DR. MOM AND THE MILLIONAIRE Page 11

  The image disturbed her, but so did Chase's plans. "Your therapist said you still aren't planning to have anyone help you when you leave here. I know how strongly you felt about dependence," she hurried on before they could get into that discussion again. "But it would be better if there was someone around. You'll have a housekeeper, won't you?"

  "I'll be the only one living there. I told you, I'll be fine. And I will. We're talking about what you need right now," he flatly reminded her. "Not me."

  "What I need doesn't matter." Her knee-jerk response had her folding her arms again, the posture hinting faintly at exasperation. "I can understand why you don't want a nurse, Chase. And I'm not pushing that idea. I just can't picture you in a kitchen or with a dust rag. Especially on crutches. Do you have a religious objection against hired help?"

  "I do fine in a kitchen. In fact," he said, her hesitation at that claim pleasing him enormously, "I make a shrimp linguine that will bring you to your knees. I've just never liked the idea of having hired strangers living in my house. I've never even seen the woman who takes care of my place in Seattle. She cleans and she leaves. Gwen found her for me. She should be able to find someone like that here."

  The vision Alex had of him with an entire staff gave way to the realization that he lived completely alone. Something about that caused more air to leak from his overinflated public image of arrogant demanding tycoon. He could be demanding all right. But he wasn't a man who expected to be waited on. People just expected him to expect it.

  What she hadn't anticipated was that he could cook.

  "Excuse me, Doctor."

  The same blond nurse's aide who'd advised Alex of her flood leaned around the edge of the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt," she said, including Chase in her dazzling white smile. "But Child Care needs to know if they should give Tyler dinner or if you're picking him up."

  Chase watched Alex's attention snap to her watch. The expression was fleeting, so quick he wouldn't have caught it had he not been studying her so closely. Her eyes closed for a instant, the energy sagging from her. Yet, even as she drew the breath that straightened her slender shoulders, she was smiling easily at the woman waiting for her reply.

  "Please tell them I'm on my way," she said, her betraying reaction to the duties pulling at her completely masked. "I'll be there in five minutes."

  "No rest for the wicked?"

  His quiet comment drew her glance back to his. He'd hoped to catch a fragment of that smile. There was a quiet softness about it that he found far more appealing than the cheerleader quality of the young blond's. What he caught instead was a hint of the weariness he wondered if Alex ever admitted. "Something like that."

  "You'd better go."

  She gave him a nod, took a step back.

  "And don't think about it," he warned, certain she was still wrestling with the idea of staying at the house he'd leased. He'd never had to ask anyone to take anything from him before, much less argue them into it. People were usually angling to get a piece of him. But something about this woman told him she could accept help for everyone but herself.

  What I need doesn't matter.

  "The decision's been made," Chase said.

  Yeah, Alex thought, by you and your brother. But all she did was give him a look that let him know she was acting under duress and offered a quiet, "Thank you."

  If Alex had been able to come up with a better solution, she would have. But she couldn't on such short notice. There was no way, either, that any solution of hers would have landed her where she found herself at nine o'clock that evening.

  The Pembroke house was huge.

  It was also very … white.

  Inside. Outside. Ceilings, walls, floors and furniture.

  "Awesome," Brent murmured, standing in the hall and gaping at the enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the octagonal living room that looked a football field away.

  "It looks like ice," Tyler concluded, except he was staring at the gleaming white marble floor that did, indeed, look slick enough to skate on.

  "Don't touch a thing," she ordered the two boys and set the cat, still in his carrier, on the tail of the cream marble inlaid in the entry floor. "And stay here. I'll be right back."

  She headed for the wide hallway on the left, flipping on lights and found an office, library and four bedrooms, the largest of which was half the size of her house and obviously the master. Sweeping back through the entry, encouraged to find that the boys had only moved to the edge of the white carpet that spread like a snowfield through the living and dining rooms, she told them to back up and gave herself a whirlwind tour of the opposite wing.

  That end of the house contained an enormous brass, glass and white kitchen, and two small suites obviously intended for children. Or, possibly, the servants. The bedrooms with their individual bathrooms were also done in shades of beige, a color more compatible with young males.

  Those rooms were where she ushered the boys before shutting the tall, arched glass-paned doors that closed off the kitchen from the dining room and the skating rink of an entryway and she declared everything but the kitchen wing off-limits.

  She'd become fairly adept over the past few years at schlepping the various items a child required whenever he traveled more than a block. Though her energy was beginning to wane, afraid to slow down and discover just how low her reserves were getting, she left Brent in charge of Tyler while she dragged in their bags, the gerbil and the little bowl of goldfish and made up the beds with the bedding she'd brought from the house because she hadn't been sure what she'd find available.

  By ten-thirty the boys were asleep, and she was in the bathroom dragging a cotton sleepshirt over her head and fighting a totally insane urge to cry.

  She was just tired. The day had been impossibly long. And tomorrow would be even longer.

  Self-defense had her cutting off the thought before she could even begin to mentally list all she had to do. Pressing her index finger and thumb to her eyes, she drew a long, steadying breath.

