The Doctor's Runaway Fiancée (8 page)

Chapter Nine

S
ylvie wasn't sure what made her ask what was next, especially in a tone that had a hint of flirtation. That was the opposite of the cool, keep-your-hands-to-yourself persona she hoped to portray.

Andrew twirled the wineglass back and forth between his fingers, the glow from the fireplace making the red liquid shimmer. “We could, oh, I don't know, talk about our day?”

“The day we spent together?”

“There hasn't been much opportunity for us to discuss what happened on the trail.” His gaze shifted to the fire and his expression turned solemn. Then he appeared to blink away the clouds and shifted slightly in his seat to face her. “You kept your cool.”

Sylvie experienced a flush of pleasure. “I didn't do anything. You are the one who saved George's life.”

“Keeping his wife calm allowed me to tend to her husband without any distractions. Thank you.”

“She was so worried about him.”

“Of course. He was her husband.”

“I don't believe my parents ever cared about each other like that.”

He reached forward and grabbed the plate she'd fixed, his gaze never wavering from her face. He washed a bite of the ham sandwich down with a sip of wine. “You once told me your father left when you were very young.”

Sylvie wondered how they'd gotten on the topic of her parents. She never liked thinking about them, much less talking about them. They were her past. She preferred looking ahead.

Yet Andrew was staring at her so expectantly she offered a resigned sigh and answered, “Though I was only four, I remember him. I remember when he used to lift me up on his shoulders so I could touch the ceiling of our apartment.”

“Is that all you recall?”

“He and my mom fought all the time. Yelling and screaming and blaming each other about everything. Even when I hid between my bed and the wall and put my hands over my ears, I could still hear them fighting.”

His gaze sharpened. “Did either of them ever hit you?”

Sylvie shook her head. She'd had it good there. She'd never been physically abused. “It scared me when they yelled. I think that's probably the reason I shy away from conflict.”

He took another bite of the sandwich, his gaze thoughtful. “Tell me what else you remember about him.”

“Well, he ate breakfast one day, went to work and never came back.” She kept her tone matter-of-fact. The man had left a long time ago. She rarely thought of him anymore.

“Did he ever call?”

“Nope.” Sylvie let the delicious wine settle in her mouth before she swallowed. She slipped off her boots, then propped her feet up on a leather hassock. The fire warmed the undersides of her stockinged feet.

“Do you know where he is now, or what he's doing?” Andrew pressed.

Apparently in his world people didn't simply vanish.

“Never heard and not interested.” Sylvie remembered her mother crying, the initial worry that something bad had happened. Then the explosive anger when an uncaring cop had told her mother it wasn't illegal for a man to walk away from a bad marriage.

“The night before he left, I pestered him to play with me, but he brushed me off.” She stared into the burgundy liquid. “They'd been fighting a lot and I think he was just tired of both her and me. I could be a real pain.”

Andrew lifted the glass of wine to his lips, but instead of drinking, he only gazed at her over the rim. “Your mother did the same thing to you when you were a teenager.”

The smile that lifted Sylvie's lips held no humor. “I was thirteen. She waited until after supper to leave. She'd been acting strangely—”

“How?” Andrew leaned forward, his gaze focused on her face. “How was she acting strangely?”

Sylvie thought back to that time when she'd foolishly thought life couldn't get any worse. They'd been living in a run-down apartment in Newark. Food had been in short supply. The landlord had been a frequent visitor that summer, demanding rent money.

Still, in her world none of that was unusual. Many of her friends were in the same boat. Her mother had been more interested in her boyfriends than what her teenage daughter had been doing. They'd gotten along just fine.

But there had been something in the air that last week before her mother took off. Sylvie had been worried, though she hadn't been able to pinpoint why.

She blinked and realized that Andrew was waiting for an answer. “My mother always had a lot of boyfriends.”

“She and your dad divorced.”

Sylvie shook her head. “She didn't have money for a divorce. She told everyone he was dead. That's what she considered him to be.”

When Andrew spoke, his tone held heavy condemnation that he didn't bother to conceal. “She picked one of her boyfriends over you. She left you alone.”

The words punched like a direct blow to the heart. For years, when Sylvie thought back to the time, it was always about her mother taking off. But that phrasing skirted a very important truth.

Her mother had left her.

There was no getting around that fact. The woman had left just as her dad had done. Without one word of explanation. Neither of them had cared about her enough to stay or even to leave a note of explanation.

She'd done the same to Andrew.

When he started to speak, she held up a hand. “It's not necessary to mention the connection between what they did to me and what I did to you. I get it. And I regret it. Sincerely.”

