NOTHING! That’s what happened when Mac’s convalescence was over. Not only did he show no sign of moving out, but gradually more and more of his clothes materialised in Amelia’s apartment.
‘You didn’t drive over to your place, did you?’ she demanded, when she returned from a late shift to find a bundle of suits slung over the back of her lounge.
As well as being car-less, his having been written off in the accident, driving was still on the list of things he couldn’t do. She drove him to work when she was working the early shift, and he took a cab when she was, like today, working late.
‘No, Carl picked me up from the hospital and drove me over to the townhouse. I tell you, Bug, you’ve got the most obliging set of brothers, but I can’t help feeling they’re being so helpful so they can keep an eye on how I’m treating you. And they’re all such big lads, too. I hope they never think I’m doing the wrong thing.’
He lifted the pile of clothes and walked away, taking them through to the second bedroom where she’d first put his clothes.
She watched his broad back disappear down the passageway and wondered if, somewhere among the clothes, he’d tucked the picture of Jessica. Amelia was considering the ethics of a bit of snooping—and coming down against such low behaviour—when he returned.
‘He thought it was a bit odd we were still maintaining two homes.’
Amelia, tired after a long shift, eyed her lover warily. She knew him well enough by now to know he didn’t say things simply to break the silence or hear his own voice. Most of Mac’s conversations led somewhere.
But even as she was considering this, another bit of her brain was thinking about the ‘Carl drove me over’ statement, and realising just how far he’d inveigled himself into her life. Once news of her pregnancy had whipped through the family, Carl and Rob, the two brothers who lived in this same building, had appeared, apparently to offer congratulations, but Amelia knew it had been to check out the man who’d suddenly entered their sister’s life.
Far from being any threat to Mac, their approval had been obvious, and often Amelia had returned from work to find one or other, and sometimes even Alistair, who hated city living and had a house in an outer suburb, playing war-based board games with Mac around her dining table.
‘I suppose it’s only because Rowley’s touring that he’s not half living here as well,’ she muttered grouchily, then, as Mac frowned, she realised how far her mind had strayed. ‘What were we talking about?’
He walked around the lounge and dropped down to sit beside her, putting his arm along the back of it so she could feel its closeness even though he wasn’t touching her.
Mac lifted his hand and automatically began to take the pins from the thick bunch of shiny dark hair, already imagining how it would look and feel as it tumbled from captivity. Would his fascination with it ever wane?
Would his attraction to Peterson ever grow less?
He rather hoped so—just marginally perhaps—as surely he’d be old and burnt out before his time if his sex life kept going the way it was.
He clamped down on thoughts of sex and, knowing it was important, tried to remember what they’d been talking about. But Peterson looked tired, and he trailed the back of his fingers down her cheek.
‘Would you miss work very much if you gave it up?’ he asked. ‘Or cut back?’
She turned and frowned at him.
‘Now, where did that come from?’ she demanded. ‘I might not remember what you did ask, but it certainly wasn’t about work.’
He used his hand to tug her closer, then massaged her neck and shoulders.
‘You look tired. I’ve not only got you pregnant but I’ve been an added burden to you, being here, needing to be looked after. I hate to think you’re exhausted because of me.’
‘Mmm, that’s nice—keep doing it and I’ll forgive you anything,’ she murmured, but Mac had remembered what he had said earlier. The problem with not being able to remember exactly what stage their relationship had reached prior to his accident meant he had to move forward with extreme caution. What if they’d discussed living together and she’d said no? Would bringing it up again now only aggravate her?
He moved his fingers lower, digging them in on either side of her spine and relishing her little sighs of pleasure. She did so much for him, it was nice to be able to offer even this small gift of pleasure.
Then suddenly she straightened, moving away so she could turn to face him.
‘You were talking about maintaining two establishments,’ she said, and it seemed to him her dark eyes looked fearful.
But what could Peterson fear?