  She wouldn't think about tomorrow. Not now. Right now, she told herself, pushing her fingers up to massage the tension in her forehead, she needed to concentrate on something that didn't threaten to overwhelm her. She needed to focus on a serene place, somewhere quiet, safe, free of demands.

  She usually imagined her fantasy bath.

  All she could see was a chiseled face with blue eyes that seemed to see straight to her soul.

  All she could think about was Chase and how those eyes had darkened when his hand brushed her breast, and the incredible gentleness of his touch when he'd traced the marks on her arm.

  So much for serene, she thought, and reached for the washcloth she'd had to borrow from Chase's room. She didn't want the attraction she felt to him. All it did was taunt her with needs she'd finally managed to bury. She wanted someone to share with, to rely on. Someone who cared enough about their relationship not to bolt because things weren't going his way.

  Chase shared with her, but it was more out of necessity and frustration than any desire to be close. He didn't want to rely on anyone, much less need someone to be there for him. And as for having his way, that wasn't even worth thinking about.

  If she could just feel about him the way she felt about his brothers, she'd be fine.

  The electronic warble of the telephone filtered in from the kitchen. Fighting the urge to sigh, she wiped her hands on a towel she'd also had to borrow and slipped into the kitchen. She'd already given her service the phone number. She was sure Ryan had it too.

  Desperately hoping it wasn't the service, she headed for the portable phone housed below a row of glass-doored cabinets. An acre of white granite counters reflected the stove light she'd left on and caught the glint of brass pots hanging above the wide center island.

  "Dr. Larson," she answered.

  "Did I wake you?"

  "No. No," she repeated, conscious of the way Chase's deep voice rumbled through her. "Why aren't you slee
ping?"

  "Because I'm not tired. Listen, can you find the office my secretary set up and see if there's a file marked ZyTek in there? I need it in the morning."

  Touching her fingers to her forehead, she began rubbing again. "Do you want me to look now?"

  Finding the file was hardly an imposition. It was just a short walk down a long hall and she could take him with her since the phone was portable. What bothered her was that even at this hour, he wasn't ready to wind down for the day and let himself rest.

  "I don't want to interrupt whatever you're doing. Just bring it whenever you get to the hospital." He paused, making her aware of the steady hum of the refrigerator. "How's the house?"

  She thought he'd been about to say good-night. Since he hadn't, she dropped her hand and leaned against the counter.

  "It's … big," she told him, thinking he was just after another opinion since he hadn't seen it himself. "I don't know what Ryan or your secretary told you about it, but if it's space you're after, you've got it."

  "I meant for you. How is it for you and the kids?"

  She hadn't expected the question. Or the concern in his voice. She wanted to believe she'd only imagined it. Feeling the way she did, tired, a little needy, that concern was far too seductive.

  "Alex?"

  The way he said her name, nearly stripped her defenses.

  "It's perfect. Really," she assured him because the odd tightening in her chest had robbed her first words of strength. "I really appreciate—"

  "That's not what I want. I just wanted to make sure you got in all right. And to make sure you have everything you need there. If you don't, let me know. I'll call Gwen and she'll get it for you."

  The thought of calling the secretary he'd imported from Seattle to bring the towels she'd forgotten in Honeygrove almost made her laugh.

  The sound that escaped her throat sounded more like a sob.

  "Hey," he murmured. "Are you all right?"

  The honeyed tones of his voice washed over her, the soothing sounds drawing the tension from her shoulders, coaxing her eyes to close. He couldn't see her, but she shook her head at his question and threaded her fingers through her hair once more.

  She wasn't all right. When he'd folded the key into her palm and told her they were even, his message couldn't have been any clearer had he written it in Magic Marker on the surgical schedule board. He wanted no personal obligations. He wanted no strings. She'd reminded herself of that not three minutes ago. Yet, he was pulling her to him, anyway.

  "I'm fine," she said. She'd survived far worse days. It was fatigue. And maybe a little mental overload. Nothing she couldn't handle with a few hours' sleep.

  The length of Chase's pause seemed to question her conclusion. "Get some rest, Alex."

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  « ^ »

  "Did you have any trouble finding it?" Chase asked, setting aside the ZyTec file Alex had just handed him.

  "There were only three files on the desk and it was right on top. Is there anything else you need from there?"

  His glance skimmed over the earth-tone casual slacks and white T-shirt she wore to settle once more on her face. Her short, silky hair was swept back from her delicate features, making her dark eyes look huge and drawing his eyes to the peach tint glossing her lush mouth. The slight fullness of her bottom lip was what usually drew his attention, along with those languorous eyes and just about everything else about her. This morning, he was more conscious of the faint shadows beneath her lower lashes.

  "Thanks. This was it," he told her, though he hadn't really needed the file at all. He was feeling a little guilty about that, too. It was Saturday and she'd come to the hospital just for him. When he'd called last night, he hadn't thought about her schedule. He'd just wanted an excuse to see if she was all right. He wasn't quite sure why it had felt so necessary to make sure she was okay. But it had. And he always went with his instincts.

  "What's your insurance company doing about your house?"

