The Magnificent M.D. (10 page)

Which required him to stay cool. To keep his distance from Hayley, both emotional and physical. Which was why he'd postponed the dinner he'd promised her and turned down her offers for deep-sea fishing, kite flying or clamming. Because he was afraid she'd tag along, thinking he needed company. He didn't. He'd been on his own all his life, and while it wasn't the easiest way to grow up, it had become his way of life.

He drained his coffee cup and got up off the stool at the breakfast counter. He was going somewhere. He had to. He just didn't know where. The office was closed on Saturday, and the day stretched ahead of him, empty and pointless. Why hadn't he taken Al up on the cruise idea? It had sounded ludicrous at the time, but more and more it sounded like a better idea than returning to the town he'd forgotten and the girl he'd been trying to forget for seventeen years.

Rain pelted the windows, and the heat from the antique ceramic stove, coupled with the steam from the hot coffee, wrapped around him like a cocoon. Tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe. He had to get out of there. Away from her and her house. It made him want things he'd never had and certainly never wanted. Home and hearth and a long weekend ahead of him and someone to share it with. To walk in the rain with, to return to bed with, to make love with, share his thoughts with, laugh with….

“Well, I'm off,” he said, ending his traitorous thoughts as briskly as if he had someplace to go. Something to do. Someone to do it with. “I still owe you a dinner,” he said nonchalantly. “We can go tonight, if you still want to.” As if she would ever want to go. But he had to take her out. He owed her. He'd promised her.

“Of course,” she said. So stiff, so polite. As if he were just another guest. As if they were strangers…. They might as well be for all the contact they'd had during the past week. She'd said yes, but he was convinced she would think up some reason to cancel again.

He drove up the coast, stopping at a beautiful, deserted beach strewn with bleached driftwood, changed into running shorts and shoes and ran for miles until his lungs were raw and empty, until he had to stop and gasp for breath, until his muscles hurt and his body begged for relief. Until he stopped thinking about Hayley. Until he finally turned around and drove back.

 

“Business
will
pick up for you,” Hayley said, sitting across from him at their window table at the Sea Change restaurant. “As soon as word gets around.” They hadn't talked much on the way to the restaurant. He hadn't been very forthcoming about what he'd done that day. He'd seemed surprised when she'd agreed to have dinner with him. When he walked back into the house, his grim expression told her he hadn't had the greatest time, whatever he'd been doing. Not that she expected him to rave about the simple pleasures of a day along the Oregon coast. Nor had she expected him to ask her along. She'd merely thought, merely imagined he might want company. He'd made it quite clear he didn't. Not hers, anyway.

Now she was determined to act normal. As if Sam were an old friend. No more. No less. He was right. There was no need to rehash the past. It was over.

“It doesn't matter,” he said. “I'm here whether they need me or not.”

“They need you,” she insisted. “But in the meantime, what about doing some deep-sea fishing tomorrow?”
Which was just what she would have suggested to any guest.

“You don't have to entertain me. I'm not a guest,” he said as if he'd read her mind.

“Well then, how about clamming?” she persisted.

He shrugged.

“Dammit, Sam, you're determined to have a miserable time for six months, aren't you?” she asked.

“I'd rather not waste my time, that's all.”

“Is it wasting your time to relax, to take a well-deserved break? I thought that was the idea of your coming here.” She would give anything to see those lines in his forehead relax, to see him smile, hear him laugh.

“My reason for coming here was to repay your grandfather. If it hadn't been for that—”

“You'd be on a Caribbean cruise, is that what you're saying?” she asked.

“I wonder. No, I don't think I'm the cruise type. Too restless. All right, I didn't have anything else to do. Does it make you happy to know you gave me a place to go?” he asked.

“It makes me happy to see you stop working eighty-hour weeks.”

“That must surprise you, that I would work so hard at something.”

She shook her head and took a sip of the expensive merlot he'd ordered. “Not at all. You were always…intense.”

