“And when you’re dead on your feet. Come on. I’ll take you home. I don’t like you driving like this.”
The one thing that could snap her entirely out of her exhausted stupor, other than discovering that he’d been there all day waiting to see her again, was the renewed suggestion that she couldn’t safely get herself from Point A to Point B.
She frowned. “Didn’t we cover this last night? I can drive myself.”
Exasperated sigh. “Yes, of course you can, Superwoman. But why not let someone else take care of you for a couple of hours? Haven’t you earned that after your nightmare shift?”
Her tendency to bristle struggled with her growing desire to surrender to this time with him and let someone else take the reins for a while.
“First of all, I prefer Wonder Woman,” she said. “She’s way more powerful. No one really knows who Superwoman is.”
His lips twitched. “A thousand pardons.”
“Second, you have a way of barking out orders and making decisions for both of us that’s a little heavy-handed.” She crossed her arms and frowned. “Maybe that worked with your men in Afghanistan, but do I look like one of your soldiers?”
He gave her a bemused yet heated once-over that stripped away her jeans and long-sleeved tee and left her all woman.
“I’m well aware of who you are,” he said silkily. “Let me assure you.”
Melody shivered involuntarily. If only that voice didn’t dance over her skin like that.
“Great.” Her voice sounded husky, so she had to clear it. “So maybe we should try this whole thing again with a different approach?”
Unmistakable respect gleamed bright in those eyes.
“Let me rephrase, Dr. Harrison. It would be my great pleasure to do this one small thing for you—and perhaps cook you dinner—before I leave late tonight. I want to spend more time with you. You know that.”
Still no please or even a request in there, but the sincerity went a long way toward mollifying her. As did his absolute focus while he waited for her answer.
Even so, she was no dummy and this wasn’t her first rodeo.
“It’s too soon for us to have sex. You know that, right?”
She’d expected a wheedle or a negotiation, something to get that door cracked open just a bit.
What she did not expect?
“Absolutely,” he said with a finality that far exceeded hers. “When we make love for the first time, the event will own that day. It won’t be a secondary distraction to something else that happened. Or the result of anything other than us wanting to fuck each other into oblivion. Don’t you agree?”
12
Melody ushered Anthony into her apartment a little while later.
He tried not to behave like a shepherd from the Scottish Highlands visiting London’s glittering West End for the first time, but it was hard.
Her building overlooked the river. He felt certain that the view on the other side of the sheer panels covering her windows would be breathtaking in the daytime. But he hadn’t come for the view. He’d come to learn anything he could about the beautiful and fascinating Dr. Melody Harrison.
And the doctor had been on spectacular display today, hadn’t she? The scrubs. The lab coat. The ferocious dedication to her patients. The heartbreak when she couldn’t save one of them.
The sight of her in her natural habitat at the hospital this morning had damn near given him a hard-on. As did the sight of her here in her apartment.
As did pretty much everything about her that he’d discovered thus far, come to that.
She led him through the foyer, clicking on lights as she went, and into the vaulted living room that flowed into a high-end and spotless kitchen. He noted everything with greedy interest, skimming over the furniture (black and gray, straight out of some decorating magazine) and zeroing in on the things that said Melody lived there.
A basket full of medical journals on a side table. A bookshelf full of popular fiction including, he saw with great interest, several of his favorite John Grisham legal thrillers. A pair of fuzzy slippers placed side-by-side under the coffee table. A bag of pretzels, neatly sealed with a clip, within easy reach of the television remote. A Taurus mug with a dangling tea bag (English breakfast, sure enough) and a framed Eleanor Roosevelt quote on the wall: “Do one thing every day that scares you.” A half-burned candle on the mantel explained the faint outdoorsy scent, and several logs, neatly stacked in the hearth, promised a fire later.
It was the sort of place that invited you to come and stay for a while without worrying whether you scuffed the hardwood floors with your shoe or dropped a crumb or two on the sofa.
He loved it.
“Very nice,” he told her.
The light in her eyes brightened, but they were still far too shadowed this evening.
“Thanks. And thanks for bringing me home.”
He whistled.
“Wonder Woman stands down. How long d’you suppose that will last?”
“You can still be ejected.” She shot a warning look over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen, washed her hands and peered into the refrigerator. “Choose your words carefully. What would you like to drink? Do you feel like some pinot grigio?”
“I would love some pinot grigio. But I’ll get it.” He washed his own hands and nudged her out of the way so he could take inventory. “What have you got here? You actually have a well-stocked fridge for someone who works all the time, don’t you? I was expecting a bottle of sour pomegranate juice and a carton of expired eggs.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“You certainly are,” he said.
There was something in his tone (a purr of satisfaction, to be honest) that snagged her attention.
She cocked her head and eyed him closely, not bothering to hide her bemusement.
“Are you making fun of me?”
He stared her in the face.
“Not at all. I’m a great admirer of all your surprises. I can’t wait for the next one.”
