The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (26 page)

"Sure, sport." She knelt to help him. "It's a very nice watch."

His sneakers tapped an impatient tattoo to return to play. "It was a birthday present from Uncle Con," he confided.

"I'll make sure nothing happens to it," she promised gravely.

"Thanks, Kate."

Unexpectedly, she found her arms full of boy. His scarred cheek pressed to hers. His small, strong arms tightened around her neck. The scent of him, grass and sweat and child, stole into her lungs and lodged under her ribs.

He kissed her. "You're the greatest."

As she watched him run back to the action, his short figure blurred. Dammit, she was going to cry. In a house full of men, in front of Patrick and his brothers, before Jack and her nephew and assorted birthday guests, she was going to bawl her eyes out.

She sniffed. With a complete disregard for proper hygiene, she wiped her nose on her wrist and escaped into the house. The steps were cool and
shadowed,
the landing was quiet and empty. She heard the squeak of the mouse exercise wheel as she opened the door to Jack's room. The aquarium glowed
greeny
-blue on his dresser. The floor was an appealing little boy
jumble
. She stepped over
Legos
to place his watch carefully beside his bed.

Looking up, she saw it.
Holly's picture.
On the wall beside the bed, between a drawing of a dinosaur and a poster of Michael Jordan, was the silver-framed photo that once held pride of place on Patrick's dresser.

Kate's heart pounded in sudden, awful hope.

"There you are."

She whirled as if he'd caught her spying. "Patrick! I was just putting Jack's watch on his night table."

"That's nice of you." Did he actually have the gall to sound amused?

Flustered, she realized she still clutched Jack's gifts. She held them out. "I didn't know where to… Here. I'm afraid they got a little crushed."

He made no move to take them from her. "That's all right." Why the hell was he standing there, blocking the way to the door? She felt like an idiot. "I got him an art set. I thought he could use it at the hospital."

"He's not going to the hospital. He's not having the operation, Kate. Not until he's older, like you said." He lifted the packages from her nerveless arms and laid them on the bed. "It's okay. He'll still like the art set."

Kate gaped at him.

He turned and took her cold and empty hands in his big, warm ones. "I decided you were right. Maybe I was stuck trying to erase the accident for Jack and me. I've decided we need more in our lives."

Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. She loosened it enough to ask, "What?"

Patrick hesitated. "We had a long talk last night. About
you coming
today. I told Jack how I feel, and he said what he'd really like for his birthday this year is for you to be his mother."

Kate closed her eyes against the ache of dreams just beyond her reach. She was glad for Jack's sake that his operation was being delayed until the boy was older, that his father seemed prepared to get on with the business of living again. But she wasn't going to let relief over the boy's case blind her to the glaring and hurtful omissions in Patrick's declaration.

"You're good at that," she said painfully, opening her eyes.
"Deciding."

"What do you mean?"

"Listen to yourself. You decided. You need. Jack wants. Somewhere along the way, you even figured you could interfere in my life."

Patrick's dark brows snapped together. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You went behind my back to discuss my career with my director."

"I did not go behind your back. I had an appointment to discuss Jack's surgery."

"You meddled."

"Big deal.
I went to bat for you. Just the way you've been going to bat for Jack ever since you met him."

Her pride was injured. "I'm not a five-year-old. I don't need someone to go to bat for me."

"The hell you don't."

His tone stung. His words hurt. Because the real hell of it was, he was right. There were times she was so put-your-head-down-and-bawl burdened and discouraged that she ached for another soul's comfort and support. But nothing in her training had taught her to ask. Nothing in her experience had convinced her to trust.

Doggedly, she insisted, "I don't need your help. I'm good at my job."

"You're great at your job. But it's draining you dry. You take care of other people all the time, Kate. You've got to accept that you need somebody to look out for you every once in a while."

She sneered. "And you're volunteering for the post."

"Damn straight I'm volunteering." He cupped her
face,
his palm callused against her jaw. "Marry me, Kate."