Andrew's shoulders were stiff against the back of the cushions.

Sylvie continued. “My parents knew me as well as any people on this earth. I believe in their own way they loved me. But they were also aware of my strengths and my weaknesses. In the long run, what they saw in me, what they felt for me, wasn't enough to make them stay.”

“You believe I'd have eventually left you, too.”

“Of course.” Her heart swelled in her chest. She forced herself to breathe. “Your father was right. It would only be a matter of time.”

“My fath—”

“Everyone who knew, when they met me, saw us as an unlikely match.” She plunged forward, not about to take a side trip to discuss his dad's very logical concerns. “You realized that, too, after I'd been gone awhile. That's the reason you're here now. You know that once you get to know the real me, you'll be able to accept that you dodged a bullet, that I did you a favor.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it, took a drink of wine.

“I admit that, maybe because of my past, I'm not as open as I should be. That hesitation to let someone fully into my life extended to my relationship with you.” Sylvie clasped her hands in her lap to still their trembling.

Feeling as if she were about to plunge over the side of a cliff, she took a deep breath and took the leap. “I will let you into my world, Andrew. I owe you that. The woman you'll get to know over the next few weeks will be me, no subterfuge, without artifice.”

Her gaze searched his face. “That way, when you board that plane back to Boston, you'll be able to leave in peace, knowing that whoever you thought you loved, it wasn't me.”

* * *

Andrew was sieged with an almost overwhelming desire to pull Sylvie into his arms and hold her close. He longed to murmur sweet words of reassurance in her ears. But that wouldn't be fair to her or to him. And it made absolutely no sense.

This was the woman who'd walked out on him. Who, by her own admission, had never looked back. If he hadn't sought her out, he knew as sure as he knew his own name they'd still be apart. Those weren't the actions of a woman in love. Those weren't the actions of the woman he thought he'd loved.

“I appreciate that,” he heard himself say. “To be fair, though you've already concluded whatever you felt for me wasn't love, I promise to also fully be myself when I'm with you.”

It seemed only fair.

“I hate opera.”

Andrew blinked.

Her chin lifted in what could only be described as a defiant tilt. “I said I'd be honest. I might as well start now.”

Taken aback by the statement, Andrew took a moment to add another log to the fire, then refilled their wineglasses before resuming his seat.

“I know most people in your social circle adore the opera and the symphony, too. Neither does anything for me.” Though she spoke casually, bright patches of color dotted her cheeks and that chin remained stubbornly lifted. “I tried. I was bored.”

Andrew had taken her to the Boston Opera House several times when they were together. Up to this moment, he'd have sworn she'd enjoyed the evenings. “There wasn't
anything
you liked about the performances?”

Instead of being offended, he found himself intrigued. Getting this glimpse inside her head was fascinating.

She thought for a moment, took a bite of sandwich, then washed it down with a sip of wine.

“I thought the opera house was incredibly beautiful. I loved the soaring ceiling, the columns with the gold leaf finishes and all the marble.” Her eyes took on a distant glow, as if she was looking back, remembering those evenings with the promise of summer in the air. “The chandeliers were breathtaking, and when the place was filled with all those beautiful people, well, all that stuff made sitting through the performances bearable.”

Andrew finished off his sandwich, finding the sound of rain pattering on the roof oddly soothing. Someone, either he or Sylvie, had turned on a light, and now, because of the darkening skies outside, the lamp bathed the room in a golden glow.

The area where they sat had turned suddenly small, almost as if their world had shrunk and they were the only ones in this warm little cocoon, where secrets could be freely shared.

“You liked the surroundings but didn't like the opera or the symphony.” Andrew kept his tone conversational.

She nodded.

“What about the ballet?” They'd attended a performance of
Swan Lake
. Again, he thought she'd enjoyed it but now, thinking back, he wasn't so sure. Each time his gaze had strayed from the stage to her, she was glancing around the concert hall.

“Not really.” She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Perhaps if I'd had some exposure to ballet as a child, I'd have a greater appreciation for all the moves, but—”

“Not your thing,” he said.

“Not my thing.” The words came out on a sigh. She took another sip of wine and her gaze shifted to the fire.

“Why didn't you tell me how you felt?” Again, he strove for conversational, truly wanting to understand.

She shifted her attention back to him. “You were so excited to show me your world. I wanted to explore. I told myself to give them a chance. I hoped that opera and ballet and all that stuff would grow on me once it became more familiar.”

“It didn't.”

