The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (16 page)

She heard stories like this all the time. She lived with them day by day. But she hadn't known about Patrick's wife. Compassion twisted her gut.

Trying to keep the horror from her voice, she asked, "Was she— Did she make it to the hospital?"

His head jerked.
No
. "They airlifted Jack. They couldn't tell who he was, of course, not until they'd traced the license plate, but they took him to
Jefferson
because of the burn center. Holly—" His throat moved once, convulsively. "—Holly never made it out of the car."

Kate's eyes stung
.
Her own throat burned. She felt awful and inadequate, but she couldn't let the moment pass without offering some comfort. Lightly, she rested her hand on his big one, clenched on the tabletop. After a moment, he turned it palm up and held her fingers tightly.

"I am so sorry," she said.

"Yeah, well." He rolled his shoulders, still not looking at; her. "It was over four years ago."

And he'd been carrying it around ever since, Kate suspected.
The grief and the guilt and the anger.

"Did they ever catch the other driver?"

"Yeah.
They got him on DUI manslaughter. Prosecutor called me personally to tell me so." Patrick shook his head. "Hell, I didn't care. Holly was just as dead."

Kate was silent, respecting his reaction, trying to absorb everything he'd told her. To learn of his wife's death and her murderer's fate from worried officials, to know that his baby son was sick and all alone in the care of strangers… She squeezed his hand.

"No wonder you had to go to
Boston
," she said.

His thumb rubbed the back of her hand in acknowledgement, creating a tiny spot of warmth. "Thanks for watching Jack," was all he said.

Her eyes misted at his gruffly expressed gratitude. She held the memory of his son's confession of love to her heart. "He's a wonderful boy. Thanks for asking me."

Patrick shook his head. He was already more indebted to her than he'd been to anyone in a long, long time, and she persisted in acting as if it were all the other way around. He grinned at her, deliberately lightening the atmosphere.

"You've got it backwards again, honey. But, hey, if you want to show me how grateful you are…"

She gave him her hospital look, surgeon-to-scum-of-the-earth. "Just eat the sandwich, flyboy."

But he saw the smile tugging the corners of her mouth. A warm and unfamiliar satisfaction filled him. "Yes, Doctor."

When he was done, she got up to clear his place.

"Leave it," he ordered. "You've done enough in here. Why don't you go put your feet up?"

He watched her consider that, her teeth fretting again at her lip. He wanted her to relax, sure, but more, he wanted to make out with her on the big, overstuffed couch. He wanted her to welcome him home again, to taste her, shallow and deep, to reacquaint
himself
with the generous curves of her body under the soft knit shirt she wore. He wanted to neck, the way he hadn't wanted since he was a randy teenage boy.

"I'm not sure. I have to be at the hospital early tomorrow." She tried a smile.
"Rounds at seven."

He nodded to hide his disappointment, stuffing his lust back into its closet.
"Fine.
You go on up, then."

Standing alone in his kitchen, he listened for the pad of her footsteps crossing the dining room and going up the stairs.
Silkie
whined and thumped her tail on the hard linoleum floor.

"Tell me about it," Patrick muttered, and scratched her behind the ears.

He turned off the coffeemaker and the lights. He checked the locks on the doors, a holdover from years on military bases, trying not to think about Kate getting ready for bed upstairs.

What was it about the lady doctor that got to him so bad? It wasn't just the possibility of liftoff after four years of aborted missions and flying solo. Yeah, okay, that was a hell of a long time to go without sex, but before he'd met Kate his libido hadn't bothered him that much.

There was no denying her curvy body tempted him. A man could slake himself on those generous
breasts,
find ease between those firm, round thighs. But it was the whole package that attracted him, the unlikely combination of that soft, giving body and compassionate heart with her hard-edged intelligence and brisk determination.

