The Holiday Triplets (5 page)

He was well aware of Candy's release a few minutes earlier, since he'd signed off on her medical condition. The departure of those three precious little ones had clearly added to Sam's slump. “You think those kids will rise to the demands of parenting?”

“I have to hope so. Candy's a good person underneath, but she comes from a dysfunctional background. She tends to be impulsive and short-tempered, and so does Jon.” Samantha blew out a long breath. “All the more reason to have people around them who will offer support rather than criticism.”

Her comment reminded him of his sister. “I grew up with people who wreaked havoc and left it for others to clean up. Support is fine, but there have to be limits.”

“I probably set those limits a bit further out than you do.” They emerged on the first floor and headed toward the staff exit. “But I'm not an enabler, if that's what you think.”

An enabler, in substance-abuse terms, was a person who helped a loved one continue self-destructive behavior by easing or removing the consequences. “There's a fine line between enabling and caring,” he told her. “I ought to know. I've crossed it.”

“You?” Her eyebrows rose. “You never seem to have trouble enforcing the rules.”

Mark preferred to keep his family troubles private. Still, Samantha had wept in his arms and shared her grief. Plus, he could use some objective feedback about his sister. He'd spent a lot of time since yesterday thinking about her call.

“You walking home?” he asked. Although he didn't recall Sam's address, they occasionally arrived on foot at the same time, so her house must be close by. She nodded.

“Mind some company?”

“Not at all. And I promise I won't harangue you about work unless you deserve it, which depends completely on you.”

“I promise to be utterly blameless and saintly,” Mark announced as they walked past the parking lot.

“Sounds boring.” Her mouth curved in an impish grin.

There was nothing boring
or
saintly about his reaction to that teasing smile. For the sake of his own peace of mind, Mark seized on the first neutral topic that occurred to him. “How are plans coming for the Christmas party?”

“I have volunteers handling the decorations and the
music. The theme is ‘A Hot and Happy Christmas'—carols set to a salsa beat, Santa draped in a red-and-white serape. You'll be there, right?”

He nodded. “I may bring a guest.”

Sam missed a step. He caught her arm as she stumbled, holding her tightly until she regained her balance. The sudden motion sent a few more wisps of hair tickling around her forehead. Irritated, she yanked on the covered elastic as if to pull it off. Instead, it stuck fast.

“Ow!” She added a few pediatrician-appropriate swear words, “Doggone! Blast it,” while pulling on the rubbery cord. All she achieved was to get the thing tangled even more tightly in her hair. “I should have just left it alone. Now it's stuck. Got a pair of scissors?”

“You aren't going to cut off your beautiful hair, are you?” he asked in dismay. There went one of his favorite fantasies, the two of them entwined in bed with Sam on top, blond waves curtaining him.

Just as well. He normally made a point of
not
fantasizing about anyone he worked with.

She winced. “No, I didn't mean for my hair. I need to cut off the elastic.”

In his pocket, Mark's hand closed around his multi-function pocketknife. Not only could he snip the elastic, he could uncork a wine bottle, file his nails and probably shoe a horse if he really had to. But he'd much rather spend time talking to Sam than leafing through medical journals, so…

He slipped an empty hand out of his pocket. “I have several pairs of surgical scissors at my house. I suspect that's pretty much en route to yours. And I happen to stock excellent coffee.”

Sam regarded him speculatively. “Any chocolates?
I passed up having a muffin with my friends. Now I'm feeling deprived.”

“I have a box in the freezer. Several, in fact.” Patients went overboard at holidays with gifts of candy, which he saved for special occasions. “I'd like to use them up before the next round of gift-giving.”

“Dark chocolate with nuts?” she queried.

“Plenty. Just don't mess with my caramel centers.”

“I wouldn't dream of messing with your caramel centers.” She gave her hair one last tweak. “I can't fix this myself, so you're on, Doc.”

