House Calls Page 5

  Pete grabbed her hand. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she gave her head a little shake. “Just stood up too fast. Must be the cold.” The late-afternoon breeze kissed her icy skin and she shivered. When she was sure she had her bearings, she held out her hands. “Okay, I want you to take my hands—and get a good grip. On the count of three, push up with your good leg and I’ll pull you to you feet. If you feel yourself falling, just grab a hold of me and I’ll steady you.”

  He shook his head in obvious disgust. “Christ, I’m glad no one can see us.”

  She would tell him he had nothing to be ashamed about—that his surviving the shooting was nothing short of a miracle—but she knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. She held out her hands and he grasped them. “On the count of three. You ready?”

  He gripped her firmly and nodded.

  “Okay. One…two…three!” She pulled hard on his arms and he pushed off with his good leg, propelling himself upward. When he was upright and starting to tip forward, Maggie countered the action by stepping into him, arms around his back so she could steady him. Which put her at eye level with his throat—man, was he tall, and he weighed a ton. Nowhere near the one hundred and seventy-five pounds they’d recorded on his chart. She was guessing he was closer to two hundred—and not an ounce of that was fat. With him pressed against her, she could feel nothing but lean muscle flexing and contracting under her palms as he struggled to steady himself. His arms had circled her. One hand curled around her shoulder while the other rested firmly on her hip. So much skin touching skin.

  A sizzle of awareness zinged through her bloodstream. She used to fantasize about Pete holding her this way—about what it would feel like. Fantasy paled in comparison to the real thing.

  A good reason to let go.

  “Well, you’re up,” she said, trying to ease back, but Pete held her firmly against him. God, did he feel good. She wanted to run her hands up his back, down his arms. She wanted to touch him all over.

  Back away, she warned herself. But when she tried, he held on tight. “Um, Pete?”

  He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Yeah?”

  “Since you’re up now, maybe you should let go?”

  The hand on her hip tightened and wandered an inch or two lower. “I probably should. But it’s been a long time.”

  “Since what?”

  “Since I’ve held a woman this way.”

  You’re just convenient, she told herself. He doesn’t really want you. That didn’t stop her legs from going soft, her head from feeling dizzy.

  “You have to try not to think of me that way,” she said. “I’m not a woman, just a therapist. Non-sexual. There’s no reason to think of me as anything else.”

  “There are two pretty good reasons, and they’re pressing against my chest.”

  Oh. My. God. “You know we can’t do this. You’re my patient.”

  He sighed, slow and deep. “I know. It just feels nice. I guess I missed it more than I realized.”

  “That will pass,” she assured him. She would know. It had been quite a while for her, too. But as time passed, she began to lose that craving for physical contact, that need to be close to someone. She instead sated her craving for intimacy with books and movies and casual friendships.

  He finally loosened his grip and she slipped under his left arm, so he could keep the brunt of his weight off his bad leg. Very slowly they made their way to the beach. Though it was only a few feet, it took several minutes, and she could see that he was in a considerable amount of pain. This had been a really bad judgment call on her part. For about a hundred different reasons.

  When they reached the sand, she grabbed his cane and handed it to him, then helped him up to the cottage. When they were inside, Pete seated on the couch, she breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Only then did she really look at him and see the stark frustration on his face.

  “I know you probably won’t believe this, but you’re doing really well, doc.” She sat beside him. “It’s just going to take time. We pushed a little too hard today.”

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  She had the distinct feeling she was losing him, that he was going to give up before they had even gotten started. “First thing tomorrow we’ll start stretching that leg. You’ll be amazed what a difference it’ll make.”

  He nodded.

  The sarcasm and the bad attitude she could handle. It meant he was still feisty, still prepared to fight. The silence scared her. If he turned in on himself, she might not have the skills to draw him back out.

  They had taken a huge step backward today, and she couldn’t help feeling that she’d failed him somehow.

  “Sonofabitch.” Pete peeled the blood-coated latex gloves from his hands and tossed them on the floor. “Time of death, 11:36 p.m.”

  The metallic stench of blood filled the room—from the body of a fifteen-year-old who’d come in moments ago, his body riddled with bullets.

  “He was too far gone, Pete.” Rachel Weathers, the doctor assisting him, shook her head sadly. “He was a gang member, this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  While the rest of the team cleared the room, Pete grabbed the kid’s chart off the rack by the door. His student ID was clipped on top: Simon Richards, ninth grade. Jesus. They seemed to get younger and younger every year.

  “Did his buddy make it?” he asked Rachel.

  “You mean the one he blew two holes into? They took him up to surgery a few minutes ago. One bullet nicked his left ventricle and another shattered his spine. If he lives he’ll be a quadriplegic.”

  Pete pinched the bridge of his nose. At times like this he almost wished he’d become a pediatrician or a dermatologist, though he knew, if given a choice, he wouldn’t trade this for anything. Here in the ER, he knew he was making a difference, he was saving lives. Well, usually he saved lives. On nights like tonight the multiple traumas, the senseless violence, made him wonder why they bothered.

