THE LAST TEMPTATION OF DR. DALTON (13 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“P
ATIENCE
.” T
HE
HARD
hammering of her heart in her chest and her breath coming in short gasps made it difficult to sound calm. But the last thing she needed was for Patience to panic and make the situation worse. “Move very, very slowly and pick up Lucky, then quietly go up the porch steps and into the house. Don’t make any sudden movements.”

The child didn’t say a word, probably as terrified as Charlie felt. The dog’s lips were curled back in a snarl, showing every sharp tooth in its foamy mouth, and its jaws snapped together as it stared right at her. She couldn’t risk turning around to see if Patience had done as she’d asked, because if it attacked she had to be ready. And it looked like it was about to do exactly that.

She glanced around for some weapon she could use to bash the dog if she had to. A sturdy stick was lying about five feet away and she slowly, carefully, inch by inch, sidled in that direction, her heart leaping into her throat as the dog growled louder, drool dripping as it snapped its jaws at her again.

Damn, this was bad. The animal had to be rabid; there was no other explanation for its aggression. That thought brought a horrified realization that this was probably the animal that had attacked and killed Patience’s other dog. It was unusual enough to see feral dogs here and she knew the likely reason this one was still around was because it was very, very sick.

The sound of her screen door closing was a relief, and she prayed that meant Patience was out of harm’s way. Should she try to talk soothingly to the dog? Or yell and try to scare it? She didn’t know, and the last thing she wanted to do was something that would trigger it to attack her.

Sweat prickled at every pore, and her breath came fast and shallow as she kept her slow progress toward the stick, never taking her eyes off the animal. She was close. So close now. But how to pick it up when she got there? A fast movement to grab it and swing hard if the dog lunged? Keep her actions slow and steady, so she could get the stick in her hand and maybe not have to use it at all if she could just get back to the porch and in the house?

With her heart beating so hard it was practically a roar in her ears, she leaned down slowly, slowly, keeping her movements tight and controlled as she closed her fingers around the stick.

In an instant, the dog leaped toward her, mouth open, fangs dripping, knocking her to the ground, its teeth sinking deep into the flesh of her arm as she held it up in futile defense.

A scream of panic, of primal terror, tore from her throat. She tried to swing the stick at the dog, screaming again, but her position on the ground left her without much power behind the blow, and she realized the animal’s teeth were sinking even deeper.

Some instinct told her to freeze and not to try to pull her arm from the dog’s mouth, that it would just hold on tighter, shake her and injure her even worse. Its eyes were less than a foot from hers, wild eyes filled with fury above the jaws clamped onto her arm. It was so strong, so vicious, and a terrible helplessness came over her as she frantically tried to think how she could get away without getting hurt even worse, or maybe even being killed.

A loud, piercing gunshot echoed in the air and a split-second later the dog’s jaws released her, its body falling limply on top of hers. Unable to process exactly what had happened, she grabbed her bleeding arm and tried to squirm out from under the beast.

“Charlotte.” Trent was there, right there, his foot heaving the lifeless dog off her, crouching down beside her. “Damn it, Charlotte. Let me see.”

“Trent.” Her voice came out as a croak. It was Trent. Trent carefully holding her arm within his cool hands, looking down at it. Trent who had saved her life.

Her head dropped to the ground and she closed her eyes, saying a deep prayer of thanks as she began to absorb everything. Began to realize that the danger was past.

“Charlotte. Look at me.” His gentle hand stroked her hair from her forehead and cupped her jaw, his thumb rubbing across her cheekbone. “Let me see.” He tugged at her wrist and she realized she was still clutching her arm. She loosened her grip, feeling the sticky wetness of her blood on her hand as she dropped it to the ground. “You feel faint?”

“Y...yes.” Stars sparkled in front of her eyes as she stared at the jagged gashes. At the oozing blood.

“Hang in there with me, sweetheart.” He looked only briefly at her wounds before he yanked his shirt open—a nice, white button-down shirt, she processed vaguely—and quickly took it off. He wrapped it around her arm and applied a gentle pressure then lifted her hand up and placed it where his had been. “Squeeze to help stop the bleeding. I’m getting you to the clinic.”

