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“I called him,” Jenny said, “but you know how Derek can be.”
“A first-class jackass,” Elyssa mumbled.
“Right,” Jenny agreed. “Took you long enough to realize it. Anyway, he practically laughed in my face when I asked if Randy was working on something dangerous. He said Randy had covered the school board meeting that week. They were debating whether or not to buy more buses. Sounds tame, doesn’t it?” She bit her lip. “Then why was Randy so nervous?”
“I wish I knew,” Elyssa said. “If I could only remember…”
They both started as Amy appeared beside them. “Mama, can we have more quarters?”
“No, sugar. It’s time we were gettin’ back to the hotel.”
“Aww.”
“There’ll be another day. Now go get your sister.”
Pouting, Amy plodded across the room. Jenny turned back to Elyssa. “I shouldn’t have brought this up, but—”
“Don’t be silly,” Elyssa said. “I’m just sorry I can’t help.” The frustration of not remembering, not knowing, gnawed at her. Surely if she could recall that last evening, she could put Jenny’s mind at rest.
“If you do remember anything, you’ll call me, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.” Jenny said. “By the way, I brought you something.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a book. “I wanted you to have something of Randy’s. He was reading this just before he died.”
“Everyone is Entitled to My Opinion by David Brinkley. I’ve always admired him. Thank you for thinking of me.”
While Jenny went to round up her dawdling children, Elyssa glanced at the cover of the famous broadcaster’s book. But she was barely aware of what she held. Her mind was caught up in a question she’d never imagined she would have to ask. Was it possible that Randy’s death—and her own misfortune—hadn’t been accidental after all?
Chapter 2
Brett checked his watch. Five-twenty. Elyssa should be here in ten minutes, twenty at most.
He remembered when he’d seen her on TV for the first time. He’d been in Indianapolis a week, maybe two, and for once he’d gotten home early enough to watch the ten o’clock news. He’d grabbed a beer from the fridge, settled back on the couch and pressed the remote.
A face filled the screen, a voice reached out to him, and he sat up straight to watch and listen. He didn’t recall the news story she’d reported, only his impression of her. Sharp, confident, the consummate TV reporter.
But there was more. Beneath the persona of dynamic newswoman, he sensed another kind of magnetism—purely sexual. He imagined those softly tinted lips forming a kissable pout; those eyes misty, dreamy; the skin beneath that trim business suit flushed with desire. He was surprised at himself. He was a man grounded in reality, not given to flights of fancy. Not accustomed to mooning over a face on the TV screen.
Yet he’d watched her often after that and indulged in a few more private fantasies. He remembered he’d been especially partial to the one that took place on his examining table.
Then she disappeared, and eventually he’d all but forgotten her. Now their paths had crossed, and the fantasies had emerged again, in full bloom. Now he wanted to find out if the emotions she stirred were real.
And if they were, what difference would it make?
A serious relationship was out of the question for him. He’d had that once with Denise—begun a love affair, then a marriage, with his heart full of hopes and dreams. How quickly they’d vanished.
Oh, he’d been warned. An older colleague had told him, “Marriage and medicine don’t mix. Being a doctor is like joining a monastic order. You don’t have to be celibate, but you sure as hell don’t have time to make a relationship work.” At the time, with a diamond sparkling on Denise’s finger and a wedding soon to follow, Brett had laughed off the bitter words, attributing them to his friend’s two divorces. Later he’d learned how prophetic that statement was.
The marriage was rocky from the start. They’d been too young, and Denise, he guessed, had been too needy. But when their life together had ended in tragedy, he’d blamed only himself. Would always blame himself. He and his commitment to medicine were solely responsible. He’d never risk a serious relationship again.
Instead, he poured his heart and soul into his work. And in place of intimacy, he opted for superficial affairs—a few laughs, a lot of sex, no commitment.
So why was he sitting here, filled with anticipation, waiting for Elyssa Jarmon? He didn’t have time now to get involved with her, even on a casual basis. When the receptionist called to announce her, he opened the door, fully intending to heed his own advice.
