Expecting the Doctor's Baby (11 page)

They passed the door to her father's office and continued on to the dining room, which looked pretty much the same as the last time she'd been here. Thanksgiving holiday decorations were up—signs, turkeys, pilgrims, horns of plenty. In the small vase on each peach-colored tablecloth an arrangement of mums in shades of yellow, rust and orange. Several people were scattered around the room.

She took a tray and followed Mitch past the steam table. The smell of food didn't make her stomach feel any better so she decided on chicken noodle soup and crackers. And a piece of pumpkin pie. His plate was piled with turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy and green beans. After getting a mug of hot water and a tea bag, she followed him to a table in the far corner.

When they were settled at a right angle to each other, he looked at her food, then met her gaze. “Don't tell me you're on a diet.”

“No. Just not very hungry.”

He looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just a little tired, I guess.” There was no point in sharing her stomach issues. The last thing she wanted was more stress about her family situation.

“Not worried about your father?”

“No,” she lied. How like Mitch to see straight through her.

He took a bite of turkey and chewed thoughtfully. “When I saw you in the hall, you were looking awfully serious about something. Want to talk about it?”

Not even for money. Her period was late. If she stopped thinking about it, it would come.

“Why don't we talk about your successful use of coaching techniques?” she suggested.

“With your dad?” He scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes and ate it. “Mostly I kept my temper in check, kept my mouth shut and left before I exploded.”

“So there was no newly acquired skill involved in your success?”

“Not then.”

That implied he had employed some kind of plan at some point in time. “When?”

“I saw my mom this morning. Right after the face-to-face with your dad.”

She moved her spoon around in the soup and took a small bite of cracker instead. “You're really having a good day, aren't you?”

He looked up and settled his gaze on her face. One corner of his mouth turned up. “I am now.”

Warmth pooled in her belly, then spread outward, clear through her. If the lights were out, she was sure she'd glow in the dark.

“So, tell me what happened,” she suggested.

“She was here to see a cop involved in a high-speed chase. Nothing serious, but Las Vegas Metro supports their own,” he explained. “Anyway, I was thinking about you—”

“Oh?” The word popped out, meant to encourage elaboration. It was stupid. She tried very hard not to read anything into his revelation. Anything personal, she amended. Just because they'd slept together didn't mean he owed her promises of forever.

He smiled. “I was thinking about data gathering and decided to try it out on my mom.”

“Did anything positive come out of the conversation?”

“That was step one. I'm still thinking about what she said.”

“Step two,” she clarified.

He nodded. “And moving on to step three is looking pretty good, which is something I never would have expected.”

“I'm so glad it helped, Mitch.”

“Be a bridge.” He shrugged.

“Good for you.”

He set his fork down on his plate. “So, your father is wrong about what you do. If you ever need a reference—”

“I just want you to complete your sessions at Marshall Management.”

“Will do.”

His praise meant a lot to her. He would never admit as much, but in the beginning he was as skeptical as her father. It was good to know he saw some positive results in the work they'd been doing. And now the silence grew between them.

Looking around, she searched for a neutral topic of conversation. The decorations on the wall gave her one. “Can you believe it's almost Thanksgiving?”

“Time flies when you're having fun,” he said. “What are you thankful for this year?”

She looked around. “I'm thankful for influential friends who get me into all the right places.”

He laughed. “Glad to be of service.”

“What are you thankful for?” she asked, taking a forkful of her pie.

“Besides you?” He looked at her and his eyes took on an intensity that got her attention.

Her heart hammered against the wall of her chest and it was almost painful. Surely he could hear. “I was just doing my job.”

“Was it your job to track me down when I missed my appointment?” His gaze was probing.

“Sure, I—”

“No fibbing. I don't know anyone who makes house calls, let alone does search and rescue like you did.”

“Glad to be of service,” she said, echoing his words.

“You definitely were,” he agreed.

Past tense. Because their professional association was over. That thought opened up a sad sort of emptiness inside her. Now she had no reason to see him, couldn't look forward to an appointment. Nothing to brighten her day. That reaction was reason enough to sever the connection even if they hadn't slept together.

