The Colors of Love (6 page)

"Oh, Squiggles, I was so 'fraid you got sick."

"He slept on my bed last night," said Jamie. "I fed him tuna and he ate a whole handful of Kitten Chow. He seems very healthy."

"Water. Cats need water, too."

"I gave him water. And a litter box." Jamie heard footsteps outside the room and said hurriedly, "Someone's coming. We'd better zip the bag."

Sara pulled her hand out of the pack and Jamie closed the zipper, hoping Squiggles would stop squirming before he got spotted. She stuffed the pack out of sight beside her as the door opened and Wayne Miller stepped in.

Sara flew to her feet and ran across the room. "Daddy, the lady found Squiggles! He's right here and he doesn't have 'monia or anything. Come see!"

Sara's father clasped his daughter tightly. "Are you okay, honey? Does your head still hurt?"

Sara tugged on her father's hand. "She found Squiggles! The lady found him!"

In the bed against the window, the boy in traction turned in his sleep, making a moaning sound with his lips.

"Show Daddy," demanded Sara. "Show Daddy where you put Squiggles."

Miller pulled on his daughter's hand. "Sara, listen to me. The landlord won't allow cats or dogs, you know that. Maybe we could get fish, but you can't keep this cat."

"Squiggles needs a home, or he'll get sick and he'll die!"

"Sara," said Jamie, "your kitten could stay at my place. I've got lots of room." She turned to Sara's father. "Mr. Miller, I'd like to do something for Sara, for you both." She smiled and he didn't exactly frown, so she went on. "I don't have any pets, but I'd love a kitten to look after." She shared a smile with Sara. "I live across the Ballard Bridge from your place, about a ten-minute drive. I thought if the kitten stayed with me, you could come to visit."

"Yes, Daddy, please!"

"I'll give you references," said Jamie. "I've lived in Seattle all my life. I'm an artist, a painter. I have an exhibit at Northern Images. You can talk to—Just a minute, I'll write down some names for you." She scrambled in the front pocket of her pack and pulled out a pen and one of the cards Liz had insisted she have printed. "Call Liz Havers—she owns the gallery where my paintings are showing. She's known me since I was twelve years old."

Mr. Miller said, "You don't need to do this. The police told me the accident wasn't your fault, that it was Sara—"

"I want to help."

"Please!" pleaded Sara.

"Well—" Mr. Miller looked uncomfortable. "I don't need references."

Jamie wondered if he'd hired Sara's baby-sitter with this same lack of caution, and said, "I'd feel better if you checked me out."

"When can I visit Squiggles?" demanded Sara.

"Wednesdays after school would be good," said Miller. "I have a safety meeting, and Mrs. Davis doesn't like doing Wednesdays."

Jamie wondered how he'd been dealing with Wednesdays until now. She hoped he hadn't been leaving the girl alone.

"Can I hold Squiggles again?" begged Sara.

Jamie unzipped her pack and lifted the kitten out.

"Squiggles," crooned Sara, "I'm so glad to see you." She rubbed her face against the kitten, which immediately began to purr loudly.

"This is very good of you," said Sara's father. "It's going to be a terrific help. I work regular nights, so I can be home in time to get Sara off to school, and be there for her when she gets home. But Mrs. Davis isn't willing to do anything more than the nights, and whenever I need to go for a meeting outside Sara's school hours, there's no one to look after her."

"I'm glad I can help. Do you—" She broke off at the sound of rubber-soled shoes outside the room. Someone walking this way along the corridor, voices. "Sara, we'd better put the cat away."

"He scratched me! Squiggles, you scratched me!"

Jamie grabbed for the cat, but Squiggles was a flash of orange tail disappearing under the sleeping boy's bed.

A woman in nurse's uniform stepped into the room. "Sara, Dr. Kent is here to see you."

Sara was on hands and knees, her head under one of the beds, while her father stood with his mouth half-open.

"Hello, Sara," said a deep voice, "and Mr. Miller."

His voice hadn't changed since last night. The man sent a shiver down Jamie's spine, and it was impossible to look at those lips without remembering. She carefully stepped back from Sara and her father, between the two beds, and hoped Squiggles would stay hidden until the doctor left?

