The Holiday Triplets

by Jacqueline Diamond

Irritation surged inside Sam. She’d put a lot of effort into helping Candy. The least the girl could do was hang on to her paperwork.

  That wasn’t fair. Candy’s system must be flooded with hormones and she faced a tremendous amount of adjusting. Regretting her moment of impatience, Sam asked, “Do you want me to come by tonight?”

  “No, thanks,” Jon said. “A bunch of my friends will be coming over to play with them.”

  That didn’t sound like a good idea. “If you’ll check the discharge instructions, you’ll see that newborns are very vulnerable to infection. Especially during flu season, we recommend that only family interact with them.”

  He drew himself up, offended. “My friends aren’t infected with anything.”

  Sam reminded herself that these babies belonged to their parents now. She had to let them go. “Just be careful.”

  The young man appeared to teeter on the edge of arguing, but Candy’s warning glance apparently dissuaded him. “Okay, maybe just a few friends. And they’ll wash their hands and wear those paper masks the nurse gave us for visitors.”

  He was showing better judgment already, Samantha reflected. Lots of new parents were young and inexperienced. “You’ll do fine. I’ll see them for their checkup on Friday, okay?”

  Candy nodded and, at her signal, a volunteer pushed the elevator call button. While they waited, Sam gazed down at the little ones. She sympathized with Connie as the underdog, but Courtney’s intense expression gave the impression of a little mother hen in the making.

  Of the trio, Colin had the strongest grip on Sam’s finger and held her gaze for a fraction of a second longer. She’d have sworn he recognized her, but then, why shouldn’t he? She’d spent a lot of time around the babies since their birth.

  But they weren’t hers anymore. Never had been, really.

  Then, with the whisper of wheels and the brush of footsteps, they were gone, the double doors closing out her last glimpse of the group.

  Samantha stood clenching and unclenching her fists, feeling ridiculously bereft.

  MARK FOLDED AWAY HIS CELL phone. There went a perfectly good Saturday afternoon golf game. Tony, the hospital attorney had cancelled to spend the day with his fiancée, planning their wedding. Earlier, Jared Sellers had begged off in order to fill in for an ailing colleague who was signed up to perform newborn hearing and vision screenings at a health fair.

  An afternoon on the links would have provided a welcome release after the week’s pressures. Mark supposed he could show up at the course and join some random group, but once strangers found out he was a doctor, they tended to interrupt his concentration asking for medical advice.

  Rounding a corner in the hospital hallway, he paused at the sight of Samantha, shoulders slumped and strands of hair escaping her ponytail. Although she stood in front of the elevator, neither button was lit.

  The events of this week obviously weighed on her. He wished she didn’t have to deal with that business about the counseling clinic on top of her medical issues.

  When he started forward, his footsteps rang out. At the sound, Sam’s spine straightened.

  Mark drew alongside. “Up or down?”

  Her puzzled glance resolved into a look of understanding as she eyed the buttons. “Down.” He pressed.

  “Don’t tell me you’re done for the day,” she said. “So early? Oh, wait! Golf with Tony, right?”

  “He cancelled. Sellers, too.”

  “Poor Mark. Abandoned by your friends.”

  “You don’t play, do you?” That would be almost too convenient. Mark suspected Sam would golf with the same fierce competitiveness she displayed in her work. Still, he’d be willing to give it a shot.

  She shook her head. “Never learned.”

  “I could teach you.”

  The elevator opened. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “Such gratitude,” he kidded as they got in.

  “I am grateful. To be alive and healthy.” She didn’t sound very happy, though.

  He was well aware of Candy’s release a few minutes earlier, since he’d signed off on her medical condition. The departure of those three precious little ones had clearly added to Sam’s slump. “You think those kids will rise to the demands of parenting?”

  “I have to hope so. Candy’s a good person underneath, but she comes from a dysfunctional background. She tends to be impulsive and short-tempered, and so does Jon.” Samantha blew out a long breath. “All the more reason to have people around them who will offer support rather than criticism.”

