The Doctor's Perfect Match

“I asked Edith to tell you not to bother.” The words scraped painfully against her raw throat.

“And I told her this was your lucky day. Two house calls for the price of one.” The ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “You can’t pass up a bargain like that.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “No one does house calls anymore. Especially for free.”

“I do. On occasion.” He examined her flushed face. “What’s your temperature?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I haven’t looked for a thermometer yet.”

“I could save you the trouble. I have a disposable one in my bag.”

Marci studied the thin blue stripes on his white dress shirt as she debated her next move. She wasn’t keen about getting up close and personal with this guy, but if she wanted to fulfill her obligations at The Devon Rose she needed medical attention. And in light of her shaky finances and bare-bones health insurance, free sounded awfully good.

“Look…about Saturday night. I’m sorry I stared.”

Surprised he’d broached that subject—and taken aback by the apologetic tone in his baritone voice—she lifted her chin. And noticed several things she’d missed on Saturday. Eyes as blue as the Nantucket sea on a sunny day. Shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the heaviest of loads. A firm chin that conveyed strength and resolve. Light brown hair sprinkled with the merest hint of silver at the temples. And fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes that spoke of caring and compassion.

Her attitude toward him softened a fraction.

“I want you to know I’m not generally that rude.” His gaze held hers, steady and sincere. “My mother raised me to treat women with respect, and I didn’t do that Saturday night. Please forgive me.”

Was this guy for real? Marci scrutinized him for any sign of deceit, any indication that this was a standard line. And she’d heard plenty of those in her life. But unless this guy was a world-class actor, he meant what he’d said. He truly was sorry. And he hadn’t been too proud or arrogant or conceited to admit his mistake.

In other words, he was a gentleman.

Not a species she’d often run across in her world.

The question was, how did one deal with a man like this? She was far more used to tossing sassy comebacks at guys who flirted with her at Ronnie’s, where she often spent as much of her shift deflecting advances as she did taking orders and delivering food, than she was to accepting apologies from gentlemen.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. So why not let me make amends? I can check out your temperature, get a little history, maybe figure out what’s wrong. Edith tells me you’re planning to manage The Devon Rose for the next couple of weeks, and it’s obvious you’re in no shape to do that right now. Helping get you back on your feet is the least I can do after my faux pas on Saturday.”

Interesting how he’d positioned his assistance as a favor to him, Marci mused, leaning against the edge of the door as a sudden weariness swept over her. His offer sounded good, but there had to be a catch. There always was.

The man’s eyes narrowed, and instead of waiting for her to respond, he stepped in. Literally. Taking her arm in a firm but gentle grip, he edged her back into the spacious foyer, shut the door with his shoulder and led her to a straight chair beside the steps.

“Where can I wash my hands?”

She motioned toward the restroom in what had once been the butler’s pantry, unwilling to irritate her throat by speaking.

As he strode across the hardwood floor and disappeared through the dining room archway, she let her head drop back against the wall beneath the stairs that wound to the second floor. In general, high-handed men riled her. Yet despite his take-charge manner, Christopher Morgan came across as caring and competent rather than autocratic. Besides, she couldn’t afford to take offense. She needed to get well, and it would be foolish to pass up free medical help.

But if he pulled out a stethoscope and aimed for her chest, she intended to smack him.

Talk about weird coincidences.

As Christopher washed his hands, drying them on one of the disposable guest towels beside the sink in the rest room, he wondered what the odds were of crossing paths again with the woman in the restaurant.

They had to be minuscule.

Unless more than chance was involved.

So often in the past, occurrences he’d written off as coincidence had turned out, in retrospect, to be part of God’s plan for him. This could be one of them. Perhaps it was best to put the situation in the Lord’s hands.

As he approached the foyer, his shoes silent on the large Chinese area rug in the dining room, he saw that Marci’s head was resting against the wall, exposing the slender, delicate column of her throat. Her eyes were closed, the curve of her long lashes sweeping her cheeks in a graceful arc.

His step faltered. On Saturday, he’d been distracted by her great figure and fabulous legs, but today they were camouflaged by a worn, faded pink robe that covered her neck to toes—and directed his attention to her face. Her halo of blond hair softened a chin that was a tad too sharp, while well-defined cheekbones gave her features a slight angular appearance, adding a dash of character that kept her from being just another Kewpie-doll blonde. Full, appealing lips completed the picture.

In other words, Marci Clay was the kind of woman who would catch any man’s eye.

But perhaps not for the right reasons, Christopher acknowledged. And her reaction to his appreciative perusal Saturday night indicated she knew that.

Her eyelids fluttered open, propelling him forward. If she caught him staring again, he suspected she’d hustle him out the door faster than a sand crab could scuttle back to its hole.

That suspicion was confirmed by the wariness in her deep green irises as he approached. While he couldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that sparked in their depths as he pulled up a chair beside her, he did his best to ignore them.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he withdrew a disposable thermometer from his bag and tore off the wrapping. “Open up. We’ll have a reading in sixty seconds.”

He slid it under her tongue, and as they waited he took her wrist to check her pulse. Strong, if a bit fast. No problem there. He was more concerned about the subtle tremors beneath his fingertips. They could be due to weakness. More likely, though, they were fever-related chills. From the heat seeping through his glove, he knew he wasn’t going to like her temperature.

Withdrawing the thermometer, he checked the reading. The number didn’t surprise him. “A hundred and two.”

She grimaced.

After slipping the thermometer into a small waste bag, he gave her his full attention. “Any idea what’s going on?”

She shook her head.

“When did this start?”

“Yesterday.”

“Anything hurt?”

“Throat.”

“Any other symptoms?”

Again she shook her head.

Withdrawing a tongue depressor and penlight from his bag, he scooted closer to her. “Let’s have a look.”

As she opened her mouth, he inserted the tongue depressor and flashed the light to the back of her throat. Swelling and severe inflammation. Depositing the depressor in the waste bag, he reached over to gently feel the lymph nodes in her neck. Puffy.

She winced and tried to pull away. “Hurts.”

“Sorry.” He let her go and leaned back. “I think we may be dealing with a case of strep throat.”