With a Little Help (2 page)

“No partner, female or male,” he informed her, sounding amused. “Not that the question worried you last time.”

Last time was an aberration, she wanted to say, but was restrained by her mother listening across the desk. “We can discuss everything when I see you,” she said, hoping Nate would get the message.

In the background she heard him being paged. “I
have to go.” He sounded reluctant. Imagination, she decided. “I'll look forward to discussing—everything—on Friday.”

She handed the phone back to her mother. “Happy now?”

Cherie stood up. “Why shouldn't I be? I'm trying to help your business. What made you ask Nate if he has a partner?”

Her mother was like a bloodhound when it came to her daughter and men. “If he'd had one, I'd rather meet with them together. Saves a lot of time and disagreements.”

“Not to mention ensuring you're aware of any potential…um…obstacles.”

“Nate can have a harem for all I care. This is purely professional.”

“Pity.” Cherie sounded genuinely disappointed.

“Honestly, Ma, haven't you given up matchmaking by now?”

Her mother's shoulders lifted. “I didn't make you go home with him.”

“I didn't go home with him. He gave me a ride, that's all.”

“In that case, why so defensive?”

Emma shot her mother a chilly glare. “Telling Dad that if I can't be a doctor I can at least marry one might have something to do with it.”

Her brother had shared the information with
Emma, saying he wanted her to be forewarned. Not that the news came as a surprise.

Her mother colored slightly, although media experience kept her body language in check. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“Then you don't deny saying it?”

“I can't deny that I'd be pleased to have you carry on the family tradition in some way.”

Emma splayed her hands. “Can't you stop being media medico for ten seconds and give me a straight answer? If you're planning on fixing me up with Nate Hale, I'm entitled to know.”

“Emma, what's gotten into you? He's having a party. You're a caterer. Why should you suspect me of a hidden agenda?”

“Because I know you. And obviously my choice of career bothers you as much as it ever did.”

“Nonsense. I'm proud of both my children.”

The same nonanswer Emma had been given when she'd told her parents she'd decided to go to culinary school rather than pursue a career in medicine. A few stints helping out in their practice and at a local nursing home had convinced her she'd rather feed people than minister to their ailments. Cherie had arranged the internship at the nursing home, never suspecting Emma would find her vocation in the facility's kitchen rather than with the residents.

“Didn't you ever want to do anything other than become a doctor?” Emma asked now.

Tucking her phone into her bag, Cherie paused. “How is this relevant?”

Emma already knew the answer. Cherie's father, Emma's grandfather, had helped pioneer bone marrow transplantation. Cherie had grown up hero-worshipping him and took it for granted that she'd follow him into medicine. Not for the first time Emma wondered if her mother had ever questioned her choice. Many years ago, Cherie had painted exquisite miniature landscapes. Perhaps…

Emma killed the thought. No point going there. If life was this hard for her as the family misfit, how much tougher would it have been for her mother, hardwired for conformity since birth? Cherie never stepped on the grass if a sign warned against it, whereas Emma was likely to take off her shoes and run barefoot across it out of sheer devilment. Those genes had to come from Emma's paternal grandmother Jessie Jarrett, a wonderful cook who'd made her mark independently of her oncologist husband. Gramma Jessie was still one of Emma's favorite people.

“Don't worry, Ma. I'll talk to Nate and we'll work something out.”

Her mother looked relieved as she came around the desk and dropped a light kiss on Emma's forehead. “You won't regret your decision.”

She already regretted it, Emma thought as she saw her mother out. Although she hadn't actually
agreed to cater the party, only discuss it. Would she have been so uptight about the meeting if the client wasn't Nate? Probably not. And for that, she had no one to blame but herself.

In the kitchen, her assistant Sophie had finished packing the cold canapés and desserts into insulated containers for their client's cocktail party that evening. Emma double-checked the list, more from habit than because she doubted Sophie, who was always meticulous. “I'm glad they didn't book us to staff tonight's affair. I'll take these around in my car, you lock up and have an early night for once,” she said.

Sophie shook her head. “And miss hearing what happened with your mother? No way. I'll make the coffee while you're gone.”

Arms laden, Emma turned at the door. “You didn't pack all the Bakewell tarts, did you?”

Sophie gave her a smug smile. “I might have taken out three or four less than perfect ones. Can't send out anything but our best work, can we?”

 

B
Y THE TIME
E
MMA RETURNED
fifteen minutes later, Sophie had the coffee made and the tarts plated up. Emma snapped a piece of paper in front of her friend. “The client paid in full on the spot. That should make the bank happy.”

Sophie hitched a slender hip onto a stool at the counter. “Good for the bank. Now tell me about your
mother's visit. Who's she trying to fix you up with this time?”