She looked at his empty plate. “I guess the food was pretty good.”

“Yeah. It's as close to home cooking as I get.”

“What do you do for meals when you're not working?” she asked, setting her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand as she studied him.

“Take-out. Microwave.”

“That's just sad.”

“What are you gonna do?” he said with a shrug.

“Learn to cook.”

“I don't think so.” He shook his head.

“Cooking is very relaxing.” She took another bite of her pie, savoring the creamy pumpkin, spices and whipped cream flavors mixing together.

“I'd rather play hopscotch on the freeway.” He met her gaze. “Are you a good cook?”

“Come to my place for Thanksgiving and you'll find out.” For just a moment she wondered if she'd said that out loud, then the thoughtful, semi-shocked expression on his face answered the question. “That is, if you don't have plans.”

“Nothing definite. My mother mentioned something about getting together.”

“She's welcome to come, too,” Sam offered. “In the interest of full disclosure, I should warn you that my family will be there.”

“Including your father?” A dark, dangerous, rebellious sort of look settled in his blue eyes.

“Yes.”

“Won't he disapprove?”

“Probably. But he can just suck it up. Or leave. I'm free to invite whomever I want. It's my house and my party.”

He thought for a moment, then said, “There's nothing I'd like better than watching Arnold Ryan suck it up.”

“Okay, then,” she answered, ridiculously happy that he'd agreed to come.

She suspected he'd accepted the invitation more to mess with her father than anything else, but she didn't care. Right then the prospect of spending the holiday with Mitch—the expectation of spending any time with him—was far too appealing.

It wasn't until later, when the glow faded, that she realized his answer to her invitation had been far too important to her.

T
he last time Mitch had been to Sam's apartment her brother Connor had practically caught them doing the deed and he'd been braced to defend himself. Today was Thanksgiving and he was prepared to defend her—from Arnold Ryan if necessary.

Her dining table was set for six with floral-patterned china, silverware and crystal on a beige- and rust-colored cloth shot through with gold threads. An arrangement of yellow roses and orange mums was set in the middle with little boy-and-girl pilgrim candle holders on either side.

He and his mother had been there for about twenty minutes and so far the tentative truce between him and her brother was holding. Sister Fiona was friendly without flirting and Mitch figured Sam had given a three-step holiday behavior seminar to her siblings. Introductions had been made, beverages handed out and his mom was engaged in a spirited cops-versus-lawyers discussion with the Ryan-and-Ryan half of the Upshaw-and-Marrone firm.

So far her father was a no-show and he wondered if the spirit of full disclosure had extended to him. Did he know Mitch would be there and was deliberately staying away? Although he didn't think the guy was worth worrying about, he knew how important the relationship was to Sam and wondered if he should have turned down her invitation.

The thing was, he was awfully glad she'd asked him to be here. Since firing her, he'd spent a lot of time coming up with excuses to spend time with her. Loose and unclear worked best for him. Running into her at the hospital. Dropping by her office after a counseling session. A friend having him over for a holiday dinner.

He walked into her kitchen, where she'd just finished mashing potatoes and set them on the warming tray until the turkey was ready.

“So,” he said, “your brother doesn't look like he wants to rip my head off.”

“He still wants to,” she said cheerfully. “He's just pretending to be nice because it's a holiday.”

“You had a talk with him, right?”

“Pretty much,” she confirmed. She glanced into the other room. “Did it take much convincing to get your mom here?”

“No. She likes you,” he said.

“She only met me for a minute.”

“It was enough.” How could anyone not like Sam? he thought. “Can I get you some wine?” he offered.

“I'd love it. I admit to being a little tense. This is the critical time in dinner preparation.” Her look was wry. “Not unlike the golden hour when
you
first get a patient in the E.R. and start the battle to save a life.”

“How do you figure? Your bird is already a goner.”

“But if his sacrifice is going to mean anything, the chef has to intervene at just the right moment in the cooking process. Not too soon, not too late, otherwise the meat is raw or tough as shoe leather.” She shrugged. “It's the critical moment.”

“I thought you said cooking was relaxing.”

“It is. But not on Thanksgiving.”