No matter what, he reached out, wanting to hold her and promise her he’d protect her from whatever it was, but, as if sensing his reaction, she stood up and shifted to one of the lounge chairs.
‘Mac, we have to talk,’ she said, the oh, so kissable lips tight with strain. ‘I know things have been good between us since you’ve been living here—apart from when you revert to form and start ordering me around. It’s been wonderful and I’ve enjoyed it, but it’s all a lie, Mac.’
Her voice tailed off to a whisper, but that didn’t stop the power of the quiet words. They flew like barbed arrows through his skin, sticking in his gut, and lungs and heart.
‘The baby’s a lie?’ he asked, and heard the panic he was feeling in the hoarseness of his voice.
She shook her head impatiently.
‘No, the baby’s not a lie—it’s about the only real thing there is—but, Mac, that’s all there was. One night, when we’d both had too much to drink and fell into bed together.’ She looked him in the eye, as if daring him to argue, and added, ‘It was great. I think we both enjoyed it. But there was no affair—no relationship. In fact, nothing after it.’
He tried to speak, to find words to demand an explanation, but she held up her hand and continued.
‘I knew when you talked about amnesia that you assumed we were having a relationship and had forgotten bits of it, and I started to explain to you about what really had happened, but you kissed me and, well, you know what usually happens after that…’
‘You’re saying all this has been a lie?’ The words exploded out of him. ‘There was no relationship? The night we had dinner with Helene? That was it?’
Peterson nodded, and it seemed to Mac she was diminishing before his eyes, curling herself into the little bug he sometimes called her, but he couldn’t stop his own churning emotions escaping in words.
‘You let me think I’d forgotten—that I was suffering amnesia—and all this time there was nothing going on between us?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, then she straightened up, gathered her hair into a long swatch and with a twitch of her fingers tied it into a knot. It was a movement that always fascinated him as he was certain it defied gravity—though not his questing fingers.
‘Actually, I’m not all that sorry.’ More certain now, she amended her previous statement. ‘You definitely needed someone to keep an eye on you and I was available and, as far as I’m concerned, these last few weeks have been wonderful.’
The defiant glare he associated with Peterson was now firmly back in place, but while she might have recovered from whatever had upset her, he was still lost in a very unpleasant place.
‘Are you saying they’re over? Thanks for the memory, Mac, now here’s your hat and what’s your hurry?’
Amelia almost smiled at the silly expression, but it would have been a dim effort at best. Her heart ached with the knowledge that the relationship they’d enjoyed had been based if not on a lie at least on the deception of nondisclosure.
‘I’m saying we need to talk about things—to decide about the future.’
Mac frowned at her.
‘But there’s nothing to decide, woman. We’ve been over this before. We’re having a baby, and I’d rather we were married before it came along. I know some women prefer to wait until after so they’ll fit into a sexier dress, but let me tell you this, Peterson, you’ll always be sexy to me, dressed or undressed.’
His lips slid into a quirky smile. ‘Definitely undressed—now, haven’t you been in that daggy uniform long enough?’
Amelia ignored the invitation—and the riffles of excitement his suggestion caused within her—because right now they were back to where they’d been when she’d first told him she was pregnant. Back when he’d assured her that sex and a baby were all he wanted from a marriage.
So nothing had changed—except she’d been foolish enough to fall in love with him.
She studied him, wondering why and how this had happened, and saw a frown gather his eyebrows.
‘Well, if you’re not going to get undressed, what about the wedding?’ he demanded. ‘Before or after the baby’s born?’
‘Are you asking me to marry you?’
Amelia wasn’t certain why she was pushing him—because she sure as hell didn’t know what she’d reply if he did propose.
‘Well, not in so many words, Peterson,’ he said. ‘I mean, it wasn’t a formal declaration or anything. Not really a proposal.’
Boy, if he backed away any faster he’d fall over!
‘But whether we had a relationship or not before, we’ve got something going for us now, and we’re having a baby together so surely marriage is the answer,’ he finished.
