The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (4 page)

"Coffee.
Black."

She was still ticked, he realized. Well, no wonder. "Come on," he coaxed. "I owe you. And I appreciate the company.
Really.
Thanks."

Her smile flickered. She did have the damnedest smile. It lit her whole face and started a warm glow deep inside him. "You're welcome," she said.

She accepted a tray and a place in line, bypassing the soggy sandwiches and yogurts on ice to help herself to coffee and a cellophane-wrapped slice of Boston cream pie. His surprise must have shown, because her chin angled up again.

"I missed dinner," she explained defensively.

"I'd spring for a hamburger, you know.
Even a salad."

"This is all I want."

And if she wanted to deprive herself, it was none of his business. Patrick shrugged. "You're the doctor. You do have your four major food groups there." Smiling at her blank look, he pointed to the whipped cream with the cherry on top and the spongy yellow cake. "Dairy.
Fruit.
Carbohydrates.
And Jack's personal favorite, chocolate."

Her chuckle was warm and surprisingly husky. If a man weren't careful, he could waste a lot of time figuring ways to hear it again.

"Yes, well, Jack can use the extra calories. Burn survivors typically need to replace a lot of weight. I don't."

Dropping his selection-chips and an apple—onto her tray, he paid the cashier. "You look fine to me."
Very fine.
Her blue scrubs and limp white coat didn't completely disguise her curvy shape.

"I don't need compliments, Mr. MacNeill. I have no illusions about my body type."

He shook his head over her stubborn denial of her own attractiveness. "You do if you think there's a single thing wrong with it. And call me Patrick."

"Thank you. You can call me Doctor."

For a moment, he thought she was serious. Jarred, he set the tray down on an empty table. And then he caught the buried mischief in her eyes, and his own grin surfaced in response.

"My name's Kate," she said, offering her hand.

Her clasp was like the rest of her, smooth and strong. Patrick bad a sudden image of those soft, competent hands moving over his body and practically broke a sweat.

Hell. He needed sleep. He needed his head examined. And since the first was unlikely and he'd always strongly resisted the second, he released her hand quickly and sat.

"You're working late tonight," he observed. "Are you on call?"

"No. I like to work at night. It's quiet. I can get a lot done." He surveyed her sitting across the table, small and rounded and brown like a sparrow hawk, with a raptor's keen eye and quick intelligence. She wore no rings. She said she didn't date.

"Your family doesn't object?
Your roommate, maybe?"

She fluffed at that, but her eyes remained sharp and steady. "Are you asking me if I'm living with someone?"

"Yeah, I guess I am."

"I have a cat," she offered, deadpan.

He laughed.

Smiling, she elaborated. "Well, I told you I don't have time for a human relationship. Dogs need to be walked, and fish aren't great conversationalists. Blackie's there when I get home, she eats what I give her and she sleeps on my bed. See?"

The strange thing was, he did see. He saw a dedicated professional woman made for love and starved for company. He wondered what made her choose a life so different from his own, so apparently at odds with her warm nature.

"Yeah, after a tough day dealing with hospital cases, I guess nothing beats curling up with a cold beer and a cat," he teased.

Her lips tightened. "Something
like
that. And for the record, I find my work very rewarding. I enjoy being able to make a difference in so many patients' lives."

He didn't doubt it for a minute. And after what she'd done for Jack, he was sorry to have offended her. "Now, we have a dog," he said, turning easily back to the subject.
"And a fish.
Also two white mice in a cage and a snake in the woodpile."

"You're kidding."

He smiled, enjoying the stunned expression on her face and the surprisingly wistful look in her eyes.
"Nope.
You're welcome to come by some time and see."

"And you take care of all that?"

"Jack takes care of them. I take care of Jack. It works out pretty well."

"He's a lucky boy. My mother wouldn't even let me keep a hamster."

"She didn't like pets?" he asked sympathetically.

"It wasn't that," she said quickly.
Defensively.
"She just didn't have time for them. I mean, she was a single parent."

Patrick lifted his eyebrows. So was he.

Kate shook her head. "I mean, she thought I wouldn't take good care of one. I had my schoolwork and my sister and…"

He took pity on her obvious discomfort. "You have a sister?"

She took a deep, relieved breath at the change of subject.
"One.
Younger.
Amy. She lives near here with her two children.
How about you?"

"Two.
Also younger.
Con and Sean."

His mimicry won him another smile. "Very Irish," she commented.

"Blame my mother. My brothers even called me Paddy until we were all old enough for me to beat it out of them."

That time she laughed outright. The husky sound loosed something warm and liquid in his chest.

"Maybe I should try that with my sister. She still calls me Katie Sue."

"Katie sounds Irish."

"It's not. It's just one of those awful, double Southern names like Betty Lou or Billy Bob. I hate it."

