by Irene Hannon
She wanted to shout out that order, but her throat hurt too much to talk, let alone yell. It felt as if someone had taken sandpaper to it. Besides, whoever was at the door probably wouldn’t hear her from her second-floor bedroom even if she could holler at full volume.
She’d fallen back asleep immediately after Edith’s phone call, so she had no clue how much time had elapsed. But based on the angle of the sun slanting through the sheer curtains, it was still early.
Too early for visitors.
Except this one didn’t seem to realize that, she concluded wearily as the bell chimed again. Nor did her persistent caller appear to have any intention of going away.
With a resigned sigh, she swung her legs to the floor and snagged the ratty velour bathrobe that had wrapped her in its fleecy warmth and comforted her through many a cold, lonely Chicago evening. Shrugging into it, she shuffled down the hall on unsteady legs and took the stairs one at a time, clinging to the banister.
Whoever had parked a finger against the doorbell was going to get an earful, she resolved, gritting her teeth.
Flipping the deadbolt, she tugged on the door and opened her mouth, prepared to give her visitor a piece of her mind.
But the words died in her throat as she came face-to-face with a tall, thirtyish man holding a black bag.
It was the preppy guy from the restaurant. The one who’d given her the blatant perusal.
She shut her mouth and stared.
He stared back.
When the silence lengthened, he cleared his throat. “Marci Clay?”
She gave a tiny nod.
“I’m Christopher Morgan. Edith called about me stopping by to…uh…check you out.” His face grew ruddy, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “She said you weren’t feeling well.”
The guy who’d ogled her legs was the doctor Edith had offered to send over? A shiver rippled through Marci, and she edged back.
“I’m okay.” She tightened her grip on the door and started to ease it closed. No way did she want this jerk anywhere near her.
“You don’t look okay.”
Given how she felt, she figured that was the understatement of the century.
“I asked Edith to tell you not to bother.” The words scraped painfully against her raw throat.
“And I told her this was your lucky day. Two house calls for the price of one.” The ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “You can’t pass up a bargain like that.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “No one does house calls anymore. Especially for free.”
“I do. On occasion.” He examined her flushed face. “What’s your temperature?”
She lifted one shoulder. “I haven’t looked for a thermometer yet.”
“I could save you the trouble. I have a disposable one in my bag.”
Marci studied the thin blue stripes on his white dress shirt as she debated her next move. She wasn’t keen about getting up close and personal with this guy, but if she wanted to fulfill her obligations at The Devon Rose she needed medical attention. And in light of her shaky finances and bare-bones health insurance, free sounded awfully good.
“Look…about Saturday night. I’m sorry I stared.”
Surprised he’d broached that subject—and taken aback by the apologetic tone in his baritone voice—she lifted her chin. And noticed several things she’d missed on Saturday. Eyes as blue as the Nantucket sea on a sunny day. Shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the heaviest of loads. A firm chin that conveyed strength and resolve. Light brown hair sprinkled with the merest hint of silver at the temples. And fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes that spoke of caring and compassion.
Her attitude toward him softened a fraction.
“I want you to know I’m not generally that rude.” His gaze held hers, steady and sincere. “My mother raised me to treat women with respect, and I didn’t do that Saturday night. Please forgive me.”
Was this guy for real? Marci scrutinized him for any sign of deceit, any indication that this was a standard line. And she’d heard plenty of those in her life. But unless this guy was a world-class actor, he meant what he’d said. He truly was sorry. And he hadn’t been too proud or arrogant or conceited to admit his mistake.
In other words, he was a gentleman.
Not a species she’d often run across in her world.
The question was, how did one deal with a man like this? She was far more used to tossing sassy comebacks at guys who flirted with her at Ronnie’s, where she often spent as much of her shift deflecting advances as she did taking orders and delivering food, than she was to accepting apologies from gentlemen.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. So why not let me make amends? I can check out your temperature, get a little history, maybe figure out what’s wrong. Edith tells me you’re planning to manage The Devon Rose for the next couple of weeks, and it’s obvious you’re in no shape to do that right now. Helping get you back on your feet is the least I can do after my faux pas on Saturday.”
Interesting how he’d positioned his assistance as a favor to him, Marci mused, leaning against the edge of the door as a sudden weariness swept over her. His offer sounded good, but there had to be a catch. There always was.
The man’s eyes narrowed, and instead of waiting for her to respond, he stepped in. Literally. Taking her arm in a firm but gentle grip, he edged her back into the spacious foyer, shut the door with his shoulder and led her to a straight chair beside the steps.
“Where can I wash my hands?”
She motioned toward the restroom in what had once been the butler’s pantry, unwilling to irritate her throat by speaking.
As he strode across the hardwood floor and disappeared through the dining room archway, she let her head drop back against the wall beneath the stairs that wound to the second floor. In general, high-handed men riled her. Yet despite his take-charge manner, Christopher Morgan came across as caring and competent rather than autocratic. Besides, she couldn’t afford to take offense. She needed to get well, and it would be foolish to pass up free medical help.