  Rachel took the chart from his hands. “When word gets out what happened, there will probably be retaliation, which means more bodies. Why don’t you run down to the cafeteria and grab us a bite to eat,” she said. “You look like you could use a break. I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”

  He nodded, trying to remember the last time he’d eaten and, because he couldn’t recall, determined that it had probably been too long. “Fruit salad?” he asked.

  “And an Evian. Take your time, okay?”

  He peeled the shoe guards off his feet, tossing them in the hazardous waste barrel, and started down the hall toward the elevator.

  “Hey,” Rachel called after him. “I’m seeing that new intern up in OB. Why don’t we double for drinks tomorrow night?”

  “I promised Lizzy I’d teach her how to water ski,” he called back.

  “In February?”

  “Her parents have a place in Florida. We’re flying down for the day.”

  “Didn’t you guys just go rock climbing?”

  “That was last month,” he said, walking backward toward the elevator.

  Rachel laughed. “You’re going to wear the poor girl out before you make it to the altar—or is that the idea?”

  Pete shook his head and smiled, watching as she disappeared around the corner. She knew as well as everyone else that he couldn’t wait to get married and settle down.

  He raised his hand to press the elevator button when he heard a loud pop—

  Pete’s eyes flew open and he sat up in bed, the last remnants of the dream clinging like a malignancy in his mind, his breath coming sharp and fast. Fingers of light slipped past the curtains and birds chirped outside the bedroom window.

  He was safe in the cottage. Nothing bad could happen to him here.

  It had been weeks since he’d had the dream. At least this time he’d been able to stop it before it got to the bad part. Before he relived the shooting, when he saw Rachel’s lifeless body sprawled across th
e hallway.

  If only he hadn’t taken a break, he might have gotten to her sooner. Or if he’d been there with her, it might have been him instead…

  He shook the thought from his head. He wasn’t even going to go there. He’d already run it through his mind a million times and the conclusion was always the same.

  He’d let his best friend die.

  Tossing back the covers, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Cool, fresh lake air rustled the curtains as he grabbed his cane and hoisted himself up. His arm was still a little sore and his knee ached from yesterday’s escapade, but he was determined not to let it get him down. He threw on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and straightened the covers on the bed.

  He glanced across the hall into Maggie’s room and found it empty. Clothes were strewn everywhere, the covers on her bed a disheveled mess, and two half-unpacked bags sat beside the bed, their contents spilling over onto the wood floor.

  He brushed his teeth and cleaned up, then headed out to the kitchen. She wasn’t there either, but he found evidence of her breakfast. An open, half-empty container of low-fat cottage cheese sat on the counter next to a bowl of fruit salad half-covered with plastic wrap. Beside that sat a dirty bowl and spoon that she obviously hadn’t bothered to wash.

  Either she’d been in an awfully big rush to leave—although he couldn’t imagine what pressing business she could have at eight in the morning—or she was a slob. Judging from the condition of her room, and the junk littering the inside of her SUV, he was guessing it was the latter.

  He looked out back but didn’t see her anywhere. Where the hell had she gone? At least the SUV was still parked out front, meaning she hadn’t taken off on him. Not that he thought she would. She seemed pretty determined to keep him motivated. She’d looked downright complacent after the lake fiasco yesterday. It was obvious she blamed herself for pushing him too hard.

  He only blamed himself. And he’d be a liar if he tried to tell himself he hadn’t been damned close to giving up. It seemed as if, lately, his life was one disappointment, one frustrating setback after another. But yesterday he’d made some real progress. Feeling the sun beating down on his shoulders, the wind in his hair, the length of a soft, warm female body pressed against him, had made him feel the tiniest hint of his old self, the Pete he thought had died on that cold hospital floor alongside Rachel.

  As always when he remembered Rachel, a shaft of pain sliced through his heart. She’d barely finished her residency, and was by far one of the most promising medical students he’d had the pleasure of working with. Working with her had made the long, seemingly endless double shifts so much easier to tolerate. It had been fun.

  But no matter how adamantly he’d denied any romantic feelings toward Rachel, his fiancée, Lizzy, had been jealous of their friendship. She had always been terribly insecure, always fishing for compliments, needing reassurances that she was the center of his universe.

  Pete swore that after he was released from the hospital, Lizzy had been relieved that Rachel was no longer around. All she talked about for those first few weeks was everything they would do when his leg was better. When he was back to normal. The sight of his healing wounds had appalled her. She was much happier pretending it was all a bad dream that would soon end.

  It hadn’t taken her long to grow frustrated by his slow recovery. For the first time in their year-long relationship the focus was no longer centered on her. Every day he didn’t make a miraculous recovery, her aggravation grew more keen. Her mounting resentment hung like a lead curtain between them until he finally recognized the truth—less than perfect would never be good enough for her. She would never be satisfied married to a man with a permanent disability.

  When he’d asked her to leave and never come back, sparing her the guilt of being the one to end the relationship, behind the hurt and rejection, he saw relief in her eyes. And somewhere deep down, he’d been relieved, too.

  That was all in the past, he reminded himself. There was no point in dwelling on something he couldn’t or wouldn’t want to change.