Back to the baby, Amelia thought bleakly, but Mac’s assumption that marriage was a foregone conclusion both aggravated and intrigued her.
‘And how is this supposed to happen if one or other of us doesn’t propose, then go ahead with all the stuff like organising a wedding?’ She hesitated, then added, ‘And if you say that’s women’s business, I will throw this chair at you.’
Mac stared at her. She certainly looked angry enough to have the strength to lift the chair and hurl it in his direction. But how had the conversation deteriorated to this? Only minutes ago he’d been massaging her neck and shoulders and her little murmurs of encouragement had led him to believe…In fact, he’d actually been thinking in terms of more massage, but this time as she showered off the weariness of the day. And from massage to…
He fought the lust rising in his blood, and studied the slim, elfin beauty who was the object of that lust. She was angry, no doubt about it, but why?
Because he’d mentioned marriage?
But hadn’t he said that all along?
Was it the way he’d talked about it that had upset her?
Should he have proposed in some formal, bended-knee-type way?
‘Damn it all, Peterson, you must know I’m not good at this romantic stuff, but if a formal proposal is what you want, then I’ll do it. Here? Now?’
It was obvious from her blank-eyed stare that he wasn’t doing too well.
He tried again. ‘No, I know, we’ll go to Capriccio’s, where it all started. Saturday night. I’ll do it there.’
He beamed at her, sure the brilliance of this idea would bring back the sparkle to her eyes and that seductive smile, which she knew inflamed him, to her lips.
Actually, the spark in her eyes looked more like loathing, and the thin line of her lips suggested more disbelief than seduction.
‘Very original choice!’ she snapped. ‘Makes it easy, does it, to take all your women to the same place?’
She stood up and whirled past him.
‘I’m going to have a shower, and then I’m going to bed.’ She threw the words at him, turning back to add with unmistakable emphasis, ‘Alone.’
Mac stared at the emptiness where she had been—an emptiness echoed in his heart.
He dropped his head into his hands, and reminded himself that every man he’d ever known eventually had to admit he didn’t understand women, but sometimes, it seemed to Mac, he had far less understanding than the rest of his gender.
And what had she meant by ‘all his women’?
‘Do you understand her?’ he asked Carl, encountering him in the lift on his way to work the next morning.
‘The Bug? She’s just a woman,’ Carl said. ‘And like all of them, there’s no telling what’ll set her off. But at least with her, she’ll soon tell you if she’s upset over something. She’s never been one to brood or sulk or carry grudges.’
Mac found this heartening. She’d been asleep—or pretending sleep—when he’d looked into the bedroom after a cold and lonely night in the spare bed. And the sight of her, almost childlike in the innocent way she’d lain there, had caught at him—as if his heart had been snagged by a fish hook.
‘What were you talking about when she flipped?’ Carl asked. He’d established Mac intended getting a cab to work and had offered to drive him, and they were now edging forward through the early morning traffic.
‘Dinner at Capriccio’s on Saturday night,’ Mac replied. ‘I thought, as we’d had our first date there, it would be the ideal place to propose.’
Carl turned towards him, his face a study in disbelief.
‘And that upset her? Honestly! Women! I doubt there’s a man alive who understands them.’
He shook his head, and with the comfort of mutual bewilderment they continued the journey, talking football now, which was far easier to understand.
But as Mac walked into A and E, his thoughts returned to the taut-faced woman who’d sat opposite him the previous evening. She’d definitely been upset, and he’d failed to grasp just why. Had it been because they hadn’t been having an ongoing affair prior to his accident?
Or because she hadn’t told him that was the case?
And either way, surely it didn’t matter now. They were having a baby, he enjoyed being with her, was crazy with lust for her delectable body—what more did they need to make a future together?
He greeted colleagues as he made his way—absentmindedly—to his office.
