The Doctor's Runaway Fiancée (14 page)

The next time his hands moved up, they slipped beneath her shirt, pushing aside the scrap of lace fabric. When his thumbs began to tease the tips, Sylvie moaned.

“Tell me what you want.” His voice, low, husky and filled with need, sounded foreign to his own ears.

“We still have too many clothes on for what I want,” she murmured.

He laughed, delighted with her honesty. “On that point we totally agree.”

Giving her a hard, swift kiss, he began flinging off his clothes. “Race you.”

She appeared to embrace the challenge. In a matter of seconds, her clothes lay on the floor in a heap beside his. Though he wanted to fill her, to be as close to her as was physically possible, he didn't rush.

Andrew nipped and kissed and took his time refamiliarizing himself with every inch of her body. When he finally did enter her, it was as if they were coming together for the first time.

Still, he didn't rush, but continued to make love to her until the pleasure broke over her with such force she cried out. Only then did he take his own release, following her over the edge while calling her name.

Spent and content, they lay there on the sofa, her body curled into his while his hand gently stroked her hair.

“It's like before,” he murmured. “We can't seem to keep our hands off each other.”

“Uncontrollable lust appears to be our cross to bear.” She delivered the words with a straight face and made him laugh.

“I'll never get enough of you.” The moment he said the words, he knew they were true. Now he just had to figure out how to make the second chance they'd been given work.

Chapter Sixteen

S
ylvie considered attending the Wild 100 Artist Party at the National Museum of Wildlife Art a horrendous waste of money. The entry fee for the event was one hundred dollars. Certainly it would be fun to view the art and mingle with the artists before the sale, but the cost of attending was way out of her price range.

“Are you still upset I purchased the tickets without discussing it with you first?” Andrew took her elbow as they navigated the steps to the museum.

“What makes you think I'm upset?”

“You get quiet.” His tone was easy and conversational. “That's what you do when you're upset. You barely spoke on the drive here.”

She wasn't sure why she was making such a big deal out of nothing. Two hundred dollars was pocket change to an O'Shea. Maybe because it reminded her that, despite the past few days, they came from two different worlds. “You think you know me so well.”

“I believe I'm getting to know you.” He reached around her to open the door.

For a second Sylvie forgot all about the conversation as she inhaled the scent of him. She loved the way he smelled, of soap, shampoo and that subtle, expensive cologne. Tonight, even dressed casually, he looked as good as he smelled.

Though he'd considered wearing a suit, she'd convinced him that from everything she'd read, casual attire was de rigueur. He'd settled for jeans but had topped them with a sport coat and a cotton shirt. Her filmy dress with colors that brought to mind a Monet painting seemed to meet with his approval.

“If something is bothering you, you need to tell me.” His tone was equitable, but some of the light that had filled his eyes when he heard his patient back in Boston was doing better had dimmed.

“I'm sorry.” She shifted her gaze from the brochure she'd been handed. “It was kind of you to get the tickets. Thank you.”

He took her arm and she leaned into him, brushing her lips across his cheek.

“Who are you?” A tiny smile hovered at the corners of his lips. “What have you done with my Sylvie?”

She rolled her eyes but shoved her sense of unease aside, determined to have a pleasant evening. “When I get stressed, I tend to get quiet. I don't know why. It probably has something to do with not wanting to let my emotions show.”

Andrew grabbed a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Sylvie. “What's wrong with letting your emotions show?”

She shrugged and sauntered over to a painting of several red foxes. “This is very nice,” she said to the artist, then moved on.

“You like red foxes,” Andrew said. “You liked that other painting at the gallery. That was of a fox, too.”

“I like the gallery one better.” Sylvie lowered her voice so she wouldn't be overheard. The last thing she wanted was for the artist to think she was dissing her painting, which really was quite good. “That's just a personal preference thing. When I looked into the other one's eyes, it was almost as if I could read his thoughts.”

She gave a little laugh. “Silly, I know.”

“Not at all.” His eyes softened. “Paintings speak to us.”

His gaze settled on the one on permanent display, the wild-eyed buffalo he couldn't help noticing during the Sweet Adelines event. “It's like his gaze is following me wherever I go.”

Sylvie glanced around. “Who?”

Andrew jerked his head in the direction of the bison. “Mr. Crazy.”

Her gaze settled on the portrait and she laughed. “Yeah, definitely crazy eyes.”

