Doctor's Orders: The Complete Series (12 page)

I tilt my chin up and stride towards the gate like I imagine a woman in my position, doing what I’m doing, wearing what I’m wearing, would do. The adrenaline buzzes in my ears like the echo of the gate buzzer, and a certain secret-agent thrill courses through my body. I’m very aware of the tight, white dress hugging my hips, gently squeezing my breasts together, clinging to my ass. It is a conqueror’s dress, for sure. I just hope I know how to wear it.

He looks me up and down as I walk past him, and onto the Doctor’s property.

“
Very
effective ensemble, by the way,” he whispers appreciatively, using the French pronunciation of “ensemble.” I could kiss him for that.

I let that cloud of confidence buoy me all the way to the front door, where I am suddenly aware of how very much I need it.

We stand on the stoop together for a beat too long, and I have just enough time to wonder if there’s someone on the other side, watching us and deciding what to do. My confidence cloud is on the verge of evaporation when the door opens with a rush of cool air to reveal Cedric Durant.

The Doctor.

I hadn’t realized how much weight I put on this moment until it arrived. The surprise on his face tells me that he was not watching from behind the door, that he did not skulk in the shadows of his own house and pretend not to be home, and I am so, so relieved; of course he didn’t do those things, of course he’s not like that. And beyond the surprise there’s something else playing out across his features, a flash of unguarded emotion that I seize upon like a greedy child: it’s joy.

Joy, as he looks into my face. The same joy that I feel looking into his.

It doesn’t matter that it’s quickly replaced by brief confusion, by worry, that in just a few moments he pulls the mask back on and becomes stern, impenetrable Cedric Durant, because now I’m really sure.

The dapper little man inhales deeply, and speaks much too quickly. “Mr. Durant, I really must apologize profusely for our lateness. I’m –”

“It’s all right, Mr. Penrose. Your colleague Lena has been keeping me entertained.”

“My colleague?”

I feel poor Mr. Penrose look at me with the first hints of suspicion, but I am focused on Cedric. I’m wondering how entertaining this Lena could possibly be as I raise my eyebrow at him in mock – mostly mock, anyway – jealousy.

“I think there’s been some confusion,” Mr. Penrose finishes lamely.

“Yes.”

Cedric and I say it simultaneously. Mr. Penrose gives a nervous little laugh, but neither of us offers an explanation. I somehow, miraculously, have the presence of mind to remember my main reason for coming: the card.

I open my clutch – also white – and remove the single white, embossed card that I had printed up this morning. Convincing the printer to sell me a single card had been easier than I’d imagined; I didn’t even have to flirt. At the time it had felt like the dress had done all the work, but I wonder, now, if this isn’t also part of the change in me. It doesn’t seem so strange for men to react to me this way anymore. I remember the printer’s eyes on my body, and I flush for the man standing in front of me.

Wordlessly, I give Cedric the white on white card. All it says is this:

Not good enough.

He laughs.

In spite of himself, he laughs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh, which, thinking about it, is incredible. Happiness swells in me from a deep, bubbling well I didn’t even know was there. I watch him rub his forehead, I watch his smile become more of a grimace, and it’s weirdly ok: of course this is complicated. But I can still make him laugh.

He looks up at Mr. Penrose and me, the odd couple standing awkwardly on his stoop. “Mr. Penrose, you’ll find Lena in the drawing room to your right.” He steps aside to let Mr. Penrose in, but his startling blue eyes are suddenly, intensely focused on me. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Oh no, you won’t. You’re going to need more than just a moment, Doctor.

I try to sail past Cedric with an air of confident detachment, but he only barely moves aside, not giving me any quarter. I turn slightly towards him as I squeeze by, trying to retain my dignity, but my breasts rake across the lower part of his chest. This first contact, after so long. . . I think about his hands, his wonderful hands, teasing my nipples, caressing my ass. I think about his mouth, trailing across my chest, down my stomach, further down. . .

All in a moment, and I’ve forgotten I’m in public. Weak, flushed, and short of breath, I pause in that doorway, and not just to collect myself, either – I want another moment to breathe his scent. Pathetic, I know.