Kate was probably the smartest woman he knew, certainly the most educated. He could only guess at the stubborn will that had sustained her through her years of medical school and training. She was tougher than his wife had been, more driven, and possibly less secure. The last woman in the world, he would have thought, to appeal to him.

But the past four years had put him through the fire. Maybe in Kate's tempered strength, he'd found his match.

Yeah, right. She was smart enough and tough enough to resist him, at least.

Grabbing his bag from where he'd parked it by the door, Patrick headed up the stairs. He checked in on Jack, sleeping peacefully on top of his covers, and forced himself past the closed guest-room door to his own room at the end of the hall. He set down the bag.
Opened the door.

And saw Kate, wearing a blue scrub top and a determined expression, sitting on the edge of his bed. Her legs were long and bare. He wondered if she had anything at all on under that top. And be wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

Chapter 10

«
^
»

K
ate pressed her legs together on the edge of the mattress, hoping to make her thighs look thinner. Downstairs she could bear Patrick moving around, talking to the dog. Nerves jitterbugged in her stomach.

She was cold. The skin of her arms and legs bumped like uncooked chicken. But her cheeks were hot. She could feel the blood heating there, and beating in her throat and in her chest, and pooling warm and liquid in her lower body.

Look before you leap. Think before you speak. Analyze before you act.

She would not be foolish like her mother or trusting like her sister, both of them mothers and alone before their thirties. But how could she examine her options when all she could see was Patrick's intent face? How could she hear herself think over the drumbeat of her blood?

He was the worst man in the world for her.
A patient's father, a grieving husband.
A man too used to getting his own way and too aware of his effect on women.

But he had granted her rights, given her welcome, shared his house and his son and a piece of his soul with her. She admired him, perhaps more than any man she'd ever met. His utter reliability, the way he supported his mother and loved his son and was simply there for every member of his family in a way that no one had ever been there for her— Oh, she liked that a lot. It made her want him. It made her want to be there for him.

Kate might have held out against her own desire. She could not resist Patrick's need.

She shivered, thinking of Wade Preston, the blond Apollo of Jefferson University Medical School. He'd told her he needed her. He'd even claimed to love her. But his need hadn't outlasted their shared residency, and his love hadn't survived the discovery of her background, so unsuitable for a doctor's wife in
Baltimore
.

This is different, she thought, rubbing her hands nervously on the goose-bumped flesh of her thighs. Wade, pledging his future, had been miserly with praise and stingy in bed. Patrick promised her nothing. But she suspected, with a newfound feminine instinct, that he would be generous with his passion. At the very least, he seemed really to want her. And she wanted him.

The door opened, and he was there.

Surprise sliced across his face, and something hotter surfaced in his eyes before his iron control returned. He retrieved his bag from outside the door and set it beside the dresser.

"Guest room's down the hall."

She swallowed. "I've been sleeping here," she said as briskly as she could.

He closed the door and leaned against it. The faint chink of the lock reverberated in the quiet room.

"I sleep in here," he said.

What are you going to do about it?
his
attitude proclaimed. She hadn't exactly expected him to sweep her into his arms with cries of gratitude and gladness, but this cold, guarded response wasn't what she was looking for, either.

Kate stiffened her spine. She knew only one way to meet challenges. Head on. "Well, then, you'll have to share."

He continued to lean against the door, watching her with half-lidded eyes, his expression unreadable. Her heart hammered. "I told you I don't need your charity, Kate. Let's not do the comfort-the-poor-widower routine, okay?"

She thought she bid her flinch, the involuntary recoil from pain, but her already-heated face flamed.

"This isn't a routine for me. I wanted you, and I thought you wanted me." She stood. Deliberately, she flung
his own
challenge back at him, covering her hurt with proud words. "If that's not enough for you, if I misunderstood you, just tell me no."

He pushed away from the door at his back and caught her before she could take herself and her injured feelings out of the room. "Wait. Honey, hey."

His finger sought her chin and lifted it. She glared at him, hating that her eyes were wet and her nose was probably red.

