"My brother Sean's between jobs right now. He'll come down and stay. Is it okay if I give him your number?"
She was gratified that he'd ask. The request didn't seem to fit what he'd said about—what was it? oh, yes—a stunt-roll relationship. "He really should call Dr. Swaim. Jack's not my patient."
"Yeah, but he likes you." He hesitated. "This isn't medical, Kate. I just want Sean to have backup. If it's not okay…"
"No, no. Please. He can call any time."
"Right."
Holding Jack against his shoulder with one large hand, Patrick dipped his head. Briefly, his lips touched hers.
"I'll call you," he said.
It sounded like a line. Wasn't that what her father had whispered in the driveway as he left, what a parade of boys had promised Amy? Hadn't her ex-lover said something similar just before he got the offer from Baltimore General and decided he didn't need her anymore?
But looking into Patrick's deep-set, dark blue eyes, Kate was tempted to believe him.
Of course, he wanted her help with Jack.
That was all right, Kate told herself stoutly. He wasn't trying to deceive her about his aims or his motives. He hadn't pretended his physical passion. He genuinely respected her rapport with his son.
Maybe this time. Maybe this once.
* * *
In spite of that flutter of hope, the following Wednesday, when Sharon Williams popped into her office and announced that Mr. MacNeill insisted on seeing her, Kate stiffened.
"Is Jack with him?"
"Yes, but—"
"Fine." Kate stood. "But I have rounds in twenty minutes. He's going to learn that I can't drop everything every time he blows in."
Sharon smiled knowingly. "I'm not sure this one can be taught, Dr. Sinclair."
Kate's spine straightened another degree. Maybe she was no man's dream date, but as a surgeon she'd learned to value herself and her time. She hadn't endured the slights and rigors of her male-dominated surgical training to let one cocky pilot dictate to her now. She marched down the hall, banged through the glass and steel doors—and stopped short.
For an instant, she was convinced she was seeing double. The waiting room appeared full of MacNeills. Patrick paced, fists jammed in his pockets, his wide shoulders and contained intensity dwarfing his surroundings. She felt her heart trip into double time at the sight of him.
But nothing could dwarf the man beside him.
Taller and younger than Patrick, his companion had the same dark hair, longer and curlier, and the same male assurance. He wore a gold hoop in his ear, like a pirate, and exuded cheerful good nature and unabashed sex. There were at least three nurses craning for a look at him, and one patient's mother was openly fanning herself.
Three months ago, such blatant good looks would have frozen Kate into a cold and inarticulate block of insecurity. She discovered now that after knowing Patrick, his brother didn't alarm her at all. No more than she would be afraid of a wolf-hound after petting a wolf.
She tapped her pen on her clipboard. "So. Which Mr. MacNeill can't wait to see me?"
Three dark heads turned. The shortest one dashed forward.
"Dr. Kate!"
A corner of her heart melted at the boy's exuberant greeting. "Hey, Jack-o. Are you sick?"
"Nope."
"Pining for you," the younger man offered.
Kate smiled down at the boy's bright face. "I find that difficult to believe."
"Okay," the pirate said agreeably. "Maybe Patrick's the one pining."
The listening nurses goggled. Kate felt her cheeks flame. With gossip breeding in the hospital like bacteria in a wound, she'd always resolved to keep her personal life private. Not that it had been much of an issue. Until recently, she hadn't had a personal life. She swallowed. She still didn't have a personal life. Patrick might want to go to bed with her, but they hadn't even been on a date.
"Sean," Patrick said warningly.
"So it's me. I need a doctor. Take my pulse." He snatched her hand, enclosing the pen with it, and laid it on his muscled chest, just above his heart. "What do you think, Doc?"
Kate lifted her chin, refusing to be flustered. "You feel normal to me."
"Not just a little hot?" His dark eyes were wicked, inviting her to share his joke.
"No. Sorry."
"You don't think maybe I need some bed rest?"
"You don't let go of her hand," Patrick growled, "and you won't be getting up for a week."
"Oops. Big Brother has spoken." Gracefully, he released her hand. "I'm Sean MacNeill."