“It hadn't...but that's not to say it wouldn't have, given time.” She gave a rueful smile. “I'd planned to do some outside studying so I could appreciate it. Maybe even take a ballet class or two. But between the time we spent together and my baking, there never seemed to be any extra time.”

“Why bother at all?”

Her gaze met his. “You enjoyed it. You were important to me. I wanted the love of these kinds of things to be something we could share.”

The sentiment spoke to a generosity of spirit. It also made him wonder what would have happened if there had been something in her world that she'd liked and he didn't. Would he have been so generous? It was a sobering thought and one he wasn't ready to explore.

His lips quirked up. “Anything else you particularly hated?”

“I didn't ha—”

“I'm teasing.” Andrew reached over and covered her hand with his. “Thank you for being honest.”

“I should have told you at the time.”

“You're telling me now.”

Without warning she slipped her hand from his and rose to her feet. She didn't speak, merely strode to the panes of glass now experiencing the full force of the storm's wrath.

She was slender as a willow and so...alone.

He fought the urge to go to her now, to wrap his arms about her in comfort. The realization stirred something inside him.

Andrew pushed to his feet, quickly moving across the shiny hardwood to where she stood. When he wrapped his arms around her, Sylvie stiffened. After a moment she relaxed against him, her body soft against his.

“I wasn't going to do this,” he said, his voice a soft, low rumble.

“Do what?” she whispered back, making no move to turn around.

“Come to you, comfort you.” He expelled a breath. “But I'd promised to be genuine during these weeks together and I—I wanted to hold you.”

“I'm glad you did.” Her voice was so soft he barely heard her. “I believe this forced interaction is going to be harder on us than we think.”

“It may be difficult.” Andrew dropped his head forward so his chin rested on the top of her head. “Still, in the end, when the three weeks is up, we'll know we made a grand effort.”

Chapter Ten

S
ylvie moved into the large house that evening. Andrew wanted to come with her to pick up her things, but she told him it'd be easier for her to go through her stuff alone. When he received another call about his patient in Boston, she slipped out of the house, his car keys in hand.

Her van was back in Jackson and, for now, that was where it would remain. She would pick up a few personal items that she'd need, along with some clothes, and call it good.

The trip into town took less time than she anticipated. It would probably be super quick at 3:00 a.m. when she left to do her baking. Perhaps living in Spring Gulch for the next few weeks wouldn't be that bad.

The home was beautiful and she enjoyed the warmth of the fireplace this evening. Still, it wouldn't do to get too comfortable. Once Andrew left she'd be back in her “Spartan” digs. It'd be a long time before she could afford anything better.

The rain was coming down in a steady stream and she was grateful when the garage door slid open and she could pull her vehicle inside. She was still slightly damp from her dash into her shop when the rain was at its worst.

Andrew looked up from his laptop when she walked into the kitchen. In the time that she'd been gone, he'd changed into jeans and a charcoal shirt. “Sounds like the rain is coming down at a good clip.”

“Forget rain. Think typhoon.” Sylvie dropped the single battered suitcase on the floor. “Did you get your patient on the road to recovery?”

Gentleman that he was, Andrew pushed back his chair and stood. He glanced at the scarred suitcase and crossed the room. “I'll get the other bags out of the car.”

“There are no other bags.”

He whirled, obviously trying to control his surprise. “Seriously?”

“That's all I have.” She chuckled. “And all I need.”

His gaze dropped to the case, the size of an airline carry-on, before refocusing on her. “You believe in traveling light.”

“Something like that.” Sylvie meandered across the shiny floor to the cupboards. “Do you mind if I get myself something to drink?”

“Mi casa su casa.”

She'd just opened the refrigerator when the doorbell rang. Sylvie cocked her head. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No. You?” Andrew tossed the words over his shoulder on his way to the front door.

“No one but Josie knows I'm here,” she called after him.

Curious, Sylvie decided to check it out for herself.

Andrew shook his head, his body between her and the unexpected visitor.

Sylvie saw by the look on his face that he didn't recognize the man at the door. Instead of using an umbrella to ward off the rain, the tall, broad-shouldered man had simply pulled up the hood of his jacket.

“I know we haven't met. I'm—” The visitor paused, catching sight of Sylvie. “Now, there's someone familiar. Hi, Sylvie.”

“Hi, Keenan.” Sylvie smiled and motioned him inside. “Don't just stand there. Come in out of the rain.”

Andrew stepped aside to let Keenan inside, then closed the door behind him.

Keenan pushed back his hood. For a second Sylvie thought he was going to shake off like a wet dog. He paused and appeared to think better of it. Still, he wiped a hand against his jeans before extending his hand to Andrew. “I'm Keenan McGregor, your neighbor.”