Taking this desirable woman home with him might not be the wisest move he'd ever made, Mark reflected as they set out again. But for some reason, he felt reckless enough to find out what might happen when he did.

Samantha had no idea where this other woman had come from. Not the one Mark might be bringing to the Christmas party—she refused to yield to the jealousy-tinged curiosity nipping at her about
that
individual—but the one she herself had become. She'd walked into Mark's large cul-de-sac home, surveyed the spare, clean lines of his living room and immediately pictured it stuffed with her flowery sofa and chairs, along with her collection of colored glassware.

“That's the real problem,” she said aloud.

Beside her, Mark pulled off his tie and tossed it over the back of a modern chair so low it nearly didn't
have
a back. He ignored the way the tie slipped onto the seat. “What, exactly?”

“I'm not sure who I am anymore.” There, she'd put into words the issue that had been driving her crazy.

“Well, that's a relief.” He tossed his jacket after the tie.

As it slid down, too, a trace of his ubermasculine pheromones wafted toward her. Sam could have sworn her brain was floating a few inches above its usual position. “Why?” she managed to ask.

He sent her a lazy grin. “I thought you were about to comment that I decorate like a guy who ran through Ikea
throwing items into a shopping cart. Which is basically what happened.”

“It's nothing a froufrou addict like me couldn't fix,” she said, distracted by the possibility that he might actually enjoy having some of her stuff…no, wait. Back to reality.

“So what's this about not being sure who you are?” He swung a leg over the arm of the couch and sat there, invitingly rumpled.

“I felt impatient with Candy, who's just a kid, after all. I keep thinking about the children I
should
have had, instead of about the counseling clinic. It's like I've turned into a…what are these for?” She stopped pacing to study the sleek, ash-colored cabinets built against one wall. Why had Mark outfitted his living room as if it were a storage facility?

Unable to resist, she opened one. Empty.

Sam couldn't imagine owning cabinets like these and not filling them up. The world was full of so many pretty things.

“They came with the house,” he told her. “I only bought it a couple of years ago. Haven't had a chance to put my stamp on the place yet.”

“It has your stamp on it,” she shot back. “A stamp that reads, Nobody's Home.”

His expression turned mischievous. “Is that any way to talk to the man who's going to be holding a pair of scissors close to your hair?”

“I should call Kate.”

“Tony's fiancée?”

“She's also my hairdresser, or used to be.”

“You don't need a hairdresser—you need a shrink,” he observed with a twinkle in his eye.

“Because I'm having a crisis?” She hated feeling
disheveled and out of sorts while Mark remained maddeningly cool. “Which you helped cause.”

He raised his hands in protest. “You're not the only person with goals and dreams around here, Sam. Besides, you've always known that the fertility center was the hospital's priority. Your project was a mere afterthought.”

He had a point, one she didn't feel up to debating, not in her light-headed condition. “You promised to feed me.”

“Are you certain you want to risk eating here? Remember Greek mythology. If you eat or drink anything in Hades, you may be stuck there forever.”

“You're crazy.”

“But fun to be around.”

Someone had to wipe the amusement off his face, so Sam did the only thing she could think of. She walked over and kissed him.

He caught her arms and anchored her there. What started as a gentle exploration deepened, his tongue catching the edge of her teeth, her hands sliding across his shirt and feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

He did some exploring of his own, thumbs tracing the edge of her breasts and smoothing across the swell to reach the hard nubs. When she arched instinctively, he tasted the pulse of her throat, and her blood turned to steaming lava.

Speaking of a hot Christmas, this was quite a preview…or was she having a hot flash? That unpleasant prospect thumped Sam out of her trance. Come to think of it, all of her symptoms might be due to menopause. Wooziness, loss of concentration, cravings…

She retreated beyond the reach of his arms. “Well, that cleared my head.”

He studied her questioningly. “My head doesn't feel clear at all.”

Her breasts ached for more of his touch, and her lips tingled. “I think we went way off track there.”