"Ms. Ferguson," he said, acknowledging her coldly.

She'd wondered about his eyes last night, the way they seemed almost black as he leaned down to take her mouth. Brown, she'd thought earlier, and she'd been right. Deep brown, the color of really expensive dark chocolate.

She couldn't see any memory of their kiss in his eyes. She'd thought the shattering impact must be mutual, but apparently not.

"Dr. Kent—"

"Ms. Ferguson, please step outside while I examine Sara."

The nurse pulled a curtain around what must have been Sara's bed, then ushered the girl inside with her father.

Where on earth had Squiggles got to? Jamie couldn't see him, and hoped he hadn't slipped out of the room without her knowledge.

"Ms. Ferguson?"

She met Dr. Kent's brown eyes, saw his head incline toward the door.

"I can't go. I have to... ah, find the cat."

"What?" he demanded, his dark eyes suddenly black with anger. The voices behind the curtain silenced.

* * *

"I need to find the cat." She gestured toward the sleeping boy's bed. Maybe he was unconscious, she decided, because surely a sleeping child would wake with Dr. Kent's deep voice only feet away.

"Did you say,
find the cat?
You brought a
cat
into this hospital?"

"Don't worry, I'll find him." She crouched down to peer under the bed, spotted orange fur under an empty bed near the door. She slid closer, reached, and missed.

She carefully set the pack aside and started to slide under the bed, but the moment she moved, so did Squiggles.

"Dr. Kent, could you get down on the other side? If you were right there, you could catch him when he ducks away from me."

Under the bed, she saw his feet walk to the other side, then his heels lifted as he crouched down. She saw his face, felt her own temptation to laugh in sharp contrast to his frown of disapproval. She slid further under the bed, felt Squiggles's fur brush her hand as he backed away, saw the doctor's hand flash out.

"Got him," he said.

Jamie rolled out from under the bed.

The curtain around Sara's bed swished back. The nurse said, "Dr. Kent?"

The doctor turned to the nurse, the cat in his hands.

"A cat! Get that animal out of here!"

Jamie grabbed her pack. "Put him in here!"

The nurse hissed, "Are you crazy? Look at that boy behind you! How do you know he doesn't have a serious allergy? He's in enough discomfort as it is. You can't just bring—"

"He's just a kitten," said Jamie.

"It's under control," said the doctor quietly, settling the cat into Jamie's pack and closing the zipper. "Ms. Ferguson is taking the cat outside." When he smiled at the nurse, Jamie saw the woman's tension relax by millimeters. "I'll take them to the elevator. Tell Sara and her father I'll be back in a minute."

His voice might have been gentle, but the hand that grasped Jamie's arm wasn't, and she twisted to jerk away.

"I want to say good-bye to Sara."

"I'll say your good-byes. Come on."

He pulled her outside the room and along the corridor. When they reached the elevator, she managed to jerk herself free. She rubbed her arm, certain she'd have a bruise.

"I'm sorry about the cat," she muttered. "I thought it was important to reassure Sara."

His low voice bit into her. "You were childish and irresponsible. Nurse Bailey is right, there are children here with allergies, not to mention that the cat's a stray and may be carrying all manner of diseases. Go home, Jamila, and try to stay out of trouble."

She hadn't thought about allergies or disease, yet it seemed difficult to believe one kitten could endanger the children in the hospital.

Childish, she thought. He'd called her childish and irresponsible.

"I'd like my pack back."

A muscle jumped in his jaw as he handed her the pack. She took it, slid her arms through the straps, and settled it on her back. Squiggles lay motionless inside, a passive weight against the small of her back.

The doctor pushed the elevator button.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He turned and met her eyes, his completely unreadable. If she painted him now, she would weave mysteries into his eyes, tension in his stance. She narrowed her gaze and caught the flavor of something beneath his evident impatience.

"Dr. A. M. Kent," she said slowly. "What does the A stand for?"

"Alexander. Why?"

She felt her lips curve, but his didn't respond. "I don't want to call you Dr. Kent, not after the way we kissed last night."

She heard the elevator doors open behind her, impulsively reached out one hand and brushed his mouth with her fingertips.

"Good-bye, Alexander. It was a very special kiss."

