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Family Practice
Judy Duarte
ALL OR NOTHING…After a very bitter–very public–divorce, high-society surgeon Michael Harper needed a vacation. But his plans for peace and quiet hadn't included falling in love with a stubborn, self-reliant cocktail waitress from the wrong side of the tracks…or the two kids she hoped to adopt. Mansions, money–marriage. Michael was suddenly prepared to offer it all….But Kara Westin refused to take charity from anyone, especially not from a sexy, well-meaning doctor who knew more about family fortunes than family values. Despite temptation, Kara was determined to keep her distance. The only way she'd surrender her pride was in exchange for his heart.
Just the two of them.
Alone.
Get a grip, she told herself. It’s only a friendly dinner. And certainly not a date.
Kara struggled with the urge to go home, but then Michael answered the door wearing a pair of jeans, a crisply pressed white shirt and a smile that reached the golden hue of his eyes.
He’d showered. And shaved. His eyes swept over her body in an appreciative caress. “Come in.”
Kara moved into the small cottage. A fire crackled softly in the living room, and the easy sound of something classical played on the stereo.
Just friends. Neighbors.
“Can I pour you a glass of wine?”
Wine?
He flashed her a warm, friendly smile, and she wondered if she’d made more out of the offer than he’d intended.
We’re just newfound friends having dinner. What harm could there be in that?
Dear Reader,
While taking a breather from decorating and gift-wrapping, check out this month’s exciting treats from Silhouette Special Edition. The Summer House (#1510) contains two fabulous stories in one neat package. “Marrying Mandy” by veteran author Susan Mallery features the reunion of two sweethearts who fall in love all over again. Joining Susan is fellow romance writer Teresa Southwick whose story “Courting Cassandra” shows how an old crush blossoms into full-blown love.
In Joan Elliott Pickart’s Tall, Dark and Irresistible (#1507), a hero comes to terms with his heritage and meets a special woman who opens his heart to the possibilities. Award-winning author Anne McAllister gets us in the holiday spirit with The Cowboy’s Christmas Miracle (#1508) in which a lone-wolf cowboy finds out he’s a dad to an adorable little boy, then realizes the woman who’d always been his “best buddy” now makes his heart race at top speed! And count on Christine Rimmer for another page-turner in Scrooge and the Single Girl (#1509). This heart-thumping romance features an anti-Santa hero and an independent heroine, both resigned to singlehood and stranded in a tiny little mountain cabin where they’ll have a holiday they’ll never forget!
Judy Duarte returns to the line-up with Family Practice (#1511), a darling tale of a handsome doctor who picks up the pieces after a bitter divorce and during a much-needed vacation falls in love with a hardworking heroine and her two kids. In Elane Osborn’s A Season To Believe (#1512), a woman survives a car crash but wakes up with amnesia. When a handsome private detective takes her plight to heart, she finds more than one reason to be thankful.
As you can see, we have an abundance of rich and emotionally complex love stories to share with you. I wish you happiness, fun and a little romance this holiday season!
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor
Family Practice
Judy Duarte
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Bob and Betty Astleford, who gave me a strong, loving foundation that became a springboard to reach my dreams. You taught me the values I hold dear and set a fine example of love, marriage and parenthood. I love you, Mom and Dad.
In memory of Regina Ann Ronk, who blessed my life and my writing. Philippians 1:2–3.
JUDY DUARTE
An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy Duarte always wanted to write books of her own. One day, she decided to make that dream come true. Five years and six manuscripts later, she sold her first book to Silhouette Special Edition.
Her unpublished stories have won the Emily and the Orange Rose writing contests, and in 2001, she became a double RWA Golden Heart finalist. Judy credits her success to Romance Writers of America and two wonderful critique partners, Sheri WhiteFeather and Crystal Green, both of whom write for Silhouette.
At times, when a stubborn hero and a headstrong heroine claim her undivided attention, she and her family are thankful for fast food, pizza delivery and video games. When she’s not at the keyboard or in a Walter-Mitty-type world, she enjoys traveling, romantic evenings with her personal hero and playing board games with her kids.
Judy lives in Southern California and loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 498, San Luis Rey, CA 92068-0498. You can also visit her Web site at: www.judyduarte.com.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Chapter One
“Dr. Harper, now that your wife is in prison, what are your plans?”
