As You Wish (9 page)

Inside the door, she hesitated. Ryan stood next to the tractor. He’d taken off his shirt and was leaning over the engine with grease smears to his elbows.

“Ryan?”

He turned, allowing her to see the stripes of grease on his face and his scowl. “What?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

He turned back to the engine. “I’m busy.”

“I haven’t heard from you.”

“I told you I’ve been busy.”

Patricia’s legs started to tremble. She felt wound past her snapping point. Her jaw worked against tears. “I wanted to apologize for the other night. I was upset.”

“Sure.”

The bag in her hands weighed five hundred pounds. She looked at the potting table. Her hair clip from that first day lay on the shelf at eye level. Had he put it there on purpose so he could look at it and remember, or had that just been the most convenient place? Should she have taken her hair down before she came in here?

“Will you have time for me soon?”

Ryan laughed. It had a metallic sound as it echoed through the hood of the tractor. “The grass gets longer every day, Princess. Until I have this fixed, no, I don’t have time to play with you.”

Patricia flinched. He had a right to be angry. She’d acted abominably. She turned to leave.

“How’s that woman?” Ryan asked.

“Mrs. Magyar? She’s fine. She’s back to work.”

“At Target.”

“Walmart, actually. On shorter hours.”

Ryan jerked the wrench, and his hand slipped, banging into the edge of the hood. He shouted a curse. Patricia dropped her bag and hurried to him.

“Let me see.”

He pulled back from her. “It’s fine.”

“Let me look at it. There are a lot of small bones in the hand. You could have broken something.” Patricia held out her hands in supplication. If he would allow her to touch him, maybe he would relent. If he would let her serve him somehow, maybe he would remember how good it felt.

“Then I’ll go to the emergency room.” He held the hand up at his shoulder, out of her reach. Blood trickled down his wrist.

“I am as qualified to look at you as any ER doctor, and I can do it now,” Patricia insisted, reaching for him. The stretch brought her in dangerous proximity. If he pulled farther away, she would have to put her hand on his chest to steady herself, and if she touched him, his wound would be the last thing on her mind.

“Go to your house, Princess. I can take care of myself.” He stepped around her and went to the sink.

“Why won’t you let me look at it?” Desperate panic crushed her lungs. The sting in her eyes heralded tears she didn’t want to shed in front of him.

“Because I don’t want you touching me,” he growled.

“Why?” she whispered. “Is it because you want me as much as I want you? Is it because you don’t think you could trust yourself if you touched me now?”

“Don’t assume, Princess. You know what they say, and I know how you feel about being embarrassed.” He glared at her. “All. Too. Well.”

Patricia’s face stiffened against her tears. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

She slumped and went to pick up her case. It had fallen open when she dropped it, spilling files across the floor. She snatched them up, hoping all the time he would say something. As she picked up the last one, she heard him walk back to the tractor and go back to work. She hadn’t even left yet, and he acted as if she were gone.

She fled for the house. Inside, she leaned on the door, shaking with a cacophony of emotion. Too angry to break something and too miserable to cry. Ryan and David, the gynecologist, the real estate developer, the city planner, Rita, the Magyars, Betsy Dover, Dr. Radesku, Brian Scalia—all whirled through her mind, knocking everything loose until she found herself huddled on the floor.

Dinner party, she thought. She crawled to the hall phone and fished out her PDA for the number of Mrs. Dudley’s nephew, who ran a small catering business. “Hello, Jeff, it’s Dr. Whitmer. How are you today?” Her voice sounded remarkably calm for the hurricane-like wreckage of her mind.

“I’m fine, Dr. Whitmer. What can I do for you?”

“I know it’s short notice, but are you busy tonight?” Patricia pulled her legs under her body in preparation for standing up. She didn’t quite trust them yet, but she couldn’t greet her guests from a sprawled position in front of the door.

“Tonight?” he repeated.

“If you’re busy, I understand, but I thought I’d have a few friends over for dinner, and I really can’t cook.”

“I don’t have time to make anything for tonight.”

“That’s all right. I don’t care if you bring rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. Do you think you could put something together for, say, fifteen about seven o’clock?”