She could barely do as he asked but she tried. The screen door slammed behind them and Charlie became aware of the sound of Patience crying.

“Mr. Trent! Is Miss Charlie okay?”

“She’s okay, but I need to take care of her. You stay in the house and I’ll call your dad to come get you.”

“O...okay.”

The door slammed again as Trent lifted Charlie into his arms and strode in the direction of the hospital. She let her head loll against his muscled, bare shoulder, at the same time thinking she shouldn’t let him haul her all the way there. She might not be big, but she wasn’t a featherweight either.

“It’s too far for you to carry me. I can walk.”

“Like hell. For once, will you let someone take care of you? Let yourself off the hook for being in charge of the world?”

“I don’t...I don’t think I do that. But I admit I’m feeling a little shaky.”

He looked down at her, his blue eyes somehow blazingly angry and tender at the same time. “A little shaky? You were just mauled by a rabid dog. You’ve lost a lot of blood. It’s okay for you to lean on me a little, just once.”

“Yes, doctor.”

He gave her a glimmer of a smile. “Now that’s what I like to hear. Keep pressing on your arm,” he said as they finally got to the hospital and he laid her on an exam table. He placed a pillow beneath her head then made a quick call to John Adams. She watched him pull the pistol from his waistband and place it on the counter, wash his hands, then move efficiently to various cupboards, stacking things on the metal table next to her.

“Thank you. I...don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come when you did.”

“I don’t want to think about it either.” His lips were pressed together in a grim line, his eyes stark as they met hers. “When I heard you scream, my heart about stopped.”

“Why did you have a gun with you?”

“I work in plenty of unsafe places in the world, and always pack my thirty-eight. I had it with me because you left yours upstairs last time when you were supposed to be ready for a burglar, remember?”

She thought of how the dog had been right on top of her and shuddered. “How did you learn to shoot like that? Weren’t you afraid you’d hit me instead?”

“No. Even though I was scared to death, I knew I’d hit the dog and not you.” A tiny smile touched his lips as he placed items on the table. “I was on the trap and skeet shooting team at Yale. Rich boys get to have fun hobbies, and this one paid off.”

Rich boys? She was about to ask, but he handed her a cup of water and several tablets. “What is this?”

“Penicillin. And a narcotic and fever-reducing combo. It’ll help with the pain. I have to wash out your wounds, which is not going to feel good.”

He lifted up her arm, placed a square plastic bowl beneath it and began to unwrap his poor white shirt from it, now soaked in blood. Those little stars danced in front of her eyes again and she looked away. “Tell me the truth. How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. I’ll know more in a few minutes.” His expression was grim. “Because that dog was obviously rabid, I have to inject immunoglobulin. I’m also going to inject lidocaine because—”

“I know, I know. So I won’t feel every stitch. Do it quick, please, and get it over with.”

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re something else.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, before his eyes met hers, all traces of amusement gone. “Ready? This is going to hurt like hell. Hang in there for me.”

She nodded and steeled herself, ashamed that she cried out at the first injection. “Sorry,” she said, biting her lip hard. “I’m being a baby.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve seen big tough guys cry at this. You’re awesome. Just a little longer.”

When it was finally over, she could tell he felt as relieved as she did. “That’s my girl.” He pressed another lingering kiss to her head. “This next part is going to hurt, too, but not nearly as bad as that.”

He poured what seemed like gallons of saline over her arm. He was right; it did not feel good. She thought he’d finally finished until he grabbed and opened another bottle. “Geez, enough already! What could possibly still be in there?”

“Is there some reason you have to keep questioning the doctor?” His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “With all the technology and great drugs we have, thoroughly washing wounds like this—any animal bite, but especially when the dog is rabid—is the best treatment there is. But this is the last jug, I promise.”

“Thank goodness. I was about to accuse you of making it hurt as much as you possibly can.”