“Claire, are you all right?” His hand goes to the small of my back, his voice gentle.

Damn him.

“Of course,” I say.

And I force myself to break free.

I remember the grand layout of the formal first floor as though I’ve been here many times. I remember the dull ring of the marble stairs under my heels, I remember the cool chill of the air, I remember the surprisingly shabby decorations of the more lived-in second floor. I charge ahead, afraid that if I stop now to think about what I’m doing I’ll be unable to push on. I remember the huge antique chandelier that hangs in his otherwise very masculine study, I remember the worn carpet, and I especially remember that huge, dark desk as the place where I betrayed the Doctor’s confidence and read those letters from his wife.

The desk where Gerald, his supposed best friend, tried to seduce me.

The desk where Gerald told me about Julia’s suicide.

Not great memories, but fitting that I confront him here. If I confront Cedric, I should confront my own actions, too. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m trying to rectify an invasion of privacy by
being invasive
again, and that this might not be the most thought-out plan I’ve ever had. That maybe this could come off as a little unstable. Worse, that maybe perfect Julia was a little unstable herself – she did kill herself, after all – and that maybe my behavior might trigger some unpleasant things for Cedric.

Well, shit.

I hear him come in behind me, and turn to see that I am, unfortunately, at least a little bit correct. He no longer looks happy as he enters the study. He looks worried and uncomfortable, and a little pained. And he’s deliberately left the door open. I can hear Mr. Penrose and the unlucky Lena arguing below, their strained whispers echoing up the cold stairs.

This was not how I imagined things would go.

He looks up at me, and I suddenly see him, for the first time, with sadness in those blue eyes. I’m not sure what is happening, but all of the confidence I felt, and the sense of entitlement I just now realized I was carrying around with me. . . they abandon me. I feel naked and silly, in this dress, and silly about what I did to this man who helped me so much, and all I want to do is find a way to apologize and show him that I love him.

But he speaks first.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He crosses the room, passing me on his way to that imposing desk. He plants his hands and leans over it, rounding his broad shoulders. Is he getting angry? His tone is one of forced patience, like he’s talking to a child. Or a mental patient.

Well, now I’m angry again.

“I’m only being as crazy as you are cowardly,” I shoot back, realizing too late that he never actually called me crazy.

I can’t believe that came out of my mouth. Neither can he. He spins around, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” I stutter. This is such a disaster. “I know I’m not. . . I mean, I know this is messed up, and I know I’m acting a little nuts. . .”

I look up to see if that admission has had an effect, but he’s put the mask back on. Nothing to do but forge ahead.

“. . .But that card you sent me was seriously bullshit. And I think you know that.” That sounded angrier than I intended. “I’m just. . . I’m sorry.”

And I am. I really, profoundly, truly am. And I’m tired now, too. I walk past him, behind his desk, and pull out his chair. I don’t even care about how inappropriate it is, I slump into it like a sad little puppy. I just don’t know how to fix this.

He watches me quietly. The late afternoon light streams in through the window behind me, bouncing off the early streaks of grey in his black hair. His button-down white shirt – crisp and clean, as always – is open at the collar, revealing a few soft, curling chest hairs. I can’t help but think about what he looked like with his shirt off, when he was wearing that hooded get up, still trying to hide from me, even when he was inside me.

“What do I call you now?” I ask, breaking the silence. I honestly don’t know. Neither does he, by the looks of it. He has to think a moment.

“Cedric,” he finally says, and I can tell that allowance means something.

“About what I did. . .”

“You read my private letters.”

I don’t know how to answer. It’s true, I did, and his tone is flat, perhaps deliberately so. I wonder if he’s one of those people who does that to try to control his anger, and am once again saddened to realize that I just don’t know.

Well, only one way to find out.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to know. . .
anything
about you. You keep yourself so locked up, Cedric, so –”

“You had no right!”