Emma affected an air of nonchalance. “What makes you think she's trying to fix me up?”

“Since the day we met in high school, that's all she's been doing. Who is it this time? A psychiatrist who can get to the bottom of your doctor phobia?”

“I don't have a doctor phobia.”

“Oh, no?” Sophie pushed her glasses to the end of her nose and mimed holding a pad and pen. “Tell me, Ms. Jarrett, how long have you hated your horse?”

Emma snorted a mouthful of coffee. “I don't have a horse, either.”

“You only think you don't have a horse. Come lie on my couch and tell me all about zis problem. I'll lie here beside you. Closeness helps break down zee inhibitions.”

Laughing, Emma blotted her shirt front. “My mother doesn't have a psychiatrist lined up for me, thank goodness. She wants us to cater a birthday bash for Nathan Hale.”

Sophie pressed a fist against her chest. “The heart surgeon? According to
She Magazine,
he's the sexiest man in medicine. Tell me you said yes.”

Emma gestured around the congested kitchen. “Look at this place. How can we take on a sit-down dinner for fifty or more?”

“Charge like a wounded bull, then hire waiters. Some of my study group might help out. They always
need cash. Even if his party is on a class night, I can do some of the prep work with you and put in a couple of hours at the venue before going to school.”

Sophie was studying for a postgraduate diploma in nutrition and Emma had agreed to work around her commitments, knowing Sophie would be free of them in another few months. Her diploma, which was focused on food services management, would widen the range of services they could offer. Emma bit into a tart. “The upfront expenses will be a stretch. I know they'll be billed back to him, but we'll have to carry the costs till then. The sexiest man in medicine won't settle for anything but the best.”

“Ancient Chinese wisdom says Where there's a will, there's a way.”

Sophie liked to spout Confucian wisdom whenever possible. Her grandparents had emigrated from Hong Kong to Australia, where their baby girl had grown up and married an Australian sailor, Sophie's dad. “According to you, the only wisdom is ancient Chinese,” Emma teased.

“Not at all. There are wise Australian sayings like ‘she'll be right' and ‘no worries.'”

“True.”

“Translated from the original Chinese,” Sophie added with a wicked grin.

“No doubt. Was there anything you guys didn't invent?”

“You're just jealous.” Sophie leaned forward on
her stool. “Confucius would say It's better to try and fail than not to try at all.”

Emma laughed. “Confucius obviously didn't have a kitchen the size of a bathroom.”

N
ATE WAS ONLY A CLIENT.
She hadn't been herself when they met at her parents' party. Emma repeated the phrases like a mantra as she drove to his place on Friday morning. She was a professional, she could do this. All he had to do was cooperate. Amnesia would also help, she thought.

Nevertheless her fingers twitched at the memory of a dark crew cut crowning a classically shaped head. She'd spent half the party resisting the urge to run her palm over it, until finally she gave in to temptation after finding him tucked in a shadowy corner near the conference room. He'd looked as surprised as she felt, but didn't resist, pressing a kiss to her fingers. When he hadn't shown any inclination to move on to her mouth, she'd taken the initiative, kissing him with increasing enthusiasm as she felt him respond.

“You taste of truffles,” he'd murmured when he ended the kiss with what she'd swear had been reluctance.

“Not bad,” she'd said, her mind spinning. She'd handled truffle oil hours before, yet he'd still detected the traces on her skin. Had he also noticed the
throbbing of her pulse or the racing of her heart in response to his closeness? “What else do you sense?”

He'd looked serious, considering the question before nuzzling her ear with his mouth. “The faintest aura of Paloma perfume. You could drive a man wild with those two scents.”

Tingles like faint electrical impulses had swept through her and she'd pressed closer to him. She found his long, lean body attractive. He had wide shoulders, narrow hips, a long neck and strong jawline faintly shaded by stubble. Urbane and sexily volatile.

“Am I driving you wild?” she asked. He was definitely having an impact on her.

“Mmm-hmm. Imagine what you could do if you were sober.”

She'd recoiled as if stung. “I'm not drunk. All I've had to drink is one glass of wine and one orange juice.”

“With a generous slug of vodka added by your brother.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn't.” The muzziness in her brain started to make sense. “I'll kill him.”

“You didn't ask him to make you a mixer?”

She shook her head. After starting work at 4:00 a.m. and not stopping to eat lunch, she'd been too tired to have more than one alcoholic drink, knowing the effect it was likely to have on her. “Must be his
idea of a joke. You'd think with all his degrees and experience, he'd know better.”

“They don't give degrees in common sense.”

Using Nate for leverage she'd straightened, aware of her head spinning. She was clinging to him like a demented sex kitten. What must he think of her?

