The M.D. Courts His Nurse (4 page)

But tonight it was all wasted on Rebecca. The double line of full-length windows opening onto a scrolled-iron balcony, the tables bright and fragrant with fresh bouquets of spring—all wasted.

In fact even as a pallid and bored maître d' escorted them to their tables, it was all she could do to restrain herself from bolting. She still smarted with humiliation from their arrival—she had actually required a valet's help to climb down out of Rick's truck.

“Hopalong Cassidy's horse was Topper,” Rick's voice hammered on, beating at her ears by now. “Dale Evans rode Buttermilk, the Cisco Kid was on Diablo, Gene Autry rode—”

I dared to dream,
Rebecca thought with self-lacerating sarcasm that made her smile. Unfortunately she was looking right at Rick when she did it. His next remark proved he misread her ironic smile as some sort of romantic green light.

“I thought maybe after dinner,” he confided in a near whisper so others wouldn't hear, “we might take a little ride out to Turk Road.”

He couldn't be serious. Cold revulsion made her shudder. Turk Road used to be a local lovers' lane until huge feed-lots were built on both sides of it. Either he hadn't parked there in a long time or he didn't care about the smell.

“You're joking, right?” she blurted out. “That area smells like a leaking sewer.”

“Oh, not when the wind's out of the north,” he assured her with a solemn face. “Like it is tonight. We can just keep the windows rolled up.”

They were seated, and immediately the wine steward hovered at Rick's elbow while he ordered some white zinfandel she had no intention of drinking.

A brief image of Rick groping her in his almost-monster truck, windows steamed over, cows bellowing on all sides, had killed her earlier appetite.

“Take me home,” she blurted out suddenly. “I don't feel well.”

“What? But we—”

“I really
don't
feel well,” she insisted in a tone that quashed any further resistance from him. To underline her determination she stood up and gathered her purse and sweater.

“Man, oh, man!” he exclaimed in frustration. “Hazel didn't tell me you were such a dingbat.”

Well at least he gets angry, she thought as the two of them walked quickly outside, scrutinized by curious eyes.

“The gold truck,” Rick snapped to the valet, and the latter trotted around to the side lot. The teen returned a minute later, shaking his head at them.

“Bad news, sir. Your right rear tire is completely flat. If you've got a jack that's big enough, we'll change it for you.”

Rebecca's heart sank at this stroke of rotten luck, and Rick cursed. “No, it'll have to be towed to a hoist. Or at least lifted by a tow-truck winch.”

He looked at Rebecca as if it were all her fault. “I'll have to call a tow. Looks like it'll be a while before you get home.”

The date from hell, she thought, as she watched him walk away with the valet to inspect the damage.

O
h, great, Rebecca groaned inwardly while her date dug the phone number for his tow service out of his wallet. Mystery Valley had virtually no cab service, just a shuttle bus service for the airport at Helena, so she couldn't get home that way.

Hazel…her place wasn't all that far, or maybe Lois—

A low rumble of exhaust and a flash of bright-red paint pulled her attention to the street out front. John Saville, looking handsome and slightly windblown in a brown leather bomber jacket, parked his Gran Sport classic right out front and leaped athletically out without opening the door. He carried his leather medical kit and hurried toward the restaurant, ignoring the valets.

“Got it,” Rick muttered beside her, finally finding the number. He had already retrieved the wireless phone from his vehicle. “Shouldn't be too long,” he told her, avoiding her eyes now. “It doesn't make sense I'd have a flat, those are brand-new tires.”

She stood there on the sidewalk, her irritation at herself tinged with sudden curiosity. She wondered what emergency could possibly have called John Saville to the restaurant. The place had seemed calm enough when she and Rick came outside.

An inexplicable flat tire and the doctor's sudden arrival—certainly it was odd timing.

Rick finished his call and pushed down the antenna of his phone. “Forty minutes to an hour,” he informed her.

She resisted the urge to snap at him in frustration. It wasn't his fault, after all. “I think I'll go inside and see if I can call a—”

“Rebecca!”

The voice cut into her thoughts. She turned around. John Saville went toward her, dressed in stone-washed jeans and a white pullover she could see under his open jacket.

He actually used my first name, she thought.

Evidently, however, he had not approached her to be friendly. His tight-lipped smile of greeting seemed to cost him great effort.

“Dr. Saville,” she greeted him. When he sent a quick glance at Rick she added with perfunctory politeness, “Rick Collins, this is my employer, Dr. John Saville.”

“Excuse me for butting in, both of you, but I wonder if you know anything about an elderly woman who had a dizzy spell inside the restaurant? I got the call a few minutes ago, but no one inside seems to know a thing about it.”