She was due at work at twelve-thirty. He’d get some flowers and put them on the desk in the little cubby-hole behind the admissions office. Maybe he’d even write a note. Yes, he’d write a note—formally inviting her to dinner.
Should he get a ring?
But if he did and she didn’t like it, what would happen?
Would she say so? Or wear a ring she hated for the rest of his life?
He was groaning at the impossibility of it all when Colleen knocked and entered.
‘Your head’s bad!’ she said accusingly, and Mac looked up and frowned his confusion at her.
‘My head’s fine,’ he snapped. ‘What do you want?’
Colleen looked as if she’d like to turn around and go right back out again, but she was made of sterner stuff.
‘Your concussion was obviously worse than Doug Blake thought,’ she said. ‘It’s morning, and at this time every morning I come in and you fire orders at me, usually rant and rave a little about whatever happens to be upsetting you, then I go back out and try to get as much done as possible before you descend on me with new—and often conflicting—orders.’
She folded her arms and her eyes dared him to argue.
‘Am I really that bad?’ he asked, and saw her expression change from belligerence to concern.
‘Are you OK, Mac?’ she asked, stepping forward as if she might judge his health better if she was closer.
‘Of course I’m OK,’ he growled. ‘Physically, that is. The rest of me’s a mess. Honestly, Colleen, you wouldn’t believe the confusion a tiny slip of a thing like Peterson is causing in my life.’
He looked at his secretary and sighed, then added ‘Women!’ in a tone that consigned them all to perdition.
‘I’m a woman,’ Colleen reminded him. ‘And fast losing patience with this nonsense of yours. If you don’t have any correspondence or orders for me, I’ll get out of here. And as for Peterson, if you had one iota of sense, you’d be down on your bended knees at least once an hour, giving thanks that such a good, kind, sensible young woman would even give you a second glance—let alone tie herself to you for life.’
She hesitated, then added, ‘You are going to marry her, I assume?’ Her voice boded ill for him if he considered any alternative.
‘Of course I’m going to marry her,’ he grumbled, then remembered that this hadn’t quite been established. ‘That’s if I can ever sort out what she wants for the future.’
He was about to moan ‘Women’ again in a tone of heartfelt anguish when he remembered Colleen’s reaction to his last use of the word.
‘What’s in the mail?’ he said instead, nodding to the pile she still held clutched in one hand.
‘Usual government bumf, but there’s a letter from your ex about the new trauma centre and a reminder about the meeting of the Lakelands disaster planning committee next Monday night. You’ve got the MAC meeting Tuesday night and the medical specialists meeting Thursday, so don’t plan on much social life next week.’
‘I’ll write it in my diary—don’t get married next week,’ Mac said bitterly, then he reached out his hand for the sheaf of papers and got down to work.
The day didn’t improve. The vague headache which was the lingering after-effect of his accident worsened as the morning wore on, and by mid-afternoon, when he trapped Peterson in the corridor and invited her to have a coffee with him—something which had become a very pleasant habit lately—she eyed him for a moment, then said ‘Your head’s aching’ in such accusatory tones he snapped at her.
‘You don’t have to tell me, I already know!’
She accepted his bad-tempered reply with a long-suffering look that tried his patience even further, then demanded to know if he’d spoken to Doug Blake about another scan.
‘No, I haven’t. Have you spoken to an O and G specialist?’
She blinked her surprise, then coloured in the delicious way she had, making him forget he was angry with her.
Until she answered.
‘No, and I don’t intend to. Not yet.’
Fear made him grasp her arm and drag her into the tearoom which—just when he needed it—was crowded with people. So he herded her out again, this time pulling open the door to a supply room—fortunately empty.
‘You don’t mean you’re thinking of not having the baby?’
She did the ‘startled doe’ look females seemed to manage so well, and pulled away from him.
‘Of course I intend having the baby,’ she shot at him. ‘There’s just no need to see a specialist this early.’