But if he pulled out a stethoscope and aimed for her chest, she intended to smack him.
Talk about weird coincidences.
As Christopher washed his hands, drying them on one of the disposable guest towels beside the sink in the rest room, he wondered what the odds were of crossing paths again with the woman in the restaurant.
They had to be minuscule.
Unless more than chance was involved.
So often in the past, occurrences he’d written off as coincidence had turned out, in retrospect, to be part of God’s plan for him. This could be one of them. Perhaps it was best to put the situation in the Lord’s hands.
As he approached the foyer, his shoes silent on the large Chinese area rug in the dining room, he saw that Marci’s head was resting against the wall, exposing the slender, delicate column of her throat. Her eyes were closed, the curve of her long lashes sweeping her cheeks in a graceful arc.
His step faltered. On Saturday, he’d been distracted by her great figure and fabulous legs, but today they were camouflaged by a worn, faded pink robe that covered her neck to toes—and directed his attention to her face. Her halo of blond hair softened a chin that was a tad too sharp, while well-defined cheekbones gave her features a slight angular appearance, adding a dash of character that kept her from being just another Kewpie-doll blonde. Full, appealing lips completed the picture.
In other words, Marci Clay was the kind of woman who would catch any man’s eye.
But perhaps not for the right reasons, Christopher acknowledged. And her reaction to his appreciative perusal Saturday night indicated she knew that.
Her eyelids fluttered open, propelling him forward. If she caught him staring again, he suspected she’d hustle him out the door faster than a sand crab could scuttle back to its hole.
That suspicion was confirmed by the wariness in her deep green irises as he approached. While he c
ouldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that sparked in their depths as he pulled up a chair beside her, he did his best to ignore them.
Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he withdrew a disposable thermometer from his bag and tore off the wrapping. “Open up. We’ll have a reading in sixty seconds.”
He slid it under her tongue, and as they waited he took her wrist to check her pulse. Strong, if a bit fast. No problem there. He was more concerned about the subtle tremors beneath his fingertips. They could be due to weakness. More likely, though, they were fever-related chills. From the heat seeping through his glove, he knew he wasn’t going to like her temperature.
Withdrawing the thermometer, he checked the reading. The number didn’t surprise him. “A hundred and two.”
She grimaced.
After slipping the thermometer into a small waste bag, he gave her his full attention. “Any idea what’s going on?”
She shook her head.
“When did this start?”
“Yesterday.”
“Anything hurt?”
“Throat.”
“Any other symptoms?”
Again she shook her head.
Withdrawing a tongue depressor and penlight from his bag, he scooted closer to her. “Let’s have a look.”
As she opened her mouth, he inserted the tongue depressor and flashed the light to the back of her throat. Swelling and severe inflammation. Depositing the depressor in the waste bag, he reached over to gently feel the lymph nodes in her neck. Puffy.
She winced and tried to pull away. “Hurts.”
“Sorry.” He let her go and leaned back. “I think we may be dealing with a case of strep throat.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, and he watched her lashes grow spiky with moisture.
“Hey, it’s not the end of the world.” To his surprise, the reassurance came out soft and husky. He cleared his throat. “You’ll be back on your feet in a few days with the right care.”
“I don’t have a few days.” She opened her eyes, blinking away the tears as she rasped out the shaky words.
He heard the panic in her voice and knew she was thinking about her duties at The Devon Rose.
“We’ll get you well as fast as we can, okay?”
“Wednesday?”
He’d have liked to say yes, but he couldn’t lie. “I doubt it.”
“When?”
“Why don’t we verify the strep diagnosis first?” Once more he turned to his bag, pulling out a small kit. “This is a rapid strep test. It will give us an answer in a few minutes. I see quite a few pediatric patients in my family practice, so I always have one of these with me. They come in handy, especially for the younger set. Not that you’re over the hill, by any means.” He smiled, trying to put her at ease as he set up the test.
The ploy didn’t work. She eyed his preparations and gestured toward the kit. “How much?”
It took a moment for him to grasp that she was asking the price of the test. As Edith had implied, money must be tight.
“I get free samples all the time. I try to pass that benefit on to my patients.” While that was true, this kit wasn’t a freebie. But she didn’t have to know that.
Without giving her a chance to pursue the subject, he instructed her to open her mouth again and proceeded to swipe her throat with a long cotton swab. When he finished, he dipped the swab in a solution and placed a few drops on a test strip.
“While we wait for the results, let’s assume it’s strep and talk about treatment.” He peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the waste bag. “Do you have any medicine allergies?”
She shook her head.
“Good. Let’s go with penicillin.” He started to pull a prescription pad out of his pocket.
“Won’t this…” She stopped. Swallowed. Winced. “Won’t this go away by itself?”
The money thing again, he realized.
“Yes. Usually in three to seven days.” Leaving the prescription pad in his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Maybe I’ll get lucky, and it will be gone in three days.” She pulled her robe tighter as a shiver rippled through her.