But there she stood in her costume—blue checked dress with a white pinafore, yellow pigtails tied with bright blue bows, a turned-up smile, and freckles painted across her nose. She looked like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Adorable. And no, he hadn’t imagined a thing. The attraction was still there. Stronger, in fact.
“Hello,” he said, ushering her in. “How was the afternoon?”
“Great. I have a lot to tell you.”
“Why don’t we talk over dinner at The Orchard?” he suggested, forgetting what he’d told himself only minutes earlier. “I’ll wait while you get out of your costume.”
She stiffened. “No!” Then as if realizing how rude she’d sounded, she added, “I don’t have my street clothes with me.”
“Bring them next week. For now, how about the cafeteria here? In costume.”
“All right,” she said, but she seemed none too thrilled. In fact, she appeared downright uncomfortable.
Her reaction puzzled him. Even if she was involved with someone, dinner in the cafeteria to discuss working with his patients shouldn’t make her uneasy. And if she wasn’t involved…
Last week he thought he’d sensed attraction on her part, too, but maybe he’d been wrong. He would work on changing her mind. He always enjoyed a challenge.
She shoved her cart into a corner, and he followed her out the door. She might look as if she belonged on the Yellow Brick Road, but she smelled like… Oh, God, he thought as his blood heated, she smelled like sex. Slow, sweet sex on a star-laced summer night. Her scent teased him all the way downstairs.
This early, the cafeteria was nearly empty. A couple of interns who looked as if they were about to fall out of their chairs from exhaustion were guzzling coffee. A dazed-looking man, probably the father of a newborn, sat nibbling a sandwich and grinning at no one in particular. A trio of nurses rested their feet and snacked on doughnuts.
Brett and Elyssa moved through the cafeteria line, chose a table and unloaded their trays. Brett took a bite of spaghetti sauce that tasted as if it had come straight out of a can. “Could be better,” he remarked. “But then, hospital food is—”
“Lousy,” Elyssa finished, the corners of her painted mouth turning up. “I know.”
Of course, everyone knew that hospitals served inedible food, but the way she spoke made Brett wonder if someone in her family had recently been ill. Instead of asking a too-personal question, he said, “Tell me about your session with the kids.”
Her eyes—he’d thought they were blue, but they were violet—lit up. “I painted their faces, and they loved it. I gave them each a Polaroid snapshot. You’ll have to look when you visit their rooms. But the pictures don’t begin to show the kids’ enthusiasm. Even Trace participated. He started talking about a circus book he’d read, then about rodeo clowns. I could hardly get him to stop.”
“With his face painted, he could be someone else. Someone other than a sick little boy.”
Elyssa stared at him, then dropped her gaze. “A little greasepaint makes a big difference.” She toyed with a teaspoon for a moment, then began discussing the other children.
When she finished, Brett got them fresh cups of coffee. As they drank, he asked. “What made you give up broadcasting and become a clown?”
“My cousin and I worked several summers for a woman who did birthday parties. We were clowns—Lulu and Coco. It was fun, and last year I decided to start my own business.”
He studied her thoughtfully. She’d only answered the second half of his question.
“Did you go in with your cousin?” he asked.
“No, but she helps me out sometimes.”
Something didn’t fit. Elyssa was beautiful, brainy, articulate and in his nonprofessional opinion, a woman who’d been headed straight for the top, reporting from the White House or the international scene. Why had she changed careers? And why especially had she chosen to play a clown?
Clearly, she got along well with kids. Why hadn’t she gone into, say, child psychology? He’d watched her long enough last week to notice her self-assured manner with the staff, and he sure hadn’t missed the confident way she walked. Yes, she belonged on some professional fast track. “Where did you go to college?” he asked.
“Northwestern.”
“That’s a tough school.” You didn’t get into Northwestern with mediocre grades or stay without high ambitions. “Then why a birthday party business?” he asked.
“Why not?” she said coolly.
“I picture you making your mark in network TV.”
The long fake lashes she wore veiled her eyes, but he heard the edge in her voice when she answered. “I tried that route.”
No trespassing, he thought but plunged on anyway. “And?”
“And I decided I needed a change.” She raised her eyes, and now he saw the harsh glint of anger. “What are you,” she asked, “a cop? I feel like I’m being interrogated.”