  She dropped the chart she'd also brought onto the bed. He knew she didn't have to check him over. The doctor on call from the clinic would have done it. But he'd overheard Alex telling his nurse moments ago, that she'd check him over herself, since she was there anyway. Then, she'd be on her way to the mall for the haircuts and shoes she hadn't managed last weekend.

  "I dropped a key off with my agent so a crew could start pumping out water," she told him, her tone lacking the deep-seated fatigue he'd heard on the phone. Slipping her hand under his knee, she gently lifted upward. "My agent said the adjuster will be there sometime Monday morning, but I'll be in surgery, so I don't know when I'll talk to him."

  Easing his knee back down, she glanced toward him. "On a scale of one to ten with ten the worst, how much did that hurt?"

  Since he hadn't been thinking about his leg, he paused. "Maybe a three," he decided. "Did the water get up into the walls?"

  "And the drapes and the furniture."

  "Those are easy to clean or replace. It's the structural damage you have to worry about. How high up were the water marks?"

  "I don't know for sure. It could have been a couple of inches. It could have been a foot." A sigh slipped into her voice. "I just remember seeing a darker border along the kitchen and living-room walls."

  The fact that she didn't remember surprised him. The woman was normally observant to a fault. Her mind was trained to soak in details, sort the important from the extraneous and react accordingly. Either she hadn't thought this particular detail mattered, or the enormity of the problem had been too much to deal with all at once and she had blocked everything but what she'd needed to deal with just then.

  Strongly suspecting the latter, he leaned forward to let her slip his gown from his bruised shoulder. Her hands were gentle, her touch clinical.

  She might as well have slipped that small, soft palm over his chest and down his stomach.

  "What kind of floors do you have?" he asked, ruthlessly ignoring the way his body stirred. "Not hardwood, I hope."

  "Only the entry and kitchen. But it looked okay. The rest is carpeted."

  "There's probably wood under that. I have a hotel in San Francisco that had some pretty extensive water damage. It's not necessarily what you can see that you have to worry about."

  She shot him a level glance. "I don't think I really wanted to know that. Lift your arm for me," she instructed, shoving her own concerns aside to concentrate on him. "I want to see how your range of motion is coming along. And don't go beyond where it starts to hurt," she warned him, as if she knew he'd do exactly that.

  She cupped her hand on his shoulder to feel the motion of the joint muscles beneath as he did as she asked. When Mike-the-therapist did that, Chase was aware of a dull ache and the pull of hard muscle and bone. With Alex, he was far more conscious of the heat of her palm and the sensation of muscles relaxing, of somehow being soothed. Calmed.

  In a way, it was almost as if he were being healed, a thought he once would have dismissed as both naive and improbable. The feeling had nothing to do with anything mystical. It wasn't even because she was a physician and healing was her job. It was just … her.

  "Good," she murmured. Genuine pleasure at his progress warmed her eyes. Sliding his gown up his arm, she pulled the back ties together so he could sit back against the raised mattress and pillow. "Mike had said you were doing really well. You can try crutches today."

  "I'd planned on it."

  The smile in her eyes turned to forbearance, but she said nothing as she glanced toward the IV pump she'd ordered disconnected. Her examination finished, she was checking her bases, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything before she moved on.

  He knew her time was at a premium. He also suspected that she'd been operating at her present pace for so long she didn't even know how to slow down. Having spent years caught up in that same sort of constant motion, he was coming to recognize more of himself in her every day.

  W
hat he didn't recognize was the intense awareness she provoked in him. The physical attraction he could understand. There was nothing complicated about sex. It was his awareness of what was going on inside her—and the fact that he cared about it—that was so unfamiliar.

  Beneath the soft cotton of her shirt, her shoulders seemed to have sagged with the weight of her thoughts. Yet, she immediately did what he'd seen her do a dozen times before. In the space of seconds, she'd drawn a breath that straightened the steel in her spine. Only now, the expression he'd once taken for calm composure looked more like resignation.

  "Why don't you give me your insurance agent's phone number?" he suggested, a troublesome empathy tugging at him. He couldn't imagine what made her push herself the way she did. She had family, friends, a career she truly seemed to love. Yet, she was running from something. Or hiding. The signs were too uncomfortably familiar. "I can deal with him and the adjuster for you."

  The surprise Alex felt at Chase's offer showed clearly in her face. She would have given up a rib not to have to deal with the hassle of playing phone tag with Mr. Chester-please-call-me-Chet Skinner and whoever the insurance company sent to handle the claim. But the problem was hers.

  "I appreciate the offer, but it's my fault the place flooded. I'll take care of the mess. Besides," she added, getting to the root of her refusal, "you've done enough by letting us stay in your house. You don't need to do something like that."

  A frown entered his voice. "How do you figure it's your fault?"

  "I'd been meaning to call a plumber and I didn't."

  "Because you didn't have time," he concluded flatly.

  "Because I didn't take the time," she clarified, thinking he ought to appreciate the difference. He was the one into semantics, after all.

  She had fallen asleep thinking about the concern she'd heard in his voice last night. It had been her first conscious thought when she'd awakened that morning. Though she was a little afraid to believe it, it almost sounded as if he were concerned about her now. Or she might have thought so if he hadn't been scowling at her.