He stroked her hair, her arm. "I'm sorry. I'm a jerk, all right?"

Kate wavered between relief and doubt. His big hand glided up her arm to her shoulder. He rubbed small circles at the base of her neck, gradually spreading reassurance with his touch. With one hand at her nape, he pulled her closer, enveloping her in his strength, his scent, his warmth.

"I thought you wanted time to think this thing through," he rumbled.

She let him draw her head down against his chest. "I'm a fast thinker," she muttered into his shirt.

His laugh quaked them both. He wrapped his arms tightly around her.
"Smart girl."

Tentatively, she rubbed her cheek over his heart, absorbing the weave of the cotton, the rhythm of his pulse. He was big.
So big and hard, built of solidly compacted muscle.
Desire uncurled in her stomach.

"Not that smart," she forced out. "I didn't plan for this. I don't have any birth control."

"I do. I bought some in
Boston
."

Kate lifted her head to look at him, unsure whether to be pleased by his consideration or offended by his assumption.

Patrick shrugged. He wouldn't apologize for taking care of her. "Before I joined the Marines, I was a Boy Scout."

Her eyebrows
raised
. "Be prepared?"

"You got it."

She
smiled,
a sweet, wry curve to her lips. "I guess I do. Or I will soon, anyway."

Her surprising innuendo tickled and touched him. Her unexpected presence in his room thrilled him. Patrick wasn't certain what implication it had past this moment, but now that he knew she wasn't there out of pity, he for damn sure wasn't sending her away. For the first time in years, be was flying without filing a flight plan, and he couldn't bring himself to care. Not with Kate half-naked in his arms. He bent his head to taste her smile, to seek her sweetness with his tongue.

Her lips were soft and uncertain. They met his, parted, pressed, and then withdrew. She was trembling, he realized, and tightened his hold protectively.

"Cold?" he asked, hoping it was cold and she wasn't changing her mind. What did she have on under her cotton top, anyway?

"A little.
I'm not very good at this," she added.

There was a rip at his heart that should have warned him that more than his body was involved here. He shunted the thought away, concentrating on the clinging silk of Kate's hair as it wrapped around his fingers, the quick stutter of her breath against his mouth. He ran his tongue over her lower lip and watched her eyes darken.

"Not good at what? Kissing?"

When she opened her mouth to reply, he took it again, gently, nibbling at it as if she were some ripe fruit.
Peaches, maybe, sweet and juicy.

"No, you're good at kissing," he decided.

"Sex," she said, so firmly he nearly laughed. One look at her scared, resolute face dissuaded him. "I'm not much good at sex."

"Really?" he asked mildly. His mouth cruised from the determined point of her chin to the soft, perfumed hollow under her ear. He felt her pulse go crazy against his lips and smiled. "Why is that?"

"Well, I…" She arched her throat to give him better access, her eyes drifting shut. He noted that, rewarding her with a string of tiny bites down the sensitive cords of her neck to her shoulder. She shuddered. "I've only had one other, um, partner."

He blew softly on the damp trail left by his kisses, lifting the fine blond down on her pale skin. Against the thin blue top she wore, her breasts peaked. No bra, he thought, and nearly groaned.

"Same here," he said, angling for her mouth again.

She raised one hand against his chest, stopping and stroking.
"You?"

"Yeah, me," he confirmed. He smiled down into her dark, shocked eyes. "You're just going to have to go easy on me, honey,
okay
?"

He kissed her open
O
of astonishment, gently urging her participation. He felt her start to relax, to return his kisses, and then she pushed again at his chest.

"But…"

Her active brain had clicked on behind her eyes, putting creases between her eyebrows.

"You're analyzing again," he observed. "Don't think. This isn't about thinking. How does it make you feel?"

His hands skimmed up her sides and down, the heels of his palms barely brushing her breasts.

He watched her throat move as she swallowed. "You want vitals?"

