The MacGregor Brides (14 page)

“I’ll try to restrain myself. I’m on the graveyard shift for the next three weeks.”

“No problem. I like the night. You’re exhausted,” he murmured, surprised by the urge to tug her down so that she could rest her head in his lap and sleep. “Why don’t I give you a lift home?”

“I have my car.”

He angled his head. “How many people have you patched up who’ve fallen asleep behind the wheel?”

“Good point. I’ll sleep here.”

“Suit yourself.” He rose, looked down at her. Her eyes were heavy, nearly closed. The delicate shadows beneath them seemed to deepen as he watched. “Try for eight straight, Doc. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He started for the door, paused, turned back. “One last point—I have full coverage on my medical insurance.”

He stepped into the hall, noting that for tonight, at least, the E.R. was quiet at 3:00 a.m. He headed out, filing away the position of the admitting desk, the number of computers, the sound his own sneakers made on the tiles of the floor.

The November wind slapped hard at his face when he stepped outside. His hair blew into his eyes as he jingled keys out of his pocket.

One other point, Dr. Dish, he mused. A man would have to be an idiot not to hit on you. And Meg Maguire’s son Branson was no idiot.

He climbed into his classic Triumph convertible, the seat already adjusted to accommodate his long legs as best it could. He turned the key, smiled at the purr. He was a man who loved a well-tuned engine.

And for all her resemblance to a fairy princess, Branson had already decided Gwendolyn Blade was a well-tuned engine.

He flipped on the CD player, hummed along with Verdi. And, driving away, he began to plot in a way that would have made Daniel MacGregor proud.

It was after ten in the morning when Gwen unlocked the door to the house in the Back Bay. A thin, icy rain was falling, making her hurry inside to shiver in the warmth.

She didn’t bother to call out. She knew her cousin Julia would be out, wheeling some real estate deal. And her third housemate, Laura MacGregor, had moved out months before, when she married Royce Cameron.

Gwen still missed her. The three cousins had roomed together for years and had all but grown up together before that. They’d been a threesome from college campus to apartments to the houses Julia had begun to acquire.

Knowing Laura was wildly happy was everything she wanted, but Gwen still caught herself glancing up those curving stairs off the foyer and expecting to see Laura come flying down them.

Gwen draped her coat over the newel post. She had the entire afternoon free, she realized, and there were dozens of things she could catch up on. Including a long, hot bubble bath. But that was going to be her second order of business, she decided. Food was first.

She headed back into the kitchen, rubbing at the ache she’d worked into her neck by spending four hours sleeping on the lounge sofa instead of getting into one of the cots.

She’d get one of the physical therapists to give her a neck-and-shoulder massage before she started her next shift.

She smelled the roses before she saw them. There must have been three dozen, pale as snow, long stems tucked into a gorgeous crystal vase, then spearing up to end in tightly curled buds.

One of Julia’s men, she assumed, and indulged herself by sniffing, then sighing over the mass of blossoms. Her romantic heart had a weakness for roses, and for foolishly extravagant gestures.

She crossed to the refrigerator with little hope. Since Laura had moved out, the pickings were invariably slim. They’d often said Julia never ate, Laura always ate, and Gwen herself ate only when food was shoved in front of her.

Without much enthusiasm, she pulled out a carton of yogurt, checked the expiration date on the bottom. Well, what was a week when it came to curdled milk, anyway? she decided, and pried off the lid. She closed the door, then tugged the note attached to it down to read while she ate.

Frowning, Gwen read the note again, then glanced back at the flowers. She stared at the little envelope tucked among the stems. She plucked it off the clear plastic holder, tapped it consideringly against her palm. Then, with a shrug, tore it open.

They looked like your style.

Thanks in advance for the help.

Bran

“Oh.” She couldn’t quite suppress the giddy little thrill as she looked at the roses. “Mine,” she murmured and, leaning over, inhaled deeply. Then she caught herself, stepped back. Three dozen long-stemmed white roses in November was definitely an overstatement. A terrific one, but nonetheless …

She was going to have to be more direct in discouraging Branson Maguire. Grandpa, she mused, just what are you up to and what have you done?