His mouth quirked up at one corner. It wasn't really a smile. It was too cynical. But it was a start. “Intense,” he repeated, tapping his spoon on the table. “Don't you mean wild, offensive, delinquent, derelict…?”

“I meant intense and intelligent, intuitive and just plain smart. And I wasn't the only one who thought that.”

“I know. That's why— Never mind.”

“I know what you were going to say. That's why it hurt so much when Grandpa turned you in. He believed in you. He knew you had potential. That you could succeed.” She leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table. “Would you believe me if I told you it hurt him more than it hurt you?”

“Oh, right. I'm sure it did.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Let's forget about it. Put it behind us. It was seventeen years ago. I got over it. He did, too. And so did you.”

If he only knew. She'd never gotten over it or over him. She'd never found anyone like him. She sometimes wondered if that was why her marriage had turned out so disastrously. Because she'd been looking for someone to take his place. But no one could. No one had that combination of intensity, intelligence and animal magnetism. No one ever made her feel the way he did. Now was her chance to forget it, put it behind her, as he so succinctly suggested. Now was the time to take a good look at the boy who ran away and at the man he'd become and close that chapter of her life. She'd have plenty of time to do that. Six months. Maybe too much time.

She glanced across the table. He was looking at her with those jet-black eyes, his expression carefully neutral. Did he ever let go? Did he ever really enjoy himself? Or had he truly turned into a workaholic whose only pleasure was work and more work? Granted, it was important work, humanitarian work. But work all the same.

“You're right, of course,” she said as the waiter grated fresh Parmesan cheese over her Caesar salad. “The past is the past. Here's to the future.” She raised her glass.

He lifted his wineglass and tapped hers. “Yours or mine?” he asked.

“Both. What do you see in your future, Sam? More of the same?”

He set his glass down, musing. “I could be chief of staff one day. Then they might name a wing of the hospital after me. Or at least a plaque in the lobby. I could go into research. Invent a new heart valve. Leave something behind me when I die. And I'd have more regular hours that way. More time off.”

“Time for golf?” she asked.

“No golf,” he said.

“What, then, if you refuse to go fishing—wine, women and song?”

“I always have time for women, as long as they don't interfere with my job,” he said.

“You mean as long as they don't count on you to show up for some prearranged appointment—like Christmas, birthdays, weddings and funerals? No wonder you never got married.”

“That's not why I never got married,” he said, his gaze fastened on the view of the harbor lights.

“No?” she asked lightly, hoping she didn't sound too interested.

“No,” he said firmly. And she knew that was all she was going to get out of him that night. “Speaking of marriage,” he said as the waiter set a plate of crab cakes with remoulade sauce in front of each of them. “What happened to yours?”

She winced at his blunt question, then gathered her composure like a jacket around her. “Oh, just the usual. Irreconcilable differences. Incompatibility.”

“What was the matter, he didn't like your making blueberry muffins for anybody but him?” he asked.

“No, that wasn't it. It was before I had the bed and
breakfast. Before I had the confidence to be my own person, before I knew what I wanted from life.”

“And what's that?” he asked

“Peace. Tranquillity.”

“Maybe your life's a little too tranquil,” he suggested, cutting into his crisp, savory crab cake. “Maybe it's time you shook it up a little.”

“Really. What do you suggest?” she asked.

“Take a motorcycle ride. Go back to Africa. Take a safari.”

“You should talk. According to your boss you work too hard and you never take vacations. And you have no excuse. You have six months off. And the money to do what you want.” She set her fork down. “I'm sorry,” she said contritely. “If it weren't for me interfering in your life, that's exactly what you would be doing.
Could
be doing.”

“It's always easier to tell someone else what's wrong with their lives, isn't it?” he asked. “Like ‘You need to take a break. Take time off. Go on vacation. Get married. Play golf.”'

