by J. S. Scott
Elsie opened her mouth to argue, but there was a tap on the door before she could say whatever it was she wanted to say.
“Come in,” Sarah called eagerly. Please, please come in.
Kristin, her cheerful, redheaded office manager and medical assistant, popped her head in the door. “All ready to get your blood work, Elsie.” Kristin opened the door completely and motioned for Elsie to come with her.
“Thank you,” Sarah mouthed silently to Kristin as Elsie’s lips turned down in an irritated frown. Elsie was obviously unhappy that she hadn’t achieved her objective but started heading reluctantly toward the door. Sarah called out to Elsie, “Have a good day. I’ll see you again in a few weeks to go over your blood tests.”
“Remember what I said,” Elsie called over her dainty shoulder. “Beatrice and I are rarely wrong. You two are perfect for each other. Beatrice is having one of her hunches about you two.”
“Okay,” Sarah answered weakly, breathing a sigh of relief as Elsie exited. Kristin shot her a knowing wink as she closed the door, leaving Sarah blissfully alone.
Thank God.
It wasn’t that Sarah didn’t like her patients, and most of the time she could have a lively conversation with Elsie about other things that didn’t revolve around the Amesport gossip. But her patient had definitely been on an information mission today, and Sarah had been afraid she’d inadvertently give away something in her expression because she was a lousy liar. In fact, she sucked at it.
Probably because I never really had any friends to lie to before I came here.
She’d never had any need or reason to lie. When one dealt with scientific data, lying was generally unnecessary.
Dante Sinclair was going to be her patient. She’d already studied all of his medical records, knew he was flying in today from Los Angeles. She’d spoken with his attending physician at length and his department psychologist as well. Last night she’d studied his injuries and read his history, poring over all of the notes on both his medical condition and the incident that had gotten him injured in the first place.
He lost his partner. It had to have been a horrific experience for him. Yet he was still able to kill a serial killer, even after he’d been hit several times. And he did it while shielding his partner, who had already taken a fatal hit.
Sarah couldn’t deny that Dante Sinclair was a hero, but judging by some of the psychological records, he wasn’t taking the death of his partner well and was exhibiting some self-destructive behavior.
Survivor’s guilt.
Even though Sarah wasn’t a psychologist, and honestly didn’t completely understand emotional behavior herself, it made sense to her in a rather convoluted way.
Survivor’s guilt is a mental condition that occurs when a person perceives themselves to have done wrong by surviving a traumatic event when others did not.
If Sarah hadn’t had to deal with some psychological trauma of her own the year before, she might have said survivor’s guilt was totally illogical. But she couldn’t say that anymore. Mental reactions weren’t logical, but they happened, and they could destroy the lives of those suffering through them.
Quickly leaving the exam room, Sarah ducked into her small office and changed out of her scrubs, pulling on a pair of jeans and a purple short-sleeved shirt. After grabbing her purse and slipping her feet into a pair of sandals, she walked quietly through the hallway, wanting to get out the door before she encountered Elsie again. Kristin was drawing routine labs, but it wouldn’t take long.
I can’t believe I’m sneaking around like a criminal in my own office.
Taking a deep breath as she left the building, she let the scent and feel of the coastal town soothe her soul. Amesport was just big enough to have everything she needed but small enough to still be quaint. Her office was in the center of town, and the area was alive with activity, as it always was during the tourist season in the early afternoon. The humidity made her shoulder-length blonde hair start to curl up at the ends, taking on a life of its own, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to go back into the office to look for a hair clip, and she was getting used to the Maine weather doing crazy things to her hair. As she headed for her compact four-wheel-drive vehicle, she wished she had the time to walk through the town square. She could desperately use a latte from Brew Magic, the local coffeehouse, and she liked strolling down Main Street. Most of the time she walked to work, but she’d driven today, knowing she was going to have to drive out to the peninsula.
Sarah drove slowly through town, mindful of the tourists and beachgoers, thinking about her new patient. She knew very well why she’d gotten Dante Sinclair as a patient. Her practice wasn’t nearly as busy as the other physicians in town because she only saw patients on an outpatient basis, and she had only been here for a year. If she had a patient who needed to be admitted to the small local hospital, she turned their care over to one of the other doctors. She had more time than the other physicians to check in on Dante Sinclair at his home, something that was required due to his current condition. Besides, he was a Sinclair, and she’d heard about the wealthy Sinclair family from the first day she’d hit town. Grady Sinclair was looked at with awe because he actually used his wealth and power to help improve things in the town of Amesport. And everyone knew the story of how Grady had saved Christmas for the youth center. Now that he had married the director of the Youth Center of Amesport, he was considered a local hero.
It was hard to believe that Grady Sinclair had once been considered an antisocial beast. But that certainly wasn’t true now, and Grady’s wife, Emily, had actually become Sarah’s patient and friend, initially switching to Sarah’s services because she preferred a female doctor for routine exams. Sarah liked Grady, and he was very nice and down-to-earth, considering he was a billionaire and came from a family in Boston that had been obscenely wealthy for generations.