Rebecca thought once again, How odd. Her suspicions grew stronger. Everyone knew Hazel had matchmaking on her mind. But the town matriarch was tricky. It would be just like Hazel to pull a bait and switch. Accusation aimed squarely at Hazel niggled at her for a few seconds, but it passed as abruptly as it popped into her mind. She had too
much to deal with right now to give it the consideration it deserved.

“I didn't notice any trouble,” she replied. “Did you, Rick?”

He was still in a sullen mood since she had poured cold water on his hot plans for later.

“Maybe whoever it was left already,” he suggested without interest.

“Well…” John Saville's gaze raked over Rebecca. He had never seen her with her hair unrestrained like this, framing her face.

“Well,” he repeated, starting to turn away, “I guess it was a false alarm.”

“Dr. Saville?”

Her voice brought him back around to face them. “Yes?”

Of all the people to request a favor from, why did it have to be him?

“I, that is, Rick's truck has a flat tire, and he has to wait for someone to come fix it. Could you—would you mind giving me a lift home? If it's not too far out of your way.”

“Hey, whoa, here,” Rick objected, sensing an invasion of his male territory. “This is still
my
date with you, not his.”

The totally unwarranted possessiveness made her flush—she hardly knew the guy. He sure had a lot of nerve.

Despite her horror at making a public scene, she couldn't stop herself from saying, “If I could remind you, Rick, I'm not exactly feeling well, remember?”

“Look,” the doctor said with diplomatic politeness, addressing himself to Rick, “there's a service station a few blocks down the street. Why don't I run the tire over there and get it patched?”

It irked her, suddenly, that her employer showed more consideration for this stranger than he did for her. He walks
with kings, she thought scornfully, but never loses the common touch—until he comes to work.

Rick shook his head at the offer of help. “Even if we could get it off the vehicle, you'd need a truck to haul it.”

John looked puzzled. Rick pointed out the towering vehicle. At the astonished look on her boss's face, Rebecca felt her cheeks heat.

She wanted to go crawl in a hole somewhere. “It's not
quite
a monster truck,” she explained lamely, quoting Rick.

But by now John's politeness and gentlemanly deference toward her date had calmed Rick down. “Look, Doc,” he said, “Rebecca says she doesn't feel well, and she'd like to go home. You'd be doing both of us a favor if you drove her, believe me.”

“Glad to help.”

Oh, that's great, she thought crossly. You two become blood brothers so I can look like the big bad witch. The doctor could treat a stranger's pride with such diplomacy, yet look how he acted toward his office nurse, as if her self-esteem meant less to him than killing a fly.

“Thank you, Rick,” she said, feeling awkward.

He simply nodded and turned away, managing to make her feel guilty.

John Saville said nothing as the two of them approached his long, low-slung Alfa Romeo. But as he opened the passenger's door for her he said, “You really don't feel well?”

She settled into the low leather seat, sensing his gaze on her legs as her skirt rode up high. “It's what we women call a diplomatic headache.”

“Ahh…medical school doesn't cover that one.”

He went around, tossed the leather kit behind his seat, then got in and keyed the sports car to rumbling life.

“Sorry it didn't work out,” he told her. “He seems like a nice enough guy.”

“Good,” she retorted as he gunned away from the curb,
tires squealing. “You go out with him, then. You two sure seemed to hit it off.”

She regretted her rudeness almost immediately. After all, he
was
giving her a lift home.

They were still in town, and overhead lights illuminated him well. She cast a sidelong glance as he accelerated through the gears, his hair whipping, right hand working the floor-mounted gearshift.

He caught her watching him.

“Nice jacket,” she told him.

He shifted gears, and his hand brushed against her calf. Did it linger there a moment?

“My dad gave it to me,” he replied.

“Was he a pilot in the military?”

A shadow seemed to cross his face, but it might have been something blocking the streetlights for a moment. “No,” he replied curtly, adding nothing else, even though she waited.

He can't get personal with the lower class, she reminded herself sarcastically. Daddy was probably a big-time, four-star general, at least, judging from his son's arrogance.

He downshifted for the last traffic light in Summerfield. Again his hand brushed her leg. She really didn't have much room to move it. It was chilly in May after sunset, and she wore only a light sweater. When they stopped at the red light he shrugged out of his jacket and draped its comforting warmth over her shoulders.

“You don't have to—”

“You'll need it,” he insisted, cutting her off. “I like to drive fast.”

She quickly realized he meant what he said.

He was an excellent driver who appreciated the challenges of a winding road. The old Alfa Romeo roared through the star-speckled Montana night, flashing in and out of dark patches of moon shadow. They soared through
dips that made Rebecca feel exciting loss-of-gravity tickles in her stomach.

Once outside the Summerfield limits, only the dash lights cast any illumination on them. She noticed how his taut forearm muscles leaped like machine cables each time he shifted—which he seemed to do a lot. And each time, his hand brushed her nyloned calf.