“Do you want a bar?”

“If you think it’s appropriate. Just a simple buffet will be fine. And do you still know that man who plays piano?”

“Rich?” Jeff squeaked.

“Yes, if he’s available I’d like him to come and play for a while. You can just add his fee to my bill, would you?”

“Do I need to bring place settings or crystal?”

“Oh no, there’s tons of that stuff around here.”

“I’ll have someone come to the house in about an hour to start setting up. Will you be dining in the formal dining room?”

“No!” Patricia didn’t think she’d ever be able to sit at that table again. Not with the memory of Ryan’s promise. “We’ll eat in the music room. It’s not a formal thing anyway.”

“All right. Someone will be there in an hour.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Jeff.” Patricia hung up and struggled to her feet. Now that she had food, all she needed was people to eat it.

Chapter Six

Rita surveyed the music room. She knew everyone here. Other than the three men she had fixed Patricia up with, they were all hospital people. Impromptu dinner parties among this set weren’t unheard of, but they didn’t normally include white-coated caterers, a piano player, and an open bar.

And the oddness of that didn’t even approach the oddness of Patricia herself. She was doing the whole ice-princess routine tonight. She stood near the piano, wearing a white silk pantsuit with a scoop neck that scooped far enough to show off her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. If Rita knew her friend, those glittery things around her neck and hanging from her ears were real diamonds. She doubted the glittery things on Patricia’s sandals were real, but they sure were sparkly. Patricia’s hair appeared to have been professionally done—not swept up in the usual twist but into an elaborate coil on top of her head with decorative curls complementing her earrings.

She played the perfect hostess, circulating and chatting with everyone, but since she’d invited not one but three blind dates, the whole night felt like
The Dating Game
. Rita supposed she should be glad David wasn’t in town until Saturday or he’d be here too. Then it would have expanded from
Dating Game
to bloodbath.

Patricia’s brittle laugh reached Rita from across the room. “You know, I believe it’s getting a little chilly in here,” she said, rubbing her arms.

Rita raised an eyebrow. Of course Patricia was cold, all dressed up like an iceberg the way she was. Rita had seen her friend get regal and upper crust before, but this time beat all.

“Where’s the wood bin? I’ll be happy to light a fire.” Mark, the city planner, offered before anyone else could beat him to it, proving that bachelor number two had a useful skill.

“Oh no.” Patricia patted his arm. “I have a man to do that. I’ll just call him.”

Rita watched Patricia walk to the corner of the room and pick up the phone. She was about to walk over there herself and demand to know what the hell was up when an arm encircled her waist.

“Trisha throws a heck of a quickie,” Bruce said, nuzzling Rita’s neck. “Do you suppose she’d mind if we borrowed one of the rooms upstairs for a quickie of our own?”

A flush of heat distracted her. Quickies with Bruce were usually just appetizers. He was developing into more than a colleague. But something was wrong, and she owed it to her best friend to knock her over the head with it. “Can I have a rain check for about an hour? Something’s up, and I need to talk to Trish.”

He groaned, massaging the back of her neck. “You’re going to owe me.”

“I’m good for it.”

“Well, you are good.” He kissed her cheek before releasing her and turning back to the buffet table where the caterers were laying out a selection of sweets.

Patricia was off the phone before Rita reached her. “Are you all right?”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?” She spoke in that annoying cultured tone she used to shove people away.

After years of all-night study sessions, tears shed over exam grades, and several thousand cups of espresso to keep alert, Rita needed more than a tone to drive her away. Based on a closer inspection of Patricia’s face, Rita figured her best friend really needed her, and this time Patricia would need a whip and a chair to drive her away. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“I am definitely myself.”

“Then why the big do? You told me you were going to work on a paper tonight.”

“I changed my mind. I wanted some company.” Patricia looked down her nose.

Rita waited to see if her friend would crack. Patricia had better surface composure than most Buddha statues, but Rita could sense a maelstrom building inside her. Without a judicious pressure release, Rita expected her to blow spectacularly. In college, a couple of wine coolers smuggled into the dorm did the trick. In med school, she’d required an anonymous Mardi Gras where she’d gotten so drunk she didn’t remember flashing her boobs for beads. On that trip, she’d insisted on dyeing her hair brown so she wouldn’t be recognized even by accident. Rita couldn’t imagine what was winding her up this time, but what Patricia needed was to get laid.