She turned to the answering machine, punched for messages, and had to grin as Daniel’s voice boomed out.

“Hate these damn things. Nobody talks to anybody, just rattles away to machines. Why aren’t you girls ever home? Gwen, I’ve a young friend who needs a bit of help. He’s a writer, spins a good tale. But then, he’s an Irishman, so what would you expect? Does well murdering people right and left and tracking down mad killers. You’ll give him a hand, darling, won’t you? A favor to your old grandpa. He’s a nice boy. His mama went to college with yours, so he’s not some strange man off the street. Julia, I spoke with your father. He said you’re buying another house. That’s a lass. And would it hurt either of you to call your grandmother now and again? She worries.”

Gwen chuckled, combed her fingers through her hair. A typical Daniel MacGregor message, she thought, delivered at full volume. But it seemed harmless enough. The son of a friend of her mother’s. All right, then, there seemed to be no plot or scheme behind it. Just a favor, an easily granted one.

Satisfied, Gwen picked up her yogurt again, got out a spoon, then hit the button for Branson’s message.

“Gwendolyn.”

She paused, with the spoon nearly to her lips. There was something about the way the man said her name, she thought. Using the romantic whole of it, rather than the quick and easy Gwen.

“It’s Branson Maguire. I hope you got some sleep. And I hope you like white roses. I was thinking, if you had the time to spare, I’d appreciate an hour, anytime today. I’d offer to buy you lunch or dinner, but I don’t want to put your back up again. I’d just like to run a couple things by you—plotwise. If you can manage it, give me a call. I’m planning on being in all day. If not, I’ll see you tonight.”

She didn’t bother to note down the number. She’d remember. Thoughtfully, she spooned up yogurt. It was a reasonable request, she supposed. There’d been nothing really flirtatious in the content or the tone. Laughing at herself, she scooped up another spoonful. Just listen to yourself, analyzing every nuance. It was exactly the attitude that had caused her such embarrassment the night before.

The man was a professional, and so was she. She could certainly give him an hour—if for no other reason than to secretly apologize to him, and to her grandfather, for being so suspicious.

She picked up the phone, punched in his number. He answered on the third ring. “Maguire.”

“Hello, it’s Gwen Blade. Thank you for the roses, they’re lovely.”

“Good. Did they work?”

“Work?”

“Did they soften you up enough for you to give me an hour?”

“No. But the message I got from my grandfather did. I didn’t realize our mothers went to college together.”

“A couple semesters, I’m told. Mine went on to interior design, and yours, apparently, went on to a variety of things. My mother says that Serena MacGregor was interested in everything.”

“And still is. I can meet you at two. Downtown would be best. I’ve got some shopping to take care of.”

Two, Branson mused. After lunch, before dinner. Clever woman. “Two’s fine. How about meeting me at the Boston Harbor Hotel? They serve a pretty great tea.”

“Yes, I know.” She looked down at the yogurt, thought of rich, creamy pastries. Her neglected stomach growled. “Fine. Two o’clock, in the main lobby.”

* * *

Gwen was exactly on time, a habit her cousin Julia called her most irritating. She’d taken that long, hot bubble bath, which had done wonders for the stiffness in her neck. And had paged through a paperback copy of
Die a Fine Death
by Branson Maguire. She’d read it before, but she’d wanted to familiarize herself more with his style of writing before the meeting.

She would have given precisely the same review and thought with a patient’s history before treatment, or an acquaintance’s personality before buying a gift. She was a thorough and meticulous woman, one who had graduated from medical school years before the norm and was now the youngest surgical resident to ever serve on the staff of Boston Memorial.

She’d worked for it, and she knew she’d earned it. There was no discounting the advantages she’d grown up with. Her family was loving, supportive, generous. They had backed her in every decision she made along the way. She also understood that wealth, the kind the MacGregors could claim, smoothed many bumps in many roads.

But it was the love of medicine, the mystery, the art, the science of it that had sealed her destiny.

She wandered through the hotel lobby, appreciating the grandeur, the grace of the ornate coffered ceiling, the huge urns filled with towering and exotic flowers, the marble and the gilt.