“Point taken. Where's your glass?” He uncorked the open bottle of red wine beside him. “Obviously this is just what the doctor ordered right in the nick of time.”

Just starting to reach into the cupboard, she stopped. “On second thought, maybe I better not. It's not a good idea for the cook to get tipsy.”

“One won't hurt.”

“I better pass.”

It wasn't her refusal that got his attention, but the sudden uneasiness in her manner that made him wonder if there was something going on with her. That and she wouldn't quite meet his gaze.

“Are you all right, Sam?”

“Fine,” she answered just a little too quickly, her smile a little too bright. She opened the oven, then basted the bird as she said, “I just want to get dinner on the table. Then I can relax.”

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

“Nothing at the moment. But at the last minute I'll need you on the trauma team.” She leaned back against the counter beside him.

“Done.”

“And thanks for bringing the pie.” She smiled. “I'm guessing you didn't make it.”

“Good guess. I did everyone here a favor and bought it.”

“I cook, but baking is out of my league. I planned a frozen pie. Well, it's not frozen now. I heated it last night. The one you brought looks wonderful.”

“I got it from a wonderful pie place.” He glanced into the living room and saw his mother laugh at something Connor said. “Mom seems to be having a good time.”

Sam looked over, then up at him. “I'm glad she came.”

“Speaking of parents—Shouldn't your father be here by now?”

She took a quick look at the digital clock on the microwave over the oven. “Yes.”

“In the spirit of full disclosure,” he said, echoing her words, “did you tell him I'd be here?”

“Yes. And I made it clear that your mother would be joining us, too.”

“I can imagine how that went over,” he said.

“He's welcome to be here and he knows that.”

He looked at the shadows in her eyes and wanted to chase them away, especially because it was his fault they were there. He'd pushed her into shaking things up. But what right did he have to do that to her?

“I shouldn't be here,” he said.

“That's where you're wrong.” She put her hand on his arm. “The thought of you nuking Thanksgiving dinner was just too awful to contemplate. If my father chooses not to be here, he'll miss out on all the fun—”

There was a knock on the door. Since Fiona was closest, she opened it. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Fiona.” Arnold Ryan walked in and looked around. “Connor.”

“Dad.” The two men shook hands. “This is Ellen Tenney, Mitch's mother. She's a homicide detective with Las Vegas Metro.”

Ryan held out his hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Ellen.”

“Same here.” Her tone was neutral, but she stared her cop stare. Probably because of the things Mitch had said.

Sam came out of the kitchen to greet him with a hug. “Hi, Dad. Can I take your coat?”

“Yes.” He shrugged off his expensive brown suede jacket and handed it to her after looking around her apartment. “Thank you, Samantha. I always forget how small this place is. And how eclectic your decorating taste is.”

In less than a minute he'd managed to take the roses out of Sam's cheeks. That seriously ticked Mitch off and he wanted to tell the guy what he could do with his opinion. It might make him feel better, but it wouldn't help her.

For Sam's sake he had to make nice and forced himself to hold out his hand. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Ryan.”

The man only paused a moment before taking it. “Doctor.”

The average person wouldn't have noticed his hesitation, but Ellen Tenney wasn't average. She'd built a successful career on reading people.

When the Ryans had moved away, she whispered to Mitch. “I like Connor and Fiona.”

“Yeah. They're okay,” he said.

“I'd bet my LVPD shield that they take after their mother.”

He laughed. “No comment.”

“Sam seems like a nice girl.” Ellen sipped her white wine.

Nice didn't do justice to Sam. Sweet. Sunny. Sexy. No way was he telling his mother that. “Yeah, she is.”

Fortunately the turkey was done soon after and a flurry of last-minute preparations eased the tension. Ever the diplomat, Sam asked her father to carve the bird, then put the platter of meat on the table and directed everyone to their seats. Fiona helped her set out mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, cranberry mold and green bean casserole. With her father at one end of the table and her at the other, closest to the kitchen, Mitch was on Sam's right, with Fiona on his other side as a buffer. Connor was between Ellen and his father. Sam had given the seating arrangement careful thought, he noted. Keeping him and her father apart.