She smiled, amused in spite of herself. "Kate Sinclair."
"Dr. Sinclair." Patrick stressed her title. "And she works here, Sean, so try for a little respect, okay?"
"Right. Sorry, Doctor."
Patrick's defense of her time and professional dignity won forgiveness and a concession. "It's all right. I've got a few minutes before I start rounds."
Patrick swept Jack's crayon box from the child-sized table, tucking it under his arm. "We wouldn't have bothered you except the Ape Man here wanted to meet you before I left town."
"Well, it's very nice to see you." Finally, she dared to look directly at Patrick, and her breath caught with sexual shock at the heat in his eyes. "All of you."
He smiled, still holding her gaze. "That's good to hear. I didn't want to send you screaming in the opposite direction."
Tension stretched between them like a soft cotton bandage. Kate reminded herself to exhale.
"Not yet."
"Am I missing something?" Sean asked plaintively. Patrick collected himself. He didn't need his mischievous little brother taking notes on his love life and reporting back to their mother. "No. You wanted to meet her, you've met. Say goodbye, Jack."
The boy's eyes crinkled. "Goodbye, Jack," he parroted.
Kate laughed. Damn, she had a sexy laugh, deep and warm. She always looked surprised when it escaped, as if she didn't use it very often.
"Bye, Jack." She offered her small, practical hand to Sean. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. MacNeill."
"Yeah. A pleasure."
He held on to it a second too long. Patrick's brows flicked together in annoyance.
"Come on. Kate's got rounds. And we've got to go eat."
He jammed his hands into his pockets, resisting the desire to touch her. To kiss her goodbye. They had an audience. The simple, limited relationship he'd suggested to her didn't involve her colleagues at the hospital or his family.
"I'll be back next week." And then, because he couldn't help himself, he added, "You think about what I said."
She tilted her head, regarding him with cool challenge. "I'll think about it."
With Sean radiating curiosity, there was nothing more he could say. They left.
Patrick thought, he hoped, that was the end of it. It wasn't until they were seated in the warm, dark restaurant booth, with beers in front of them and a Cherry Coke for Jack, that Sean reopened the topic for discussion.
"Pretty thing," he observed.
Patrick tensed. He hadn't expected Kate's subtle appeal to register with Sean. The thought of his brother's perception made him uncomfortable. What he felt for Kate Sinclair—whatever he felt for Kate Sinclair—was none of his brother's business.
"Pretty enough," he agreed.
Sean sipped his beer, watching him. "Mind if I call her while you're gone?"
Patrick eyed him warily. "Are we talking about backup for Jack here?"
"No."
With a decisive click, Patrick centered his bottle precisely on a wet ring. "Then, yes, I mind. She isn't your type. She's a nice woman. A good doctor. And she's too old for you. Lay off."
Sean grinned, helping himself to fries from the red plastic basket in the middle of the table. "She's not your usual type either."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning … she's no Holly."
At the mention of his late wife, Patrick waited for the familiar twist of heart. It didn't c
ome.
"True enough." In spite of his discomfort, he smiled. "The doctor's a damn sight harder to get along with, for one thing."
Sean swirled his beer. "Do you good. I used to wonder if you and Holly hadn't been stuck on each other since high school, if she would have been right for you."
Patrick's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Well, it's no secret she thought the sun shone out of your—"
Patrick jerked his head toward Jack, busily scarfing down a bite-sized burger.
"Sorry," Sean said. "Hey, what do I know? I was just a kid. It's just she always seemed—I don't know—so soft."
Patrick set down his sandwich, stung by the criticism of his late wife. "She was young."
"Exactly. You both were. My point is, if you'd both been older when you'd met, would you have married her?"
"Of course I would have married her. I loved her." Too late, Patrick realized he'd used the past tense. He scowled.
Sean spread his hands appeasingly. "Hey, I loved her, too. We all did." He grinned, lightening the atmosphere. "Of course, agreeable women are my thing. Good luck with your doctor lady."