Temptation slammed her chest, staggering her resolution. She closed her eyes against the tide, willing it to recede. No woman could ask for a better refuge or stronger champion than Patrick MacNeill, a man whose passions ran as deep as his honor. But Kate could never accept his support while his heart was still captive to his son, while his honor still tied him to the memory of his late wife.

I told Jack how I feel, and he said what he'd really like for his birthday this year is for you to be his mother
. Jack was at the center of Patrick's life. And Patrick would always do his best to get whatever Jack needed.

She shivered. "I won't marry you just because I'd make an adequate mother for Jack."

"This isn't about Jack."

Bravely, she opened her eyes to meet his heated gaze. "Isn't it?"

"No. Jack is fine. Sure, he likes you—he loves you—but he doesn't need a ready-made mom
or
a live-in doctor."

No, of course he didn't. The boy had his father, the best father in
all the
world. And she was forever excluded from that magic, masculine circle.

"
I'm
the one who needs you," Patrick continued angrily. Her heart thundered in her ears. She couldn't have heard him correctly. "Excuse me?"

His warm hand slipped from her jaw. He turned from her, his shoulders square against the pale rectangle of Jack's window. "I need you, Kate."

Her breath hitched. "Why?"

He pivoted to face her.
"Because you argue with me, dammit."
His lightning grin relieved the grimness of his face. "You've probably noticed I can get a little … focused at times."

That was one word for his single-minded passion, his candor, take-charge attitude. Kate could think of others.

"Bullheaded," she supplied.

He grimaced.
"Yeah."

"Overbearing."

"Whatever." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "The thing is
,
I need somebody to make me face up to that. To stand up to me, as well as stand by me. You can do that, Kate. You have done it. You're a hell of a woman."

His blunt tribute moved her almost to tears. Yet he still hadn't said that he loved her. More than she yearned for his admiration, more than she craved his support, Kate needed to depend on his love. Could she risk telling him so? The recurrent pain of rejection shook her like cold. She shuddered, remembering the back of her father's head as it blurred and disappeared down the road. She felt again the awful, silent tremors in her stomach at her medical school lover's betrayal. When had her feelings ever meant anything to the men who walked through her life?

Patrick's face, strong and open, swam in her vision. He wasn't like them, she reminded herself. He would be honest. He would be kind.

He could break her heart.

"What about your wife?" she forced herself to ask.

"Holly?" Patrick's gaze followed hers to the portrait of Jack's young mother, hung over the boy's bed. "I loved Holly for a lot of years," he said reflectively. "I fell into it when we were kids, and it was a hard habit to break. I'll always be grateful for the years we had.
And for Jack."

Patrick stepped closer to Kate, his voice deepening, the heat of his body raising the temperature of her own skin. "But the man Holly could love died in that crash with her. The man who was left … well, I don't think any woman could have loved him. Angry and remote and all wrapped up in his kid."

Her heart was beating so fast and high in her throat it threatened to choke her. But she couldn't stand there and listen to him malign the passionate commitment that first breached her heart. She had everything to lose now by confessing her feelings. She had everything to gain.

"I did," she said, her voice shaking. "I do. I love you."

His hands,
raising
to frame her face, were so gentle. His eyes, meeting hers, were so impossibly blue. "Sweet Doctor Kate," he whispered. "You made me better. You make everything in my life better."

His lips, warm and certain, breathed new life back into her. His arms, coming around her, were strong and sure. Joy seeped into her heart, shaking the foundations of her dry and reasonable existence.

"I love you," he said. "Marry me, Kate."

The joy bubbled up and sluiced through her, spilling onto her face in a smile. He kissed her eyelids, and the corner of her lips, and, at last, her trembling mouth. They kissed a long time. And what began in sweetness ended in hunger, so that her blood thrummed in her ears, and his chest rose and fell with his breath.

With a little gasp, she broke their kiss and buried her head against his shoulder. Rising through Jack's window, she could hear the sounds of their future, ball games and picnics and laughter. And when a moment later she lifted her face, she saw Patrick with their unborn children shining in his eyes.

She decided.
"All right.
I'll marry you. Let's go tell Jack he's getting a mother for his birthday."

* * * *