Barely out of his black Jag, Michael Harper tensed his jaw, slammed the car door and shoved past a cocky reporter and a heavyset cameraman. Ever since the trial, the press continued to dog him.
Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? The whole damn mess was yesterday’s news, at least as far as he was concerned. He’d been cleared of any wrongdoing, Denise was in prison, and their divorce had been finalized three months ago.
“Just one question, Doc. Has your practice suffered because of the scandal?”
A camera flashed in Michael’s face, and he clenched his fist, fighting an urge to grab the photographic equipment and sling it to the ground. “No comment.”
He strode toward the private stairwell that led from the underground parking garage to his second-floor southern California office, hoping to shake more than the dank odor of concrete, gasoline fumes and exhaust. Why the interest in him? In his practice, his life? He hadn’t done anything, just been an unwitting victim.
The thought of himself as a victim turned his stomach, knotted his gut. Michael Harper, son of the Raleigh-Harpers of Boston. Distinguished graduate of Harvard Medical School. Renowned cardiovascular surgeon. His life had been charmed from birth. Perfect.
Until now.
Damn you, Denise. Michael swung open the metal door and slammed it behind him. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Sure, the whole sordid mess had taken a toll on him. His former wife who had also been his office manager had carried on a lengthy affair with a high-profile politician. That was tough enough to handle.
But she’d laundered drug money through his office, then made illegal contributions to her lover’s campaign. There’d been a thorough investigation, and Michael had been cleared of any wrongdoing. Still, the embarrassment was hard to live down. Hard to forgive. Impossible to forget.
The press continued to dog him, Dr. Michael Harper, who had nothing to do with any of this. Even those sleazy tabloids had found him a newsworthy topic. Apparently, the public enjoyed hearing about a wealthy surgeon cuckolded by a bad girl and a notorious politician. But quite frankly, he was ready to escape the limelight.
Forever.
When he reached his office, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered to come in today. Habit, he supposed, but it wasn’t necessary. Due in part to the depositions and trials, both federal and state, he’d cut back on his patient load until it was nearly nonexistent.
“Michael?” Bertha Williams, his office manager, asked. The woman had come out of retirement to fix the god-awful mess his ex-wife had made of his books. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Michael followed the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of an electric percolator to the break room.
In years past, Bertha had hovered over him like a mother hen, fixing him a hot lunch when he’d been too busy to eat or too concerned about a patient to realize he’d skipped a meal or two. She handed him a steaming cup of coffee, then eyed him carefully. “Did you forget to shave again? Or is that an attempt to shake your wholesome, all-American look?”
“Neither.” Michael stroked the day-old bristles on his chin, then shrugged. “Maybe it’s apathy.”
“Humph.” She clicked her tongue, crossed her arms and shook her head. “You’re looking bad, Michael. Not overworked, but under too much stress.”
“I’m all right, just tired of all the fuss.”
Concern simmered in her hazel eyes. “You’re a surgeon, dedicated to your profession and respected among your peers. I’ve seen you work with only an occasional game of golf as a diversion. It may have been enough in the past, but not now. I think you should consider a vacation.”
A vacation? Impossible. “I need a permanent break from the press and media, but there’s a host of reporters staking out my jet at the Santa Monica Airport. They’re just waiting for me to show my face.”
“You could take a drive up or down the coast,” Bertha suggested. “Maybe find a secluded house on the beach.”
Ocean breezes. Sunshine. Long, solitary, mind-cleansing walks on the sand. It sounded too good to be true. Michael shook his head. “I can’t even go downstairs to the parking garage without meeting an entourage of reporters.”
Bertha furrowed her gray brow and drummed her fingers on the table, then she brightened. “Take my car. It’s parked out front today. Of course, it won’t be at all like driving that fancy black Jaguar of yours.”
Michael smiled. He doubted anyone would expect to see him drive an ’89 Ford Taurus out of here. Maybe her idea had merit.
Bertha stood. “I’ll get the keys. Then I’ll check with Dr. Hanson about taking the few patients you have scheduled this week.”
“No, I don’t think it will work. I’d have to go home and pack—”
“Oh, pshaw. You’ve got a shaving kit and change of clothes here. And anything else can be purchased along the way. Michael, you need a break, if not a full-scale vacation. Take some time to yourself, and maybe then you’ll be ready to come back to work.” Bertha dug through her oversize handbag and handed him a set of keys.