He crumpled his chip bag. "Deserting your roots?"

Kate stiffened. There was enough truth in his mildly voiced accusation to sting. "No more than you are. Where are you from, Yankee?
Boston
?"

A corner of his mouth kicked up. She tried to ignore the feminine flutter produced by that fascinating quirk, tried not to admire the confident good humor with which he responded to her gibe. "Close enough.
Quincy
,
Massachusetts
."

"And what brought you from
Quincy
,
Massachusetts
, down to the
Carolinas
?"

"Uncle Sam.
I was stationed down here.
Flew Harrier jets out of Cherry Point for a while."

Everything he said brought his background into sharper focus, masculine, alien, exciting. She was out of her depth. Possibly out of her mind. Had she actually imagined that this warrior needed her comfort? That this male animal exuding sexual confidence could be interested in her stilted conversation?

Caution tugged her back. But something about the tall, dark man on the other side of the table exerted a pull on her mind and her senses. Fascination and curiosity drew the next question from her. "What made you give it up?"

"Jack," he said simply. "My own dad served too many tours overseas when I was a kid. I wanted my child to know both his parents growing up."

So the warrior had given up jets to fly charter planes in
North Carolina
, surrendering one objective for another. Compassion twisted Kate's heart. The drunk driver who had smashed into the car carrying Patrick's family had killed more than his wife. He'd destroyed his dream.

She reached across the
formica
table to touch Patrick's muscled forearm, shaken from her usual self-possession by her realization. "What about other family?" she asked, thinking of that empty waiting room. "You mentioned your brothers, your mother. Didn't they…?"

At her compassionate gesture, he withdrew. "Didn't they what? Come down? Yeah. Say how sorry they were? Sure. Help pick up the pieces?
Absolutely."

His blue eyes dared her to continue. Amazingly, she scraped together her thoughts and pressed on. "No, I meant… I'm sure they helped you help Jack. A sense of family is terribly important in survival and recovery. No one can replace Jack's mother, of course, but—"

Patrick pushed the tray away in a contained, violent motion somehow more frightening for its tight control. "No.
No one.
What's your point?"

For once, Kate wasn't sure she had a point.
Just this terrible, futile ache to help.
"I'm just saying you're lucky to have them. Families play an important role in treatment. With Jack facing more therapy—"

"Don't worry about Jack's therapy, Dr. Sinclair. He and I can handle it. We don't need outside help. We don't need anybody."

"Well." Kate drew in a deep breath, pulling her professional demeanor around her like a white lab coat to cover her hurt and confusion. "That's clear." She stood. "Jack should be discharged sometime tomorrow. Dr. Swaim will be in
in
the morning to examine him and go over his postoperative care with you."

Patrick stood, too, his big body tense, his fists curled at his sides. Kate thought they must resemble a pair of fighters, circling for advantage with the table in between.
"Fine.
Thanks. Listen, I appreciate what you did for Jack. If you hadn't come by—"

"Don't give it another thought," she said coolly. "I certainly won't. Thank you for the coffee."

She made her exit on trembling legs, her head held high.

Chapter 4

«
^
»

"
B
ut it hurts," Jack whimpered.

His stitches had come out only five days ago, Patrick reminded himself. This was their third physical therapy session since breakfast. No wonder the boy was near tears. Patrick felt pretty damn frayed
himself
.

He made an effort to keep his voice matter-of-fact and light. "I know it's uncomfortable, buddy. But you've got to do the exercises for your hand to get better."

Jack squirmed on his father's lap, his small face flushed with exertion and temper. "It's not getting better. It's worse."

"It looks worse," Patrick agreed, "because of the operation." They'd been over this many times. "But you've actually got new skin now so you can spread out your fingers and your thumb. It's going to be fine. But you have to use the hand."

"I can't use it," Jack insisted, his voice rising dangerously. "I can't do anything with it. I can't even draw!"

Patrick shared his son's frustration. In the days since Jack's operation, he too had felt hampered by the intrusive routine of therapy. He'd taken a week off, tending to the books while Ray ferried cargo and passengers, but his partner couldn't handle all the flights forever. When
Shelby
had their baby, Ray would be grounded for a couple of days at least.

He looked down at Jack's mutinous face, pillowed against his arm, and wanted nothing more than to give in, to give up for the day. Together in the weeks and months following the accident, they'd tackled the grueling labor of recovery many times. Only this time it was harder. This time Jack was older. This time the gains, though important and desirable, seemed less critical in the face of Jack's discouragement and pain.

But it was Patrick's job to soothe and encourage his son. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—when the telephone rang.

"You're in luck, kid. Take five." Scooting Jack off his lap, Patrick strode into the kitchen to answer the phone, relieved at the interruption and irritated with himself for his relief. He felt better when he recognized the voice of Jack's physical therapist and then worse after she delivered her news.

