Georgie's Heart (16 page)

She looked at him as if surprised. “I ought to have loved him with all my heart, but actually, it looks as though I was in love with the idea of marriage and children. It's hard for me to believe that after all my training in psychology, I still made a mistake that glaring.”

“Come on, Georgie,” he said, grinning. “You don't have to feel guilty for the rest of your life because you made a poor choice the first time out. Besides, I have a feeling there were other pressures involved.”

“How did you know?” She moistened her lips, and Zane's gaze focused on her mouth. “Maybe I'd better warn Dr. Baghri that I'm not the only one around here with the second sight.”

“I don't have any second sight.” His gaze lifted to meet hers. “I simply have a good memory. You said you were a disappointment to the aunt who took you in after your parents died, and I assumed attracting a husband might have been an attempt on your part to please your aunt.”

Georgeanne's mouth dropped open. “You do have the second sight. That was exactly the conclusion I finally reached, after much introspection and soul-searching, I might add.” She paused, shaking her head. “You have no idea how silly I felt when I finally realized that.”

Against his better judgment, Zane rested both his hands on her shoulders. As he'd feared, just touching her made his entire body cry out to feel more of her. Regretfully, he let her go and stepped back.

“You aren't silly, Georgie. You were a confused young girl without guidance.” He picked up his sandwich again. “I was a confused young man with a less-than-sensible agenda, in spite of all the guidance I had received.” He forced himself to eat a bite of the sandwich, but the taste of pimento cheese did nothing to diminish the longing he felt for the taste of Georgeanne's lips. “My mother even warned me that Roxanne wasn't particularly sympathetic to any of my dreams, but I thought I knew better.”

Georgeanne smiled. “What was your agenda?”

Zane chuckled and polished off the sandwich in a couple of bites. “My agenda was to prove I was a sophisticated party animal who had attracted a beautiful, sought-after wife. At the time, I was rather full of myself for having finally received my MD degree.” He laughed and added, “I think med schools invented residency to do away with the foolish ideas a lot of young doctors have.”

“It's too bad they don't have residencies for BS degrees in psychology,” Georgeanne said before she hastened back to the front desk.

Zane watched her go and admired the back view of her shapely figure in the plain, wine-colored knit dress she wore. He wondered if he could possibly see all the patients before five o'clock so he could have a bit of extra time with Georgeanne. Looking out over the crowded waiting room of the Saturday Children's Clinic, he knew the answer was not one he wanted to hear right then.

*

Georgeanne took her place behind the receptionist's desk once more and wondered at herself. She had thought she wanted Tony Rollins, even though she had avoided thinking of their future beyond the moment when they exchanged kisses at the altar. It wasn't until far too late that she realized she was not going to suddenly start enjoying sex with him the way her friends claimed they did with their husbands. Obviously, that meant something was wrong with her.

Georgeanne winced. She knew now she had never really cared about Tony, yet she'd suffered greatly over her inability to please him.

But Zane was a different story. Already she cared about Zane far more than she'd ever intended to. If she wasn't careful, she'd lose her heart entirely. What was she going to do if he told her she wasn't woman enough to satisfy him?

The question bombarded her all morning. Georgeanne had no answer for it. In fact, she was guilty of several more trips back to the examining room. No doubt she was on her way to the insane asylum.

The old television set didn't help.

“Furthermore, Fritzi Field continues to remain anonymous,” a smooth, unaccented male voice intoned. “Can it be that Fritzi Field is the pseudonym of a well-known author? Or is she a first-time author who wrote the book from the depths of her own experience as some suggest. What do you think, Anne?”

Georgeanne sucked in her breath, lifted her head and stared across the room at the television, where a male anchor faced a female anchor from behind a long curving desk.

“No one knows for certain, John,” the female anchor chirruped. “But here with us today is Dr. Meade Murgatroyd, a psychiatrist associated with the New York Institute of Sexual Dysfunction. Dr. Murgatroyd, do you think Fritzi Field is a pseudonym for a well-known author, or is she a housewife whose marriage went kaput?”

