If You Could Read My Mind...

“You’re crazy.”

“Only about you, love of my life.”

“Oh, Michael.”

He whirled her to the sound of Charlotte’s chuckles and Louis’s deep-throated guffaws. Unable to resist, he dipped her over his arm for good measure, one of those dramatic, romantic gestures that never failed to make Jillian sigh those breathless sighs that caught him hard in the gut.

She melted over his arm in a liquid move and exhaled a gasping laugh. That had been the first thing to attract him to Jillian—her laughter. Unrestrained, glorious laughter. He couldn’t resist kissing the sound from her lips.

So, flipping up his paper mask, he did.

Her mouth yielded beneath his, her kiss so natural and welcoming that he felt that twist low in his gut. He resisted the urge to deepen their kiss and taste the sweet greeting he knew would be his.

That was the way it had always been between them—right. Ever since he’d stolen his first kiss on the high-school football field after a particularly tight win, he’d responded to Jillian in a way he had no other.

He still did. She was such a tidy armful with her hands wound around his neck to hang on, her warm breaths clashing with his in easy rhythm. She made him think about sex.

They only parted after attracting an audience. His two hygienists stood in the hall beyond the open doorway, their applause muffled by their sanitary gloves.

“Show’s over, folks.” He waved everyone back to work.

With laughing comments, his staff disbanded, and Jillian rolled her eyes, pecked him on the cheek and said, “Now back to work before you get totally off schedule.”

“Or my anesthetic wears off.” Louis shot a worried glance at the drill.

Michael got back to his own work before Louis’s anesthetic did indeed wear off. He pointedly ignored the amusement glinting in Charlotte’s eyes above the mask.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d earned this open conspiracy, but his wife and office staff had taken it upon themselves to point him through his days as if he couldn’t find his own way. If it made them all feel useful to play mother hens, then Michael tried not to complain.

He could think of a lot worse things than a bunch of women caring about him.

Not to mention that Charlotte made the best damn fried chicken he’d ever tasted. He wouldn’t do anything to risk ticking her off and denying himself those little plastic baggies filled with crispy drumsticks.

Even their newest hygienist, Brandi, young as she was, had followed suit, to become his newest mother hen. And Michael chose to let these ladies do what made them happy. Most of the time keeping his ladies happy made him happy, too, but there were days when their hovering got annoying.

Like at the end of the long work day when he and the staff were leaving the office.

Michael patted his back pocket. “Damn, I forgot my wallet. Knowing my luck, I’ll get pulled over and not have my license.”

“Go on and get it.” Charlotte reached out to grab the door from him. “I’ll wait.”

Being mother-henned was one thing. Being made to feel incompetent was another entirely. “Thanks, but if you don’t get to Libby’s dance recital before the theater fills up, you’ll never get a decent seat.”

There was no argument there, but he could tell Charlotte didn’t want to leave until she saw him get inside his car.

“Jillian said to make sure you leave with us, Michael,” Dianne informed him.

“I only have to grab my wallet,” he informed his senior hygienist.

“You’ll only be a minute?” Charlotte frowned at him.

He frowned right back, and she obviously recognized that he was only half joking.

“See you tomorrow, ladies. I’m quite capable of grabbing my wallet and making it to my car without an escort.”

That the ladies didn’t look convinced annoyed him further.

“Enjoy the recital, Charlotte,” he prompted. “You two have a good night, as well.”

“G’night, Michael.”

Charlotte forced a smile and headed to her car.

Shaking his head, he wound his way through the space, flipping on lights as he went, finally reaching his private office at the rear of the building.

What made these women think he needed a babysitter?

Circling his desk, he retrieved his wallet from the drawer. He really didn’t have an answer to the question, but knew he’d simply have to weather the storm, which meant getting on the road. Glancing up at the wall clock, he found himself ten minutes ahead of schedule.

What had Charlotte been worried about?

Slipping his wallet inside his back pocket, Michael reached for his handheld recorder. He typically dictated his patients’ reports before leaving the office at the end of the day, while the information was still fresh in his head.

His medical transcriptionist came in for a few hours each morning. He could give her a few to start with in the morning, which would buy him time to dictate the rest. He glanced at the files stacked neatly on the edge of his desk. In ten minutes he could dictate at least two. With any luck, three….

JILLIAN WATCHED the old-model Lincoln Town Car wind down the long dirt drive toward the camp, kicking up clouds of dust into the twilight. The sun set in pastel strands over the Mississippi, and from her perch on the bluff, she let the quiet river soothe away her annoyance that Michael hadn’t shown up before the interview as she’d asked him to.

She’d decided to reserve judgment about why he wasn’t here. Jillian knew if an emergency had come up at the last minute he wouldn’t have hesitated to place a patient in his chair. Michael had the biggest heart of anyone she’d ever known, which was one of the things she loved best about him. He cared about what he did, so much so that she’d been forced to reevaluate their office system four times to figure out how to squeeze so many patients into one man’s schedule.

Jillian frowned. If an emergency had come up, Charlotte would have called.

She hoped he hadn’t had any trouble on the road or, God forbid, an accident. Just the thought was enough to erase the calming effects of the sunset and trap the breath in her chest.

But, Jillian reasoned, if Michael had had an accident, he’d have called. Or someone would have. They knew so many state troopers and emergency personnel around town that someone could have tracked her down if something horrible had happened.

But just in case, Jillian glanced inside her purse to make sure her cell phone was on. Yes, the phone was on and, yes, the battery was sufficiently charged. She resisted the urge to call him. The office phones rolled over to the answering service when the staff left. Even if his personal cell phone was on, which she knew it wouldn’t be, Jillian would only frustrate herself. Michael had said he would be here. She’d simply trust he had a good reason for not calling to say he was running late.

That was the last chance she got to dwell on Michael, anyway, because the old blue Lincoln pulled into the circle drive, following signs leading it straight to the office where she stood on the porch beneath a slightly sagging overhang.

This log cabin had been built by Camp Cavelier’s original owners and had seen every season since the camp had opened on this Mississippi bluff. She and Michael were the camp’s first owners who were not actually members of the founding family. It was a position that came with historic obligation and a lot of tradition, responsibilities Jillian intended to live up to.

But as she was learning firsthand since assuming the role, she needed help. Full-time help. And an up-close glimpse of the Lincoln coming to a stop in front of the stairs wasn’t inspiring much confidence. She smiled as the doors swung wide and the members of the Baptiste family from a bayou town south of New Orleans emerged.

These people were clearly related. Three shared glossy black hair; all shared dark eyes, elegantly refined features and deep gold skin. The distance of generations didn’t dim the beauty of these people. She had to force her gaze from the two young men and their sister to greet the elderly woman, who made Jillian hope to look so good at seventy-something.

Of course, this beautiful older woman also looked as if she’d just stepped off a Mardi Gras float, dressed as she was in a roomy skirt in Day-Glo orange and a shawl of a complementary yellow only slightly less radiant than the sun. To complete the ensemble, she’d woven matching ribbons through her hair, pulling the wildly curling gray locks back from her face.

“Mrs. Baptiste-Mercier, it’s a pleasure. I’m Jillian Landry. We spoke on the phone.” Smiling her most welcoming smile, she stepped off the last riser and extended her hand.