It was pleasant, Sylvie thought, strolling with Andrew through the gallery, chatting with artists. Several of those displaying paintings had stopped by her booth at the Taste of the Tetons and remembered her.

Warmth coursed through her veins like warm honey at the thought of being accepted as an artist in her own field in this vibrant community.

“I'm having fun tonight.”

Andrew brushed a kiss against her hair. “You sound surprised.”

“I used to believe I wasn't good at these kinds of events, but I'm starting to see that maybe I was mistaken.” She let her gaze slide around the large room and realized with a shock that she recognized many in attendance. “I never thought I'd find a place where I belong, a place that felt so much like home.”

The last of her words were drowned out by the rock classic blaring from Andrew's pocket.

He grimaced. “I forgot to silence it.”

But when he pulled the phone from his pocket and his thumb moved to silence it, he paused instead, frowned, before bringing the phone to his ear. “Dr. O'Shea.”

Not sure if this conversation was something she should overhear, Sylvie moved to the hors d'oeuvres table to study the selection. She wasn't particularly hungry, but it always paid to study the competition.

She'd just selected a grilled scallop wrapped in prosciutto when Andrew walked up. The light that had been in his eyes only moments earlier had vanished.

Without thinking, she held out the appetizer. “Want a bite?”

He shook his head.

Neither did Sylvie, not anymore. Since she'd taken it, other than tossing it into the trash, the only other option was to eat it. She popped it into her mouth, chewed and quickly swallowed.

“What's wrong?” she asked when they began to walk.

He still hadn't said a word. The muscle in his jaw worked.

“It's nothing.”

“That kind of ridiculous answer never works with you, and it doesn't with me, either. I know something isn't right.”

The remark earned a nod.

“Fern, Mrs. Whitaker... She died.” His voice wavered for a second, then steadied. “Seth called to tell me.”

Seth Carstairs, his associate back in Boston.

Slipping her arm through his, Sylvie gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “I'm sorry. I know how much she meant to you.”

“She was eighty-nine.”

“Yes, and she was your first patient. She was special.”

“I prefer not to discuss her right now.”

Sylvie didn't press. She knew how hard it could be to have emotions near the surface that you needed to keep under control. But tonight, when they were home, she'd comfort him.

Because he'd taught her that was what you did when someone you loved was hurting.

* * *

“Tell me about Mrs. Whitaker.” Sylvie waited until the valet had pulled the car around to ask.

“What do you want to know?” Andrew handed the young man a couple of bills and in less than a minute they were gliding down the highway.

It was a dark night, with only a sliver of a moon. The highway was surprisingly deserted and the headlight beams were the only light slicing the blackness.

Though Sylvie couldn't see Andrew's expression clearly, the tight set of his jaw and the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel told her emotion simmered just below the surface.

“What was special about her?” Sylvie cocked her head. “It wasn't simply that she was your first patient when you opened your concierge practice.”

That might have been part of it, but Sylvie didn't believe for a minute that was the whole of it.

“She lived down the street from my parents' home.”

“You knew her when you were a little boy.”

His fingers on the steering wheel relaxed. “Her children were older and they'd all moved away. Her backyard had this huge oak tree with a wooden playhouse. You had to climb a ladder and then part of the tree to get to it.”

“Sounds dangerous and incredibly fun.” Sylvie couldn't keep the smile from her voice.

“Tommy and I loved that tree.”

Tommy.
Thomas.
The brother who'd died several years earlier. Sylvie tried to piece together the few things that Andrew had said about him. He'd been older and involved with the family business. He'd died in a car accident on the way to a Red Sox game. Never married and no children. It wasn't much, she realized.

“Did the Whitakers mind you were climbing their tree?”

He chuckled. “You'd think, because of liability and all that, but they didn't. In the summer, Mrs. Whitaker—her given name was Fern—would bring out a silver tray of cookies and lemonade for us. Climbing, she'd say, was hard work.”

Impulsively Sylvie reached over and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. She hoped the touch comforted him as much as it comforted her. “She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was.” Affection filled his voice. “Tommy used to call her Granny Whitaker. I never had the guts.”

“I think I'd have liked Thomas.”

The hand she held tightened.

“You probably would have. Everyone did.”

“What was he like?” She kept her tone easy, conversational as the darkness enveloped them in a warm cocoon.