“And here I’d been giving you credit for being the bravest patient ever.” His smile faded and he gave her a gentle kiss, his eyes tender. “I’m really sorry it hurts. Good news is, it looks like there’s no arterial damage and the bites didn’t go all the way to the bone. I’m going to throw some absorbable stitches into the deep muscle tears to control the bleeding then get everything closed up.”

Instead of watching him work on her arm, she looked at his face. At the way his brows knit as he worked. At the way his dark lashes fanned over the deep focus of his eyes. At the way he sometimes pursed his lips as he stitched. Almost of its own accord, her hand lifted to cup his jaw and he paused to look at her, his blue eyes serious before he turned his face to her palm, pressing a lingering kiss there.

“Are you going to use a bunch of tiny stitches so I don’t have awful scars?”

“I can’t this round, sweetheart.” He shook his head. “This kind of wound has a high risk for infection. We have to get the skin closed with as few stitches as possible, because the more I put in the more chance of infection. After it’s healed completely, though, I can repair it so it looks better.”

Except he wouldn’t be here then. Their eyes met as the thought obviously came to both of them at the same time.

“I mean, one of your plastic surgeons can when the new wing is opened.” His voice was suddenly brusque instead of sweet and tender.

She nodded and looked down, silently watching him work, her heart squeezing a little. How had she let herself feel this close to him? So close she would miss him far too much when he was gone.

When it was all over and her arm was wrapped in Kerlix, taped and put in a sling, he expelled a deep breath. “How about we head to your house and get you settled and comfortable? I’ll carry you.”

“I really am okay to walk.” She didn’t trust herself not to reveal her thoughts and feelings if he carried her, folded against his chest. “I need to.”

He looked at her a moment then sighed. “All right. So long as you let me hold you in case you get dizzy.”

Trent held her close as they walked slowly toward the front porch of her house and she let herself lean against his strength. The dog’s body was gone, thank goodness, though there were bloodstains in the dirt. John Adams must’ve taken care of it. She was glad she didn’t have to look at it and remember its wild eyes; see again those teeth that had ripped her flesh and held her tight in their grip.

“I feel kind of bad for the dog,” she said.

“You feel sorry for the dog?” He stared down at her, eyebrows raised.

“Rabies is a pretty horrible way to die, isn’t it? You shooting it was the best way for it to go.”

“Yeah. It’s one hundred percent fatal after it’s been contracted. It’s a good thing we have the vaccine to keep you safe from the virus.” He looked away, his voice rough when he spoke again. “After you get settled inside, I’ll come out and rake up the dirt. Don’t think you want to be looking at your own blood every time you come in and out of your house.”

“No. I don’t.” She looked up him and marveled at his consideration. “Who knew you were Mister Thoughtful and not the full-of-yourself guy I was convinced you were?”

“I’m both thoughtful
and
full of myself—multi-faceted that way.”

His eyes held a touch of their usual amusement and as she laughed her chest filled with some emotion she refused to examine.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
RENT
KNEW
THE
narcotics would have worn off and Charlotte would be in pain again this morning. He’d slipped from the bed and gone downstairs to make toast and coffee for her, wanting something in her stomach before he gave her more fever medication, and the narcotic, too, if she needed it.

When he came back to her room with a tray, he had to pause inside the doorway just to look at her. Her lush hair tumbled across the pillow, the sun streaking through the windows highlighting its bronze glow. Her lips were parted, her shoulder exposed as one thin strap of her pretty nightgown had slid down her bandaged arm, leaving the gown gaping so low, one pink nipple was partly visible on her round breast.

He deeply inhaled, a tumble of emotions pummeling his heart as he stared at her. To his shock, the foremost emotion wasn’t sexual.

It was a deep sense of belonging. Of belonging with her.

He wanted to stay here with her. He wanted to wake up in her bed, in her arms, every morning. He wanted to see her, just like this, at the start of each and every day.

Her eyelids flickered and she opened her eyes and looked at him. She smiled, and that smile seemed to reach right inside of him, pull him farther into the room. Pull him closer to her.