“Maybe. But antibiotics shorten the time you’re contagious.”
“By how much?”
“Most people stop being contagious twenty-four to forty-eight hours after they begin treatment. Without the pills, you could pass germs for two to three weeks, even if your symptoms go away. Not the best scenario in a restaurant.”
As he checked the test strip, he tried to think of a diplomatic way to offer further assistance. Flipping it toward her, he indicated the test window. “Positive.”
She groaned, and her expression grew bleak.
Dropping the strip into the waste bag, he sealed the top. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a few samples of penicillin that will get you started.” He removed a packet of four pills from his bag and handed them to her. “On my way back from the hospital later, I’ll swing by my office and raid the sample closet. I think I can come up with enough to see you through. That way you won’t have to run out to a pharmacy to get a prescription filled and spread germs all over town. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for creating a public-health menace.” He tried another grin.
It didn’t work.
Marci fingered the sample packet, her manner once more wary. “I’m not in the habit of accepting favors.”
At her suspicious look, he concluded that other men who’d done favors for her had expected a payback.
The thought sickened him.
“No strings attached, okay?” He held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe that not all men were crass or untrustworthy.
She searched his eyes, and after a few seconds he detected an almost imperceptible softening in her features.
“Do you have any over-the-counter medicine in the house that will help with the fever? Aspirin, ibuprofen?” Picking up his bag, he rose.
She looked up at him from beneath those impossibly long lashes and nodded.
“Take them on a regular basis. Drink lots of water. Rest. I’ll leave the samples hanging on your doorknob after my shift in the E.R. That way I won’t disturb you if you’re resting.”
He headed toward the door, and she trailed behind him. Pausing on the threshold, he withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you feel worse, or things don’t improve by tomorrow, call me.”
A few seconds ticked by as she read the card. Blinked. Swallowed. Lifting her chin, she looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”
The expression of gratitude was delivered in a soft, shy tone that revealed an unexpected—and touching—vulnerability.
On Saturday night, he’d been drawn to her physical appearance. But right now he found her appealing in a different way. Although she was a little thing—a good eight or nine inches shorter than his six-foot frame, he estimated—she radiated a quiet strength and dignity that he sensed had been hard-earned. Marci Clay, he suspected was a survivor.
Yet that didn’t jibe with the air of defeat and distress he’d picked up from her on Saturday.
So perhaps he was misjudging her character—as he’d misjudged Denise’s.
That was a sobering thought.
Easing back a step, he gave her a brief, professional smile. “No problem. This is what being a doctor is supposed to be about. Now get some rest and take your medicine. You should feel much better by tomorrow. And if all goes well, I expect you can be back on the job by Thursday.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he descended the porch steps and strode toward Edith’s house, where he’d left his car.
As he set his bag on the backseat, he glanced toward The Devon Rose. The door was closed, but he detected a movement behind the lace curtain that screened the drawing room from the scrutiny of passersby. Had Marci been watching him?
The possibility pleased him—for reasons he didn’t care to examine.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he sent
a quick look toward Edith’s house. And noticed the same phenomenon: a movement behind the sheer curtains at her living-room window. Had the older woman been observing him, too?
Considering the gleam he’d noticed earlier in her eyes, that notion didn’t please him. On the contrary, it made him uncomfortable.
Edith Shaw was gaining a reputation as a matchmaker, thanks to her part in pairing two couples in the past two years. And he did not want to be her next victim.
Even if she had her sights set on a match as lovely as Marci Clay.
Chapter Two
“The Devon Rose.”
“Marci? It’s J.C.”
“J.C.!” Setting aside a measuring cup, Marci tucked the phone closer to her ear and gave her brother her full attention. “How’s Paris?”
“Romantic.”
She grinned. “I’ll bet. And how’s Heather?”
“Happy. Gorgeous. Irresistible.”
A female giggle sounded in the background, followed by a chuckle from J.C. Marci smiled. It was good to hear her big brother sounding lighthearted. He’d had more than enough worry to last a lifetime.
“Tell her I said hi.”
“Will do. How’s everything going?”
“Good. I’m whipping up a batch of scones from her recipe as we speak.”
No way did Marci intend to tell them she’d been sick. They deserved a carefree honeymoon. Besides, the penicillin had vanquished the strep throat in less than forty-eight hours. While she hadn’t yet regained full strength, Christopher Morgan’s prediction that she’d be back on the job by Thursday appeared to be coming true. She’d let Edith and Julie handle the tearoom today, but now that the last of their Wednesday guests had departed, she felt well enough to do a little baking.
“I told Heather you’d breeze through. But you know how to reach us if you need us.”
“Your itinerary and contact numbers are taped to the fridge. I check them every morning so I can live your European tour vicariously. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to the real thing.” She tried for a teasing tone, but couldn’t quite pull it off. The truth of the statement was too depressing.
“Hey, your turn will come.”