He thought he was back in the clear, until she added ‘Men!’ in such scathing tones he actually flinched—then she walked out. And he hadn’t seen her since.
So, here he was, at seven o’clock in the evening, sitting at his desk, paperwork more or less up to date but unable to leave because his uncertainty was so strong it was practically rattling his bones. Yesterday at this time—earlier, in fact—he’d sought out Peterson, said goodbye—his skin warmed, thinking of that very private moment—then headed home—well, he now thought of her place as home, didn’t he?
Since then, so much had gone wrong he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome there, but the thought of returning to his townhouse made his head ache even more.
Well, at least he could do something about the headache. He opened the top drawer of his desk, relaxing slightly and even smiling to himself as he remembered searching for paracetamol during that fateful telephone conversation with Helene.
Pulled out not the blister pack but an envelope. It had arrived the previous day and, aware Colleen had been curious about it—she’d noticed the strongly printed ‘Personal’ in the corner and had refrained from opening it—he’d shoved it straight into the drawer.
He held it to the light, although he knew who it was from and, after going to his townhouse for clothes and seeing the photo on his dressing-table, could guess what it contained. This must be phase ten—or maybe it was twelve—of Jessica’s determination to marry a doctor.
He shook his head as he picked up a paper-knife and slit the envelope open. Did her pursuit of him amount to stalking? Even if it was, could he ever bring himself to report her to the police?
And if he did, what could he say?
A couple of years ago I gave the woman a key to my townhouse so she could let the carpet-cleaners in, and, although she gave it back, she must have had a copy cut because since then she comes and goes at will, leaving cakes or cookies—that was phase one—flowers—that was four or five—and now photos of herself.
He slid the papers from the envelope and unwrapped the photo, turned it over and read the writing on the back.
‘All my love, Jessica.’
He studied the woman’s fair beauty, thinking how happy it would make him to receive a similar offering from a certain dark-haired nurse.
The thought jolted him so much his fingers clenched, crumpling the shiny paper.
You want Peterson to love you?
Love?
Peterson?
As if summoned by his thoughts, she burst through the door like she always had in the past, the light of battle in her eyes.
‘Why are you still here? Is it your head? Did you talk to Doug? Honestly, Mac, you’re more trouble than a two-year-old. You know you’re supposed to be taking things easy and here you are, working fifteen-hour days. You worried about how the place managed when you were off sick for a fortnight—how do you imagine it’ll cope if you keel over with a stroke?’
‘Head injuries don’t lead to strokes,’ he told her, and was pretty sure it was true, but as ever his thinking ability had been undermined by her presence, or by the effect her presence had on the rest of him.
‘I don’t care what head injuries lead to,’ she yelled at him. ‘The point is, you shouldn’t be here. I’ve phoned Carl and he’s coming to drive you home. And in case you want to argue, I’ve told him to bring Rob for extra muscle.’
Furious with her attitude, he was about to tell her he could look after himself and certainly didn’t need her brothers to ferry him around when he realised that her choice of chauffeurs undoubtedly meant he was to be driven home to her place, not his gloomy townhouse with his irritating neighbour.
His anger disappeared as quickly as it had flared, and he smiled at the still scowling Peterson.
‘You’ll spoil me with all this attention,’ he said, and enjoyed watching her fury change to uncertainty, then her eyes narrow as she tried to work out if he had an ulterior motive in agreeing.
Which he did, of course, and it had a lot to do with where he intended sleeping that night.
‘Thank you,’ he added, to make her feel even worse, then, because he didn’t like to see her frowning, even with uncertainty, he stood up and walked around the desk, taking her in his arms and holding her close while he looked down into her eyes.
‘I mean that, Amelia,’ he murmured, enjoying the way the unfamiliar name rolled off his tongue. ‘Thank you for everything.’
Then he confirmed the words with a kiss, soon losing himself in her sweetness yet again, so when she pushed away with a breathless ‘That’s me they’re paging’ it took him a minute or two to get his bearings.