He managed to speak past the tightness in his chest. “Good morning, Charlotte.” He set the tray on her nightstand and perched himself on the side of the bed. He stroked her hair from her face, wrapped a thick strand around his finger. “How’s the arm feeling?”

“Not so great.” She rolled onto her back, her lips twisting.

He ran his finger down her cheek. “I figured that. I brought you some toast and coffee and more meds.”

“Thank you.” Her good arm lifted to him and her palm stroked his cheek. He wished he’d shaved already, so the bristles wouldn’t abrade her delicate skin when he kissed her. “But all I want is the fever stuff. I can’t spend the day all doped up. I want to know exactly what’s happening.”

He nodded. “If you decide you need it later, you can always take it then. Why don’t you sit up and have a little bit to eat first.” He started to stand, but her hand grabbed the front of his shirt and bunched it up as she tugged him toward her.

“I am hungry again. But not for food—for you.”

“Charlotte.” He wanted, more than anything, to make love with her. But she was in pain and the need to take care of her, to keep her arm still so she wouldn’t be in worse pain, took precedence over everything. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve been resting all night. I slept very well, thanks to the drugs you gave me.” She smiled at him and pulled harder on his shirt, bringing him closer still, and he could feel his resolve weakening at the way she looked at him. It was as though she was eating him up with her eyes and he knew he wanted to eat her up for real. “I do need to feel better. And you’re very, very good at making me feel better.”

“Well, I am a doctor. Took the Hippocratic Oath that I’d do the best I could to help my patients heal.” He smiled, too, and gave up resisting. He gave in to the desire spiraling through his body. “What can I do first to make you feel better?”

“Kiss me.”

Her tongue flicked across her lips and he leaned forward to taste them, carefully keeping his body from resting against her arm. It took every ounce of self-control to keep himself in check, to touch her and kiss her slowly, carefully.

“Does it make you feel better if I do this?” He gently drew her nightgown down and over her bandages, then lifted her arm carefully above her head to rest it on her pillow. He traced the tops of her breasts with his fingertips, slowly, inching across the soft mounds, until he pulled the lacy nightgown down to fully expose her breasts.

The sunlight skimmed across the pink tips and his breath clogged in his throat as he enjoyed the incredible beauty of them. Of her. He lowered his mouth to one nipple then rolled it beneath his tongue, drew it into his mouth and lifted his hand to cup the other breast in his palm.

“Yes,” she murmured. The hand on her good arm rested on the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m feeling better already.”

“How about this?” His mouth replaced his hand on her other breast, his fingertips stroking along her collarbone, her armpit, down her ribs, and he reveled in the way she shivered in response.

“Yes. Good.”

He slowly tugged her nightgown farther down her body, gently touching every inch he could with his mouth, his tongue, his hands. He could feel her flesh quiver, felt the heat pumping from her skin, and marveled at how excruciatingly pleasurable it was to take it this slow. To think only of making her feel good, to feel wonderful, to feel loved.

The shocking thought made him freeze and raise his head.

Loved? He didn’t do love.

But as he looked down at her eyes, at the softness, heat and desire in their green depths, his heart squeezed at the same time it expanded.

He did love her. He loved everything about her. He loved her sweetness, her toughness and her stubbornness and was shocked all over again. Shocked that the realization didn’t scare the crap out of him. Shocked that, instead, it filled him with wonder.

He lowered his mouth to hers, drinking in the taste of her, and for a long, exquisite moment there was only that simple connection. His lips to hers, hers to his, and through the kiss he felt their hearts and souls connecting as well.

He drew back, and saw the reflection of what he was feeling in her eyes. Humbled and awed, he smiled. “Still feeling good? Or do you need a little more doctoring?”

“More please.” She returned his smile, which changed to a gasp when he slipped his hand beneath her nightgown, found her moist core and caressed it.

“We need to lose this gown. I want to see all of you. Touch and kiss all of you.” He dragged the gown to her navel, her hipbones, his mouth and tongue following the trail along her skin. He wanted nothing more than this. He wanted to help her forget her pain. For her to feel only pleasure.

