A Match for the Doctor (15 page)

Ruth Cassidy was one of those people who truly believed she could fix anything she set her mind to—no matter how long it took. Kennon did
not
want to be this month's project.

Taking a deep breath, Kennon went with the lesser of two evils. She told Nathan what he wanted to hear. “I slept with him.”

Nathan waited for more. It didn't come and he frowned. “Forgive me, but isn't that a good thing?”

You'd think that, wouldn't you?
After all, she hadn't so much as held hands with a man since the Pete fiasco. “Not in this case.”

“Oh. I see.” Each word Nathan uttered had an inordinate amount of time between it and the next one. He nodded to underscore the fact that he understood what the problem was. Disappointment. “He's lousy in bed. I'm sorry.” Nathan shook his head in sympathy. “And he looked like he had such potential, too.” He sighed, able to relate. “Just goes to show that you really
can't
tell a book by its cover.”

Oh, God, he would go on like this all morning if she didn't set him straight.

“No, he's not lousy in bed,” she told Nathan. The man looked at her, puzzled. “He's—” Kennon searched for a word that would cover the situation without being
gushy. This was not a topic she wanted up for discussion. Now or ever. Her back to the wall, she went with the all-purpose word
good.
Then, because Nathan was still watching her expectantly, waiting for more, she added, “Very good.”

“Okay,” he allowed, “The doctor is good in bed. Very good,” he underscored, mimicking her tone. “Then what's the problem?” She was
not
getting any work done, was she? “The problem is he's in love with his wife.”

Nathan's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “He's married?” her assistant cried, indignant and horrified for her at the same time. “When did this come out?”

She shook her head. “No, he's not married, he's a widower.”

Abject confusion replaced angry indignation. Nathan connected his own set of dots. And then he sighed. “Contrary to the philosophy espoused by some of the currently trendy horror movies, the dead don't come back to haunt the living.”

“He's not haunted by her,” she told Nathan, really wishing he would drop the subject, knowing at the same time that he wouldn't until he was satisfied with her explanation. “He just feels guilty having feelings about anyone else.”

Nathan's frown deepened as he tried to follow the logic. “And Doctor Hunk said this to you after the fact—?”

“No.”

“Before the fact? The man issued a disclaimer before you and he tripped the light fantastic?”

Nathan had the strangest frame of reference she'd ever heard. “No, not in so many words—”

Nathan stopped her. “Did he say it to you in
any
words?” he asked.

She closed her eyes and sighed. How could she have forgotten that Nathan was relentless? He'd badgered her like this the last time, until she'd told him all about Pete breaking up with her. And then she'd had to restrain him from making good on his promise of breaking into Pete's house and putting crushed oleanders into his salad dressing because he'd read that oleanders were an odorless, tasteless way to poison someone.

“No, but I just felt it, that's all—”

Nathan held up his hand. “So let me get this straight. You're here, looking like a truck just ran over your favorite puppy, because, after spending a torrid night of wickedly wonderful lovemaking, you're
assuming
Prince Charming is going to say something less than princely?” Nathan shook his head. “Do you know how stupid that sounds?”

“Not until you just said it out loud,” Kennon countered.

He inclined his head, satisfied. Now he could get back to work. “Good, then my work here is done.” He gestured her toward the front door. “Go back to the man, tell him you were sleepwalking, but you're awake now and in full possession of your senses. Or,” he amended glibly, “in as much possession as you can manage.”

Kennon stayed where she was. She frowned. “It's not that easy.”

“Sure it is,” Nathan contradicted. “You're the one who's making it hard.” About to get behind Kennon
to push her out the door, he stopped when he looked outside the front of the shop. “Speak of the devil.”

“What devil?” Kennon turned around to look. The air completely whooshed out of her lungs as the bell announcing a customer's entrance went off.

And Simon walked into the shop.

T
he silence stretched out as they stared at one another.

Finally, his face an emotionless mask, Simon said quietly, “You left.”

Was he accusing her, or stating a fact with quiet relief? She couldn't tell. Kennon pressed her lips together. They felt as dry as parchment.

“Pick up on that, did you?” she cracked, trying desperately to lighten the tension all but pressing down on her.

His eyes narrowed as he ignored her attempt at humor. “Why did you leave?”

What did she say to that? That she was afraid he'd see how much she loved him if she stayed? That she was afraid he'd push her away? That her fear of rejection made her flee? Was there any way to word this, to tell him the truth, without seeming needy to him?

Kennon was about to try to frame an answer when she realized that they were not alone in the showroom. Nathan stood to her left as if he had every right to be there listening to their exchange. The man might very well be the best friend she had, but right now, Nathan had no business being part of this very personal scenario—not until she figured out her own role in it and was willing to share it with him.

Turning toward Nathan, she asked, “Don't you have something to do in the storeroom?”

If he realized what she was trying to do, he gave her no indication. “No.”

It wasn't that Nathan was dense when it came to hints, Kennon thought. He was being stubborn.

