The Doctor's Runaway Fiancée (3 page)

The baby's piercing cry broke through his thoughts. He rubbed the bridge of his nose where a headache was trying to form. Coming here
had
been a bad idea. A busy café on a Sunday morning was no place for a serious discussion.

He shouldn't have come to Jackson. Hadn't Sylvie made it clear by her words and actions that she didn't want him? Andrew O'Shea didn't run after any woman, even one he loved.
Had
loved, he corrected.

He would leave. Thank her politely for her time and walk out the door. Why did the reason she'd left him even matter? The fact was, she'd walked out on him. That couldn't be undone.

Andrew took a deep breath. “Tha—”

Her hand closed over his. They weren't soft, do-no-work hands, but ones with strong fingers and clean, blunt-cut nails. A hand with just a hint of calluses on the palm. A hand that smelled faintly of citrus.

“I'm sorry about Audrey.” Sylvie's voice grew thick with emotion. “She was a wonderful woman.”

The words took him by surprise. “You knew Audrey had cancer? That she passed away?”

Sorrow filled those violet eyes. “Just recently I read the piece on her in the
Globe
. It was quite a tribute.”

Audrey had been a talented musician, Juilliard-trained, and came from a prominent Boston family. The piece, tastefully done after her passing, had been not only a testament to all the lives she and her family had touched in their philanthropic endeavors, but also a tribute to a beautiful young woman who died way too young.

“She and I were friends for as long as I can remember.” Andrew found himself thinking back. Quite unexpectedly, his lips quirked up. “When we were thirteen, or perhaps it was fourteen, we made a pact that if we weren't married by the time we were thirty, we'd take that trip down the aisle together.”

Andrew had turned thirty at the beginning of the year, right around the time he'd met Sylvie.

“You didn't marry her.”

It was such an odd thing for her to say that for a second Andrew wondered if he'd imagined the words. “Audrey was like a sister to me. There was never anything more between us than friendship.”

Sylvie glanced at her untouched cup of coffee. The baby had grown silent, too.

“Andrew, I—”

“Tell me about your life here,” he said brusquely.

Those thickly lashed violet eyes widened. “Wh-what?”

Impatiently he gestured with his head to the couple beside them. The man and woman, both in their thirties, had quit talking to concentrate on their food. Or to listen?

Understanding filled her gaze. As if she needed to gather her thoughts to answer his simple question, she took a long sip of tea before responding.

“Even back in culinary school, I knew I wanted to open my own business.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “My craft is important to me. It's a passion. I'm an artist, not simply a baker.”

Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He'd known she loved to bake, er, create. Heck, she'd been working in a bakery when he met her. He'd known she enjoyed making cakes. But had he realized it was her passion? Had he cared?

Something in knowing she'd found it so easy to embrace a new life—one without him—to explore that passion stung. “Starting a business takes capital.”

She flinched at his tone and Andrew cursed the defensive response. And the coldness that chilled the words.

But when she responded, it was with a slight smile. “You haven't seen my shop. If you had, you'd know that a business can be launched on very little capital. My goal was to secure an inexpensive space that could be brought up to meet all necessary codes. I succeeded.”

Should he tell her that he had seen her place, or rather the outside of the business she called “the Mad Batter”? It looked like a hole-in-the-wall, with only a door and a sign. Not even a window.

He decided that might show too much interest. “Is your shop near here?”

“Not far.” Sylvie paused as the waitress brought the food and set the plates on the table.

He watched her lower her gaze to the salad, then slant a glance at his omelet and side of bacon. Despite the stress of the past few minutes, he found himself smiling. “Go ahead.”

She picked up her fork, stabbed a piece of romaine. “I don't have any idea what you mean.”

He lifted a piece of bacon and waved it in front of her. “You know you want it.”

For a second Sylvie hesitated. In the next, she'd snatched it from his fingers and taken a bite. As she munched on the piece, a rueful smile tipped her lips. “I'd given up bacon. I was trying to be good.”

“I led you into temptation.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. “Some things are irresistible.”

Was she remembering that time long ago—it felt like a lifetime—when she'd told him
he
was irresistible?

This time when the baby began to cry again, Andrew barely noticed. He was too focused on the woman sitting across the table from him. He'd forgotten how lovely she was, with that coppery brown hair, those big violet eyes and that heart-shaped face. No wonder he'd fallen in love with her.