What kind of guy is a billionaire and becomes a cop, a homicide detective in Los Angeles?
Sarah’s brain worked rather like a computer, trying to analyze data, but she came up empty every time for the answer to that question. She had a genius IQ, but what Dante Sinclair had done was just . . . irrational.
He’s a patient just like any other. I certainly don’t need to concern myself about his unusual career choice.
Sarah left the city limits, shaking her head, wondering why her brain was even curious about Dante Sinclair.
Maybe it’s because I spent the entire weekend listening to messages and pleas from his colleagues, siblings, and friends.
The moment his partner’s funeral had ended, her office phone had rung continually, forcing Kristin to allow the answering service to start picking up the calls. Sarah had surmised that his siblings had let his fellow officers in Los Angeles know where Dante Sinclair was going and who was going to be taking over his care. Call after call had come in to her office from the people of Los Angeles, everyone from his siblings to his poker buddies begging her to help Dante get back to normal again. Many of them had offered to do anything to help him. Certainly, Los Angeles had a lot of cops, but Sarah had never seen anything similar to the outpouring of concern for Dante Sinclair. Many of them had even offered money to help him if he needed it, mostly the individuals who probably didn’t think about the fact that he was injured in the line of duty and all of his medical expenses were completely covered. But it was pretty clear that not one of the people who called—except his siblings—knew that Dante was, along with his four other siblings, probably one of the richest people on the planet. The sorrow of these callers had been genuine, leaving Sarah to think that Dante Sinclair must have been one hell of a guy before this incident.
Pulling her car up to the gated entrance to the peninsula, she waited as the automatic gate swung open, allowing her to enter the Sinclair domain. The entire projecting mass of land beyond this gate belonged to the Sinclair family, and it was one prime piece of real estate. Sarah had always wanted to explore it but had never had a reason
to enter the area . . . until now. Emily lived in a house near the end of the peninsula with Grady, but she’d always met up with her friend in town because it was easier.
A crack of thunder startled Sarah, and she looked dubiously at the dark clouds moving in as she pulled into the first driveway on the right. As she approached the house, she couldn’t help but gape as she parked her car distractedly, barely registering the fact that the short, private road to Dante Sinclair’s residence had opened up to a driveway large enough to park a whole fleet of vehicles.
The house was enormous, and built in the Cape Cod style, just like her small residence outside of town. But this home was no cozy cottage, the square footage probably at least ten times what she had in her own house.
“Who has a house this big and never uses it?” she mumbled to herself, her vision obscured as the rain began to fall, large droplets plopping onto her windshield faster and faster.
Grabbing her purse, Sarah opened the car door and made a mad dash for the front entrance. She knocked and then rang the doorbell, feeling a little anxious. While she was just fine in the office with patients, she was socially awkward in nonprofessional situations, probably a result of being accelerated so fast in school. She’d never had real friends until she’d made her move to Amesport, and most of the students she’d gone to school with had either thought she was a geek—which she actually was—or were too old to try to make friends with her because they didn’t have much in common.
Socially, things just popped out of her mouth as she thought about them. Most of her comments were probably incredibly boring to the majority of people on the planet unless they really wanted to know every scientific detail of the universe. Or any of the other millions of facts that stuck in her head, no matter how long ago she’d studied or read about them. She seemed to retain information like a computer with an unlimited amount of storage space.
Maybe she was getting used to making small talk since she’d come to Amesport, but she struggled with everyday conversations with people she didn’t know very well.
He’s still a patient. I’m just seeing him in his own home. A patient is a patient, no matter where I’m seeing him. We’ll talk about his medical condition, what he can do to speed up his recovery, and that’s it. He’s injured. He isn’t going to expect or want social conversation.
Sarah ran her hands up and down her arms, wishing he would answer the door. The porch had an awning, but the wind was so brutal that she was still being drenched with a mist of rain.
He had to be home. She was here at exactly the time that had been requested to do her initial assessment, and Dante Sinclair wasn’t exactly in any condition to be anywhere except home. She reached for the ornate latch on the door and pressed her thumb down, finding it unlocked. With a small exertion of pressure on the door, she found herself standing in the massive foyer of the house.
I can’t just stroll into his home!
But apparently, she could—and just had. Maybe she shouldn’t have, but what if he was hurt, what if he needed help?
“Mr. Sinclair,” she called hesitantly but clearly. Her voice echoed through the cavernous great room in front of her. She called louder and firmer, shedding her wet sandals at the door and starting to move through the house. Her fear for his safety was beginning to overrule her misgivings about intruding into his home. A short while later, after searching the entire house, Sarah was still unable to find her patient.
Sarah was about to give up and call his brother Grady when she heard a loud crash near the kitchen. She found a closed door that she’d assumed was a closet and opened it, realizing that it was actually the basement. She flew down the stairs and stopped dead at the bottom of the steps, watching as a massive male figure lifted what looked like an extraordinarily heavy pair of dumbbells over his head again and again in shoulder presses.
There was no doubt in her mind that she was watching Dante Sinclair.