“Andrew O'Shea.” Andrew took his hand, offered a smile. “My friend Jack owns this home. I'm staying here for a couple of weeks.”

“It appears you've already met the best baker in the Hole.” Keenan winked at Sylvie.

“That's very sweet. Thanks, Keenan.”

Andrew's gaze shifted between the two of them. Whatever he saw must have reassured him because he smiled. “Can I offer you a beer? Or a soft drink?”

“Actually, I came over to issue a last-minute invitation to a small neighborhood party Mitzi and I are hosting this evening.”

“Mitzi?”

“My wife.”

A thoughtful look blanketed Andrew's face. “Dr. Mitzi McGregor?”

Keenan's smile remained on his lips, but his gaze had turned watchful. “You know my
wife
?”

Keenan reminded Sylvie of a coiled viper ready to strike. Though he'd always been perfectly nice to her, in that moment Sylvie could believe the rumors that he'd spent time in prison were true.

“I heard your wife is the force behind the People's Health Center.”

The tension seemed to leave Keenan's shoulders and he rocked back on his heels. “It's a project that has been close to her heart—and to mine—for a number of years. We can't wait for it to open.”

“Andrew is also a physician.” Sylvie tossed that comment out there, though she wasn't sure why.

Keenan didn't appear impressed.

“They're everywhere in Jackson Hole.” Keenan's expression looked pained. “Can't put your foot down without stepping on one.”

To Sylvie's surprise, Andrew laughed. “What time is the party?”

“Seven. Wear what you have on.” Their visitor gestured with one hand to his jeans and boots. “I'm not changing.”

Sylvie stepped forward. “Can I bring something?”

“Just yourself.” The smile Keenan bestowed on her was warm before he turned back to Andrew. “Good to meet you, O'Shea.”

Without ceremony, Keenan flipped up his hood and headed back into the rain.

“I didn't get his address.” Andrew's hand moved to the doorknob, but Sylvie grabbed his arm.

“I know where they live. Mitzi had me bake a cake for Keenan's birthday last month. You should have seen it.”

“What did it look like?”

“Let's just say it involved a propeller-driven plane made out of fondant and a
Mad Max
theme.” Her lips curved as she recalled the three-layer cake. “The plane took the most time.”

“Plane?” Andrew inclined his head. “Is Keenan a pilot?”

Sylvie nodded, even as she wondered if what she had on really was adequate or if she should change.

“You made me a Spamalot cake for my birthday,” he said.

“I remember.” Her smile faded as she also remembered the look of horror on Andrew's mother's face when she'd caught sight of the cake. Pushing the image aside, Sylvie slid the phone from her pocket and looked at the time. “It's already six. I'm going to unpack and then freshen up.”

“If you need to know where anything is, just ask. I can't guarantee I'll know where it's at, but we can search together.”

“Sounds good.” She waved him away when he reached for her bag. “Seriously, I've got it.”

As Sylvie made her way down the hall to where she assumed the bedrooms were located, she realized for the next three weeks she'd know exactly where Andrew was and he'd know the same about her.

She only wondered why the thought didn't bother her.

* * *

It wasn't until the evening was winding down that Andrew had the opportunity to speak privately with Mitzi McGregor. She was a pretty woman with hair the color of peanut butter and bright blue eyes.

Instead of jeans, she wore a long flowing skirt in an odd patchwork pattern with a formfitting top the color of buttermilk. Dangly earrings of the sun and moon hung from her ears and cowboy boots with a turquoise pattern completed the image.

She didn't look like an orthopedic surgeon, and he'd known plenty. But there was an intelligence in her eyes that belied the boho-chic appearance. Sylvie appeared to like her, if the big hug the two women had exchanged when they arrived was any indication.

Andrew supposed he and Sylvie should head home. But Sylvie seemed so relaxed and happy this evening he'd decided why rush off? It wasn't as if he had anywhere to go.

Other than getting up at 3:00 a.m. to drive into Jackson... He shoved the thought aside. If she wasn't worried about the lack of sleep, he wouldn't worry, either.

“How are you enjoying your vacation?” Benedict Campbell dropped into a nearby chair that also faced the flickering flames of the fireplace.

Andrew looked up and took the bottle of beer his friend held out. He brought it to his lips and took a sip. “I'm not used to being idle.”

“It would drive me crazy.” Benedict grinned. “It would drive my father even crazier.”