Two hours later, Michael drove south on Pacific Coast Highway. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but as long as the press hadn’t followed him, he’d be content to watch the sun set over the ocean, maybe even try surfing again. He hadn’t taken time to relax in years. He hadn’t really needed to.
A small, nearly obscure sign identified the upcoming town as Harbor Haven. The name had a pleasant, out-of-the-way sound. He flipped the blinker then turned left. A haven was just what he needed, especially if it provided peace and quiet.
He passed several pastel-colored storefronts—Bailey’s Bait Shop, Connie’s Bookstore, and the EZ Suds Laundromat. On the other side of the street, he spotted a momand-pop grocery store. Harbor Haven wasn’t really a town, he realized, but rather a small secluded enclave.
Down the road, a sign advertised Campbell’s Seaside Cottages, and an arrow pointed to a side street on the left. Michael followed the directions until he spotted a group of quaint little beach houses, all white with latticework trim. Only a bright yellow number distinguished one from another. A pink, flashing neon sign hung in the window of the largest cottage and announced, Vacancy.
He swung into a graveled parking lot, empty except for two kids and a mixed-breed dog playing with a soccer ball. Carefully avoiding a small, sandy-haired boy and an older redheaded girl, Michael pulled the Ford into a parking space.
As he turned off the ignition, he noticed the Rolex on his wrist. Not exactly sure why, he slipped off the expensive gold watch and placed it in the empty ashtray. Today, he was just a regular guy who drove an old Ford. Certainly not anyone famous or newsworthy.
As he swung open the door and stepped from the sedan, the soccer ball came flying toward his feet, resting underneath Bertha’s car.
“Sorry, mister, I’m not too good at kicking yet.” The little boy’s soft brown eyes pleaded for understanding, and he pointed toward the broken-down fence that lined the back half of the parking lot. “The ball was s’posed to go over there.”
Michael stooped to retrieve the soccer ball, then tossed it toward the boy. The girl, wearing white shorts and a pink sweatshirt, struggled to hold the dog. When their eyes met, Michael did a double take.
It was easy to see how he had mistaken the petite woman for a child—but only from a distance. Up close, her maturity struck him as obvious, and when she smiled, her wholesome beauty stunned him.
The breeze stirred up the smells of salt and seashore and played havoc with her curly red hair, as did the sunlight, highlighting the color of autumn leaves and, for only a moment, reminding him of Boston. And the park where he had played as a boy.
She swatted at the springy strand that whipped across a lightly freckled nose. Large, expressive eyes, the color of the sea, enhanced a small, delicate face. She eased her hold on the dog until it lunged toward Michael with its tongue flopping. Snagging the bright yellow collar, she jerked the black overgrown puppy back. Michael wasn’t sure the petite woman could control the monstrous animal, but she did.
“Gulliver,” she scolded. “Behave yourself, or I’ll put you in the backyard.”
“I didn’t mean to spoil your fun,” Michael said. “As soon as I rent a cottage, I’ll move the car.”
“Hey, that’ll make you our neighbor.” The boy smiled. “I’m Eric, and this is Kara.”
He hadn’t meant to speak, to introduce himself. This quest had only been for solitude, a time to form a game plan of sorts. He’d toyed with the idea of relocating his practice from Los Angeles to Boston and hoped taking time off would help him decide.
When she flashed him a shy smile, warmth slowly poured over him, like aged cognac from a crystal decanter. And the words spilled out without any effort on his part. “My name’s Michael.”
Kara Westin nearly stumbled over the panting dog, but when she regained her footing and glanced into the amber-colored eyes of the man who’d just introduced himself, her heart jumped, and her breath caught in her throat. She wrestled the urge to gawk at the stranger standing before her.
Tall and broad-shouldered. Handsome, too. Hair, golden brown—sun-bleached, most likely. He had that lanky, water sport aficionado look. Jet skis, surfboards, sailboats.
Vacationing? she wondered. This late in the fall? The tourist season was over, which she found disappointing. A people watcher by nature, Kara missed the daily activity that provided fodder for the journal she kept.
She extended her hand in greeting before he did. “It’s nice to meet you, Michael. How long will you be staying?”
“I’m not sure. A few days, maybe a week.”