Again she told herself she really couldn't move in the cramped compartment. But in truth she liked the way the gearshift vibrated against her leg, the way the engine pulsed and throbbed through her soles, and the power surges of the accelerating motor were strangely thrilling, as was the increasingly electric contact of his fingers brushing her calf….

She caught herself just in time. She must shake off this erotic lull and curb such dangerous thoughts. She was still in her…excitable mood of earlier tonight, before Rick's onslaught of trivia had killed it. She mustn't forget this was not some hot fantasy man beside her, but Dr. Dry-As-Dust, surgical snob extraordinaire. She would only get into trouble wanting him. He would be just like Brian—thinking she was good enough to use but not good enough for forever.

Conversation was impractical in the engine roar and wind noise of the open road. But two miles west of Summerfield they got stuck behind a slow-moving logging truck.

Whether he's dry as dust or not, I still owe the guy an apology, she reminded herself. Again memory gave her a stab as she recalled how she and Lois had burst out laughing at him earlier today, how that nice smile died on his lips.

“Dr. Saville—”

“Please call me John. We aren't in the office.” He snapped it out like an order, not a friendly request.

“John, Lois and I weren't sharing any private joke earlier today when we had our giggle attack. We were just in a silly mood.”

“Look, if you're worried I'll change my mind about the raise, don't.”

His curt, sarcastic tone made a storm of anger rise within her.

“That's what I get,” she said in a voice caustic as acid, “for trying to be human with you.”

His handsome jaw went slack with surprise at her peppery retort. But the remark had brought back his earlier humiliation. He had tried to meet her halfway, and she'd laughed in his face like he was a fool.

He clamped his teeth rather than tell her what he felt like saying.

They finally got a clear stretch of road, and he flew past the logging truck, exhaust roaring. His fast, angry driving suited Rebecca's mood, too.

The silence also gave her a chance to reconsider her earlier suspicion. A date arranged by Hazel, a suddenly flat tire, a supposed emergency phone call for the doctor…

“Which way?” His curt voice cut into her thoughts as they reached the town limits of Mystery.

“Go through town then turn right on Bluebush Road,” she told him. “It's the Sagewood Apartments, a couple miles out of town.”

Minutes later he braked to a skidding stop in front of her building and waited impatiently, motor running, for her to shrug out of his jacket and get out. He refused to help her out, and the race car had not been designed to accommodate women in skirts. With all the grace of a truckload of bricks, she managed to get her feet outside and stood up.

The big arc-sodium yard light was on, and she could feel his eyes on her. Her clothes needed “a good pull-down” as her aunt Thelma used to call it.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“It's on my way,” he assured her, his tone implying that's the only reason he did it.

A moment later he gunned the motor, and she watched ruby-red taillights head back out toward the road.

 

John welcomed the feel of crisp night air stinging his fresh-shaven cheeks. It helped to cool his body, which still burned from the contact with Rebecca's leg every time he shifted—that and the image of her rich, lustrous chestnut mane framing the face of an innocent wanton….

With her heartbreak smile, Rebecca O'Reilly was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But it didn't matter because no matter how much he'd heard about her sense of humor, her spirit, even her optimistic heart, she'd shown him none of it.

In the dim light of his car he had seen in her eyes how she hated him.

Detested
him might be a better word.
Hate
implied a level of emotional interest she could not possibly feel for him. And she'd detested him from their first meeting. Detested him probably because he wasn't laid-back and informal like her precious Paul Winthrop or the other men she was used to. Because he didn't joke around on the job. Her contempt angered him, and it only made him angrier trying to figure out why he cared at all.

And
why
did he have to mention his father to her? A pilot—what irony. His father bought him the jacket out of guilt over all the childhood beatings. Woodrow Saville had ended up a failure in his enlisted military career, never rising above the rank of sergeant and eventually drummed out of the Army early for poor conduct-and-proficiency reports. The best he could provide for his family was a trailer next to the Bitterroot Valley dump.

And he had taken all his failures out on his only son.

Despite the fact John was an outstanding student and athlete—or maybe because of that—his father treated him like a perpetual loser who screwed up everything he tried to do.

He remembered the commanding cadence of his father's stern voice, an ironic warning from one of life's big losers:
Failure is not an option, John, and only weak men need to be liked.
Despite his contempt for his father, he had been forced to live up to those hard words. And despite all his success as a surgeon, the early emotional scars remained.

But neither his pride nor his father's indoctrination could quell the image of Rebecca pushing her hair out of her eyes, or that quick glimpse he got of her long, shapely legs. He was acutely aware of his body's need for a woman. He hadn't slept with one since he'd been out here, although a few had already made it clear that fact could easily change.

Too bad none of them was wicked, wild, teasing Rebecca. Just a flash of her eyes sent a hunger that gnawed to his spine. It was becoming more and more difficult to accept her rejection of him and contemplate another woman.