DR. MOM AND THE MILLIONAIRE

by Christine Flynn

  He edged forward. The muscles in his shoulders rippled with the movement, biceps bunching as he brought himself a foot from the threshold. With the rubber tip of his right crutch, he nudged the door back against the wall. "Door's open."

  "Thanks. And Chase, if I'm not back by breakfast, he can get himself a bowl of dry cereal."

  "Dry cereal. Got it."

  "And he can have juice. But only a juice box. He'll spill it if he pours it from the big carton."

  "Juice box. No carton."

  Behind the concern in her brown eyes, her mental wheels were spinning like tops. He could practically see them as she turned away, then turned right back around again.

  "If anything happens and you need me, have me paged and I'll—"

  "Alex," he said, his voice utterly flat. His hand snaked out, catching the back of her neck. "Stop worrying about it."

  He tugged her forward. An instant later, his mouth closed over hers, cutting off the sound of her startled breath and threatening the stability of her legs.

  He kissed her thoroughly, soundly, and when he lifted his head, she could have sworn his breathing was no steadier than her own.

  A muscle in his jaw jumped as he grazed his thumb along her lower lip. But all he said was, "Go."

  He had the sensation of being watched.

  Dimly aware of light shining against the back of his eyelids, Chase threw his arm over his eyes and thought about burying his head under his pillow. Then he remembered he was on his back because of his leg and putting a pillow over his face didn't have the same appeal. He was used to sleeping on his stomach, sprawled across the bed, claiming it all for himself.

  Until he'd been forced to change his sleep position, he had rarely given any thought to how he slept, or to the fact that he took up all the room. Since he made it a habit to never wake up with anyone else in his bed—the only sure way to avoid morning-after complications—it didn't matter.

  Mostly what he thought about now was that he wasn't alone.

  Shielding his eyes against the morning light pouring through the sheer curtains, he turned to meet a pair of blinking brown eyes.

  Tyler was standing three feet from the edge of the bed. A spike of pale blond hair stood up from the back of his head. "Do you know where my mom is?"

  "Uh … yeah. What time is it?"

  Beneath the militant-looking turtles covering his flannel pajama top, Tyler's shoulders rose to his ears. "I dunno. But there's a six and a four and a one on the clock."

  It was six-forty-one. Not quite the crack of dawn, but close enough.

  "She must still be at the hospital," Chase said, since the little boy obviously couldn't find her. "She said you can have cereal."

  "I'm not supposed to pour milk by myself. Mom said."

  "Mom said, huh?"

  The spike bounced with the little boy's confirming nod.

  "Then, I guess you'd better not do it," he mumbled and elbowed himself up to throw back the sheet.

  It seemed Alex had also said something about having the cereal dry. But as Chase dropped his foot over the edge of the bed, groggily noting that fewer body parts ached each day, he figured that was because she thought the kid would be getting it for himself.

  Needing coffee, he motioned to the dresser. "There's a pair of running shorts in the third drawer. If you'll grab them for me and bring me that T-shirt on the chair, I'll go get us both fixed up. Okay?"

  "Okay," Tyler echoed and marched to the dresser. "Is this one the third?"

  "One down."

  Tyler grinned. Spreading his arms to grip the handles, he tugged the drawer open.

  Smiling too, something he never did before coffee, Chase hauled himself into the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later, Tyler was on a stool at the island in the kitchen and Chase was edging himself and a mug of coffee down the counter. Carrying anything that he couldn't hold with his hand on the crutch grip was out of the question—which was why he'd had Tyler heft the milk from the fridge to the island and carry over the box of cereal and the bowl he'd handed him. Chase was on his own with the hot coffee, though. He didn't have to know anything about kids to know where it would end up if he asked Tyler to carry it and he'd told Alex not to worry about her little boy.

  Alex trusted him.

  The realization hit like a jolt from a live wire. She had to trust him. On some level, anyway. If she didn't, she never would have left her son with him.