* * *

Alex loaded Diana's bags onto a porter's cart and wheeled them toward the American Airlines first-class check-in counter.

"You'll send me the pro forma statements?" said Diana, tucking a strand of blond hair into place.

"Absolutely. Dennis has promised them for Friday. Will you have email, or should I courier them to you?"

"Email. I want to get the numbers together for the board as soon as I can. I'm hoping they can have a decision for you by the time I get back."

"That would be great." He parked the luggage cart behind the businessman who was first in line, then turned to Diana. "I hope you have a good time. I know it's a business trip, but take some time to rest, too."

She smiled slightly. "I'll be in Venice. I'm bound to enjoy myself. There's no point in your waiting here, Alex. Once I'm checked in, I'll have to go through security."

He bent to brush a kiss onto her cheek. "Take care."

She caught his hand and smiled up into his eyes. "Once you've got those documents to me, take a weekend off, go fishing or something."

"That's a good idea. When you get back, Diana, I'd like us to spend some time together." He'd planned to say the words, but they felt stilted, unreal.

"When you're not on call," she said, laughing the way he'd heard her laugh with her children.

"Yes," he agreed.

As he drove back from the Seattle-Tacoma airport entangled in Sunday's version of rush-hour traffic, he reminded . himself that Diana was exactly what he wanted. Once he got his common sense back and caught up on his sleep, he'd be impatient for her return.

Most of the cars heading for Seattle seemed to be filled with families—couples in the front seat, kids in back. He thought of his Capital Hill condo and felt an unaccustomed aversion to returning home. It would be quiet, empty, and right now it was the last place in the world he wanted to be.

He'd chosen the condo carefully eight years ago after finishing his residency, when he accepted the job of pediatric primary care specialist at the Green Children's Clinic. He'd known when he selected the condominium that it would be temporary, that one day he would have a wife, children, and a house outside the city—probably on Bainbridge Island.

But first, he wanted a few years under his belt as a specialist, and enough influence to swing the capital for his children's treatment center.

No bank would ever lend him the funds to build a free-access juvenile diabetic treatment center. The money would have to come from charities, either private or public. So he had taught himself to tolerate the endless charity balls, had volunteered to serve on various boards, and had accepted the consulting appointment at All Saints when it came up.

His sister, Paula, complained that she never saw him except when he came to talk business with Dennis, and he knew it was true, but he needed every edge he could get. Board appointments and teaching positions carried weight with the people who allocated charity funds, as did pro forma financial projections prepared by a respected CPA like Dennis.

He was very close to achieving his dream.

Four months ago, a Seattle manufacturing firm had agreed to donate the land Alex needed. Armed with this new commitment, he'd had Dennis draw up new pro forma statements and he'd done the rounds again. He'd hit it lucky when he made his pitch to Diana Thurston, the newest board member of the Thurston Foundation, and granddaughter-in-law to Cyril Thurston himself.

Diana had been diagnosed with diabetes as a child. This warm, caring woman understood that whenever he treated a kid with badly managed diabetes, he renewed his vow to create the juvenile diabetic treatment center, to build a place where kids with life-threatening conditions could learn to manage their own care, to avoid the kind of neglect and inadequate training that had killed Alex's own brother.

For the last four months, every spare moment had gone into gathering the facts and figures the Thurston Foundation needed to make a decision. He hadn't really thought of Diana as a woman, not in
that
way, until last week. They'd become friends, and he valued the warm affection between them. Then, a week ago, he'd delivered her home from a long meeting with the Thurston board and she'd invited him in.

He'd accepted, and found himself with a drink in one hand—a ginger ale because he was on call—when Diana slipped into his arms and said quietly, "Alex, I'd like you to stay tonight."

He'd been stunned. He'd been thinking of his juvenile diabetic treatment center, on the edge of believing that he would succeed, that he would be able to keep his vow to himself. He'd been working so hard, for so long, that he hadn't even thought of her as a woman.

No, that wasn't right. He'd noticed her affection with her children, the quiet womanly look in her eyes, but he hadn't been thinking about sex, about
her.
Not because she wasn't attractive—she certainly was—but because he had no space in his mind for anything but work.