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One Night That Changed Everything
Tina Beckett









One Night

that Changed

Everything

Tina Beckett
















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For those who embrace life.


Dear Reader

There are times in life when every person comes face to face with his or her own mortality. As I brainstormed Greg and Hannah’s story I thought about people who overcome incredible challenges, and how they seem to relish life with an intensity others can only dream of. I wanted Hannah’s character to have this same passion as someone who’s faced down a life-threatening illness and made a conscious decision to live every moment to its fullest. Even if some of those moments have unexpected consequences …

Thank you for joining Greg and Hannah as they experience the joy and heartbreak of working in a difficult field. Their dedication to their patients and to each other helps them rise to meet each new challenge. Best of all, this special couple finds love along the way.

I hope you enjoy reading about their journey as much as I enjoyed writing about it!

Sincerely

Tina Beckett


Recent titles by Tina Beckett:

THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T MARRY

DOCTOR’S MILE-HIGH FLING

DOCTOR’S GUIDE TO DATING IN THE JUNGLE

These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk




CHAPTER ONE


“MRS. BROOKSTONE went under hospice care last night.”

The words met Hannah Lassiter the second she pushed through the glass doors of the Alaska Valley Oncology Center. She glanced at her watch, her shoulders slumping. Only seven-thirty, but she had no doubt her boss was already here. Had already heard the news. “Oh, no. Where is he?”

She didn’t really need to ask. Dr. Gregory Mason would be holed up in his office until his first appointment. Dedicated to providing the best care possible, news like this—even when it was expected—had the power to bring Dr. Mason’s world crashing to a halt for an hour or two. At least until he rose from his chair, closed the door on this particular compartment in his head and got back to work. It was eerie, really, how he could seemingly wall off certain portions of his brain at will.

The receptionist answered her question with a jerk of her thumb.

Hannah sighed. “When’s his first patient due in?”

“Martha Brookstone was his first patient. We’ve cancelled the appointment.”

“Don’t put anyone else in her slot, okay? I’ll check on him.”

Easier said than done. Her employer, a brilliant doctor, insisted on doing much of the scheduling himself, which was a nightmare for his staff, who had to scramble to keep up with him.

Yet every single person in that office had benefitted from his indefatigable nature, including Hannah herself.

A year in remission and counting. She’d never even seen it coming. A routine checkup two years ago had uncovered enlarged lymph nodes.

Cancer.

She’d moved from her position at a tiny clinic in the Aleutian Islands to Anchorage for treatment. Dr. Mason had convinced her to stay on as one of his staff afterward.

Today, of all days, though, she was going to have a tough time keeping her mind on her job. She’d had her own doctor’s appointment yesterday. Her chance at a new beginning.

Rounding the U-shaped receptionist desk to check the printed schedule, she frowned. The list stretched well into the evening. Seven o’clock. And the word hospital was penciled in after the last appointment.

How did he do it?

While some doctors crammed in as many patients as possible, Dr. Mason worked long, hard hours but his patients were spread out, most covering an entire half-hour block, some up to an hour—especially the newly diagnosed. She ran a finger down the list. Three new cases. Blowing out a breath that fluffed her bangs off her forehead, she again wondered why she’d agreed to work for a doctor who represented every fear she’d ever held.

Except for today. Even with the sad news about Martha still floating in the air, this was one day she’d force herself to flatten the past and let the hope of a shining future take hold and grow into something wonderful. Just as she hoped that little blast of sperm she’d received yesterday would grow and multiply.

Too bad that blast had been from the end of a syringe. But it was the only kind of action she was likely to get. Especially with the schedule she’d been keeping lately. It was almost as bad as her boss’s.

And if the little swimmers hit their mark, she’d have to talk to Dr. Mason about cutting back and possibly finding a replacement as her time got near.

A lot depended on the damage the chemo had done to her eggs. Dr. Mason had put her on a lighter regimen in an effort to preserve her fertility, but even so, she’d banked some of her eggs beforehand, just in case. But she’d decided to start with the easiest option—artificial insemination—and work her way toward the hardest and most expensive procedures. If those all failed, adoption was always an option.

Going to the coffee carafe they kept in the far corner of the office, she poured two cups, one for herself and one for Dr. Mason, who’d probably already let his first cup go stone cold.

“Wish me luck,” she said to Stella, who was already busy fielding calls for the nurse who’d arrive soon. The receptionist gave her a thumbs-up sign and went back to writing on the neon green notepad in front of her. The only way she could keep track of things, she’d said.