  Her comment reminded him of his sister. “I grew up with people who wreaked havoc and left it for others to clean up. Support is fine, but there have to be limits.”

  “I probably set those limits a bit further out than you do.” They emerged on the first floor and headed toward the staff exit. “But I’m not an enabler, if that’s what you think.”

  An enabler, in substance-abuse terms, was a person who helped a loved one continue self-destructive behavior by easing or removing the consequences. “There’s a fine line between enabling and caring,” he told her. “I ought to know. I’ve crossed it.”

  “You?” Her eyebrows rose. “You never seem to have trouble enforcing the rules.”

  Mark preferred to keep his family troubles private. Still, Samantha had wept in his arms and shared her grief. Plus, he could use some objective feedback about his sister. He’d spent a lot of time since yesterday thinking about her call.

  “You walking home?” he asked. Although he didn’t recall Sam’s address, they occasionally arrived on foot at the same time, so her house must be close by. She nodded.

  “Mind some company?”

  “Not at all. And I promise I won’t harangue you about work unless you deserve it, which depends completely on you.”

  “I promise to be utterly blameless and saintly,” Mark announced as they walked past the parking lot.

  “Sounds boring.” Her mouth curved in an impish grin.

  There was nothing boring or saintly about his reaction to that teasing smile. For the sake of his own peace of mind, Mark seized on the first neutral topic that occurred to him. “How are plans coming for the Christmas party?”

  “I have volunteers handling the decorations and the music. The theme is ‘A Hot and Happy Christmas’—carols set to a salsa beat, Santa draped in a red-and-white serape. You’ll be there, right?”

  He nodded. “I may bring a guest.”

  Sam missed a step. He caught her arm as she stumbled, holding her tightly until she regained her balance. The sudden motion sent a few more wisps of hair tickling around her forehead. Irritated, she yanked on the covered elastic as if to pull it off. Instead, it stuck fast.

  “Ow!” She added a few pediatrician-appropriate swear words, “Doggone! Blast it,” while pulling on the rubbery cord. All she achieved was to get the thing tangled even more tightly in her hair. “I should have just left it alone. Now it’s stuck. Got a pair of scissors?”

  “You aren’t going to cut off your beautiful hair, are you?” he asked in dismay. There went one of his favorite fantasies, the two of them entwined in bed with Sam on top, blond waves curtaining him.

  Just as well. He normally made a point of not fantasizing about anyone he worked with.

  She winced. “No, I didn’t mean for my hair. I need to cut off the elastic.”

  In his pocket, Mark’s hand closed around his multi-function pocketknife. Not only could he snip the elastic, he could uncork a wine bottle, file his nails and probably shoe a horse if he really had to. But he’d much rather spend time talking to Sam than leafing through medical journals, so…

  He slipped an empty hand out of his pocket. “I have several pairs of surgical scissors at my house. I suspect that’s pretty much en route to yours. And I happen to stock excellent coffee.”

  Sam regarded him speculatively. “Any chocolates? I passed up having a muffin with my friends. Now I’m feeling deprived.”

  “I have a bo
x in the freezer. Several, in fact.” Patients went overboard at holidays with gifts of candy, which he saved for special occasions. “I’d like to use them up before the next round of gift-giving.”

  “Dark chocolate with nuts?” she queried.

  “Plenty. Just don’t mess with my caramel centers.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of messing with your caramel centers.” She gave her hair one last tweak. “I can’t fix this myself, so you’re on, Doc.”

  Taking this desirable woman home with him might not be the wisest move he’d ever made, Mark reflected as they set out again. But for some reason, he felt reckless enough to find out what might happen when he did.

  Chapter Five

  Samantha had no idea where this other woman had come from. Not the one Mark might be bringing to the Christmas party—she refused to yield to the jealousy-tinged curiosity nipping at her about that individual—but the one she herself had become. She’d walked into Mark’s large cul-de-sac home, surveyed the spare, clean lines of his living room and immediately pictured it stuffed with her flowery sofa and chairs, along with her collection of colored glassware.