But all he'd said was, “I'm on call so often that I don't drink a lot. I'll take a rain check on driving you wild and drive you home instead.”

She still wasn't sure why she let him, because she'd had to listen to a lecture about keeping an eye on drinks even at a private party. In a low-slung Branxton sports car that she'd struggled to get into with some degree of grace, he drove fast but in control.

Her head pounded. “I'm sorry for trying to jump your bones. This is the first time I've had a spiked drink.”

“Hopefully also the last. Another man could easily have taken advantage of your…enthusiasm.”

“But saintly medicos like you wouldn't dream of doing such a thing.”

He'd looked at her curiously. “What does my work have to do with this?”

“According to my parents, doctors have to set a good example for the rest of us.”

He made a point of slowing down, even though he was well within the limit, and smiled over at her. “Better not be stopped for speeding.”

“Don't worry. As soon as the officer sees the title
on your license, he'll assume you're rushing to some medical emergency.”

“Is that why you threw yourself at me?” He sounded amused by the turn the conversation was taking. “You fancy a man with a title?”

“I've been surrounded by men and women with medical titles all my life. It's not a novelty.” She didn't like being reduced to the status of doctor groupie. “In my experience, more than a few doctors are walking, talking egos with delusions of godhood.”

“That's a sweeping judgment, isn't it? You were the one who came on to me, remember?”

Remember? Her skin still felt hot and tight. She knew she'd never forget this night as long as she lived. “I'm well aware of the fact,” she said, enunciating carefully. She really did feel horribly unwell. Throwing up on his immaculate leather upholstery would be the last straw, but she would not ask him to pull over so she could humiliate herself even more by the side of the road. “We've agreed the vodka didn't help. At least that's my excuse. What's yours?”

“Do I need one?”

“You didn't resist when I touched you.”

“Pushing you away would have attracted more attention than I thought you'd want.”

“You don't have a clue what I want.” Liar, she told herself. She'd been attracted to him from the moment she saw him walk into the party as if he owned it.

“I can guess what you want. But one, you're too
young. Two, you've had more to drink than is good for you. And three, your parents are my colleagues. I wouldn't hurt them by taking advantage of their daughter.”

But it was okay to hurt her, she thought bitterly. She chose the only thing on his list she could legitimately challenge. “For your information, I'm twenty-eight.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “My mistake. I took you for a decade younger.”

“I've always looked younger than I am. Ma says I'll be glad one day, but it's a pain having to show ID whenever I go out at night.”

“Your mother's right.”

“At least I sound like my generation,” she said, tiring of him siding with her parents. “You can't be that many years older than me.”

“Wiser, maybe.”

“Yes, the doctor ego thing.”

“Don't forget the delusions of godhood,” he said. “You have me typecast, but you haven't told me what you do for a living.”

“I'm a qualified chef.”

“You're not in medicine?”

She'd slid down a little in the leather seat of his beautiful car. “Nope. Sad, isn't it?”

“Only sad if you wanted to and couldn't.”

“I didn't want to. I'm creating a new branch of the Jarrett family.”

“Good for you. Is this your place?”

His voice gave no clue what he thought of the run-down house that was both home and business. “Mine and the bank's.”

“I'll walk you in.”

“No need.” Her keys were already in her hand. She was embarrassed enough for one night without him seeing the dilapidated former café she was slowly turning into a boutique eatery. She couldn't do the renovations she wanted until the business brought in more money, and the small apartment she lived in at the rear wasn't a priority.

He came around to her side of the car and opened the door. “I'll wait until you're safely inside.”

He sounded as if he doubted she could make it under her own steam. With good reason, she found as soon as the night air hit her. She concentrated on getting the front door open and herself inside without stumbling, sighing with relief when she closed the door behind her and leaned against it. After a few minutes, she heard him start his car and drive away.

Had she really said doctors were walking egos with delusions of godhood? Thinking it was one thing, but saying it… She'd kill Todd for spiking that drink. But was it all his fault? Hadn't the vodka provided the excuse to do exactly what she'd wanted to do from her first sight of Nate? That didn't let her brother off the hook, but she knew she had to take
some responsibility. She should have kept a better eye on her drink. But like hypnotism, alcohol couldn't make her behave totally out of character. So what did tonight say about her?

Despite Nate's lecture and his patronizing manner, the memory of his bristly hair under her hand elicited a shiver of desire she couldn't blame on anything but sexual attraction. And his designer stubble had felt so enticing when she kissed him. He'd turned her on, even as she'd turned him off. She'd resolved never to willingly cross his path again.

And now she was walking up to his front door.