When all the food had been passed and plates filled, Fiona raised her glass and made a toast. “To my sister, Sam. Thank you for dinner. And for being my sister.”

“That was sweet, Fee,” Sam said.

Everyone clinked glasses and murmured agreement, then sipped before digging into the food. Mitch noticed that Sam set her wineglass down untouched.

“Isn't this the part where we all tell what we're thankful for?” Connor asked, forking up a bite of gravy-covered stuffing.

“I'm thankful for you reminding me,” Sam said.

“No fair being thankful for family,” Connor warned. “And we should hear from honored guests firsts. Ellen, you go. What are you grateful for?”

His mom chewed on a piece of white meat for a moment, then swallowed. “Is it a Ryan family rule that I can't be thankful for my son?”

“Of course you can,” Sam answered warmly. “My brother was just kidding.”

“No, I wasn't,” he chimed in. “That's too easy.”

“There's nothing easy about family,” Mitch said, meeting his mother's gaze around the tall candle between them.

“There's nothing more precious, either,” Sam said.

Ellen sent her a measuring look. “I agree. Those of us who have lost a loved one appreciate things just a little more.”

“Isn't that an occupational hazard?” Arnold Ryan asked.

“On the police force there's always a higher level of awareness,” Ellen agreed. “It's a blessing and a curse. Detectives not so much. But the men and women on patrol, they're called peace officers for a reason, live with the threat every time they come to work. We always hope nothing happens.”

“But if it does, we're grateful for Mitch in the E.R.,” Sam said, looking at him.

Leave it to her to find a silver lining at the same time she pulled him into the conversation and told her father he was wrong. Anyone looking at the expression on her face would believe he was a hero. But he knew better.

He also knew she was pushing the food around her plate but not much was going into her mouth. When her father monopolized the conversation at the other end of the table he leaned over and asked her, “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” she said. “Why?”

“You're not eating.”

She looked down, then back at him. “Did you see the way my plate was piled? No way could I eat it all.”

“It's delicious. You're a pretty good cook, Sunshine.”

“Thanks.” She took a bite of mashed potatoes, then cut a piece of turkey and ate it.

When second helpings were downed and everyone declared themselves completely stuffed, Sam asked, “Anyone for pie?”

The groans were answer enough and she directed that plates be passed down to her. When that was accomplished, she stood to carry them into the kitchen.

Mitch put his hand on her arm. “I'll get that.”

“It's not necessary.”

“You cooked. I'll fetch and carry.” He stood and picked up the pile, then walked around her.

She followed him and started to stack the empty plates in the dishwasher. “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” He folded his arms over his chest. “What I would like you to mention is what's wrong. And don't tell me nothing. This is me.”

She looked up quickly. “I—I guess I'm just tired. Maybe a little stressed about this gathering.”

“I understand that. But it's going well. You're sure there's nothing else?”

She looked away. “Don't worry about me.”

But that was just it. He did worry about her. About her health. About how the rest of her family treated her. Whether or not she was happy. The whole nine yards was fodder for his worry, he realized. That wasn't supposed to happen to him. From worry it was a hop, skip and jump to caring. After that was commitment. The thought didn't make him happy, because that was not something a short-term guy like himself could ever be thankful for.

 

Mitch leaned back against Sam's kitchen counter as he hand-dried a crystal wineglass. After everyone else went home he'd stayed behind to help clean up, and she was glad. Cooking holiday dinner had never taken so much energy before and she was tired to the bone. On top of that, she just liked having him around. It was going to come back and bite her big time, but of all the things she was thankful for this year, he was at the top of her list.

Sam rinsed another glass and set it out on the dish towel beside the sink. “So tell me why you didn't find it necessary to see your mother safely home.”

“She's a cop.” He held the glass up to the light, checking for spots, then set it with the others on the table before grabbing another one.

“That doesn't alter the fact she's a woman.”

“With a black belt in self-defense.”

“What if she was attacked by a guy with a black belt?” She rested her wrists on the sink, letting her wet soapy hands drip. “It seems to me that in an altercation with opponents who have equal abilities the stronger person wins.”