Under the joking tone, Patrick heard Sean's genuine affection. He felt a sharp, unmistakable tug of gratitude for his youngest brother. Almost nine years separated them. Yet the family ties were strong, the links of blood, of love, of shared experiences and commitments. John and Bridget MacNeill had raised their sons to stand back-to-back-to-back.
Patrick knew his isolation after Holly's death had worried his whole family. He'd felt the weight of their concern in his mother's looks and his father's silence, endured it in his brothers' teasing. But much as he hated to burst Sean's bubble, he couldn't let his brother take home the wrong idea about his relationship with Kate Sinclair.
He and Jack were a unit. The bonds forged in blood and pain wouldn't dissolve to admit anyone else.
"Look, I'll admit I'm working on getting her into—" His hand closed around the cool, sweaty bottle as he glanced at Jack. "—Getting to know her better," he finished lamely. "But that's as far as it goes. That's as far as it can go. She's got her job, and I've got Jack."
Sean's eyes danced. "Whatever you say, Big Brother. Whatever you want. Hey, I admire your taste. Welcome back to the land of the living."
Patrick frowned into his beer. "Shut up and eat your burger."
* * *
Kate went through afternoon rounds with a curious double focus. Not distracted. She would not tolerate distraction, in herself or her team or the students that trailed them from room to room. But Patrick MacNeill's visit scraped delicately at her customary protective coating, exposing her nerves, heightening her physical and emotional awareness. She felt almost like one of her patients, with the sensitivity of an open wound.
And so, in spite of the fact that nineteen of the unit's twenty-one beds were full, and the residents dragged, and the occupational therapist grumbled, she took her time on rounds. She rubbed the feet of the patient in Room 811, the only part of him unburned after a trailer truck collided with his pickup. She talked to Janet Heller for almost ten minutes, knowing that the woman was depressed by the decreasing frequency of her family's visits. She promised the nine-year-old in 816 a visit to play therapy if he'd take his meds for Nurse Williams.
She dealt with routine, too, checking fluids, dressings and pain meds, questioning residents, therapists and nurses, and reassuring anxious family. Exiting the room of an eighteen-year-old firefighter, she paused briefly by an intern retching in the hall.
Schooling her sympathy from her face, she repeated the hard-learned lessons of her own first year. "Don't let it get to you. You're no good to anyone if you can't keep your concentration."
He muttered into the basin as she passed. Calling her a name, probably. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn't finished throwing up yet. But it was good advice. She was struggling to follow it herself.
Patrick's blue eyes burned in the back of her mind. You think about what I said.
She couldn't forget it.
Sharon Williams followed her back to her office. "Got a minute?"
Kate straightened her shoulders. "Sure."
But whatever had driven Sharon to seek her out, she was in no hurry to discuss it. She hovered in the doorway. "You had a nice touch tonight. With the patients."
Kate smiled, appreciating the veteran nurse's compliment. "Our occupational therapist didn't think so."
Sharon shrugged, coming forward into the room. "Her? Oh, she doesn't like anything that keeps her from her dinner. She's as bad as a doctor that way."
Kate regarded her coolly, unsure if she'd just been insulted. Sharon grinned.
"I guess so," Kate said, relaxing. "You want to sit down?"
"Naw. Once I'm down I'll never get up." The big woman propped one hip on the corner of Kate's desk and sighed. "Cute picture."
Kate followed her gaze to the drawing of eagles taped over the filing cabinet. Her heart lightened, the way it did every time she looked at the darn thing. "Jack MacNeill drew that."
"Little Iron Man? Really? He's good. My kid is almost seven, and he draws birds like this." Sharon's finger traced a check mark in the air.
Kate nodded, waiting. She was pretty sure Sharon hadn't tracked her to her office to talk about kindergarten art.
"We sure have been seeing a lot of them lately. The MacNeills."
Kate's stomach flared. Uh-oh. She should have known Sean MacNeill's prodigal good looks and extravagant behavior wouldn't escape comment. Just what had the nurses in the waiting room seen? How much had they heard? And what were they saying?
"That's not surprising," she said noncommittally. "Isn't Peg still seeing Jack?"
