The Doctor Delivers

“The same.” Derek nibbled a piece of cheese. “Bolton’s specialty is striking fear into the hearts of public relations people. I suspect he secretly wants to bring every hospital in his circulation area crashing down in an avalanche of scandal. Anyway, last month we had a couple of, uh, surgical mishaps that Bolton thinks we’re trying to cover up. He hinted—not very subtly—that the incidents were a result of underlying management difficulties.” Derek drained his wine. “Jordan nearly hit the roof when he heard that one.”

She nodded. Although she hadn’t yet dealt with the chief of administration directly, she had attended executive meetings with Derek and, on occasion, had seen Jordan’s sudden bursts of temper. “Is there any truth to the allegations?”

Derek waggled his hand, palm down. “Yes and no. It’s a long story. The point though is to divert Bolton and the rest of the pack with this triplet thing. That’s why we need to milk it for all it’s worth.” He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’ve had about all the holiday cheer I can handle for one night. Jordan gives his speech at eight. We need to get something in the newsletter. Stick around for it, will you?”

Catherine opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, silenced by the thought of how much she needed her job. Another half hour seemed like a life sentence, but she dragged up the phony smile she’d perfected during her marriage and sweetly agreed to stay. In need of a stimulant to keep her going, she started over for the coffee urn at the far end of room and collided with a tall blond man. He introduced himself and, in amazingly short time, regaled her with details of his stock portfolio, real estate and assorted collection of cars and boats.

“I ski Mammoth,” he rambled. “Got a condo up there, all exposed beams and glass, hot tub, wet bar. Ski all day, party all night.”

Catherine smiled politely and considered possible avenues of escape. Her head ached and the smell of overheated bodies and reheated food was making her feel slightly sick. Even if she had the time or inclination to date, she reflected, if this was an indication of what was out there, she’d go without.

He flashed dazzling white teeth and moved a little closer, his eyes appraising. “So, what do you do for fun?”

“Not a whole lot.” She inhaled a cloud of aftershave, took a step back to avoid nose-to-nose contact and searched her mind for a sufficiently unexciting activity. “Gardening,” She took another step backward. “Cooking.” In this way, she could eventually backstep her way out of the room. “Work.”

He shook his head and moved a step closer, continuing their little pas de deux. “Y’know what they say about all work and no play, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t care.”

“Hey, babe.” He looked into her eyes. “Want to split this place, go get a drink somewhere?”

As she formed the words of refusal, she heard a male voice behind her.

“Excuse me, I need to talk to Catherine.”

A male voice with an Irish accent. She knew without turning that it was Martin Connaughton.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE MARKETING MAN, caught momentarily off guard by the intrusion, rallied quickly. “Hey, that’s cool. No sweat, I’ll just mosey over there and check out the munchies.” He shot Catherine a parting wink. “Catch you later.”

Catherine watched him disappear into the crowd, then turned to Connaughton. A beer bottle in one hand, he wore a battered tweed jacket, some sort of collarless shirt under it and jeans. His reddish-brown hair fell untidily over his forehead, and his eyes were lined with exhaustion. But as she looked at him, all she could think of at that moment was how attractive he was—not handsome, or conventionally good-looking, but attractive: sexy, slightly disheveled, more than a little weary and, she suspected, completely unconcerned about the way he looked.

“Martin Connaughton,” he said as though perhaps she’d forgotten. “You’re looking for me?”

“I was looking for you. About four hours and five messages ago. You didn’t answer your page or your messages. Again.”

“Well, now I’m here.”

“How do you know you didn’t just barge into an important conversation?” A vestige of irritation lingered. Now he was ready to talk. “That guy might have been…I don’t know, the love of my life.”

He raised an eyebrow. “In that case you were managing to conceal it remarkably well. I’ve been watching you from across the room for the last…” He glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. You looked bored stiff. Actually, I thought I’d do you a good turn by rescuing you.”

“You did?” Surprise deflated her anger like air from a balloon.

“I did.” A faint smile played across his face.

She stood there, momentarily robbed of words by an intense awareness of his physical presence. His height, the way his jacket fit across his shoulders, the slight shadow of beard. Maybe he’d come straight from the hospital, just changed from his scrubs. She felt weird, breathless almost. Everything around them seemed distant and unconnected.

“So?” His smile grew wider.

“So.” She felt her face color. “We need to talk.”

He caught her arm, shepherded her to an empty space by the door. “I suppose that this is the part where I throw myself on your mercy and tell you that it’s been a hell of a day so please accept my abject apologies for my earlier behavior.”

The remark, with its teasing undertone, once again caught her off guard. The cool, distant doctor had metamorphosed into a sexy guy who had a definitely disconcerting effect on her heart.

“You don’t really seem too abject.” She matched his tone. “I like a lot of groveling before I forgive.”

“Unfortunately, groveling isn’t one of my strong suits,” he said solemnly. “But supposing I did want to grovel my way into your good graces. How would I go about it? Could I redeem myself by talking to your pals out there?”

“My pals. You make it sound so frivolous.” She suppressed a smile and an errant thought: she could fall for him, big time. Her face felt warm. “As a matter of fact, you can meet them tomorrow. I’ve scheduled a press conference at ten.”

“You’ve already set it up?” Dark blue eyes widened slightly. “How did you know I’d do it?”

“Just a hunch.” She realized she was beginning to enjoy the exchange. “Can you be there?”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do. Just tell me what you want me to say.”

“We can work on that in the morning.” She leaned her shoulders lightly against the wall, her arms at her sides. Relief, but more than that, something about Martin Connaughton had completely transformed her mood. “Back to groveling though.”

“Yes?”

“Just this morning, I seem to recall you making some sort of comment about public relations. How did you put it?” A hand cupped to her chin, she pantomimed deep thought. “I think the word you used was puffery.”

“Temporary insanity on my part,” he replied with an obvious effort to maintain a solemn expression. “I retract everything I might have said. Public relations is a calling of the highest order.”

“You know something?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not for an instant.” She smiled into his eyes. “So what produced the dramatic change?”

“I’ve got a project that’s very important to me.” The laughter left his face. “It’s called WISH. I’d like to talk to you about it.” He glanced around the crowded room. “Maybe we can find somewhere a little bit quieter.”

“SO THAT’S REALLY what WISH is all about,” he said after he’d given her the overview of what he was trying to do. “Drug counseling and adequate prenatal care can go a long way toward preventing tragedies like Kenesha Washington.”

Music and laughter from the hotel floated out to where they sat on a low stone wall. Above them a smattering of stars, ahead a narrow strip of beach and the dark ocean. What surprised him was how easily the words had flowed. The emotions that just that morning Dora Matsushita had urged him to unlock were right there as he explained, and he knew by Catherine’s expression that he’d touched her.

“And you’re hoping that administration will be so pleased with your glowing tribute to Western’s NICU that they’ll change their minds and decide to fund WISH after all? Is that your strategy?”

“Something along those lines.” He smiled. “As the PR expert, how does that sound to you?”

“As the practitioner of fluff and puffery you mean?”

“I already apologized for that, remember? Besides, you called me Scrooge.”

“And I apologized for that,” she replied. “Although you did seem kind of dark and gloomy this morning.” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “I figured that maybe it was typical Irish behavior. You know, all brooding and melancholy.”