He hadn’t heard her because he was wearing a pair of headphones, the heavy metal music blasting so loudly that she could hear it from the bottom of the stairs.
Further evidence that this was, in fact, Dante Sinclair were the visible cut on his face and the massive bruising to a sculpted chest and torso that would otherwise be absolutely perfect. He was dressed in only a pair of sweatpants, the elastic clinging low on his hips like a lover, the happy trail of dark hair beneath his belly button disappearing disappointingly into the waistband of his pants.
Her eyes flew back to his face, watching as the sweat beaded and dripped down his forehead and sculpted cheekbones, landing on his chest. His dark hair was almost military short, and it was saturated with perspiration. His face was contorted with pain, and Sarah knew it wasn’t from his workout. Ordinarily, it would take a lot more effort to actually make a toned, ripped body like his sweat. But with his type of injuries, she’d seen grown men cry just from a few wrong movements, or simply by breathing. Broken ribs were excruciatingly painful, and the activities he was engaging in at the moment made absolutely no sense.
What the hell is he thinking?
Moving forward, she snatched one of the weights from his hand on a downward stroke and dropped it to the floor. Before he could react to her presence, she swiped the other one, letting it hit the ground with a very loud clang, recognizing the noise as exactly what she had heard from upstairs. He’d obviously dropped the weight.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled in a low, dangerous voice. He pulled the headphones off and the music ceased. After dropping them into a nearby chair, he turned and scowled at her.
Irritated now, Sarah ignored him. “Are you trying to make your injuries worse than they already are?” Putting her hands on her hips, she glared right back at him. She was tall for a woman, five foot eight, but she still had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He had to be at least six foot three. Honestly, she was surprised Dante Sinclair was even on his feet, much less lifting weights in his condition. “If it hurts, don’t do it while you’re recovering. Are you a masochist, or just completely ignorant?” It was a reasonable question after what she’d just seen. It was obvious that the notes about his self-destructive behavior were correct. Her question was . . . why was he doing this? He’d been lucky, considering how many shots he’d taken. Why in the world would he want to make an already painful medical situation worse?
Sarah watched his face, fascinated as his nostrils flared and his hazel eyes grew stormy and hostile. He didn’t look like he was in pain anymore—not physical pain, anyway. The look he was giving her was like he wanted to throttle her, or anyone else who kept him from doing exactly what he wanted to do.
Is this the same guy everyone wants me to help because they care about him?
Somehow, she couldn’t seem to reconcile the man standing in front of her with the guy everyone wanted to be healed. His jaw was scruffy, like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and he didn’t look like he wanted a damn thing except to be left alone.
“Masochist and ignorant?” Sarah murmured aloud, wondering if he was ever going to say anything.
“You broke into my house. And I told Grady I didn’t need a fucking babysitter,” Dante finally replied, his voice rough and graveled. “Leave.”
Sarah crossed her arms in front of her. “Grady didn’t send me. And I didn’t break into your house. The door wasn’t locked.”
“I don’t care who sent you. Just get the hell out of my house.”
“I can’t. I’m not a babysitter,” Sarah replied calmly. “I’m here to take care of you.”
“In that case . . . strip and bend over,” he replied, deadpan. “I haven’t gotten off in a while, and that’s the only kind of help I need from you.”
He doesn’t mean a word of what he’s saying. He’s trying to shock me to make me go away.
“Sex is another activity you shouldn’t indulge in for at least a few weeks,” Sarah answered, not letting him get any satisfaction from his salacious comments. “You need to move around, but no
thing strenuous.” She was used to lewd comments from male patients, but the men uttering them were usually over the age of eighty, with dementia. “Do you need help upstairs?”
Sarah waited as she watched his expression go from hostile and angry to confused and irritated. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and it told her exactly what she needed to know. She was beginning to realize that this Dante, the angry man in front of her, was a facade. He’d lost his best friend—his partner—and almost his own life. Part of him wished he would have died in his partner’s place, and he was going to make himself suffer because he didn’t die, even though the incident wasn’t his fault. It was part of her job to make sure he got through this stage of his recovery without hurting himself. He’d been through enough, and her indignation faded away as compassion took its place. She was still angry that he was doing something so stupid, but she sort of understood why.
“I don’t need anybody’s help,” he denied in a surly voice, moving forward with a limp to climb slowly up the stairs.
Sarah followed in his wake, unable to entirely ignore a backside that was so incredibly tight any woman would have a hard time not wanting to cop a feel. Admonishing herself for staring at his incredible glutes, she watched his big body painfully make its way upstairs. He wobbled a few times, but he made it without incident.
He faced her in the kitchen. “You need to go. I don’t want anybody here.”
He wants to lick his wounds in private. Sarah got that, but it wasn’t happening. She had a job to do, and he had injuries that needed to be checked.
She countered, “You need a shower. Not only do you stink, but you need to keep your wounds clean.”
“Are you planning on assisting me with that?” he questioned flatly, no teasing in his tone.
“No. If you were able to make it up the stairs, I assume you can clean yourself up.”