Patricia turned away to look at her gardener, who had just walked in the room carrying a bucket of wood and wearing a heated glower. “There you are. Light a fire for us, would you, Ryan?”

Ryan stared at her for a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning to the fireplace. Rita wondered if it was a trick of the light or if the room had just emptied except for Patricia and Ryan.

Patricia followed Ryan to the fireplace and stood leaning casually against the mantel so he had to reach behind her to lay the kindling. Rita watched him light it and feed wood to the flame as Patricia stood beside him, flirting with the gynecologist while her hand hung at her side, brushing Ryan’s shoulder. The city planner and the real estate developer swarmed over, unable to cope with the idea that bachelor number one might be getting ahead. Rita was willing to bet they didn’t see the gardener at all.

Ryan stood, ending up in the middle of the group but with his back to the three bachelors. He glared down at Patricia. The tension between them reminded Rita of the hush before a tornado. All three bachelors seemed to read the new mood, and bachelor number three took half a step backward. Rita moved forward, afraid this might be it. Patricia might melt down right in front of her guests.

“Your fire, madam,” Ryan growled in his best annoyed Jeeves.

Color tinged Patricia’s cheeks. “Thank you. You may go.”

Rita wondered how many hours of Masterpiece Theatre it had taken to perfect that delivery.

Ryan turned, and the men parted for him like the Red Sea, but Rita stepped into his path. “What happened to your hand?” she asked too loudly.

Ryan looked at his bandages. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing. I’m surprised Trisha didn’t wrap that for you. Really, Trish, you should be taking better care of your caretaker.” Rita seized Ryan’s unwounded hand before he could protest. The vibe in the room made her glance back over her shoulder just as Patricia’s imperious mask snapped back over her fury. All three bachelors decided they had somewhere else they needed to be.

Rita swallowed hard. “Let me redress that for you,” she said, dragging Ryan out of the room.

The downstairs bathroom was a lavish affair built in the days when women wore bustles that required their own tickets to the opera. Even so, when Rita closed the door behind them, it seemed very crowded.

“I can bandage my own hand,” Ryan grumbled.

“There’s the thing. It’s your own hand. Bandaging requires two hands.” Rita took out the first-aid kit from the Edwardian dresser beside the door and cut away the old bandage. “This is lovely. How did you do it?”

“I hit something.”

“I hope whatever you hit deserved it.”

“It did.”

Rita uncapped the alcohol. She’d forgotten how intoxicating being near this man could be. How long would it take to get Bruce home? She didn’t think an appetizer would do the trick for her right now. And did either of them have to go to work tomorrow? She might need a full day of his concentrated services to burn off the heat she’d gathered in just a few minutes of Ryan’s company. But she had a mission here.

She poured the alcohol over his wound. “This is going to scar.”

“It’ll match the other one, then.”

She looked up at his face. He hadn’t even flinched when she disinfected him. His expression hadn’t changed. Nothing. It had to hurt like hell. How much psychic agony did he have to be in for that pain to not even register? Why? Patricia had never said anything about the estate being on an old Indian burial ground or anything. “You wouldn’t happen to know why our Trisha is playing the bitch queen tonight, would you?”

“Why would I know?”

“Because you’re around her more than I am.” Rita focused on wrapping the bandage around his large hand.

“I just work here.”

“Exactly.” Rita met his eyes and discovered that the intensity of his gaze made her feel twelve and in big trouble. She stiffened her back, refusing to be that little girl again. “Exactly. And she’s not the type to order people around, so why did she call you to start a fire for her when there’s a couple of guys in there who would have done it cheerfully?”

“I don’t know.”

Rita stared at him, summoning up her best professional ER glare. She’d been stonewalled before, but this guy was something else. “Look, I don’t want to know what goes on here after them fancy electric gates close, but Trisha is my best friend, and I don’t like to see her hurting like this.”