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bandaged ann.

Mary felt herself compact into tile smallest possible package. It didn't make her invisible,

however. The two men stopped in front of her, and there was an uncomfortable pause. Then the

blond man said lazily,

"You got something to say, Pete?"

The younger fellow studied his shoes and muttered,

"I'm sorry."

Mary glanced around: Victor watched the tableau with detached interest.

In contrast, the blond roan's hard features were distinctly wicked. One of the nurses audibly

suppressed a chuckle. Hazel eyes flickered in that direction, a thoroughly male glance, and, grew

very bright. He said, "You're sorry, what?"

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Peter amended quickly.

Why is my face hot? she wondered. She scrambled for something intelligent and dignified to say,

snatched up the prescription and thrust it at him.

"Go away."

Victor took up the slack smoothly, moving around the nurses' desk and taking Peter's other arm

with a smile. "Dr. Newman has been under a lot of stress." He led the young man away, talking

quietly, his tone commiserating.

Mary blinked down at her hands, face growmg even warmer. Ah. She shouldn't be rude to the

patients, no matter how she felt about them. No matter what they'd done. Maybe the ground

would open up right then and there, swallow her up, and she could have a nap in the hole.

That man was still standing there.

Don't look up, she told 'herself.

Maybe he'll go away, too.

Maybe I can pretend I dropped something here, behind the nurses' desk.

She frowned professionally at the floor and bent down suddenly. There was a long silence. No

footsteps sounded, leading away. He's still up there and now I'm down here. What next? She

opened a cabinet and started rummaging through it. Inventory, maybe. Residents always do

inventory after their shifts. Sure they do.

Silence. Her white coat was terribly' hot and scratchy. She pulled at her collar.

Don't look up.

"Dr. Newman?" That man. He sounded amused.

She felt herself cringe, and her gaze crept up slowly.

He leaned against the counter, tanned biceps bulging. Big, he was, and and so male. Calmly

male. That, long, sexy mouth held in a crooked smile.

Her glance bounced off it, up to his gaze, and skittered away.

"Y-yes?" She straightened reluctantly. "Hi, you're still there."

The skin around his eyes crinkled. He wasn't a terribly young man, maybe in his mid-to late-

thirties. That was a knowledgeable; worldly, terrifying face.

"And so are you," he observed.

She was hot, sticky, scratchy, her feet and legs hurt, and her stomach was howling for food. One

hand crept up self-consciously to her tangled, waist-length mane of hair that was pulled back in a

ponytail. It was crooked. She had absolutely no idea what to say to him. "Er-is there something I

can do for you?"

"Yes, I heard you were going to get some dinner. Would you mind showing me where the

cafeteria is?"

"Oh! That's easy-you just go down the hall, then take a right to the elevators, and-"

His slow, deep voice, smooth as melted chocolate, cut her off. "I'm terrible with directions."

Her hand, which had been busy gesturing, fluttered back to hide balled in her pocket. "A-are

you? I see. Well." She didn't have time for this. If she didn't get something to eat soon, she was

going to faint. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled loudly. She gave the man a weak smile and

gave in. He knew she was going that way anyway. How churlish could she get? "Of course I'll

show you."

His smile deepened subtly at the corners. "Thank you."

He waited while she retrieved her purse from the doctors' lounge, and then fell into step beside

her. Mary looked down at the floor and watched their legs, his legs, those long, bare, gold-dusted

legs with the smooth, rolling stride. Lord, he had to be well over six feet tall. And she was only

five foot two. She took three steps for every one of his, like a Chihuahua trotting beside a Great

Dane.

She pulled up short, and he stopped, too. "I-are you sure you wouldn't like to go on ahead? I'd

like to find out how the little girl you brought in is doing."

"Erin's doing fine," he said. "She's out of surgery, and the surgeon that worked on her says she'll

be good as new in a couple" of months."

"Oh," she said, and her tired face broke into a smile. "That's good news."

"Yes, she was lucky." He hesitated, looking down at her, something odd in his expression. Then

he said, "I stayed with her mother until Erin's father could get here."

Mary had turned to start walking again. It was a few moments before what he said sank-in, then

her head swivelled toward him suspiciously. Is he doing what I think he's doing? "I see?" No!

That wasn't supposed to be a question.

"They're married, you know," he said. "Erin's parents, I mean ....Her eyes grew round. Yes, she

thought, I think he is. "Ah?"

He twinkled. "Happily."

He's flirting! Or-maybe teasing. She scrabbled madly for a change of subject. "By the way, did

you tell me your name?"

He chuckled outright and ran a long-fingered hand through his hair.

"Nope. It's Chance. What's yours?"

"Mary," she replied automatically. There's something wrong with this scene, she thought

distractedly. Chance. What a name. He should have a leather jacket and a motorcycle, maybe a

tattoo or two, and I-well, I don't fit at all. A vision occurred to her, one of a big, busty blonde in a

skin tight mini dress cooing on his arm. Yes, that would be more like it. She scowled with relief

as they reached the large, well-appointed cafeteria. There now, we can each buy our food and go

our separate ways.

"Well, here we are!" she said cheerfully, and she mentally dismissed him as they got into line.

The smell of hot food hit her hard, and she piled things greedily onto her tray. Breakfast had been

a year ago. She took lasagne, salad, a banana, chocolate cake, milk and coffee, paid for her meal

and wandered away to find a place to sit.

As she settled in her seat, a shadow fell across her plates and she looked up. Chance stood there,

laden tray in one hand, the other resting on the chair beside her. He said brightly, "Mind if 1 join

you?"

Well, what could she say? "No, of course not," she mumbled, and she watched him put his dishes

on the table beside her. Lasagne, salad, a banana, chocolate cake, milk and coffee. Oh ... She

sucked in a breath.