  He wasn't sure why that should matter as much as it did. He wasn't even sure what it was about the realization that touched him. But he'd just become aware of something else that felt equally profound.

  He'd never in his life been responsible for another person until Alex had asked for his help.

  "We never stayed with anybody before you," he heard Tyler mumble around a mouthful of pastel-colored puffs. "We always have people stay at our house. Wendy had a baby and she stayed with us. An' Dr. Sarji. But she talked different and I couldn't understand her."

  In desperate need of coffee, Chase balanced himself to lift the mug. "She had an accent?" he ventured, making a careful swing from the counter to the island.

  "I dunno." Tyler's shoulders lifted in another ear-reaching shrug. "An' now we have Brent, 'cept he's going home 'cause he's getting better.

  "My mom makes people better," Tyler continued gravely. "'Cept she doesn't kiss owies on them. She only does that for me. I have one here."

  He poked his elbow up in the air, showing off a bright blue bandage. "Griffin hit me with his truck." Tugging his pajama sleeve back down, he reached for his glass. "Can I have more milk, please?"

  For a moment, Chase simply stared at the chalky film on the tumbler. Thinking he'd do better keeping up with the string of non sequiturs once the caffeine kicked in, he slid onto the stool beside Tyler, refilled the boy's glass, and picked up his coffee, cradling the steaming mug between his hands.

  Breathing in the life-giving aroma of the fresh brew, he reverently sipped.

  "Mom does that, too."

  "Does what?"

  "Closes her eyes and makes that sound when she drinks her coffee."

  "What sound?"

  "You know." The little boy closed his eyes and gave a long, deep sigh. When he opened his eyes again, he innocently turned his attention back to his oddly colored food. "That sound."

  Chase bit back a grin. "What else does your mom do?" he asked, conversationally.

  "She talks on the phone. An' she sings with me."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Uh-huh. She knows all the words, too."

  "Does she see anyone? A man, I mean?"

  Tyler nodded. "Sometimes."

  Chase's brow pinched. Not sure he liked the odd feeling in his chest, not caring to consider what it was, he casually murmured, "Who?"

  "Griffin's dad. An' Lia's dad. We go to Pizza Pete's."

  Lia's dad. Tanner.

  This time the smile formed. "Anyone else?"

  Tyler took a gulp of milk, shaking his head at the same time. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, apparently considering the subject either boring or closed, he set the glass down and said, "Can I watch a video?"

  "You didn't eat your cereal."

  "I'm full. Will you help me get dressed?"

  "I thought you wanted to watch TV?"

  "I do," the child said, looking as if he couldn't figure out why he'd think otherwise.

  "I guess," Chase replied, sounding a little confused himself. "Bring me your clothes. And a washcloth," he added, eyeing the half of the milk-moustache he'd missed.

  Tyler mumbled an obliging, "Okay." After nearly knocking the stool over when he jumped down, he scooped up the cat that had been peacefully licking its paws under a chair at the table and headed down the hall.

  Suddenly skeptical, not wanting it to show, Chase turned back to his coffee.

  Taking care of Tyler hadn't sounded like that big a deal at two in the morning. Listen for him. Feed him cereal. He could do that. All he'd really b
een thinking of anyway was that it didn't make any sense for Alex to have to hassle with the boy when she was in such a hurry already. Now, though, he was operating without a manual. She hadn't left any instructions beyond the cereal part.

  Figuring Tyler would know what he needed to do—hoping, anyway—he glanced at the clock on the stove. The market was open in New York. He should be calling his broker.

  Instead, he was pondering his first taste of just how much attention a child required.

  He should also be thinking about the property he was in the process of buying near the hospital, deciding if he should fly his architect down to give him some preliminary sketches for a medical building or if he should hire someone local.

  Instead, he was imagining Alex, sleep-tousled and sighing over her first sip of coffee in the morning—and wondering how she was holding up on so little sleep. He didn't know how she did it. Fixed people the way she did.

  My mom makes people better.

  He'd never dreamed he'd find a conversation with a four-year-old so intriguing.

