, going to the nursing home every single day, year in and year out, and his heart had broken for her. He’d vowed she’d never have to repeat that horror with her son.
As a commodities broker, he’d been cautious and careful before his father’s illness. After his father’s death, he took insane risks and paradoxically made enormous amounts of money, which brought new customers flocking. He had enough money now, invested in blue-chip stock, that he need never work again unless he wanted to. First, he’d set aside an allotted amount for the years of nursing care he would require.
Then he’d bought a motorcycle and pursued danger with a vengeance, tempting death at every hairpin turn. And that was how he’d found a way to escape the demons that haunted him. He couldn’t think of anything beyond the present moment when he was riding the bike. Those times of great danger and total concentration gave him the respite that he needed to go on with the other parts of his life. And the bike had led him to other extreme sports.
Now, confined to this wheelchair, he had nothing to distract him, except perhaps the challenge Portia Bailey presented. He’d felt her withdraw after he’d kissed her tonight. Seducing her wasn’t going to be easy, but the reward would be great. And figuring out how to go about it would keep his mind occupied, he reassured himself again.
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