 

S
HE SHOULD HAVE EXPECTED
a man like Nate to do things his own way. Instead of meeting her in an office or at least a living room, he was waiting for her in a garden arbor overgrown with old-fashioned white roses. When his housekeeper led her to him, the scent of the flowers made her feel light-headed. She refused to believe Nate himself could have such an effect on her. “Thanks, Joanna,” she said, but the woman had already turned back toward the house.

Emma hadn't seen Nate since the ill-fated Christmas party but his height and athletic build were fixed in her memory. If anything, he looked even more attractive in daylight. He stood up as she climbed the steps into the arbor. His eyes, which had shone amber under artificial light, now glinted with gold flecks around the iris. In narrow-cut jeans, a pale blue
T-shirt with random French phrases scribbled across the front and bare feet thrust into leather sandals, he looked more like a university student than a successful surgeon. She immediately felt overdressed in her businesslike taupe pants and short black cardigan with a lacy white camisole.

He stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Emma.”

With an assurance she was far from feeling, she touched her palm to his, but before she could step away and sit down at the wooden table strewn with papers, his grip tightened and he pulled her closer.

“Nate, what are you doing? This isn't a good idea.” She was aware of how unconvincing the words sounded.

He gestured with his free hand. “You can't tell me you felt more romantic in a boardroom setting than in a rose garden?”

“I didn't feel romantic at all. That was the vodka talking.”

His warm gaze met hers. “
Only
the vodka?”

Alarmed at how tempting his mouth looked, she held still with an effort. “You know it was.”

And she should have known enough to stay away from him. She felt her resistance slipping even now as he slid his hand down to the small of her back. His touch was light. She could have broken the contact with the slightest move. So why didn't she? “I came
here to discuss catering arrangements for your party, not for…this.”

“You're right,” he said, moving away with every sign of reluctance. “I've been thinking about that night. Seeing you here now made me want to find out if what I remembered about our encounter was real.”

“The encounter wasn't real, at least not in the way you mean,” she assured him, sitting down at the table. “And it won't happen again.”

His expression was devilish as he sat opposite her. “Are you sure it won't? I'm not.”

The thought that she disturbed his equilibrium gave her a moment of satisfaction before she squelched it. “We should get down to business?”

“Coward,” he murmured so softly she couldn't be sure she'd heard him. The ring tone of a cell phone cut off any retort she might have made. The Chipmunks' “Witch Doctor,” she noticed. So the man had a sense of humor.

He shot her an apologetic look as he flipped the phone open and glanced at the number. “The hospital,” he said to her. “Hale speaking.”

An all too familiar sensation crept over her.
The hospital.
How many of her family's activities had been interrupted by those same words? When she was a child, the reasons her parents had to take the calls had been explained to her over and over again.
The clear message she'd received was that patients were more important than she was.

Whether it was a school play, a sporting event, a graduation, or simply a time when she needed their support, her parents would promise to get there as soon as they could. Medical duties came first. Often they wouldn't get to her event at all, or she'd solve the problem by herself. The upside was she'd developed a healthy self-reliance. The downside was a reluctance to depend on other people, or expect them to be there for her.

But all this was in the past. Replaying her grievances because Nate had answered a call from the hospital didn't change anything. She heard him give a string of instructions concerning a patient's treatment, sounding so self-assured that she imagined the person at the other end standing at attention. Her father and mother sounded exactly the same.

He ended the call and placed the phone on the table. “I hope you gave your brother hell for spiking your drink.”

“You bet I did.” Todd had admitted he'd drunk too much himself, falling over himself to apologize. She'd never seen her brother so upset. “I don't think he'll do anything that idiotic again.” Emma hoped she could say the same for herself.

Nate nodded. “Would you like some iced tea?”

A carafe and glasses sat on a tray on a little table and he poured a glass for her. Ice tinkled in a tube
in the center of the carafe, chilling the drink without diluting it. “Unusual flavor,” she said after taking a sip.

“Pomegranate, from a tree growing in the garden.”

Pleasure rippled through her. Her grandmother also grew the fruit, and had included some recipes in one of her cookbooks. Emma would have to look them up.

She opened her net book and swiveled the screen toward him. “As I told you on the phone, my business isn't fully up to speed yet, but I've put together a selection of menus that might—”

His phone rang again and he held up a hand to silence her as he took the call. This time he didn't need to say it was the hospital. He listened intently then unleashed a string of commands. “Do you need me there?” he asked.

If anything was guaranteed to kill her interest in him, leaving her sitting while he took off would do the trick. Once upon a time she'd let herself be guilt-tripped into feeling selfish for putting her needs ahead of someone in crisis, until she realized that there would always be another crisis, and not even the most highly qualified doctor was indispensable. There was always someone to help, whereas she had only one family. The problem was convincing her parents that she had as much right to their time as their patients did.