“Sure you do,” she insisted. When he continued looking at her as if she was wasting her breath, trying to jar his memory or engage his cooperation, she pointedly said, “You have to be in it.”

With a dramatic sigh and what appeared to be the beginning of an even more dramatic rolling of his eyes, Nathan turned on his very expensive heel and headed to the back of the store. Walking particularly slowly, he finally disappeared around the corner.

When Simon took that moment to begin to talk to her, Kennon held her hand up. Without looking back at him, she silently asked Simon to hold his peace a moment longer until she was finished.

“The door, Nathan,” she called out, raising her voice. “Close the door, please.”

A second later, she heard the sound of the storeroom door meeting its frame. The meeting did not occur quietly. Satisfied that Nathan had shut the door behind him
as she'd requested, she turned around to face Simon again.

She tried desperately to steel herself, bracing for a verbal mortal blow. “You were saying?”

“No,” he corrected tersely, his eyes on hers, “you were.” When Kennon remained silent, he prompted, “You were going to tell me why you left not just my bed, but my house in the middle of the night.”

Why was he pushing this? They'd made love and, even while they were in the throes of it, they both knew where it was headed. Straight into oblivion. What she'd done was make the awkward small talk unnecessary. And now here he was, digging it up.

“I wanted to make it easy on you,” she told him, struggling to keep any emotion out of her voice.

“And how, exactly, was finding you gone after we'd spent half the night making love together making it ‘easy' on me?” he asked.

She stared past his head. It was the only way she could keep from letting the tears flow—and from doubling her hands into fists and beating on him.

“I figured I'd spare you having to say something along the lines of, ‘It was great, but it was just one of those things,' and not to expect a replay. Or worse, you'd give apologizing to me a shot.”

“Apologizing,” he echoed. “Why?” Simon asked. “Why would I be apologizing?” He came up with the only answer he could. “Was it that bad for you?”

“No!” she cried.

How could he even
think
that? He'd rocked her whole world, not once, but three times, each better than the last, a feat that was uncanny in itself. She'd never felt that wondrous before, that ready to literally sprout
wings and fly up to the heavens so that she might touch the sky.

Because she could see he was waiting for an explanation, she stumbled ahead, searching for words, for a way to make him understand what she didn't fully understand herself. Fear was a paralyzing force.

Kennon picked her way carefully through the minefield. “I was afraid that maybe what happened last night between us was just a matter of time and place and conditions—”

He stared at her, trying to make sense out of what she was saying, and getting nowhere. Finally, he asked, “Do you come with subtitles, because I'm really not following this.”

She sighed. If she'd had any sense at all, she wouldn't have let things go as far as they had last night—for as many times as they did. A true survivor would have left at the first hint of a kiss, not hung around, waiting to get her hair curled.

But what was done was done and she had to make the best of it.

“Look, I talked to Edna when I first started working on your house. I know you love your wife—your late wife,” Kennon amended, “and I don't want you to feel guilty, or worse, get angry at me for being in the right place at the right time or the wrong place at the wrong time, or however you want to think about what happened between us.” She could see that he wasn't following her any better than he had been a moment ago. She tried again. “And if you want to know the truth—”

“Please,” he stressed with feeling.

She forced herself to look into Simon's deep blue eyes. “I don't want to be dumped again.”

“So you're dumping me in order not to be dumped?”

“Not dumped,” she cried. “I wasn't ‘dumping' you, I was just…slipping away,” she finally said, but even saying that didn't feel right to her. But it
was
what she'd felt, what had motivated her. “Look, last night was wonderful. Maybe almost
too
wonderful,” she admitted. “I don't want anything to take away from that. I'd rather just end on a high note and not have it degenerate into something less perfect.” She wanted no recriminations, no memories of him haunting her mind the way Pete's last act had haunted her for the longest time. “I gave you a way out.”

She paused for a second, trying to pull herself together, to focus on her words and not the horrible, sick feeling they created within her.

“So just take it, will you?” Her mind scrambling from point to point, she thought of what had brought her to him in the first place. He was paying her for a job. “I know I'm not quite finished decorating your house, but Nathan can take over.”

For a second, Simon had no idea who she was talking about. And then he remembered. “Nathan being the tall, skinny guy with the large ears?”

She nodded. “He's very good,” she told him, then with effort, added, “You won't be disappointed.”

He looked at her for a very long moment that seemed to melt into oblivion.

“I wouldn't count on that,” he told her, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.

He didn't know what else to say. He'd come here, feeling like a man who was trying to cross over an expanse of quicksand, wanting to either straighten things out or permanently set them aside. Simon felt as if he'd done
neither. If anything, he was more confused than ever. But pushing matters right now, especially with a woman who seemed determined to flee from him, didn't seem like the way to go.

She needed time and so did he.

So, without another word to her, Simon turned away and walked out through the door. The final
click
echoed endlessly over and over in her brain.

Kennon stood there, staring at the door after it had closed. Feeling as if she had just been punched hard in the stomach and was unable to breathe.