Stella buzzed her in, and Hannah used her shoulder to push through the metal door that led to a short corridor of exam rooms, at the end of which lay Dr. Mason’s cramped office. She didn’t know why she bothered going back to see him. He would emerge when he was ready and not a second before.

His door was closed, but since when had she let something like that stop her? Um … never.

Using her elbow to push down the stainless-steel lever, she waited for the click that would allow her to ease it open. Lucky for her, the thing wasn’t locked. Kicking it repeatedly wouldn’t be the most dignified way of letting him know she was there.

He sat behind an ornately carved mahogany desk, forehead resting on steepled fingers, eyes closed. He didn’t bother looking up. “Don’t you ever knock?”

His low voice was gruff, and she had to strain to hear it. The sound pulled at her heartstrings, but she couldn’t let him know it. They’d played this little dance several times since he’d hired her. No, even before that. The day he’d declared her to be in remission she’d impulsively thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, thanking him. He’d stiffened for a second or two before sliding warm hands across her back and returning the hug. Just as quickly he’d moved away, not quite meeting her eyes during the rest of the appointment.

None of the other staff dared come into his “lair”—as they called it—without an invitation. But Hannah had been raised in a house with five boys. Impulse control and subtlety were not on the menu. Neither were privacy and quiet. And the last thing Dr. Mason needed right now was to sit here alone and brood.

“My hands are full. Besides, would you have let me in?”

His head came up, twin indentations from his fingertips marring the broad surface of his forehead.

How long had he been sitting like that?

“What do you think?” Deep brown eyes met hers. Eyes that had been filled with compassion when he’d treated her Hodgkin’s disease were now glittering with annoyance.

“I brought a peace offering.” She set both the cups of coffee on his desk, spying a matching paper cup off to the side. It was still full, but when she touched the side of it …

Yep. Icy cold, just as she’d suspected.

Carrying it into the tiny restroom attached to his office, she dumped the contents into the sink, rinsed out the dregs, then threw the cup into the wastebasket.

She joined him again, taking her own cup and sliding into one of the twin chairs on the other side of his desk.

Dr. Mason groaned. Out loud, which made her smile.

“I’ll drink it, I promise.”

“You’re right. You will.” She crossed her legs and took a sip of her own coffee. Waiting.

“Damn it, Hannah. You’re not my mother.”

No, she wasn’t. But she was grateful for everything he’d done for her, and this was the only way she could think of to return the favor. It was all he’d allow. And, grudgingly or not, he usually let her have her way.

Right on cue, he picked up the cup and took a sip.

“Stella told me about Mrs. Brookstone. I’m sorry.”

He nodded.

Hannah knew the recommendation not to continue chemotherapy had been an agonizing one for Dr. Mason. He never made those kinds of decisions lightly, which was why he was in here, probably going over each step of his patient’s treatment with a fine-toothed comb, wondering if he could have done something differently.

“She’s seventy-five, and the cancer had already spread to her lungs by the time her general practitioner diagnosed her.”

His eyes closed for a second before sending her a glare. “I’ve read the chart.”

Many times, if she knew him.

“Yes, you read it. But did you accept it?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “I’ll never accept no hope as a diagnosis.”

Her heart squeezed at the tightness behind the words. She wasn’t saying he should just write the most serious cases off. “That’s what makes you the perfect man for this job.”

“I sometimes wonder.”

She set her coffee on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “You need to cut back on your schedule. Take some time off just for yourself. You’re already on the road to burnout as it is.”

His brows went up. “I’ve been doing this job for ten years. I think I know my own limitations.”

“When was the last time you took a vacation?” She held up a hand before he could answer. “A real one. One that doesn’t involve a medical conference or giving some type of lecture.”

“You mean like the one you’re giving me right now?”

Her face heated. Okay, so he had her there. “Sorry.”

He picked up a pen and twirled it, giving her a chance to study him. Dark hair, conservatively cropped, lay thick against his head. Not a hint of grey yet. His broad shoulders were strong and imposing, despite the slight stoop from spending hours bent over operating tables and examining patients. She knew those shoulders led to narrow hips, which were now safely hidden on the other side of the desk.

The fingers that gripped the pen were long and delicate, nimble enough to separate healthy tissue from diseased. She gulped, remembering the gentle way they’d touched the bare skin of her midriff as he’d drawn a permanent marker across the vulnerable surface in preparation for taking a biopsy of one of her thoracic nodes. The way her abdominal muscles had rippled at the contact. Even through the thin latex gloves, his hands had been warm and reassuring.