  “That’s the real problem,” she said aloud.

  Beside her, Mark pulled off his tie and tossed it over the back of a modern chair so low it nearly didn’t have a back. He ignored the way the tie slipped onto the seat. “What, exactly?”

  “I’m not sure who I am anymore.” There, she’d put into words the issue that had been driving her crazy.

  “Well, that’s a relief.” He tossed his jacket after the tie.

  As it slid down, too, a trace of his ubermasculine pheromones wafted toward her. Sam could have sworn her brain was floating a few inches above its usual position. “Why?” she managed to ask.

  He sent her a lazy grin. “I thought you were about to comment that I decorate like a guy who ran through Ikea throwing items into a shopping cart. Which is basically what happened.”

  “It’s nothing a froufrou addict like me couldn’t fix,” she said, distracted by the possibility that he might actually enjoy having some of her stuff…no, wait. Back to reality.

  “So what’s this about not being sure who you are?” He swung a leg over the arm of the couch and sat there, invitingly rumpled.

  “I felt impatient with Candy, who’s just a kid, after all. I keep thinking about the children I should have had, instead of about the counseling clinic. It’s like I’ve turned into a…what are these for?” She stopped pacing to study the sleek, ash-colored cabinets built against one wall. Why had Mark outfitted his living room as if it were a storage facility?

  Unable to resist, she opened one. Empty.

  Sam couldn’t imagine owning cabinets like these and not filling them up. The world was full of so many pretty things.

  “They came with the house,” he told her. “I only bought it a couple of years ago. Haven’t had a chance to put my stamp on the place yet.”

  “It has your stamp on it,” she shot back. “A stamp that reads, Nobody’s Home.”

  His expression turned mischievous. “Is that any way to talk to the man who’s going to be holding a pair of scissors close to your hair?”

  “I should call Kate.”

  “Tony’s fiancée?”

  “She’s also my hairdresser, or used to be.”

  “You don’t need a hairdresser—you need a shrink,” he observed with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Because I’m having a crisis?” She hated feeling disheveled and out of sorts while Mark remained maddeningly cool. “Which you helped cause.”

  He raised his hands in protest. “You’re not the only person with goals and dreams around here, Sam. Besides, you’ve always known that the fertility center was the hospital’s priority. Your project was a mere afterthought.”

  He had a point, one she didn’t feel up to debating, not in her light-headed condition. “You promised to feed me.”

  “Are you certain you want to risk eating here? Remember Greek mythology. If you eat or drink anything in Hades, you may be stuck there forever.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “But fun to be around.”

  Someone had to wipe the amusement off his face, so Sam did the only thing she could think of. She walked over and kissed him.

  He caught her arms and anchored her there. What started as a gentle exploration deepened, his tongue catching the edge of her teeth, her hands sliding across his shirt and feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

  He did some exploring of his own, thumbs tracing the edge of her breasts and smoothing across the swell to reach the hard nubs. When she arched instinctively, he tasted the pulse of her throat, and her blood turned to steaming lava.

  Speaking of a hot Christmas, this was quite a preview…or was she having a hot flash? That unpleasant prospect thumped Sam out of her trance. Come to think of it, all of her symptoms might be due to menopause. Wooziness, loss of concentration, cravings…

  She retreated beyond the reach of his arms. “Well, that cleared my head.”

  He studied her questioningly. “My head doesn’t feel clear at all.”

  Her breasts ached for more of his touch, and her lips tingled. “I think we went way off track there.”

  “Maybe we should try it again and see if it helps us find the right path.”

  She closed her eyes and registered the sensations rampaging through her nervous system. “I’m tempted, yes,” she decided. “Insane, no.”

  “Samantha, did you have anything to drink this morning?” His joking manner shaded into wariness.

  “Nothing stronger than coffee,” she said.