Was that weird? That looked a little weird to her. She wondered if she knew anybody here that

was bigger than he was.

She looked around, pale under her warm summer tan, dark shadows smudged under her eyes,

seeming so wan and forlorn that the man who sat beside her took pity on her and said gently, "I

thought, since you worked here, you'd know what was good to eat. Cafeteria food can be-

chancy, if you don't mind a bad pun."

That sounded so reasonable, she threw a smile blindly in his general direction, ducked her head

and ate. Gradually the world, which had started to spin slowly around on her, stabilized and

became real again. Colors, and sounds, and the fake plants in the section dividers came into

focus.

Chance had seemed content enough with the companionable silence. When she had sucked down

the last of her milk and was cradling her coffee cup in both hands, Mary dared to pick up the

conversation again. "So," she said, "how did you get involved with the boating accident?"

"I was on the yacht, the Gypsy Dancer." With neat, economical movements, he polished off the

last of his cake.

"I know that boat. The dean owns it." She'd been on the yacht once, at a graduation party. Harold

Schubert, dean of the university, was known among certain circles for his annual Fourth of July

yacht party. She felt a twinge of regret for the boat's smooth, clean lines. "Was it badly damaged?"

Chance shrugged and grimaced. "Well, we got to shore, but she was taking on water. She's in

better shape than that speedboat, though."

"I heard that went under."

"Yeah, what was left of it." Remnants of anger smoldered briefly in his eyes.

Mary shuddered. "Erin wasn't the only one who was lucky. All of you were."

He glanced at her. "I know it. Those idiots. We couldn't have gotten out of their way. The Dancer

had some real pretty moves on the water, but no thirty foot yacht can turn that fast."

Mary settled back in her chair, eyelids drooping as she considered him. Her stomach felt

stretched too full and she was getting sleepy. She'd heard something else about the crash. What

was it? Thanks to someone's quick thinking, no one had drowned. 'Well, this man was quick. She

could certainly attest to that after witnessing him defuse the situation back in the E.R. She

wondered if he had been the one people had talked about.

"Oh, I meant to thank you for stopping that fight."

He angled his head toward her, elbows on the table. "I figured you were busy enough without

having to sew those two back together. Otherwise, I might have just let them kill each other.

Damned selfish fools."

However she might agree with that sentiment, she felt uncomfortable about voicing it, especially

after Victor had interceded for her when she lost control earlier. She shifted in her seat. She asked

with diffident curiosity, "So are you friends with Harold?"

She tried to imagine it, but couldn't quite. Harold was so urbane, a natural politician who dealt

dexterously with not only the university set of-Cherry Bay, but the native population, both the

country-club set and the working class, and the summer tourists, as well. On the other hand,

Chance apparently wasn't a man to mince words.

His eyebrows rose. "Harold? You're on a first-name basis with old Shoe-Licking Schubert?"

Mary tried hard not to spit coffee. Grabbing quickly for her napkin, she covered her mouth and

coughed, eyes watering. Chance pounded her on the back, until she waved her hands at him to

stop. "Well," she wheezed emphatically, "that's a-refreshing point of view."

"It's the truth."

He was still eyeing her inquiringly, so she cleared her throat and told him, "Harold-" Licks my

grandfather's shoes, she nearly said, but caught herself quickly and changed a chortle into

another cough.

"Ahem! Harold and my grandfather are acquaintances. He and his wife have been' for dinner."

The realization registered very quickly with him. His gaze flickered and then went opaque. Did

the bit of news pique his interest, or kill it? It was hard to tell. Neither option was good. And was

she disappointed?

Though she worked hard, she couldn't come up with an answer to that, and her transparent face,

as always, registered everything that went on inside her. His eyes narrowed. "Ah, so you're one

of those Newman’s, are you?"

One shoulder lifted and rotated in a fine show of indifference. "So what if I am?" Of course I

don't care. Why would I care, for heaven's sake? And besides, Victor's going to find out I ate

dinner with this man and be-be what, jealous? She tried hard to get there, to picture Victor

jealous, then just sagged in her seat. No, he'd be surprised.

Her fork was out of line with her knife. She straightened it carefully. Out of her vision, Chance's

face broke into a predatory grin. He forced it away and said evenly, "I don't know that Schubert

and I are friends, but as a member of the faculty, I get invited to his parties now and then."

Her little face tilted up and brightened as she snatched at that conversational tidbit. "You're a

member of the faculty? What do you teach?" It couldn't be anything to do with medicine, or

Mary would have heard of him or seen him by now.

"Journalism."

"Oh." That was clever repartee, Mary. She shut her mouth firmly and stole sideways glances at

him. She felt as if she was looking at a different, rather dangerous, species in fascination. He

didn't strike her as the academic type. She couldn't see him as a career professor and wondered

what kind of journalist he would make. No doubt a very good one; she had firsthand experience

of his tenacity.

Something danced in his eyes. "You don't have to be worried. I won't bite." His voice dropped to

a seductive purr. "At least, not without permission."

This time she felt not only her eyes round, but her mouth; too. He was back to flirting, or teasing,

and either one was frightening. He was a creature so very far out. of her sphere of existence, she

felt

instinctively that the wisest course of action would be to throw her coat over her head and run for

cover. He lounged back in his chair, a sleek, honed machine, and his heavy-lidded gaze travelled

slumberously over her. She felt as if she had been physically touched by psychic tendrils that

curled around her body and crooned of male intent.

Like a spider wrapping up its dinner in a cocoon.

She gulped. Now was the time to say something witty. "I have to go home," she whispered. "It

was nice visiting with you."

Nice?

He unfolded from the chair and stood. She watched him go up-and up-and found her gaze at a

level with the skin tight shirt that rippled over an accordion stomach. She lunged to her feet and