Coming Home To Wed

“Since you have the resident sore head, chances are I caught it from you.” He winced at himself for that remark. He should have let the comment go. She was hurt and shaken up. People in her condition sometimes lashed out at any available target, occasionally the doctor. It didn’t mean anything. When her lower lip began to tremble, he felt like a jerk for being short with her. It wasn’t her fault the fog had rolled in and she’d gotten lost.

Apparently the boat she was sailing didn’t belong to her. Marc had no idea what kind of problems that detail would cause. The faded jeans she wore were far from new. The white nylon sweater looked more discount than designer. On her left wrist she wore a white sweatband that was too lumpy to be covering only a wrist. She was probably protecting a watch or bracelet. Unless the jewelry was sprinkled with diamonds, she didn’t appear to have a huge reservoir of ready cash for the repair of damaged catamarans.

Flipping off the lights, he carefully maneuvered around so the boat he towed followed in their slow wake. Glancing her way, he asked, “Who’s cat is it?”

She slumped back in the tall, beige leather seat and took the handkerchief off her head, refolding it to find a fresh spot to soak up the oozing blood. Marc was impressed by her control. She wasn’t a coward when it came to dealing with the sight of her own blood. He’d seen more than one senior medical student go woozy and sick when confronted by his own smashed finger or lacerated scalp. Maybe she really had set her own broken leg.

“Oh—it’s just this guy’s,” she said, looking straight ahead. “I was practicing to enter the Habitat Race next weekend.”

“What race?”

She glanced his way. The look was brief, but long enough for Marc to see the glitter of tears.

“The catamaran race to help build a new habitat for polar bears in the Portland zoo. The entry fees go toward building the habitat.”

Marc had heard nothing about it, but he hadn’t had time to visit a zoo in a decade. Even reading the daily paper was a luxury he could rarely indulge in. He watched her troubled profile for a long minute, then asked, “How’s the head?”

She closed her eyes and slumped in the chair, appearing small and remote. “Peachy,” she mumbled.

“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” he asked, worried.

She flicked him an unhappy look. “Don’t panic, doc. If I fall into a coma I’ll make sure to sprawl to the deck so you’ll be the first to know.”

He felt an urge to chuckle at her wry wit, but stifled it, concentrating on maneuvering his cruiser through the fog. “Thanks. I’ll listen for the thud.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her loll her head so she could see him better. She watched him with those silver eyes. Her quiet stare affected him strangely and a prickly restlessness surged through him. When he turned to look directly at her she didn’t even blink, clearly unembarrassed to be caught staring.

Intrigued by this spitfire with so much passion and gall, he stared back. She had fuller lips than he’d first thought. Really great lips. If his hot-to-trot nurse had had lips like those—

“I was going to donate part of the grand prize money to the zoo.” She heaved a sigh. “And use the rest to get to Java.”

His unruly thoughts about her lips went up in heated smoke. “To where?”

She shrugged and shifted to face the windshield. “There’s this orangutan preservation group I belong to that’s trekking through Java in a couple of weeks. The money was to get me there.”

Marc chuckled, incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

She turned. “Why would I kid about something like that?”

He lifted a brow to indicate his skepticism. “Even on the off chance that you won the race, why would you do something like that?”

She frowned. “Because the whole world is my backyard, doc, and I care about my backyard. Don’t you?”

He studied her narrowed eyes and full lips, now thinned in idealistic defiance. After a drawn-out moment, he turned his full attention to docking his cruiser and its crippled floating baggage. A weird sense of frustration washed over him. Too bad such an attractive, spirited woman had to be a flighty loon.

Mimi had never expected to spend this evening sitting in a seaside cottage on some isolated island, having her head sewn up by a grumpy stick-in-the-mud who thought saving the Javanese orangutans was laughable.

She had to say one thing in the doctor’s favor. He might be cynical about the plight of the world’s endangered plants and animals and have a cranky bedside manner, but his touch was heavenly.

She chanced a peek at him as he stitched. His eyes and mind were focused on his work. With his expression so concentrated, he was yummy—in a somber, solid country-doctor way. Which was not to say that was necessarily a good thing. Somber, solid country doctors were a dull lot. Too narrowly focused on the here-and-now instead of tomorrow and the possibilities that made the world an exciting place to roam and explore.