“I'd say like my father, but knowing how you feel about him, that might give you the wrong impression.” Andrew chuckled. “But it's true. Thomas was my father.”

“I can't see your father climbing trees.”

“People grow up.” Andrew's tone gave nothing away. “Sometimes, often, they lose that adventurous spirit.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?”

“Maybe. Probably,” Andrew added after a moment. “He loved the company, had been groomed to be my father's successor. It was a perfect fit. Like my dad, he was a workaholic.”

“At least he took time out for baseball.”

Sylvie was unprepared for the oath that Andrew expelled and for the strained silence that followed.

Andrew turned off the highway toward Spring Gulch. It might have been wise to simply let the topic drop. Sylvie had never thought of herself as particularly wise.

“Does his death have something to do with baseball?” she asked. “I mean, I know he was on his way to a game when he died, but—”

“He was on his way to the game because I hounded him into going.” Andrew's voice, low and guttural and filled with pain, tore at Sylvie's heartstrings. “I was concerned about all the hours he'd been working. I pushed and prodded until he agreed to meet me at Fenway. If I hadn't, he'd have been safe at the office, working.”

“You don't know that. What happened to him was an accident. He could have been in an accident on the way home, or another day when he was going to the office.” The hand he'd released now gripped his arm. “Inviting him to go to a game with you, hounding him to go to the game with you, doesn't make you responsible.”

“Maybe not,” he said after a long moment, “but I wish things had been different.”

They'd reached the house that Sylvie had started to regard as “home” and pulled into the garage. A thought occurred to her as they stepped inside the house.

“Is taking the COO position some kind of penance?”

He didn't answer, just tossed his keys on the side table by the door and continued on into his bedroom. Several minutes later she heard the shower spray.

Sylvie stared down the hallway, unsure what to do. She didn't have any experience with families. She wasn't particularly good at interpersonal relationships. Her MO in the past had been to pull back or to run when things got sticky.

But she sensed that even if he didn't realize it, Andrew needed her tonight.

Returning to her own room, she got ready for bed. By the time she finished, the room next door was silent and dark.

Maybe he was asleep, she thought for a second, but knew in her heart that was only wishful thinking.

Hoping she wasn't going to make the situation worse, Sylvie reached for the doorknob and gave it a turn. It opened, which meant he hadn't locked her out.

She moved carefully through the room to the large king-size bed. Sylvie knew he preferred to sleep on the right side of the bed.

Pulling the sheet and light spread back, she crawled beneath the covers.

“Sylvie, I'm not in the mood—”

“Shhh.” She snuggled close, wrapping her arms around his tense frame. “Go to sleep. Morning will be here all too soon.”

* * *

After that night, Sylvie slept with him. Andrew had to admit that he liked falling asleep beside her and waking up with her every morning. He'd considered flying back to Boston for Mrs. Whitaker's funeral but then learned she'd been cremated and a memorial service was being planned closer to what had always been her favorite holiday, Thanksgiving.

The next week brought a change to their routine as Sylvie was busy preparing for Josie and Noah's wedding at the end of the week. He'd already been put on notice that she expected him to attend the pig-roast prenuptial dinner at the Campbells' home and the wedding on Saturday.

The one thing they hadn't discussed was that the end of the month was swiftly approaching, which meant his time to return to Boston was near.

Andrew knew it was cowardly, but he did his best to put that fact out of his mind. It was relatively easy to do, considering that the clinic remained short-staffed and he'd agreed to fill in while he was in town.

This meant he'd spend the early-morning hours with Sylvie and then head over to the clinic to see patients. Because they were both tired at the end of the day, they ate at home, sharing meals at the small table in the kitchen and then making love in the big bed.

Andrew had never been happier.

The night of the pig roast, he pulled on the blue jeans that no longer felt strange and the pair of cowboy boots Mitzi had surprised him with as a special thank-you for helping out at the clinic.

“I love your boots.” Sylvie looked like a cowgirl herself in ankle-high boots, a light blue skirt and an oversize white shirt with a belt studded with multicolored stones cinched tight.

“You look nice.” He moved to her and was pleased when she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her face for a kiss.

He tightened his arms around her, inhaling the scent of her that reminded him of cinnamon, sugar and everything delicious. Lowering his head, he nuzzled her neck. When he felt her breath quicken, he sensed victory. “No one is going to mind if we're a few minutes late.”