And she looked, Branson thought as he stepped off the elevator and saw her, like a rich man’s college-age daughter come to town. She’d changed into a tailored gray jacket and slacks, and she had a black overcoat draped across her arm. Minimum and classic jewelry, he observed. Heirloom-quality locket-style lapel pin, small scallops of gold at her ears, slim watch with black leather band.

She also looked alert, refreshed, and not nearly as fragile as she had the night before.

“You’re prompt,” he said as he walked to her.

“Yes, an annoying habit of mine.”

“I like prompt women.” He took her arm and turned her toward the elevators. “Wasting time should be saved for when it can be most enjoyed.” He used a small key to access a floor, then turned to smile at her as the doors slid shut. “You look great. Got some rest, I’d say.”

He was wearing a soft navy sweatshirt, arms shoved up to the elbows, over dark jeans. His high-top sneakers appeared to have seen many a mile. “Thank you, yes. Where are we going?”

“Up to my suite.”

Her eyes deepened, her lids lowered. “Oh?”

He had to laugh. “Gwendolyn, you really shouldn’t be so trusting and naive. People will take advantage. Relax,” he added before she could speak. “I’ve ordered tea. We’ll sit in the parlor. It’s very conventional, and it’s more convenient for me to take notes and avoid interruptions from hovering
waiters. No hidden agenda.”

“All right, since I happen to be very hungry. I thought you lived in Boston.”

“I do.” He took her arm again, to lead her off the elevator. “I live here. The press figures it’s an eccentricity, the writer living in a hotel. What it really is is a high-class apartment building, with daily maid service, room service, and a really quick turnover of tenants. You’ve got a great smile. Why are you finally giving it to me?”

“My parents essentially lived in a hotel until after Mac, my oldest brother, was born. And they often still do. Both of my brothers live in hotels, year-round, and my younger sister, Amelia, would if she could get away with it. I don’t consider the choice the least eccentric.”

“Right, I’d forgotten. Casinos. Vegas, Atlantic City, New Orleans, Europe. Your family’s cost me some money—indirectly.”

“There’s nothing we enjoy more.” She waited for him to unlock one of a pair of wide double doors, then walked into the spacious and smartly appointed parlor. She noted the sleek little laptop, with full-size monitor attached, on the end of the walnut dining room table. There were stacks of books, papers, coffee cups.

“I’d say this would be a very quiet and convenient place to work.”

“It does the job for now. Occasionally I get a low-grade itch to buy a house, mow a lawn, paint some shutters. It usually passes, but I expect it’s going to stick one of these days.”

“If it does, you should call my cousin Julia. She’s an expert on real estate.”

“Ah, the First Jule.”

Gwen angled her head. “Yes, the press dubbed her that when Uncle Alan was president. She thought it was amusing. Even at seven, Julia had a well-developed sense of the ridiculous.”

“Would have been a kick growing up in the White House. Let’s see, her brother D.C.’s an artist. Then there’s the lawyer cousins. One of them just had a big, splashy wedding last spring.”

“That’s right. Are we here to discuss my family or your book?”

“Just making small talk.” Prickly, he thought. Protective. “Daniel likes to brag. I’ve heard enough about his kids and grandkids that I feel as though I know them. He’s very proud of you.”

“I know.” Gwen’s eyes softened again. “I tend to be defensive about my family. Another habit.”

“An attractive one. That’ll be food and drink,” he said when the bell sounded. “Just make yourself at home.”

She decided the most efficient place to sit was at the dining room table, at the opposite end from his workstation.

She smiled at the room-service waiter, listened to Branson joke with him, argue good-naturedly over some football game, then watched a folded bill slide discreetly from Branson’s palm to the waiter’s.

“How the guy can live in this great city and be a Dallas Cowboy fan is beyond my understanding.” Branson lifted a bottle from an ice bucket. “Champagne?”

“No.”

“Just covering the bases.” He screwed it back into the tub of ice. “We’ll put it back for another time. Dig in.” He swept a hand over the plates of sandwiches, scones, pastries. “You said you were hungry.”