“Maybe we should try it again and see if it helps us find the right path.”

She closed her eyes and registered the sensations rampaging through her nervous system. “I'm tempted, yes,” she decided. “Insane, no.”

“Samantha, did you have anything to drink this morning?” His joking manner shaded into wariness.

“Nothing stronger than coffee,” she said.

“Are you taking medication?”

“I'm not high.” She bristled. “Why would you even think that?”

Mark uncoiled from the sofa. “I apologize. The person I mentioned who might accompany me to the Christmas party is my sister, who's a recovering alcoholic. And frankly, I don't trust her claim about being sober. Guess I was projecting.”

In fairness, he'd had good reason to ask. “I
have
been acting ditzy,” Sam admitted. “And I'm sorry to hear about your sister. I had no idea.”

“Lots of people have skeletons in the closet.” He led the way to the kitchen. “My closet happens to be a veritable boneyard.”

“Your closets were empty.”

“My metaphorical closets are stuffed to the gills.”

He'd always struck her as the soul of stability. “I thought your father was a doctor, like my folks. I pictured you growing up normal.”

“And you consider physicians' children normal?” Although he'd turned away to measure coffee, the tilt of his head indicated he awaited her return volley.

“We may be a bit high-handed.” She took a seat at the table. “Also impatient when a man
reputed
to be an
excellent surgeon can't manage to extract a simple rubber band that's eating my head.”

That remark brought a deep, rich laugh. “One band-ectomy coming up.” After clicking the coffeemaker into action, Mark examined the contents of a drawer. He selected a small pair of sharp scissors and approached with caution. “I'm not used to doing this without a nurse. Perhaps a whole surgical team.”

“I could give Lori a call.”

“Too late.” Setting the scissors on the table, he lifted the tangle of hair. With scarcely a tug on Sam's scalp, strong, deft fingers cleared away loose strands, freeing as much of the band as possible. The gentle strokes felt like caresses.

In the quiet room, she heard the rush of his breathing. Even facing away, she could detail the muscular length of Mark's body and picture the set of his jaw. She'd watched him perform surgery a few times on complicated cases, and she knew the intensity of his gaze and the way his lips pressed into a firm line.

Snip. One cut must not have been enough, because the scissors snicked again. Then, with the merest of pinches, he plucked out the remnants of the band, and thick waves brushed the nape of her neck.

“Good job,” Samantha said.

“You haven't seen it yet.”

“I can tell. You have talented hands.”

“So I'm told.” He came into view, discarding a pathetic clump of elastic and hair into a wastebasket. After washing up, he fetched a box of chocolates from the freezer. “These don't take long to defrost.”

“Have you done this before?” she asked, bemused, as he took out mugs and plates. “Eaten junk for lunch?”

“I frequently eat junk for lunch.”

“Just curious.” Normally, she'd be on her feet, pouring coffee and helping set the table. But today, she felt an unusual lassitude, which translated into an inability to budge. “Just show me the contents, will you? Of your cabinets.”

“My cabinets?”

“I'm curious. They aren't bare, are they?”

“Certainly not.” Obligingly, he opened one. She cataloged a couple of china plates, neatly stacked, three cups bearing the logos of charitable organizations, four glasses and a lot of open shelving.

“That's disgusting,” she said.

“What is?”

“Empty space. Don't you get a burning desire to swing by a yard sale and check out the goods?”

Coffee, chocolates and Mark joined her at the table. “I can safely say that urge hasn't seized me, not once.”

“You're urge-free?”

“Of the desire to shop at yard sales? Yes.” He studied her across the table. “Where do you find the time?”

“Mostly while I'm supposed to be exercising,” she admitted. “Mark, do you want kids?”

His dark eyebrows met in the middle. “Are you offering to have my child?”

“As if I could.” She shook her head ruefully. Why
had
she asked him that? Because, she supposed, she wanted to know more about him. Although they worked together and could probably finish many of each other's sentences, she hadn't been aware until today that he had a sister, let alone an alcoholic one.