She wouldn't see Jack today, she informed him bluntly. She would see him at his regularly scheduled appointment on Wednesday, because she had other patients and Jack should not become dependent on his therapist.

Patrick controlled his temper with difficulty.
"Fine.
Did you ask Dr. Swaim about Jack's splint? Because three hours seems—"

"Three hours on, one hour off," the therapist interrupted him. Did he imagine he heard reluctance in her voice? "I'm sorry, Mr. MacNeill. But at least it's not as bad as the pressure garments."

"Jack doesn't remember the pressure garments, thank God. He was too young. Look, let me talk to Swaim."

"Dr. Swaim isn't available."

This time Patrick was sure he heard an inflection of doubt. "So who is?"

"Dr. West," the therapist offered. West was one of the two interns assigned to the burn
unit.
"Or Dr. Sinclair."

Patrick gripped the receiver tighter. He had a clear, unwelcome memory of Kate Sinclair's shuttered face the last time he'd seen her, the night he'd lashed out at her in the hospital cafeteria.

We don't need outside help. We don't need anybody.

He'd regretted his hasty words the minute they'd left his mouth. Against her white face, her eyes had glittered sharp and brittle as broken glass. He'd never meant to hurt the briskly efficient lady doctor, hadn't imagined he could. But neither could he
lay
himself open to her intelligent probing and seductive compassion.

To defend himself, he'd set her at a distance. Now, to protect Jack, he would ask for her help.

Patrick grimaced, still holding the phone to his ear. He'd be lucky if she didn't tell him to go to hell.

* * *

"Telephone, Dr. Sinclair.
One of Dr. Swaim's patients."

Kate closed her eyes against a fresh surge of pain. Her brain wanted coffee. Her stomach did not. Forced to choose between a pounding head and an acid stomach, she'd opted for the headache. She was beginning to regret her decision.

She handed Sharon Williams the chart of the twelve-year-old boy who'd thrown lighter fluid on a trash fire that morning. Carefully, because of the throbbing in her skull, she nodded to the receptionist.
"All right.
I'll take it in my office."

Sinking with relief onto her stubby office chair, she picked up the phone. Three minutes, she bargained with herself. Three minutes' peace and quiet, and then she would go out and explain to the child's anxious mother what it would take for her son to walk again.

"Kate? This is Patrick MacNeill."

At the sound of that smooth whiskey-and-peat voice, Kate actually felt dizzy. Caffeine withdrawal, she told herself firmly, and concentrated on the blank blue walls until the dancing black spots went away.

"What a surprise," she said coolly.

"Yeah.
Yeah, I'm sorry." It wasn't clear what he was apologizing for, and Kate was too much the coward to ask. "
Listen,
do you have any time free this afternoon?"

Her heart bounced into her throat. Swallowing, she drawled, "Not really. Are you offering to take me away from all this?"

"What?"

Kate sighed.
"Never mind.
What is it? How's Jack?"

"Do you want me to?" He sounded genuinely interested.

"Want you to what?"

"Take you away.
You having
a bad day?"

"No, no more than usual."
Don't let it get to you, Katie Sue
. "How's Jack?"

"Actually…"

She was aware of an irrational disappointment and scolded herself.
Stupid.
Why else would he call?

"We're having some problems here."

Kate straightened, wounded feelings shoved aside in her concern for the little boy. "What kind of problems?"

He started to tell her. Kate listened, frowned,
made
notes. When he was done, she stared at her own jottings, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. She could help. She wanted to help. But could she risk interfering with Swaim's treatment of a patient?

"I'm not sure what you want me to do," she said carefully. "Jack's not my patient."

"But you could still see him," Patrick pressed.

"My schedule's full."

"We could come at the end of the day."

"My day won't end until
eight o'clock
as it is."

Silence.
Kate fought a creeping sense of guilt. The last time she'd reached out to this man, he'd slapped her down. She'd have to be crazy to challenge her center director for a macho flyboy who'd spurned her help.

"All right," Patrick said slowly.
"How about this.
Why don't you stop by our house when you get off? You wouldn't need to see Jack as your patient. You could just watch his therapy and tell me what I'm doing wrong."

Kate wavered, disarmed by his unexpected humility. "Surgeons don't do house calls."

"We could give you dinner," Patrick added persuasively.

She slammed down her instinctive pleasure. Oh, no. She wasn't falling into that trap. She knew better than to imagine his invitation was anything other than an attempt to take advantage of her professional skills. She wasn't going to let him reject her twice.

"You don't need to pretend a personal interest in me, Mr. MacNeill. Why don't you give me a chance to discuss your concerns with the rest of Jack's medical team, and I'll return your call later this afternoon?"