This was what she knew would come to pass, what she had tried to precipitate early because then, she'd told herself, it wouldn't hurt nearly so much as it would down the line. Like a preemptive strike.

But there'd been a part of her that wanted—desperately wanted—Simon to negate all her fears, to effectively blast them out of the water by sweeping her into his arms, telling her that she was being ridiculous and that she was the one, the
only
one, who could make him feel glad again that he was alive.

But he hadn't.

Instead, Simon had taken the out she'd given him and just walked away.

Taken it? Hell, he'd fairly grabbed it, pressed it to his chest and all but run out the door. Everything but shouting “Hallelujah!” as he made his getaway.

A getaway she had handed him on a silver platter.

She felt her eyes tear up and she clenched her fingernails into her hands, squeezing them hard, hoping that would somehow squeeze the tears back so that they wouldn't fall.

“I do
not
have big ears.”

She swung around to see Nathan all but marching into the showroom.

Upset, frustrated, Kennon redirected everything that she was feeling at her assistant. “I
asked
you to go to the storeroom.”

His face was the picture of combined indignation and innocence. “I did.”

“Then how did you hear him say that?” she demanded angrily.

In response, he pointed to the wall just behind her. Specifically, to the upper portion close to the ceiling. “Vents,” he told her simply. “There are vents here, in your office and in the storeroom. In case you don't know, voices have a tendency to carry unless you're whispering.” Obviously perturbed by Simon's cursory description, Nathan looked into the black-lacquer-framed mirror. Angling his head first one way, then the other, he frowned critically, displeased by what he saw. “Maybe I should grow my hair long to cover them.”

When he didn't receive the expected disclaimer or verbal jab from Kennon, Nathan shifted his eyes to look at her reflection in the mirror. Turning around, he put his arms around her. “Oh, honey, don't cry. This isn't over yet, you'll see.” For a brief moment, Kennon struggled and tried to shrug him away. When she couldn't, she surrendered, allowing Nathan to comfort her. “He'll come to his senses,” Nathan promised. “Hopefully, so will you,” he added, supposedly under his breath, but deliberately loud enough to make sure that she heard.

Kennon took a breath and this time succeeded in drawing away. She squared her shoulders. She had no time for self-pity. She'd survived Pete, she could
certainly survive this. After all, she'd invested so much more time in Pete.

Her heart hurt so much, she could barely stand it.

Still, somehow she managed to say to Nathan, “We've got work to do.”

There were still several outstanding details to address at Simon's house before she felt her obligations had been met. She'd meant what she'd said about having Nathan take over. But given her assistant's penchant for allowing his feelings to color his judgment, she knew she would have to supervise Nathan's choices. She just couldn't be there to see how it all came together.

Right now she wasn't strong enough to face that. Or Simon and his daughters.

 

He was attempting to make sense out of a paper that had just been published outlining a new approach to a surgical procedure that burned away a minimum of damaged heart tissue in order to help control unwanted palpitations. Attempting, but he just couldn't get himself to focus, to concentrate.

He'd been on the same short paragraph for half an hour now.

With a self-deprecating sigh, he glanced up and saw that Meghan stood in the doorway of his office, her small arms crossed before her even smaller chest.

“What's up?” he asked her, for the moment setting the paper back on his desk. Maybe he'd absorb more of it later, he thought.

Meghan frowned. “Why isn't she here, Daddy?” she asked.

It had been eight days since he'd gone to the showroom to see Kennon, gone to see her without really
knowing what he would say until it was out of his mouth. Not that anything he'd said had made any sense. He'd come away feeling that maybe he and Kennon really
weren't
meant to be together.

He'd done his best to put her out of his mind and go on with his life. But she refused to stay out of his thoughts, refused to fade into the background. When he least expected it, she would pop up in his thoughts to haunt him. And, those rare times when she didn't, he would catch one of the girls looking at him as if he'd committed some vast transgression.

He'd counted himself lucky that they didn't press him for details, but apparently, looking at Meghan now, his grace period was officially over.

“Doesn't she like us anymore?” Meghan asked when he didn't answer her first question.

Before Kennon had so briefly come into their lives, he would have brushed Meghan off with a comment about how this was a “grown-up” matter not to be discussed with children. But he realized now that that would have been insulting. Meghan and Madelyn were people, same as he, with feelings. Same as he. The last thing he wanted was for his daughters to feel that they were lacking, especially since this was no fault of theirs.

“Oh, no, she likes you,” he assured his younger daughter. When she continued looking at him expectantly, he added, “She's just busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Her job.” He saw that his answer didn't come close to satisfying Meghan. “Kennon decorates houses, you know that. And she's finished with ours.”
And me,
he added silently.

“Can't we tell her we need something else?” she suggested hopefully.

Yes, like needing to see her face the first thing in the morning,
he thought.
Needing to see her the last thing at night.

He upbraided himself for allowing his thoughts to stray like that. Nothing would be gained by clinging to a baseless hope like that. It just made a person more miserable in the long run.

“But we don't, honey, you know that,” Simon pointed out.