Ever since she'd left, Andrew tried to figure out why he was finding it so difficult to move on. He must have asked himself a thousand times what had attracted him to Sylvie. Sitting across from her at this tiny table at a café that boasted plastic flowers in copper coffeepots for centerpieces, he understood.

She was different than any of the women he knew, and that had intrigued him. Not to mention, not a single female of his acquaintance possessed Sylvie's beauty and unique style.

She walked out on you. There's nothing special about that.

Andrew lifted an eyebrow. “Do cakes pay the bills?”

After popping the last bite of bacon into her mouth, she took a moment to chew and swallow. “Pretty much. I do them for weddings and other special events. I've recently begun providing baked goods to various places in Jackson Hole. The chef at the Spring Gulch Country Club and I are in negotiations for services. I get by.”

“A far cry from the Back Bay.”

“That was your world.”

“It could have been yours.”

“No.” She sat back in her chair and met his gaze. “You're wrong. It would never have been mine.”

Chapter Three

S
ylvie shoved a piece of arugula into her mouth and decided meeting Andrew at the Coffee Pot had been a mistake. Not only was it too public for any serious discussion, but she didn't want to have a serious discussion about anything with Andrew. What would be the point?

It wasn't
his
fault that they came from two different worlds. She'd been foolish to fleetingly believe love would be enough. But love hadn't kept her parents together. Love hadn't even made her mother stick with her child, even though she'd been the only family Sylvie had left.

Andrew might have thought he loved her, might even have convinced himself he did, but it had been only infatuation. An infatuation that could have cost him everything that mattered in his life.

When she'd overheard him and his father heatedly arguing—about her—she knew she would not be the cause of a rift between Andrew and his parents.

The only purpose of meeting with him again was to give back a ring she was no longer entitled to keep. A clear break with the past would allow her to move on in a way she hadn't been able to do in June. Dropping her fork to the table, she slid her hand inside her fringed bag.

Before she had a chance to pull out the diamond, Andrew leaned forward. His fingers closed around her arm.

“No need to pay yet. We haven't finished eating. Besides, this is my treat.”

The baby's sudden cry was like an ice pick in her eye.

Sylvie clutched the ring tightly in her palm. She'd loved the filigreed set and emerald-cut diamond from the second he'd placed it on her finger. Though it made no sense, Sylvie wanted to keep the ring.

She couldn't force a smile and this time she didn't even bother to try. “It was a mistake.”

She wasn't sure what “it” she meant. Not exactly.

“You're getting real good at running. Better be careful or it might become a habit.”

She met Andrew's gray eyes and released the ring back into the inside pocket of her bag. “I simply don't see the purpose to this.”

“You owe me an explanation.” Before Andrew could say more, someone called out her name. Then his.

Sylvie turned to see Ben and Poppy Campbell making their way to the table.

“What are you two doing?” Poppy asked.

“Uh, eating,” Sylvie said, though she couldn't have downed another bite of salad if her life depended on it.

Poppy's laugh was low and husky, as perfect as her simple red sheath and boxy jacket. Here was a woman who would have fit perfectly into Andrew's world. Classy with a capital
C
.

When Josie had told her Poppy was a social worker, Sylvie was disbelieving. Fashion model? Absolutely. Social worker? No way.

Sylvie could easily believe that Benedict, in his dark brown pants, ivory shirt and Italian loafers, had been Andrew's schoolmate. Right now Ben's shrewd gray eyes were as curious as his wife's.

Apparently deciding the best response was a strong offense, Andrew smiled. “Sylvie and I were acquainted when she lived in Boston. We thought it'd be nice to renew our...friendship.”

Blast him for that tiny hesitation that gave an extra punch to the last word. The implication that there had once been more between them was there. That was obvious when her two friends exchanged knowing glances.

Ben looked amused but not particularly surprised. “How fortunate, then, that I ran into you and invited you to the barbecue.”

“I'd planned on looking up Sylvie anyway.” Andrew spoke smoothly. “But it was a surprise to learn we had a common friend.”

Sylvie wasn't sure Dr. Benedict Campbell, one of Jackson Hole's leading orthopedic surgeons, considered her a friend, but she wasn't about to protest.