She lifted her bottom to help him pull it all the way off, and he took advantage of the arch of her hips, kissing her there, touching and licking the velvety folds until she was writhing beneath his mouth.

“Trent,” she gasped. “You’ve proven how good you are at making me feel better. But I want more. Why are you still dressed? I don’t think I can strip you with only one hand.”

He looked at her and had to grin at the desire and frustration on her face. “You want me to strip? I’m at your command, boss lady.” He quickly shucked his clothes and took one more moment to take in the beauty of her nakedness, before carefully positioning himself on top of her as she welcomed him.

With her eyes locked on his, he moved within her. Slowly. Carefully. She met him, moved beneath him, urged him on. The sounds of pleasure she made nearly undid him and he couldn’t control the ever-faster pace. There was nothing more important in the world than this moment, this rhythm that was unique to just the two of them, joining as one. And, when she cried out, he lost himself in her.

* * *

Curled up with Trent’s body warming her back, his arms holding her close, Charlie felt sated, basking in the magic of being with him; wanting to know more about him.

“Tell me about being a rich boy. That’s what you said you are, isn’t it?”

He didn’t respond for a moment then a soft sigh tickled her ear. “Yes. My family is wealthy and I have a trust fund that earns more money each year than most people make in ten.”

“And yet you work in mission hospitals all over the world. Why?”

“For the same reason you live and work here—to give medical care to those who wouldn’t have any if we didn’t.”

She turned her head to try to look at his face. “When did you decide to live your life that way instead of working in some hospital in the States? Or being a plastic surgeon for the rich and famous?”

The laugh he gave didn’t sound like there was much humor in it. “Funny you say that. My dad and grandfather have exactly that kind of practice. I was expected to follow in their footsteps, but realized I didn’t want to. When I was about two-thirds of the way through my plastics residency, I knew I wanted to do a surgical fellowship in pediatric neurosurgery instead.”

Wow. She’d known he had amazing skills, but he did brain surgery too? “Did you?”

“No. I couldn’t get into a program. Was rejected by every one I applied to. Then found out why.”

She waited for him to continue but he didn’t. “So, why?”

He didn’t speak for a long time. She was just about to turn in his arms, to look in his eyes and see what was going on with him, when he answered. His voice was grim. “My mother was hell-bent on me joining the family practice. I didn’t realize how hell-bent until I found out she’d used her family name, wealth and the power behind all of that to keep me out of any neurosurgery program. All the while pretending she supported my decision, when in fact she was manipulating the outcome. So I left. Left the country to do mission work, and I haven’t been back since.”

Charlie’s breath backed up in her lungs and her heart about stopped. His mother had deceived him and lied? He’d obviously been horribly hurt by it. So hurt that he’d cut his family from his life. So hurt that he’d left the U.S. and hadn’t returned.

It also sounded horrifyingly similar to what she’d been doing to him, too.

Her stomach felt like a ball of lead was weighing it down. “I’m...sorry you had such a difficult time and that you were hurt by all that.”

“Don’t be. It’s ancient history, and it was good I learned what kind of person she really is.”

The lead ball grew heavier at his words, making her feel a little sick, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say. He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering there, and a lump formed in her throat at the sweetness of the touch.

“I’m going to fix you some brunch. Something better than the toast you didn’t eat.” He nipped lightly at her chin, her lips. “And, just for you, I’m going to perform a surgery today that I think will make you happy. But I’m not telling until after it’s done.”

She squeezed his hand and tried to smile. “Can’t wait to hear about it.” She drew in a breath and shook off her fears. He wouldn’t find out. It would be okay. They’d get the donation check, the new wing would open and, when all that was behind them...then what?

She knew, and her heart swelled in anticipation. She’d ask him to stay, and not for the hospital. She’d tell him she was crazy about him, that she wanted to see where their relationship could go. The thought scared her and thrilled her; she was not sure how risky that would be. How it would feel to share her life and her world with someone. But she knew, without question, it was a risk she had to take.

By the way he’d made love to her, looked at her, taken care of her, maybe he’d actually say yes.