  Figuring the food would spoil left out in the heat, he put the cottage cheese and fruit in the fridge, then propped his cane in the corner and washed the dirty dish and spoon. He was just finishing up when the porch door opened and Maggie came through. He turned to ask her where she’d been, but all the air backed up in his lungs, making it temporarily impossible to speak.

  She was wearing a pair of running shorts that hugged her like a second skin and a matching sport bra that crushed her breasts together to form a deep cleft. Man, did she have the cleavage, and she didn’t seem the least bit shy about showing it off. Both items of clothing were soaked with sweat and her hair hung in damp ringlets around her face. When she saw him, she smiled.

  “Morning, doc. You just get up?”

  “Yeah. Looks like you got an early start.”

  “Up at the crack of dawn. I do forty-five minutes with free weights and jog for an hour every morning.”

  He used to jog, too. That was one more thing he would never do again.

  Maggie joined him in the kitchen, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. She smelled of sweat and sun and fresh air—a tantalizing combination. She threw back her head and took a long swallow of water, exposing her long, slender neck. There was something about her that was just so…elegant, despite her tendency to be sarcastic and downright belligerent.

  The truth was, that was what he found so attractive. Her spunk, her zest for life and her passion. And he did find her attractive. There was no denying that. A man would have to be blind not to find a woman like Maggie desirable.

  She dragged a hand across her sweaty brow, pushing her hair back from her forehead. “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’d have a hearty breakfast if I were you. I’m going to work your tail off today.”

  He leaned against the counter. “I can hardly wait.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change.” She set the bottle and cap on the counter and trotted off to the bathroom.

  Pete capped the water and put it back in the fridge. He found eggs, cheese and a variety of vegetables, so he fixed himself an omelet. He was just starting to clean up when Maggie reappeared, hair damp, dressed in a snug, low-cut tank top and terrycloth short-shorts.

  Did the woman own a single modest article of clothing?

  “Let’s get started,” she said.

  “Give me a minute to clean up this mess.” He set his dirty dishes in the sink.

  “Just leave them. You can do it later.”

  “Why wait until later when it’ll take me about two minutes to do it now?” he said, running the hot water and squeezing a drop of dish detergent on the sponge—both of which he found deep in the cabinet under the sink.

  Maggie let out a long, exasperated sigh. “They’re not going to go anywhere, you know.”

  “All the more reason to do it now.” He scrubbed egg off his plate. “Then it won’t be hanging over my head all morning.”

  “You mean there are men who voluntarily clean?”

  “I can only speak for myself.”

  She propped her hip against the cupboard beside him and folded her arms under her breasts. “Well, I think you’re some weird freak of nature.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “My mom would have needed dynamite to get my dad out of his chair to wash dishes. They’re very traditional. She was a stay-at-home mom, and he’s the breadwinner. She cooks and cleans and does the shopping, he works nine to five then sits in his chair and watches TV. How about your parents?”

  “Boarding school, remember?” He rinsed the dishes and set them on the draining board. “I wasn’t around to see what my parents did.”

  “Did it bother you? Being away from home, I mean.”

  “I hated being home. At least at school I had friends. Being home meant being alone.”

  “That’s really sad,” Maggie said, l
ooking genuinely distressed. “And it explains why you had such a lousy attitude living there again. So many bad memories.”

  He was about to snap back with a sarcastic comment when he realized she was right. He’d been miserable. She’d done him a huge favor dragging him out of there. And he’d practically molested her on the beach yesterday. Talk about disrespectful. He was sure that catering to his overactive sexual urges wasn’t part of the therapy, yet she’d been nothing but kind and patient and respectful. And he owed her a huge apology.

  “Maggie, about yesterday—”

  “No sweat. These things happen.”

  “I just want you to know, I have a lot of respect for you as a medical professional.”

  “You should. I’m damned good at what I do.”

  And only a little modest. He dried his hands and hung the dish towel on the refrigerator door. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “I hope so, doc. We have a lot of lost time to make up for. When I’m finished with you, you’re going to be begging for mercy.”

  After all he’d been through, whatever she could dish out, he could take. “We’ll just see about that.”

  Six

  “Christ, that hurts. Aren’t we finished yet?”

  “You know what they say, doc. No pain, no gain.” Maggie knelt on a pillow in front of Pete, grasping his calf, extending his leg and stretching the muscle. Sweat rolled down the side of his face and he clutched the couch cushion with both hands. She bent his knee, giving him a few seconds to relax, then eased it straight, going as far as the short muscles would allow—then farther.

  He gasped in a sharp breath. “Do you get off on torturing people?”

  She eased back. “Oh, stop being a baby. For someone so macho, you sure have a low threshold for pain.”

  He scowled down at her. “I am not being a baby. You’re stretching it too far.”

  They’d been at it for nearly two hours. First she did a full evaluation to gauge his condition and see exactly what he was capable of. The past hour they’d spent doing various stretching exercises to lengthen the muscles. Honestly, he was holding up pretty well considering how hard she was working him. The problem here was pride, and it wasn’t uncommon. Even though he’d agreed to the therapy, he was still having a lot of trouble accepting her help. He didn’t like anyone, even her, seeing him this way. Seeing him struggle.