“A bunch of us meet here each week when the kids are in Sunday school. We have a large table toward the back.” Poppy stepped back to let the waitress slip around her to top off Andrew's coffee cup.

Sylvie saw Andrew's gaze follow the gesture to an alcove at the very back of the dining area where a large rectangular table sat, three-quarters full.

“We've asked Sylvie to join us many times,” Poppy said pointedly. “She always turns us down. At least now we're in the building at the same time, so I'd say we're making progress.”

Sylvie smiled. She liked this social worker. The ones she'd dealt with growing up had always seemed more concerned with their rules and regulations. Poppy seemed to genuinely care about everyone.

“Join us?” Poppy pressed.

“We appreciate the offer,” Andrew said, before Sylvie could politely refuse
again
, “but we've got a lot of catching up to do.”

We?
Sylvie's head began to spin. Had he really said
we
? As if they were together beyond this lunch. And why was his hand closing over hers, giving it a proprietary squeeze?

No. No. No.

When she attempted to pull her hand back, those strong fingers merely tightened around hers. His hand remained in place until Ben and Poppy said their goodbyes and wandered off to join their friends.

Once their backs were turned, Sylvie jerked hard and finally freed her hand. “What was that about?”

Instead of answering, Andrew calmly lifted the napkin from his lap and placed it on the table. She noticed he'd barely touched his food. “I'm finished eating. How about you?”

“I'm done.” She stared down at the salad, and a rush of emotion swamped her. While she'd cried buckets of tears after leaving Boston, seeing Andrew reminded her how dear he'd once been to her...and how easily she could once again become attached to him.

She would return the ring. There would be no reason then for her to see him again.

“Andrew.” She swallowed hard. “I kept your ring. That was wrong. I apologize.”

For a second he looked confused, as though he'd forgotten about the three-carat flawless diamond. When he finally did react, he waved the words away as if the ring was of no consequence. “I gave it to you. It's yours.”

“You gave it to me when we made a promise to each other,” Sylvie insisted. “But—”

“I don't care about the damn ring.” Abruptly, Andrew pushed back his chair with a clatter and stood, tossing several bills on the table. “I do care why you ran out on me. We'll discuss that at your place.”

People seated around them stared with a curiosity that had Sylvie scrambling to her feet. While she would never live her life according to others' expectations, she was a business owner—a new business owner—in Jackson Hole and preferred not to encourage idle gossip.

Sylvie forced a smile and an easy tone. “Sounds like a plan.”

On their way out of the café, she tolerated the palm he placed against the small of her back. But once they were outside and standing in front of a closed insurance agent's office, she whirled.

“What kind of game are you playing? What do you want from me?”

He raked a hand through his hair, blew out a breath, but didn't immediately answer.

“I'll give you back the ring. Then this will be done.” She flipped open the flap of her purse, but once again he stopped her.

“Not here.” He took her arm and began striding down the sidewalk, his jaw set in a hard line. “At your shop.”

Had he always been this dictatorial? She pulled her eyebrows together and struggled to match his long strides. Andrew had always been decisive, no doubt about that. But she saw an arrogance here that she didn't much care for.

Of course, what did it matter? In short order he'd be out of her life, this time for good.

He stopped abruptly, steadying her when she stumbled. “On second thought, this might be better done at your home. Where do you live?”

Sylvie blinked, her head spinning as if she was seated on an out-of-control Tilt-A-Whirl.

“Your home address.” Impatience sounded in his suddenly gruff voice. “What is it?”

Her heart began to beat wildly. Something in his tone, in the set of his jaw, brought memories from her childhood flooding back. She wanted to run, but her feet wouldn't cooperate.

As if he sensed her distress, his eyes softened. “This is more difficult than I want it to be.”

His deep voice was suddenly as smooth and placid as Lake Jenny on a summer day.

“I live in the back of my shop.” Sylvie began to stride with purposeful steps in the direction of her business. The sooner she gave him the ring and answered his questions, the sooner he would go.

Andrew caught up with her but made no move to touch her. Instead he simply fell into step beside her. “Do you like living and working in the same location?”

“It has its advantages.”

They walked in silence for another minute.

“The cost of housing in Jackson Hole is sky-high,” she said when the silence continued. “I didn't realize that when I moved here.”