It was always a rare and thrilling moment when he successfully pulled off a flirtatious comment, so he allowed himself a beat or two to enjoy the sudden rush of color as it streaked across her cheeks. Even better? The way her gaze dropped to his mouth and returned, brighter now, to his eyes.
“I thought you said you weren’t a flirt,” she said, raising a brow.
“I can also manage an occasional surprise.”
“Yes, you can,” she said with a lovely blush.
He felt the hard kick of something powerful in his chest in that delicious moment. Even more powerful was his urge to reach for her.
“Melody…”
She caught herself and reined in her smile as best she could.
“Why don’t we just get something delivered and watch a movie? You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I’m trying to impress you. Obviously. It’s a male thing. If I can cook one good meal, I figure I’m already head and shoulders above the competition.”
“Interesting.” She watched him from the other side of the fridge door while trying to manage that lingering smile, a move that only emphasized her dimples. “And how do you know I’m not already impressed? Maybe this is all wasted effort. Ever think of that?”
“Why risk it?”
Laughter chased away a few more of her shadows as she sat on one of the bar stools at the counter. “Maybe I should be worried about impressing you. This will be the second meal you’ve served me today. I feel like I’m way behind.”
“If I were any more impressed, my head would explode clear off my shoulders. Trust me,” he said wryly. “At this point, I’m just hoping for a sign that you’re a real person. You’ve got the brains and the looks, and you’re a successful surgeon to boot—”
To his horror, she made a choked sound. Her features twisted into an expression of despair.
“No, I’m not,” she said sharply, pressing her hand to her heart. “You know that’s not tru
e!”
A flare of panic made his brain blank out for a millisecond, but then it hit him.
Ah, there it was. The delayed reaction he’d known had to be in there somewhere. He’d seen it a million times overseas, both with his men and himself. People endured a trauma, they blocked it for a time and then it inevitably caught up with them. That was the way it worked.
As a Brit, he spent a great deal of time pretending he had no emotions and then ignoring them when they occasionally insisted on breaking through his barriers. These things had their own protocols, as most things did. When another man broke down, you quietly left the room to give him his privacy or, if worse came to worst, you put a hand on his shoulder. In the direst of circumstances, you squeezed the shoulder.
The thing you did not do was allow yourself to get swept up in the loss of control until it felt like the other person’s pain—a pain that often had nothing to do with you—felt as though it would tear half your heart out by the roots.
Yet in that startling moment, a primal something awoke inside him. And that thing, whatever it was, was fiercely determined to do anything—anything—necessary to erase that unhappiness from her face.
That being the case, there was no hesitation. He let the fridge door slam shut and hurried over, reaching for her.
“Melody—”
She batted him away with a snarl.
“Don’t touch me! You’ll only make it worse!”
He hesitated.
Her watery expression turned murderous.
“Okay, okay.” Stung, he held up his hands and retreated. “But you can’t think that—”
“I just…” Repressed sobs thickened her voice and made her shoulders shake. “I just need…one minute. That’s all.”
The sight of those spectacular eyes swimming in tears rocked him to his soul. He’d never felt more helpless.
“You have as long as you need,” he said quietly.
She didn’t need his permission, of course, but it seemed to comfort her.
Nodding, she rested her arms on the bar and dropped her head into the little shield of privacy they afforded. Then she wept…and wept…and wept…taking years off his life during a period that, perversely, only lasted about a minute.
Around the forty-five-second-ish mark, she began to take deep breaths and whimper herself into a calmer state. From there it was no time at all before she raised her head, snatched a tissue from the box on the counter, blew her nose and wiped her eyes dry.
With that, she faced him again with grim satisfaction. She looked almost as good as new. But for the redness in her eyes and nose, he’d never have known she’d just been crying.
He, meanwhile, needed a vodka tonic, a Valium or three and a long nap with the shades pulled and soft music playing in the background.
“You’re finished?” he asked, incredulous. “Just like that?”
She nodded. “I told you I only needed a minute.”
He gaped at her. “That’s remarkable. Does Greenwich know about this? They have trouble keeping the time, from what I hear.”
She snorted.
“I’ve had a lot of practice. When you treat cute little kids, there’s always an opportunity to get your heart broken. Even if it’s only when they get well and leave the hospital and you can’t see them every day anymore.”
“Yes, but a minute? On the dot?”
A shrug. “That’s about all the time residents have to duck into a supply closet or toilet stall and cry it out before someone’s looking for them. Why are you looking at me like that? It’s your fault for insisting on coming over tonight. You know I’m wrung out and exhausted.”
“Yes, but I’d foolishly had a second of being grateful that you’re human like me because you shed a few tears. Now I discover that you’re doubly amazing. Imagine my dismay.”
She rolled her eyes, which had begun to sparkle again.
“Technically, I’m not human like you. You had a panic attack. I had a crying jag. When you think about it, you’ll see that a crying jag is far less of a humiliation.”