Georgeanne breathed easier and bent over some papers on her desk. Given these two choices, she thought Dr. Murgatroyd would steer safely clear of the truth.

“Anne, it's very clear from reading her book that Fritzi Field is a very disgruntled, very hurt person, one who has considerable writing and teaching skills.”

Georgeanne hid her face behind her papers. Who liked hearing herself described as disgruntled and hurt? She felt like a child sent off to sulk in a corner.

On the other hand, maybe that was exactly what Fritzi Field was — a hurt, disgruntled child who thought she had found an answer. It was too bad Georgeanne now realized Fritzi Field's answer was no answer at all.

“Dr. Murgatroyd, some critics claim Fritzi Field's writing skills aren't hers at all, but are the result of highly skilled editing. Can you tell us anything about that?”

Georgeanne's head snapped up. She glared at the television.

“Fritzi Field again?” Zane asked.

Georgeanne started and scattered papers. Gathering up the papers gave her time to recollect herself. “I'm afraid she's everywhere these days.”

Zane handed her a folder and looked toward the television where Dr. Murgatroyd discussed the probable progression of Fritzi Field's writing career in a way that made Georgeanne long to cast her shoe at the screen.

“That's interesting,” Zane said. “Conservative estimates put that book at the top of the bestseller lists for another three months at least.”

Georgeanne felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. That meant three more months of daily calls from Alice Anson. Three more months of hearing Fritzi Field being discussed every time she turned on a television set. Three more months of fearing Zane would guess the truth before he became tired of her.

“Naturally,” Dr. Murgatroyd went on, “we're all wondering what her next book will be about, and when it will come out. Many of our questions about Fritzi Field will be answered when her second book appears.”

They all assumed there would be a second book. Why did everyone insist upon pressuring her for a second book? Georgeanne thought of the two boxes of letters to Fritzi Field at home in her closet and smothered a moan.

She did not consider herself a book author. She wrote magazine articles. She intended to keep on writing magazine articles. They were so much easier and faster to write, and delivered no unexpected repercussions.

“Fritzi Field is an editor's dream just now,” the male anchor said. “Her career has taken off like a rocket after this single book, which, as far as anyone knows is her first book. Dr. Murgatroyd, what direction do you think Fritzi Field's career as a writer will take now?”

Georgeanne gulped and forced her fascinated gaze away from the television set. She didn't have a career as a writer. What would everyone say if they found out Fritzi Field's real career was as a secretary-receptionist for a couple of country doctors?

“John, after the incredible success of
Faking It
, Fritzi Field will have a tough time retaining the momentum in her career. In order to top
Faking It
, she will have to — ”

Someone switched the television to another channel.

“Darn,” Zane said mildly. “Just when I was about to find out what could possibly top
Faking It
.”

“Be reasonable, Zane. The only thing that could top
Faking It
is discovering that Fritzi Field is a man.” Georgeanne drew a sigh of relief. “Here's the file on Dougie McAllister. He's the little boy who's running a high fever in Examining Room One. Jennifer Bentley is in Examining Room Two with a sore throat.”

Zane took the folder and stood looking down at her for a moment. “I don't think Fritzi Field is a man. I also don't think any editor wrote so much as a page of that book.”

Georgeanne could feel the blood leaving her head and pooling in the vicinity of her stomach. “Really? I didn't realize you had already read it.”

“I haven't finished it yet.” Georgeanne noted his interested gaze fixed on her fluctuating complexion. “I've just now gotten to the anatomical information. I'll say this for her — my anatomy professor from med school could learn a few things from that book.”

Georgeanne wavered between pride in her accomplishment and horror at the thought of what Zane would say if he knew who had done all that careful anatomical research.

“It's her conclusions I take exception to,” Zane added. “She's condemning women to remain in dead marriages with unworthy husbands, as if being married is an end in itself.” He smiled at her and turned away. “Tell Dougie I'll be with him as soon as I've finished with Jennifer.”

Georgeanne sat staring after him a moment. Why had she had been so determined that her own marriage was worth saving?