“I'm doing the world a favor by not having kids.”

What on earth motivated him to say such a thing? “You have to be joking.”

He shook his head. “My genes are nothing to brag about. Neither is my schedule.”

Sam thought this over. Not much to think about, really. “I vote for a world filled with miniature Mark Rayburns, as long as they don't kick poor patients out in the street.”

“When have I ever done that?”

“Aside from the clinic?”

“Those aren't patients.” He regarded her closely. “I know
you
wanted children, but have you truly considered what's involved? I'm not a hundred percent convinced you'd be willing to make the sacrifices.”

She missed her mouth with the edge of her coffee cup, sending a shower of the brew onto her knit top. “Darn.” She dabbed her chest with a paper napkin, keenly aware of Mark's interested expression.

“I'd be glad to help,” he said with mock earnestness.

She wished her breasts didn't tighten beneath his gaze. “I'm sure you would.”

“But that might be construed as harassment.”

“I'm the one who kissed you,” she reminded him. “Forget it. I'm working up some outrage and I'm not going to waste it by flirting.” Deep breath. “How dare you imply I wouldn't be willing to sacrifice for motherhood?”

Whatever it took, she'd do it. When she was ready, Sam amended for the sake of honesty.

“I don't doubt that you'd sacrifice your comfort,” Mark told her soberly. “And your finances, and possibly your health. What I meant was that I doubt you'd give up your volunteer work.”

She'd never considered motherhood and volunteering incompatible. “Why should I?”

“Because children deserve more than spare minutes between working and saving the world, which is part of why I choose not to have any,” he said. “And because
you
deserve the joy of being there for those unpredictable, pre
cious moments when a child says or does or understands something in a unique way.”

She didn't have to nurture her annoyance any longer; it sprang up forcefully. “There's no reason I can't manage all that.”

“There are only twenty-four hours in a day,” Mark cautioned. “And very few years before kids start sharing more with their friends and teachers than with their parents.”

“A woman shouldn't have to choose between motherhood and other goals,” Sam snapped.

“Everybody has to make choices. Men included.”

This conversation wasn't going at all to her liking. Well, two could play at this game, especially since Mark seemed blissfully unaware of his own shortcomings.

“You make choices too easily,” Sam countered. “You choose one course of action and push everything else aside without considering whether it's necessary or wise or
right
to compromise.”

“That's rather a broad conclusion, don't you think?”

“But accurate.” Sam believed in intuitive leaps. “You were quick to doubt your sister's sobriety.”

If she'd expected an offended reaction, she'd have been disappointed. “I'd put the odds against her showing up for Christmas at eighty-twenty,” Mark said levelly.

Samantha was rooting for his sister, and not only out of compassion. “I'll take those odds.”

He tilted his head. “What's the bet?”

She hadn't considered this a real wager, but why not? As long as they kept things light. “A kiss under the mistletoe.”

He gave her a heart-stopping smile. “Yes, but which of us gets the kiss?”

“You do, if you win.” Sam would enjoy it, too, but she needn't mention that.

“What if
you
win?” he asked suspiciously.

She wanted to suggest he let the counseling clinic keep its quarters, but he'd never agree to that. “You buy me a piece of kitschy glassware at a yard sale.” Not that she wanted any more clutter. Rather, Mark needed to loosen up. He might even decide to buy a few odds and ends for those nearly naked cupboards of his.

“It's a deal.” He stood and reached across the table, and they shook. Big, warm hand with blunt fingertips, which struck Samantha as very masculine.

“Orange is a nice color, but I like blue, too,” she advised him. “Multicolors have a kind of retro glamour.”

“You're picky about your cheesy glassware?”

“Just the opposite,” she said. “The bigger and more flamboyant, the better.”

“You're pretty confident about winning.”

“I have faith in your sister. I mean, she's related to you. Take it as a compliment.”