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.” Though in truth, he had. He was silent. Then with a grin he suggested, “Let’s talk about me.”
She stared at him with a startled expression for a minute, then laughed. “This time I get to be the cop.”
“Shoot.”
“Ohh, bad pun,” she chided. “Where did you go to school?”
“University of Pennsylvania for undergrad, and Harvard Medical School.”
“Ivy League,” she said, tapping a finger on the table. “Why’d you choose medicine?”
“It’s a challenge. And I like doing hands-on work.”
“Why cancer?”
It still hurt to say the words. “My cousin Aaron died of leukemia when he was eleven.”
Her eyes filled with sympathy. “That must have been terrible for you.”
He nodded. “He was my best friend.”
“You’d have been lonely…and scared.”
He’d been devastated. To his surprise Elyssa understood.
She propped her chin on her hand. “And so you became a dragon slayer.”
No one had ever put it quite that way, but she was right. Cancer was a beast, and every day he tried his damnedest to defeat it. How had she recognized so easily what he’d struggled to articulate and never could? Amazed, he stared into her eyes. Eyes that seemed to see straight into his soul.
He wanted to touch her, make the connection he felt tangible. But he didn’t, and the moment passed.
“Did you ever consider any other career?” she asked.
“When I was seven I wanted to be a pilot. At four, I considered becoming a trash collector but gave up on that.”
“Wise decision.”
Her eyes glowed with interest, he noted. She’d done this before in her work as a reporter, and she enjoyed it. Move over, Barbara Walters, he thought. But she wasn’t Barbara Walters anymore, he reminded himself, and again wondered why.
“What do you want to be doing in ten years?” she asked.
“Still working in the field I’m in and making the new hospital the best damn pediatric cancer facility in the country.”
“Any personal aspirations outside your career?” she asked.
Once he’d have answered yes. He’d have said he wanted marriage, a family. Not anymore. “Not at the moment.”
“I suppose, with the new hospital almost underway, your life is full enough,” she said.
It had been once. Remorse, as familiar as his breath, washed over him. But he’d had plenty of practice in hiding his emotions, so he nodded, then smiled at her. “When we open, you can be our resident clown.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Dr. Cameron.”
“Call me Brett, since we’ll be working together.”
“All right…Brett.” She gave him the gift of a smile, and they continued talking. He hadn’t spent an hour like this in a long time, relaxing and enjoying the company of a charming woman.
They’d do it again. Somewhere quiet and elegant with good food and wine and soft music playing in the background. Then they’d take the next step.
Not that he was in the market for anything serious. Just a light, carefree relationship with pleasant evenings, leading to even more pleasant nights. No strings.
When they went upstairs so Elyssa could get her things, he asked. “What’s the plan for next Tuesday?”
Violet eyes sparkled. “Magic.”
“Sounds intriguing. Will you tell me about it afterward?”
She hesitated long enough for him to think he’d scared her off again, but to his relief she said, “Sure.”
When she left, he read charts, then his pager sounded. One of his patients had been rushed in and was in the E.R., barely clinging to life. Adrenaline flowing, he dashed out of his office, bypassed the notoriously slow elevators and took the stairs.
Three hours later, with the youngster finally stabilized and the parents’ fears calmed as much as possible, he grabbed a cup of coffee in the doctors’ lounge. With luck, the caffeine would keep him awake long enough to drive home, where he could snatch a few hours sleep. A message on his voice mail informed him that he was due at a meeting of department heads at 7:00 a.m. He could crash here, but he preferred a shower and his own bed.
He found he didn’t need the caffeine buzz. Thoughts of Elyssa—her voice, that sassy walk, that wildly arousing perfume—kept him up even after he fell, naked and still damp from the shower, into his bed.
He was a damn fool. Slaying dragons, as Elyssa had put it, drained every ounce of his energy, claimed every moment of his time. Especially now, with the groundbreaking for the new hospital building only weeks away. He had no business starting even a superficial relationship, provided Elyssa wanted one. And judging from her response to his dinner invitation, she didn’t.
Best to forget it, he thought as he drifted into sleep at last. They’d both…be…better off….
“Dinner?”