They laughed long and hard together, and the advent of this renewed burst of sunshine into his life made him lose his head a little. Taking her face in his hands, he leaned down to kiss her. Once. Twice. Three tastes of heaven were all he allowed himself lest his surging blood make him forget what he wanted to tell her.
So he rested his lips on her forehead instead, stroking the sides of her face with his thumbs. Not as tempting as kissing her mouth, but he damn sure wasn’t ready to let her go yet.
“Where’s my wine?” He felt the apples of her cheeks plump with a smile as she spoke. “I was promised pinot grigio.”
“In a minute. I have a question for you.” Dropping his hands, he eased back enough to be able to see her face. “Could anything have saved your little girl today?”
A pause before she answered, although he had the distinct impression that she knew the answer right away.
“No,” she said, exhaling. “Not once she started bleeding again.”
“You don’t blame yourself, then, do you?”
A longer hesitation this time.
“I don’t blame myself—”
He breathed easier.
“—but that doesn’t stop me from running through all the what ifs in my mind. What if I’d done this instead of that. What if I’d let the team continue with the CPR for another five minutes before I’d called it? That sort of thing.”
“The what ifs are bloody torture, aren’t they?” He hesitated, running his hands over the top of his head, then plowed ahead because they had a lot of things in common and there were a lot of things they needed to know about each other. “Half the time, I’m drowning in what ifs. I mean…What if the convoy had left a bit sooner or a bit later that day? What if we’d had more air support or ground support on a particular day?”
She looked startled.
“What ifs marching into infinity. They’re exhausting, aren’t they?”
“Yeah.” The faint hint of a smile softened her eyes. “They’re exhausting.”
The quiet understanding stretched between them, swelling into something that felt significant. Almost like a turning point. That was unprecedented enough. But then he felt a withering flash of the loneliness he knew he’d feel later, when he flew thousands of miles away from her to go back to London. Where he couldn’t see this face every day the way he wanted to, much less for a good chunk of every day.
Anthony’s head spun with all of this, whatever this was.
When Melody was in the room? His head couldn’t seem to spin hard enough.
His throat tightened down with a sudden wave of nerves. He didn’t know what was going on here with this woman he’d just met. Only that he needed a moment or two alone to process it and get his burning face back under control.
Trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible, he gave her another forehead kiss, then went back to the fridge and pulled out the bottle.
“Let me pour you some wine for you to take with you.”
“Take with me? Are you evicting me from my own apartment?”
“You’ll feel better after your shower.” He opened cupboards, looking for the glasses. “And when you come back, I’ll have dinner ready.”
She hopped down and regarded him with bright interest. “What’re you cooking for me?”
He frowned over at her. “Don’t be nosy. You’ll find out soon enough.”
He opened the wine and poured her a glass. Watched her accept it with a smile before disappearing down the hall for her shower. Then downed his own glass and doubled up with his hands braced on his thighs, giving himself a minute to figure out what the bloody hell he thought he was doing here.
Well, he was having the time of his life swimming in water way over his head, that’s what.
Trying not to drown on the one hand.
Desperately trying to figure out when he could come back and swim again on the other.
Might as
well work on dinner while he tried to formulate a plan, he decided, reaching for the chicken.
How he thought he’d manage a long-distance relationship with Melody, he had no idea. And that whole bit about being back in a couple of weeks and therefore available for a double date with Samira and Baptiste? Where he’d breezily made it sound as though he had a preplanned business trip back to the States and would just happen to pop by Journey’s End for a visit?
Yeah, no.
Complete fabrication.
And one likely to cause him a fair bit of grief with his private secretary, who might need to shuffle some meetings on Anthony’s behalf.
But what was Anthony supposed to do? Leave town with no further plans in place to see Melody again? No way. Admit that he was already so smitten with her that he’d happily rearrange his schedule to accommodate a visit? Probably a bad idea. Ask Melody to visit him in London, then pay for her ticket? Probably a worse idea. She might have decided that he wasn’t the complete arse she’d once feared, but he couldn’t quite picture her going to such lengths—or accepting such a gift—from a man she’d just met.
Nor did he think she’d be comfortable knowing that he was going to such lengths for her just yet.
So, a little white lie it was.
That got him back here the next time.
But what about the time after that?
And, more to the point, how the hell was he going to survive two weeks before he saw her again?
Frowning, he chopped some vegetables, then found a frying pan and some olive oil.
It was no good trying to be logical about the whole thing; he’d already tried it. The logical part of him—a good 80 to 90 percent—liked to send calm reminders that it was early yet. That he and Melody didn’t know each other well. They might quickly uncover irreconcilable differences that made them despise each other and therefore render this whole situation moot.
Yet the instinctual part of him—the quiet but insistent 10 to 20 percent that had kept him alive while overseas, usually with little more than a prickle along the back of his neck—insisted that whatever his relationship with Melody turned out to be, short-lived wasn’t it.
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