  There had actually been a strange logic to the child's seemingly disjointed statements. A creative sort of segue from one topic to the next that was remarkably intelligent, if a guy thought about it. But despite Tyler's chattiness, he hadn't revealed anything of substance that Chase hadn't already known—or suspected—about his mom.

  Through the nurses at the hospital and his brothers, Chase had already known there was usually someone in need living in her guest room. And he knew from talking with Brent that Alex picked up the tab for some of her patients. The boy had told him his parents were only having to pay the hospital charges for the therapy. She wasn't charging at all for his office visits.

  It sounded as if Brent's family didn't know she was probably making up a portion of what she didn't charge from her own pocket. A medical practice was a business and the other associates in it wouldn't take kindly to someone who wasn't bringing in her share.

  He seriously doubted Alex ever saw what she did as a business, however. And, though no one who knew him would believe it, he was having a hard time thinking in terms of profit and loss himself lately. Alex was really good at taking care of people. She seemed to have a knack for zeroing in on a need and doing whatever she could to help. She knew how to help, too. But he was flying by the seat of his pants.

  He'd just remembered he needed to wake Brent when Tyler walked in carrying his clothes, one shoe and a dripping-wet washcloth.

  Battle stations, he mentally muttered and frowned at the trail of water drops on the floor. Figuring he'd just prioritize the way he'd seen Alex do and delegate the way he did, he had Tyler push a hand towel across the floor to mop up the water while he woke up Brent and got the teenager moving toward the shower.

  By the time he heard the front door open ten minutes later, the shower was running, Tyler was dressed and sprawled on the family-room sofa with the television headphones on and Chase was pouring himself a second cup of coffee.

  "I'm sorry I'm so late," Alex said in a rush, tossing the newspaper she'd picked up from the porch onto the counter as her eyes swept the room for signs of her son. "I have to get back, but I know you have therapy in an hour. I'll get Brent moving while you get ready. Is everything all right?"

  "Everything's fine."

  Chase stood at the counter, crutches under his arms and the shirt he'd worn yesterday hanging over a pair of jogging shorts. He was barefoot, unshaven and looked as if he'd been dragged from bed, which he probably had been. When she met his eyes, her only thought before she jerked her glance toward the family room was that he had no business looking that appealing.

  All she could see of her little boy over the sofa back was the top of his head and the black headset covering his ears. He was motionless, utterly transfixed by a curiously silent scene of careening cars and huge explosions. The carnage wasn't the sort of thing she normally let him watch, but she figured another minute of it wouldn't scar him too badly and headed for the coffeepot herself.

  She'd be fine as long as she didn't slow down. Alex reminded herself of that as she reached past Chase and took a mug from the cabinet above them. Her body clock had already worked past its sleep cycle and now that it was morning, all she needed was caffeine and a shower and she'd be good for the rest of the day.

  Most of it, anyway.

  Chase hadn't budged.

  Looking toward the biceps straining against the sleeve of his black T-shirt, she glanced past the stubble covering his jaw. She made it as far as the sensual line of his mouth before she decided she wasn't up to such close contact.

  "I need coffee."

  "I know. Here." Picking up her hand, ignoring the way she went still at his touch, he curved her fingers around his mug and took an empty one for himself.

  "You don't have to worry about Tyler," he said, over the splash of coffee being poured. "He's already dressed. We had a small debate over whether a blue-striped T-shirt went with green plaid shorts and settled on tan and olive." The carafe slid into place with a quick click of glass against metal. "I explained that a man is usually better off to play it safe with fashion and save the risks for the stock market."

  The faintest hint of a smile lit his eyes when he saw her breathe in the scent of her coffee and glance back up. But that light vanished as his glance swept her face. He wasn't checking her out so much as he was checking her over, and that made his thorough perusal incredibly intimate despite the matter-of-fact tone of his voice.

  "He's washed, clothed and fed. Not necessarily in that order and mostly what he had was milk. Brent should be getting out of the shower any minute," he went on, sounding as if he were delivering a report. "He asked if we could hit a McDonald's for breakfast on the way to therapy, so that's what we'll do. All your bases are covered."