Andrew smiled. He recalled Ben talking about his father, John, and thinking he and Franklin O'Shea had a lot in common. “My father can't understand why I'm here and not spending these last few weeks in Tahiti.”

Ben inclined his head. “Last few weeks before what?”

“I'm going to be taking more of an active role in the company business.”

“Why?”

“Good question.”

“What about medicine?”

“It'll go on the back burner.”

Before Andrew could say more, Mitzi sashayed over—that really was the only way to describe how she walked—and took a seat on the arm of Andrew's chair.

“What's this I hear about you offering to help out at People's?”

“If you need another doctor to fill in occasionally, I'm available.” Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw Sylvie wander over to stand by the hearth, a drink in her hand. “I know how crazy those first couple of weeks can be. It's as if the floodgates have opened. The patient volume is difficult to predict, but it's usually way over what you anticipate. If that occurs, don't hesitate to call me.”

A speculative gleam filled Mitzi's eyes. “Sounds as if you've been involved in something like this before.”

“Similar, but ours were what we called ‘pop-up' clinics. The location of the clinics would vary. Most often we'd use church basements.” Andrew took a long drink from his beer. “We enlisted a lot of medical students to help out. Working the clinic gave them some good experience as well as showed the need that is out there.”

Andrew sensed Sylvie's gaze on him but stayed focused on Mitzi.

“We had some of those kinds of clinics in the neighborhood where I grew up,” Mitzi said.

“I wished we'd had some of those around here when I was young.” Keenan, who'd just stridden over with Poppy Campbell, positioned himself behind his wife. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and she leaned her head against his well-muscled, tanned arm.

Andrew had thought the couple was so different, but he now questioned his assessment. It appeared Mitzi and Keenan had more in common than he'd first thought, at least in terms of early-life experiences.

He wondered if Sylvie was looking at them, and thinking it only confirmed she'd made the right decision to leave. After all, her early background and his couldn't be more different.

“There is definitely a need here.” Poppy's expression grew pensive. “Just like there was in New York City, when I lived there. Poverty is everywhere, although often those with money and power like to pretend it doesn't exist.”

“You're a social worker.” Andrew hoped he'd gotten that correct. He'd met so many people since his arrival in Jackson Hole that who they were and their occupations had become somewhat of a jumbled mess in his head.

Poppy smiled. “That's right. I work part-time for Teton County now. Once our baby is born—she'll be our second—I'll use my skills to help those who visit the People's Health Center on a volunteer basis.”

“My wife, the radical.” The teasing note in Ben's voice surprised Andrew. He remembered Benedict Campbell well from prep-school days. Andrew wasn't certain if it was maturity or if Poppy deserved the credit for the change, but his old friend was definitely mellower.

“Helping people in need shouldn't be considered a radical concept.” Sylvie had wandered over to catch the last of Ben's comment. She flushed when every eye turned in her direction. “It's just the thing to do.”

Just the thing to do.

By the time they left the McGregor home, the rain had stopped and the air held that clean, fresh scent of flowers and earth.

When Sylvie slipped, he grabbed her arm and then tucked it through his for the rest of the walk home.

“I realized something tonight,” he said as they stood on the front porch and pulled out the key.

She stifled a yawn with her hand. “What is that?”

He stepped aside to let her enter first, then reached around her to flip the switch and flood the entryway with light. “We'd never been at a party together where we both had a good time.”

“What makes you think I had a good time?”

“Did you?”

She smiled. “I did. I like Keenan and Mitzi and most of the people there.”

“I enjoyed their company, too.”
And yours
, he thought, but didn't say.

A clock somewhere in the house began to chime. Sylvie pulled out her phone and glanced at the time, then back at Andrew. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I have to be up in three hours.”

He'd have to be up as well. After all, a promise was a promise.

Except when it wasn't, he thought, recalling how she'd left him. Still, he gave in to the impulse. Without considering the wisdom of what he was about to do, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers in a sweet, gentle kiss. “Good night, Sylvie. See you in three.”

Andrew sensed her eyes on him as he headed down the hall to the room he'd commandeered as his. He'd surprised her. That was good. But the victory was a hollow one. Because he was headed to his bedroom to sleep...alone.

* * *

While Sylvie added ingredients, put sheets of pastry items in the ovens and set trays to the side to cool, Andrew remained at the small table, eyes focused on his laptop.

He'd offered to help and actually had been rather persistent about it, but she'd told him she had a routine, and having a helper, even a handsome one, would disrupt her rhythm.

She wasn't sure why she'd added the
handsome
part, except maybe because she sensed he really
had
wanted to help. The comment had brought a smile to his lips.