"Every Wednesday. With his stitches out, he should be off the splint real soon."
So Swaim had removed the rest of Jack's sutures, and no one had even told her. Kate reminded herself she didn't want to interfere between her director and his patients, but she couldn't help her protective, proprietary interest in Jack.
"That's good. That's great. Um, how did it go?"
"Fine. Dr. Swaim kept all of his clinic appointments yesterday."
"Good," Kate said again, too heartily.
Sharon wandered over to the corner and began pinching at her yellowing philodendron. "He was asking about you."
Kate swallowed. "Swaim?"
"Mm. He wanted to know how often you'd seen the MacNeill boy."
"Just twice, I think." If she didn't count the surgery. Or the late night call to his room. Or her visit to his house or his jaunt to her sister's. "Why?"
"Apparently Mr. MacNeill questioned whether Dr. Swaim should do that surgery on the boy's face and ear or not."
Kate rubbed a spot under her ribs where tension was beginning to burn. She was glad for Jack's sake that Patrick had listened to her. She was pleased that he trusted her judgment that much. But they weren't out of the woods yet. "And?"
"And the Great White Doctor sounded pretty miffed that somebody was impugning his judgment." Sharon flashed a look over her shoulder. "That's a quote."
It was a warning. "I see. Thank you. Sharon."
"Don't mention it, honey." Brushing her hands, the nurse walked to the door. "For what it's worth, I don't think they should do the operation either."
"Did you say so?"
Sharon's eyes widened mockingly. "And risk a reprimand?"
Kate sighed. "Right."
The tall nurse's warrior-maiden face softened. "Look, it's not my place to say. It's none of my business. But you might want to steer clear of MacNeills for a while."
"Even good-looking ones in the waiting room?" Kate asked dryly.
Sharon sniffed. "Maybe especially good-looking ones in the waiting room."
"Thanks. I appreciate the advice."
At least, Kate corrected herself, she appreciated the nurse's concern. She hadn't counted on Sharon as an ally, and the knowledge that the nurse thought highly enough of her to warn her
was sweet.
But could she really stay away from the MacNeill men? Did she want to?
She thumbed an antacid off the roll in her pocket and sucked it thoughtfully. For almost twenty years, for all her life it seemed, she'd struggled to prove to herself and everyone else that she could make it as a surgeon. Her mother had always suggested she make the most of the brains God gave her, since He hadn't seen fit to bless her with looks. And she was good, dammit. Surgery defined her, empowered her, rewarded her as nothing and no one else ever had. Was the limited physical relationship which was all that Patrick offered worth the risk to her career?
Regretfully, Kate decided it was not.
* * *
Chapter 8
«^»
His lips were warm and firm and open. Perfect. His big, callused hands stroked over her shoulders to close gently on her breasts. In her bed, Kate shifted and sighed, her head tilting, her own hands fisting on the sheets.
The phone rang and woke her up.
Kate struggled to roll over, fighting sleep and annoyance and the seductive memory of Patrick's lips, Patrick's hands. Damn it. She wasn't on call tonight.
"Amy, this better be good."
"Sorry, Kate." The voice on the other end of the line was male and apologetic. "Not Amy, and not good, either."
Her heart thumped. Patrick? But no, this voice was rougher, younger, more like…
"Sean?" She identified him into the receiver. "Yeah. Look, I'm sorry to be calling so late. I didn't know what else to do."
Worry propelled her upright. She shoved her hair out of her eyes. "That's okay. Is it Jack? Is he all right?"
"He's fine."
Oh, Lord. "Patrick?"
"Fine." Sean's hesitation hummed down the line. Kate bit back the impulse to fire questions at the phone, to diagnose the cause of his trouble. They weren't in her examining room now. "Look, I've got to ask you a favor."
"Go ahead."
"Could you watch Jack for me? Our dad's in the hospital, and I've got to get home."
"I'm so sorry," she said automatically.
She wasn't expecting this. You agreed to be his backup, she reminded herself, and was deeply grateful Patrick had introduced them at least. "Was your father sick?" she asked.
THE PASSION OF PARICK MACNEILL Page 10