“How'd you pick here?” His tone was conversational, as if he, too, was determined to avoid the uncomfortable silence.

“I'd been here before.” She lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “I remembered it as a magical, beautiful place.”

There was the barest flicker in his eyes. Sylvie might have missed it if she hadn't been looking right at him. He'd made the connection. Remembered that she'd come here with him. They'd taken the trip on a whim, shortly after they started dating. He taught her to ski and how to throw a proper snowball.

It was during that trip to Wyoming that she'd fallen in love with Jackson Hole and with him.

Silence descended again. This time neither of them made the effort to break it.

He stepped to the side when she reached the cobalt blue door of the Mad Batter and pulled out her key. Sylvie still wasn't certain why she'd brought him here, why she hadn't simply insisted they conclude their business on the street.

You owe him.

“Spartan digs.”

She turned at the sound of the voice and realized that Andrew had stepped inside what she referred to as “the order room.” Not much larger than a deck of cards, it contained a small round table and two chairs.

“What happens if you have more than one visitor?” Even as he spoke she saw his gaze checking out the gleaming vinyl floor in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern and the cherry-red cushions on the chairs. Bright spots of color in an otherwise unimpressive area.

“Someone has to stand.” Sylvie flashed a quick smile. “Plus, it seems to motivate the customer to decide quickly on what they want.”

“Where are the ovens?”

It appeared Andrew expected a tour. Well, that wouldn't take long. Not when the entire space she rented was smaller than his walk-in closet.

She stepped inside the kitchen, unable to stop the flush of pride at the sight of the commercial ovens and stainless countertops. Even the air smelled clean. And it was all hers. Hers and the First National Bank of Jackson's.

“Impressive.” He sounded as if he really meant it. “You mentioned you live here, too. Where's your apartment?”

“
Apartment
is much too glamorous a term for where I live.” Sylvie gave a little laugh as he followed her through yet another door.

Inside the postage-stamp-sized room sat a twin bed—sans headboard—pushed against a wall. The only other furniture was a microwave on a stand and a straight-backed chair that had clearly seen better days.

She swept a hand to encompass the small area. “Home, sweet home.”

Though he was obviously trying to hide his shock, he wasn't pulling it off.

Andrew cleared his throat. “This is...all of it?”

“No, there's more.”

The tight stiffness in his shoulders eased. He smiled. “I knew this couldn't be all.”

“There's a three-quarter bath through there.” She gestured with her head through yet another door. “So you see, it isn't quite as small as it appears.”

Confusion blanketed his face. He cocked his head and stared. “Why do you live like this?”

“The rent in Jackson Hole is crazy.” He wanted honesty? She'd give him honesty. “Besides, small has its advantages. This spot is warm and dry and...cozy.”

And beats sleeping in the van
, she added silently.

His lips quirked up in a reluctant smile. “You always did have an optimistic nature.”

Sylvie blinked. She couldn't recall anyone ever telling her that before. Was it true? Or was it just one more thing Andrew had seen in her that simply wasn't there?

She suddenly was conscious of just how tiny a space surrounded them and that she and Andrew were alone in this
cozy
space.

So close that she inhaled the scent of him. The cologne he wore was subtle and expensive. From day one, the enticing fragrance had the power to make her insides quiver. But how he smelled was only a very small part of what had drawn her to him.

The way he looked would have captured any single woman's interest. She loved the way his hair glimmered, looking as soft as mink's fur in the fluorescent lighting. She remembered how it had felt to slide her fingers through the thick strands. Maybe because he always looked so impeccable, she'd made it a point to mess up the stylish cut when they made love.

Naked, in bed, with his hair all tousled and a hint of a five o'clock shadow, he hadn't looked like a doctor or the heir to the third-largest sporting-goods company in the United States.

During those glorious times, it had felt as if they were on equal footing. It had been easy to forget all the ways they were different.

Too easy.

“Sylvie.”

His voice was low and husky, filled with an emotion that brought a warmth to the single word.

She looked up and realized Andrew was right. There. Less than a foot separated them. He stood so close she could see the dark perimeter that surrounded the smooth gray of those gorgeous eyes framed with long, thick lashes. So close the scent of his cologne teased her nostrils, transporting her back to a time when they were happy and everything seemed possible.