He slams his fist down on the desk, rattling an ivory pen cup, lifting the blotter briefly into the air. His yell petrifies me. Something in the timbre of it is primal, animal – it is a voice to be obeyed without question. A voice you do not want to anger.

I had forgotten about Mr. Penrose and Lena down below, but the sudden silence of their voices reminds me that if I can hear them, they can hear us.

I’m actually grateful, for that. Because for the first time, I am a little afraid of Cedric.

“I needed to protect myself,” I whisper.

He’s taken aback. He turns away from the desk, almost as if he’s ashamed to be seen, and runs a hand through his normally neat hair. I watch him pace the room like an animal, clearly upset, not because I’ve scored points or something, but because what I said is patently true. I don’t think he’d considered that I might need to protect myself from him. It occurs to me that he might be a man who spends a lot of time and energy making sure no woman ever has reason to feel endangered around him, and I’ve just told him I needed to protect myself.

He just never thought I’d have to protect myself from falling in love with him.

It’s ungallant of me, I know, but this is not a time for gallantry, and so I press my advantage. I know I have the upper hand now, and I use it. I get up and walk around so he has to face me, trapping him between me and the desk, blocking his exit.

“You think I want to be some kind of pawn?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “Some kind of way for you to work out your issues with your
dead wife?
Seriously?”

He looks as if he wants to speak, but no words come. I take another step towards him.

“I have a right to know if the man I’m falling in love with can even remember my name, Cedric.”

He backs away, shaking his head. I step closer.

“What happened with Julia. . .” He looks at me pleadingly. “I can’t risk it.”

I am so close to him now, close enough to touch him, close enough to kiss him.

“Risk what?” I whisper.

But his mouth sets in a hard line and he shakes his head.

“Risk
what?
” More of a demand, this time.

“Don’t push me, Claire.”

His voice has gotten hard, too, and I’m back to being angry. Push him? What the hell has he been doing to me this entire time? He’s pushed me to my utmost limits, and then asked me to define new ones. Why can’t he tell me what he did to his wife?

“I’ll push you as much as I want. I’ve earned it,” I say, and push my accusing finger into his chest.

“Claire. . .”

“What are
you
so afraid of, Cedric?”

I poke him in the chest this time. “I thought you knew how to be fearless?”

Another little poke. His eyes are getting darker, and I realize I want to see what happens when he gets angry. I want to see what he’s struggling to hide.

“I thought only trapped, sad little cowards ran from their fears, Cedric. Remember? Remember that appointment?”

One last poke to the chest.

He growls, and before I even register the movement, he grabs my finger and twists my hand down and around my back, crushing my body to his. Every inch of me comes alive where it touches him. I breathe hard into him, heaving my breasts into his chest, enjoying the pressure. My pulse roars in my pussy. I want to see whatever beast he’s been trying to hide from me. I want him all.

“
How can you go after what you want
,” I throw his own words back at him, “
if you’re afraid to admit what that is?
”

I think he’s going to kiss me, but he just hovers over my mouth. He shakes slightly with the effort of self-control, but he doesn’t let me go. I try one final gambit.

“Are you a coward, Cedric?” I whisper softly.

“Shut up,” he sneers, and crushes my lips to his.

My arm twists as I try to arch up to him, and I whimper a bit in pain. He takes no notice, kissing me hard and deep, still pinning my hand to the small of my back. His other hand threads through my hair, then down my neck, and under my neckline, where he finds my hot, full breast, nipple already hard for him. He palms it, then viciously tweaks my nipple.

I want this. I want all of him, even the darkest parts. But I am also really, truly scared.

I pull my head back slightly, my lips still parted from where he’d forced them open. His hand kneads my breast, and he has no interest in letting me go.

“Yes,” I say uncertainly, to the universe, more than to him. Faith doesn’t matter unless it’s tested, I tell myself. Courage means nothing without fear.

He spins me around so fast I almost lose my balance. I would fall if he weren’t in complete control of my body, his hands and arms manipulating my weight as if I weighed nothing at all. He forces me forward, toward the desk. Now it’s my turn to plant my hands on its aged wooden surface.