There it was again, that dry note she used as defense. He brought his hands together, creating a deep cleavage between her breasts, rubbing his thumbs gently over their crests.

"Whatever you want," he said.

"Well, um…" Her eyes were dark and cloudy. "I'd have to say my temperature is definitely up."

"That's good." He circled the sweet, tight points of her breasts until they swelled against her medical top.

Kate breathed out through her mouth. "And respiration … that's probably up, too."

"Yeah?" he bent and captured one peak in his mouth, teasing it through the soft,
overwashed
cotton. He suckled, dampening the cloth, making it cling to the engorged nipple. Damn, she was sweet.

Her hands drifted to the back of his neck, encouraging him. Readily, he obeyed their silent urging, turning his head, laying the other nipple with attention. Her fingers tightened in his hair, sending bolts of heat to his heavy loins. He wanted to eat her up.

With his touch, he molded her, her ripe breasts, the column of her waist,
the
lush flare of her hips. He stroked down and reached up to her round, tempting buttocks.
Panties.
She wore thin cotton panties. He kneaded her through them, fighting the urge to rip them off and plunge to the hilt in her wonderfully female body.

He throttled the flow of images to his brain, trying to regulate the speed of his desire. Not this first time. After nine years, she deserved better than quick. He felt a strong responsibility to please her, to pleasure her, to short out her busy intellect with an overload of pure sensation.

Kissing his way down her body, he knelt and pressed his face to her stomach. She still trembled. No longer from cold, he was certain. Her lips were open and wet, her eyes slumberous. Her hips swayed in unconscious invitation.

Slowly, he drew up the hem of her short blue top, exposing her tempting mound under plain blue panties, and the luscious curve of her pale belly, and the cute hollow of her navel. He kissed it and heard her sigh. He moistened a trail down the center of her abdomen and felt her gasp. He slid his tongue daringly under the frail barrier of cotton, moving the elastic out of the way with his fingers, and stopped at her choked protest.

He looked up. Her face was worried and excited, her lower lip caught in her teeth. Tenderness punched him hard. Clearly she wasn't ready for everything he had in mind. Maybe her medical education hadn't included such intimacies. He could hush, he knew. And the sight of her through the thin cloth, the scent of her skin and her heady response, tempted him to ouch, to taste. But he didn't want to make her uncomfortable, this first
time,
he wanted her with him all the way.

"You don't want to play doctor, honey, that's okay."

He stood, cradling her against his torso, giving her time to get accustomed to him and the feel of his insistent arousal. She wasn't used to this.

Patrick grinned into her hair. Hell, he wasn't used to this, either. If he got any hotter, he'd be finished before they got properly started.

How was it possible, Kate wondered, to feel both perfectly contented and almost unbearably impatient at the same time? She could have stayed forever on the bulwark of Patrick's chest, in the haven of his arms. And yet inside her, every molecule danced.

He felt so good, hot and hard, rough denim rasping her crumpled hospital top where he pressed against her belly. The surprising smoothness of his throat, the prickle of his beard, the movement of his breath, in and out, filled her senses. They streaked along her nerve endings like raindrops on a windowpane at night, leaving silver tracks of excitement in their wake. She felt awake, aware and very, very restless.

Her hips nudged his thighs. She slid her palms over the long muscles of his back, as if she could draw him closer, and mashed her cheek on a shirt button.

"I could take it off. My shirt," he said.

Oh, glory. Her mouth went dry.

"Maybe that would be a good idea."

He kissed her forehead and set her gently aside. Without fuss or show, he flicked open the buttons and pulled the shirttails free. And then, shrugging out of the sleeves, he looked at her, just looked at her, and the blue flame of his eyes melted her insides like candy.

"You want the pants to go, too?" he asked.

A more experienced woman could have made some sexy, teasing reply. A more confident woman would have stripped off his pants herself. Kate hesitated, despising her own inadequacy.

"Got to keep things fair," Patrick said.