She thought about it and came to the conclusion that in her case, she hadn't wanted to admit she was a failure as a wife and as a woman. She'd have done almost anything to avoid making that confession, especially to herself.

She went to the first exam room and told Dougie McAllister and his mother that the doctor would be with them in a few minutes, then poked her head into the other, where Zane was peering down a tiny black child's throat.

“There you are, Georgie,” he said, as if he'd been hoping she'd come. “Would you mind helping Mrs. Bentley hold Jennifer?”

Georgeanne entered immediately. Mrs. Bentley looked twice as ill as little Jennifer, and Georgeanne wasted no time in helping the woman lie down on the examining table. In another moment, she felt sure Mrs. Bentley would have passed out.

She held Jennifer while Zane examined Jennifer's mother and put in a call for an ambulance. “She needs to be hospitalized immediately. It looks like some sort of acute infection.”

Georgeanne, who had already discovered that trouble had been dogging the Bentley family for some months now, laid a gentle hand on the woman's burning forehead. “Don't worry, Mrs. Bentley. I'll take care of Jennifer myself until we can reach Mr. Bentley.”

Mrs. Bentley's eyes fluttered. “God Himself must be here in this place,” she whispered. “He sent His angels … ” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes closed slowly.

“She's unconscious,” Zane said in grim tones. “She must have been sick for some time.”

“Dr. Baghri has a clinic for adults in the works.” Georgeanne cradled little Jennifer and watched him.

Zane looked up from his examination. “Georgie, you should go to nursing school. It's obvious you know almost as much about nursing as a trained nurse.”

“I'm a quick study,” Georgeanne said, smiling. “One of these days, I would like to go back to school, but it's hard to find the time.” She kept her voice light and cheerful, and Jennifer snuggled trustfully in her arms.

“What are you going to study?” Zane took Mrs. Bentley's pulse and temperature with the expertise of long practice.

“I've always wanted to get my master's degree in clinical psychology.” Georgeanne sat down on a stool and held Jennifer on her lap. “Have you finished with Jennifer?”

“Jennifer appears to have a mild case of tonsillitis. A course of antibiotics will straighten her out in no time.” He took a blanket out of a lower cabinet and spread it over Mrs. Bentley's unconscious form. “I wish I could say the same for her mother. Are you really going to keep Jennifer?”

Georgeanne nodded. “Mr. Bentley just got a job working on an off-shore oil rig. Once I call him, he should be here by late this afternoon.”

Zane straightened and looked down at her. “Mrs. Bentley is right. God did send an angel to this clinic when He sent you.”

Georgeanne approached the apartment building in Pasadena, the suburb of Houston where Zane lived, in considerable mental and physical turmoil. Zane had invited her to spend the day with him, since he was on call and wouldn't be able to go anywhere. He claimed she owed him the visit, since he hadn't even gotten to have dinner with her the day before.

Georgeanne had thought it was probably a good thing Zane had been called back to Houston the moment he finished with his last patient at the Saturday Clinic. But that was before he'd invited her to come to his apartment, and like an idiot, she'd agreed.

Her heart hammered and her palms were damp on the steering wheel, and she hadn't even pulled into the parking lot yet. What was she going to be like when she knocked on his door?

She never got a chance to find out. Zane kept a watch for her red SUV and came out on the landing the moment she turned into a parking space.

“I thought you'd never get here,” he called, grinning down at her. He wore a pair of dark slacks with a white polo shirt, and Georgeanne caught her breath at his dark-angel beauty.

He started down the steps, and Georgeanne's heart settled into a more normal, but still rapid, pace. She didn't know how to deal with the shaft of pure feminine desire that shot through the very core of her when she saw Zane.

Georgeanne had never experienced desire like this before, but she knew it immediately for what it was. Her training in psychology told her that the feeling had been magnified by the fact that she and Zane had been kept physically apart for the past two weeks, while their minds and hearts had found common ground. If she wasn't careful, she'd start thinking she was in love with Zane just because his very touch made her tremble.