Since she didn’t have anything else to do, besides think about a needle puncturing her flesh, she decided it was better to concentrate on other things. Like the doc’s eyes, for example. They were dazzling for a color as plain as brown.

She’d never thought of brown as erotic, but somehow Dr. Grouchy managed it. Maybe it was the long, curling coal-black lashes that made the difference. Whatever it was, those eyes had their effect. Even when he was frowning and barking orders, he had a way with those eyes. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t protested more than she had. Or maybe it was the wooziness and the fact that he’d had three heads there for a minute.

“All done,” he said. “I doubt if there will even be a scar.”

As his hands lifted away from her head she breathed a sigh that felt peculiarly like regret. He smelled good, even if there was a tinge of antiseptic in the mixture. She’d never found much fault with a man for smelling clean. And whatever else the doctor’s scent included, it was one pleasant rush. Or maybe she’d just hit her head harder than she’d thought.

Instinctively, she lifted her hand to feel her wound, but was halted when he took her wrist. “Try not to touch it for a while,” he cautioned. “Tomorrow you can shower as usual. In seven to ten days the sutures will dissolve on their own.”

He lowered her arm to her thigh before letting go.

“Gee, thanks, doc,” she quipped. “I would have never found my lap without your help.”

“By the way,” he asked, “What’s under that sweatband?”

She looked down at it, then closed her hand over it fondly. “My most prized possessions.” Tugging the band away she revealed two silver bracelets, brimming with charms. “My parents gave me these bracelets. The charms represent the places we’ve been.”

“Hmmm.” He turned away to take off his rubber gloves. “Tell me something,” he said, tossing them in a trash container.

“I don’t have insurance if that’s what you’re groping for. And you can’t have my bracelets.”

He faced her, his glance brief and narrowed. “Though I do have some patients who pay for my services in trade, Miss Baptiste, I don’t want your bracelets.” One corner of his mouth quirked, but she couldn’t tell if the expression was amusement or contempt. “And my question wasn’t about insurance, but it did involve money.”

“I don’t have any cash on me, either,” she said. “Remember I told you I didn’t need your help. You forced yourself on me.”

“I’m a brute,” he said quietly. “Now shut up for a second, and let me talk.”

She lifted her arms in broad invitation. “Excuse me! Please! Talk! I keep forgetting that you sawbones are more important than we mere mortals!” She eyed him with all the animosity the accident had built up inside her. “Or is that more egotistical? I forget.”

He settled on a nearby stool, crossing his arms over his broad chest. She took a quick second to scan him as he scowled at her. He wore beige trousers and a white polo shirt. Very conservative, very patient-friendly, very country-doctorly. Once inside his cottage he’d thrown on a white smock. Even with all his conventional professional trappings, he still looked less like a physician and more like a hunk with an attitude. “Did that remark about setting your own leg have any validity?”

She was taken aback by his arrogance. “Why? Do you actually believe the power to set a broken leg is the divine right of medical doctors?”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s not a no! My parents were wildlife photographers. They traveled the world, and they wanted me with them. They home-schooled me and gave me experiences few other children get. Being on our own a lot we had to be resourceful.” She straightened her shoulders, proud of her parents, world-famous in their field. “One day I was at camp doing some wash. I fell. By the time mother and father got back, I’d set my own leg.”

He regarded her speculatively, and she sensed he was considering what she’d said, possibly even reluctantly deciding to believe her. She experienced a surge of gratification. He might not appreciate spontaneity or a vagabond lifestyle, but surely he appreciated courage and intelligence. She hiked her chin. “Well,” she challenged. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Running a hand along his jaw, he nodded. “Yes. Will paying for repairs on that cat be a strain for you?”

She frowned at the unexpected question. “That’s none of your business.”

“I know, Miss Baptiste, and making it my business is the last thing I care to do. However, if you don’t mind, humor me.”

She minded, but shrugged. Much of the fight had gone out of her. She had a splitting headache; she was broke and she had nowhere to go. “I met this guy at a Clean Earth rally a couple of days ago and mentioned the race. He said he had a catamaran and if I wanted to enter I could use it. So he loaned it to me.”