  “Are you taking medication?”

  “I’m not high.” She bristled. “Why would you even think that?”

  Mark uncoiled from the sofa. “I apologize. The person I mentioned who might accompany me to the Christmas party is my sister, who’s a recovering alcoholic. And frankly, I don’t trust her claim about being sober. Guess I was projecting.”

  In fairness, he’d had good reason to ask. “I have been acting ditzy,” Sam admitted. “And I’m sorry to hear about your sister. I had no idea.”

  “Lots of people have skeletons in the closet.” He led the way to the kitchen. “My closet happens to be a veritable boneyard.”

  “Your closets were empty.”

  “My metaphorical closets are stuffed to the gills.”

  He’d always struck her as the soul of stability. “I thought your father was a doctor, like my folks. I pictured you growing up normal.”

  “And you consider physicians’ children normal?” Although he’d turned away to measure coffee, the tilt of his head indicated he awaited her return volley.

  “We may be a bit high-handed.” She took a seat at the table. “Also impatient when a man reputed to be an excellent surgeon can’t manage to extract a simple rubber band that’s eating my head.”

  That remark brought a deep, rich laugh. “One band-ectomy coming up.” After clicking the coffeemaker into action, Mark examined the contents of a drawer. He selected a small pair of sharp scissors and approached with caution. “I’m not used to doing this without a nurse. Perhaps a whole surgical team.”

  “I could give Lori a call.”

  “Too late.” Setting the scissors on the table, he lifted the tangle of hair. With scarcely a tug on Sam’s scalp, strong, deft fingers cleared away loose strands, freeing as much of the band as possible. The gentle strokes felt like caresses.

  In the quiet room, she heard the rush of his breathing. Even facing away, she could detail the muscular length of Mark’s body and picture the set of his jaw. She’d watched him perform surgery a few times on complicated cases, and she knew the intensity of his gaze and the way his lips pressed into a firm line.

  Snip. One cut must not have been enough, because the scissors snicked again. Then, with the merest of pinches, he plucked out the remnants of the band, and thick waves brushed the nape of her neck.

  “Good job,” Samantha said. />
  “You haven’t seen it yet.”

  “I can tell. You have talented hands.”

  “So I’m told.” He came into view, discarding a pathetic clump of elastic and hair into a wastebasket. After washing up, he fetched a box of chocolates from the freezer. “These don’t take long to defrost.”

  “Have you done this before?” she asked, bemused, as he took out mugs and plates. “Eaten junk for lunch?”

  “I frequently eat junk for lunch.”

  “Just curious.” Normally, she’d be on her feet, pouring coffee and helping set the table. But today, she felt an unusual lassitude, which translated into an inability to budge. “Just show me the contents, will you? Of your cabinets.”

  “My cabinets?”

  “I’m curious. They aren’t bare, are they?”

  “Certainly not.” Obligingly, he opened one. She cataloged a couple of china plates, neatly stacked, three cups bearing the logos of charitable organizations, four glasses and a lot of open shelving.

  “That’s disgusting,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “Empty space. Don’t you get a burning desire to swing by a yard sale and check out the goods?”

  Coffee, chocolates and Mark joined her at the table. “I can safely say that urge hasn’t seized me, not once.”

  “You’re urge-free?”

  “Of the desire to shop at yard sales? Yes.” He studied her across the table. “Where do you find the time?”

  “Mostly while I’m supposed to be exercising,” she admitted. “Mark, do you want kids?”

  His dark eyebrows met in the middle. “Are you offering to have my child?”

  “As if I could.” She shook her head ruefully. Why had she asked him that? Because, she supposed, she wanted to know more about him. Although they worked together and could probably finish many of each other’s sentences, she hadn’t been aware until today that he had a sister, let alone an alcoholic one.

  “I’m doing the world a favor by not having kids.”

  What on earth motivated him to say such a thing? “You have to be joking.”

  He shook his head. “My genes are nothing to brag about. Neither is my schedule.”