"Patrick. And it would be better if you could see him yourself. Please," he coaxed. "Jack needs you. And I want you to come."

Oh, Lord. How could she resist either one of them? The suggestion of the boy's need and the man's desire tugged sweetly against her hard-won control. But it was
her own
need and her own desire that undid her.

"I'll see what I can do," she said crisply. "You can give me directions to your house, but dinner won't be necessary."

She waited for him to protest, to tell her the attraction between them was real, that she had something to offer a man besides her surgeon's knowledge and her overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

"Around nine, then," he said, accepting her decision. "Thanks."

She didn't want his thanks, Kate realized as she wrote down the directions. She wanted his… Cutting that thought off abruptly, she said goodbye. But her hand lingered on the receiver even after she'd hung up, as if the warm plastic could still provide a connection with dangerously handsome Patrick MacNeill. How stupid.

"Dr. Sinclair?" Sharon Williams stuck her head into the office. "Mrs. Johnson is waiting to see you."

Kate's headache surged back. "I'll be right there."

* * *

In spite of Patrick's clear directions, his place wasn't easy to find. Kate was twenty minutes from the hospital and three miles off the highway. Evening air poured through the open car windows, cool and moist, smelling of red clay and damp asphalt. Dark pines speared a deepening blue sky. Her headlights illuminated the signs for half a dozen new subdivisions and, once, the eyes of a possum at the side of the road. Finally, they flashed on a green-and-white street sign: MONTROSE. Kate checked the directions clutched against the steering wheel and turned.

She counted four rural mailboxes by the side of the road until she came to the MacNeills'. Her ancient Honda crunched and bumped down the graveled drive. If she'd really wanted to spend the night wandering the back roads of
North Carolina
, Kate thought sourly, she could have visited her sister.

And then she passed a tangle of shrub roses under a hundred-year-old oak tree, and the road dipped, and the land lifted, and a white two-story farmhouse gleamed in the evening light.

It looked like welcome. It looked like home, if your name was Walton and you lived in a television world of family warmth. Even in the blue dusk, she could see the basketball hoop mounted over the gray bar. A tire swung from another ancient tree, and a trampoline occupied a corner of the fenced backyard. A large dog, pale-coated in the fading light, padded to the rails to investigate, wagging its tail in mild greeting.

Her head throbbed. She didn't belong here. And she was uneasily aware that the man waiting for her arrival was no John Boy. She pulled the car in front of the long covered porch and cut the engine, wishing briefly that she wore something more appealing than crumpled khaki slacks and a white camp shirt. Not that her wardrobe ran to man-attracting clothes. She'd never looked good in the flowing floral skirts that Amy favored, and she hesitated to try anything bright and tight. It wouldn't be professional. She dressed mostly by catalog these days, selecting upscale separates worn by models in flat shoes who looked like they summered at Nags Head.

The hell with it.
It didn't make a bit of difference what she wore. Patrick MacNeill was totally focused on his son and probably still in love with his dead wife.

Kate got out of the car.

The dog barked. Before she could climb the low wooden steps, the front door opened. Patrick's tall, broad body was silhouetted against the rectangle of yellow light. His dark hair, longer on top, looked as if he'd raked his fingers through it, and his smile was quick and potent.

Kate's lungs emptied of air as apprehension punched her chest. Outside the confines of the hospital, he looked even bigger, more relaxed and more dangerous. She couldn't relate to him as a doctor here. She could only respond to him as a woman. She tightened her grip on her purse.

The screen door banged shut behind him. "You're here. Hush,
Silkie
. I thought maybe you'd given up on us."

"No." She hated the sound of her voice, breathless and uncertain.
As if she didn't have the muscle to make it up the front steps.
As if her knees would give out at the sight of him. "I don't give up."

He came out on the porch, all lean male grace and hard male muscle, and she felt a little wobbly. Maybe her knees weren't going to make it after all.

A gleam appeared in those deep-set eyes as he registered her reaction. He didn't comment on it, though, saying simply, "Well, praise God for that. We've got a bit of a problem inside."

Kate stiffened her spine and tried to ignore that the top of her head barely reached his chin. She was not a weak woman. "Lead me to it."

He stepped back politely to let her in the open door. She crossed the threshold, conscious of him falling in behind her.

His furniture, unpretentious, masculine and inviting, matched the rest of the house, Kate thought, trying to ignore his guiding hand on her elbow. She didn't like being crowded. He steered her over the old plank floor, their footsteps echoing uncomfortably close. The braided rug in front of the fireplace picked up the colors of the navy couch and battered red recliner. As he escorted her through to the dining room, she got a quick impression of wrought iron lamps glowing on maple end tables and a framed photo of some very scary modern aircraft that flew over the mantel.