“Or ride a motorcycle,” she murmured. “You don't still have a motorcycle, do you?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact I just bought myself a new street bike. If I had it here, I'd take you for a ride.”

“I remember the last time you took me for a ride. We were stopped for speeding by Officer Spaulding. My parents found out and I was grounded for two weeks.” But that's not the part she remembered most. The part she'd never forget was how it felt to be plastered against his back, the throbbing of the engine, the wind in her hair, the freedom, the exhilaration.

“I was a bad influence on you,” he said with a cocky grin that made him look like the teenage, daredevil Sam. Made her return his smile. Made her realize that under
neath that successful doctor façade, a trace of the town bad boy still lurked. Much more than a trace. The years had been good to him; no doubt about it. Financial success had smoothed off some of the rough edges, given him self-assurance, but underneath was a raw energy and ambition that attracted her with the power of a supermagnet. She couldn't take her eyes off him. Couldn't stop wishing for another ride on his motorcycle. Another chance to press her body against his.

“And you're not a bit sorry for it,” she said with a half smile.

“Why should I be? You were a goody-goody. Your parents' obedient daughter. What I want to know is, are you still?” he asked, his eyes narrowed, his voice low.

“My parents' daughter? No, of course not,” she said. “I'm my own person now. I grew up.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his bold gaze skimming the outline of her breasts under her sweater. Reminding her of that day in the playhouse when she'd peeled her wet sweater off, then her bra and flung them on the floor. Remembering his cool hands on her feverish skin.

“And so did you,” she said, shifting uncomfortably as her face flushed, a shiver ran up her spine and her nipples tightened under her sweater. Hoping he wouldn't notice in the subdued light, hoping he'd long ago forgotten the incident that shook her world. That afternoon, that moment when they'd almost… She'd nearly… So long ago, and yet, just yesterday. “We both grew up,” she said.

“I don't hot-wire cars anymore, if that's what you mean. But underneath I'm basically the same hotshot kid, out to show the world I'm as good as the next person. Isn't that what you thought of me?” he asked.

“Well…” I thought you were the most exciting person
I'd ever known. The sexiest, the most daring, the most provocative… She took a sip of ice water and cleared her throat.

“Never mind,” he said brusquely. “I know what you thought of me. You haven't told me who you married.”

“No one you know.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“In Portland.”

She didn't intend to say any more, but he just sat there, looking at her, waiting for her to continue, so at last she did.

“It was after I got out of the Peace Corps. I was at loose ends. Wanting to change the world, but not knowing how to go about it. So I joined this save-the-trees group. He was an active environmentalist—save the trees, the birds, the frogs, whatever species needed saving.” Except for one. “We had protests, chained ourselves to the redwoods,” she said lightly as if it had all been a game. But it hadn't been. It had been deadly serious. She paused while the waiter brought coffee and a chocolate decadence. Just time enough to regret pouring out her life story.

Nobody wanted to hear the details of that stage of her life. Not her parents, who'd actively opposed her marriage to an offbeat do-gooder, and not her friends who'd never understood what she saw in him. And especially not Sam. Though he'd just prodded her to tell him who she'd married.
Who,
she reminded herself, not how and why.

“You don't want to hear all this,” she said. “I don't know why I'm going on about it.”

“I asked,” he said.

“I…you asked where I met him. The answer is Portland.”

“You can't stop now. Not in the middle of the story. Not when you've just chained yourself to a redwood. Then
what? Did the lumber company cut your tree down on top of you or were you arrested?”

She shook her head. “Neither. Nothing so dramatic. I got cold and tired and unchained myself and went home. But he didn't.”

“He?”

“Todd, my husband, but he wasn't my husband yet. He was tough and tenacious and idealistic.” Hayley didn't say that he was also coldly disappointed in her. She glanced at Sam. His expression was unreadable. “I think you've heard enough,” she said.

“Not yet. Go on. Continue. Did you love him?” he asked, his mouth set in a straight line.