  He had everything under control? "You dressed Tyler?"

  With everything she had on her mind—the patients she'd left, the office calls waiting for her, the way he'd slowly, systematically robbed her of her senses last night—the thought that nearly everything she needed to do at the house was already done seemed too incongruous to comprehend.

  She must have looked as baffled as she felt.

  "We managed," he muttered. "I might not know much about kids, but I didn't break him or anything."

  "That's not what I meant," she murmured, apologizing. He was feeling good about what he'd done. She hadn't meant to ruin that for him. "I just didn't expect you to go to so much trouble."

  "It wasn't any trouble." Seeing her rub her temple, the defense left his tone. "He wanted to get dressed and I figured it would be easier for you if he was ready when you got here. There was no sense in you worrying about Brent, either."

  She saw his glance cut to the family room. Seeing that Tyler was still occupied, he reached out and nudged back the bangs brushing her eyebrow.

  "Take your coffee and go get your shower," he said, letting his hand fall. "I'll keep an eye on him until you're out."

  Any other time, she might have marveled at how easily he stepped in when she needed help. But as she stood there, fighting the fatigue she couldn't afford to acknowledge, all she could do was wonder if he knew how much it meant that he'd done something just to make things easier for her—and if he used that knowledge to his advantage.

  Don't you ever suspect ulterior motives?

  What she was thinking wasn't like her at all. She couldn't believe she was questioning a kindness. Yet, the more she tried to shake the thought, the tighter it clung. She knew what a cynic he was. She knew he believed people showed consideration out of obligation or to serve a purpose. She was where she was at that very moment because he'd felt obligated over her help with his brothers.

  Not caring to consider what his purpose might be, just grateful for the help, she shoved the thoughts aside. She didn't have the time or the energy to worry about it right now. Needing to conserve both, she stepped away just as Chase slid his mug down the counter.

  Seeing where he
wanted to go with it, she reached for the mug herself.

  "I'll get it," she murmured, and, avoiding his eyes, she set his coffee beside the newspaper. Moments later, aware of his speculative glance on her back, she took a quick detour to kiss the top of her son's head before heading for the shower to let hot water melt the knots in her neck.

  Those knots had cloned themselves by the time she tucked Tyler into bed twelve hours later and traded her clothes for her favorite sleepshirt.

  She hadn't talked to Chase when she'd come in. He'd been in the study with someone. A man in a suit, Brent had said when the boy had surfaced from MTV long enough to assure her that he'd had more than the package of chips on the counter for dinner.

  The man was apparently leaving now, though. Brent had mercifully turned off the television and gone to bed to read when she had returned to the kitchen a few moments ago. In the blessed silence, she could hear muffled male voices drifting from the entry as she searched the kitchen cabinets.

  She wasn't hungry. She'd downed a carton of yogurt on the run a few hours ago. What she needed was aspirin.

  She was a doctor. She could write prescriptions for the most powerful painkillers available to modern man. And she would barter everything but her soul and her son for the synthetic derivative of willow bark.

  She was on her sixth cabinet when she heard the front door close.

  She'd just given up and headed for the sink to get a glass of water when Chase swung himself through the archway.

  He stopped when he saw her, a mountain of hesitation in cargo shorts and an indigo polo shirt that made his eyes look as blue as a lake.

  "I'd ask how you're doing," he said, his glance narrowing as he moved toward her, "but it's not necessary. I don't suppose you caught a couple of hours' sleep today, did you?"

  She was as pale as a snowbank. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue. "Unfortunately, no." Dragging her fingers through her hair, she turned to the sink with the empty glass she held. "I used to be better at this. I could go three days without sleep. Now, I'm toast after two."

  Bright light bounced off the white porcelain, blinding as a strobe. Instead of reaching for the faucet, she reached for the light switch above the counter and flipped off the task light. With the glare cut by half, she filled the glass.