This isn’t what you came back here to do, Hannah.

She stood, taking another sip of her coffee. “Lecture’s almost over, then. Drink your coffee, Dr. Mason.”

“Greg.” His head tilted to the side. “How many times do I have to ask?”

A hundred? A million?

That crazy hug all those months ago had changed something between them. Had left her with a frightening awareness of his scent, of the solid feel of his body against hers. She was only too eager to keep those memories locked up tight.

Calling him by his first name might just undo all that hard work, despite the fact that everyone else in the office called him Greg. Most of them would also admit to having a bit of a crush on their handsome employer. Or at least a good dose of hero-worship.

Some of his patients claimed he was a miracle worker.

In reality, Dr. Mason was just a man. He even had a pretty big flaw: despite his best efforts, he couldn’t remain completely objective about his patients. And it ate him up from the inside out.

Mrs. Brookstone was a prime example of that.

He grieved. Deeply. For each one he lost. Even though he didn’t let others see his pain, she suspected he kept a private scorecard inside his head that recorded those he’d been able to snatch from death’s door … and those he hadn’t.

“Dr. Mason—”

His brows went up.

Okay, she was weak. Stupid. Would probably come to regret doing this very, very soon. But he was hurting right now.

“Greg,” she corrected, her voice soft. “You can’t save them all.”

He dropped the pen onto the top of his desk, the sharp ping as it struck the wooden surface as loud as a guillotine strike. Off with her head!

Why had she said something he was already well aware of?

“Thank you.”

His answer didn’t track with what she’d just said. Unless he was being sarcastic.

But there was nothing in his face to indicate he was. In fact, his eyes met hers for a second or two before moving lower. Her lips tingled, sending an answering heat washing across her face.

He was not looking where she thought he was.

To cover up her embarrassment, she said, “What are you thanking me for?”

He picked up his prescription pad in one hand and his coffee cup in the other then stood. “For bringing me coffee.” His lips curved up at the corners, sending more heat sloshing around her tummy. “And for saying my name.”




CHAPTER TWO


THANK you for saying my name.

Greg rolled his eyes and scrubbed a hand across his head as he wrote up notes from his last patient of the day. What kind of lame comment was that?

He refused to admit he’d waited with bated breath, wondering if his physician’s assistant would rise to the subtle challenge.

She had, which had shocked him. At first.

But hearing his name uttered in those husky tones had washed away his surprise and done a number on his gut. He’d been hounding her to adopt the informality of the rest of the staff for months now, but she’d steadfastly refused.

Until today.

And now he wondered if the policy he’d instituted hadn’t been the most idiotic idea known to man.

She just felt sorry for you, that’s all.

He slammed the folder shut, hoping to God she’d already left for the day. Unlike the first-name-basis rule, one of his smarter decisions had been to request that the staff leave once they’d finished inputting the last patient of the day, with the exception of his nurse. He might work long hours, but that didn’t mean he should expect them to as well. Most of them had families to go home to.

Except Hannah.

He could still remember her gripping his neck, the softly whispered “Thank you” against his skin when her last set of test results had come back. And, like a fool, he’d returned her embrace … had—

Damn it. Why couldn’t he get her out of his head today?

Maybe because she’d rarely given in once she’d made her mind up about something. Like not leaving his office this morning, until she’d watched him take a few sips of his coffee. He’d learned the hard way not to go head to head with her.

Her determination to make the most out of life had struck him even when he’d been her oncologist. It was still there now that he was her boss.

She hadn’t been able to make the transition from patient to employee as well as some of his other staff had.

And yet that “Greg” had seemed to slip between her lips effortlessly, as if she’d said it to herself hundreds of times before.

That thought made not only his collar tighten but other, more dangerous parts.

As her mouth had formed the word his thoughts had strayed, along with his eyes.

The pink color rushing to her face had told him she’d realized the exact second his gaze had touched her lips. Paused there.

He shook his head. What was wrong with him? He still had work to do and wanted to run by the hospital before it was too late to check on his patients.

Mrs. Brookstone’s case had weighed on his heart like a rock all day. The last time he’d seen her, three of her grandchildren had crowded around her hospital bed, looking up at him with such hope. She’d had a pair of knitting needles balanced in her hands, in the process of making yet another hat for one of his patients.

But the news he’d brought had been anything but good.

Life was fragile. As he’d learned from experience. When Hannah had stood there in his office, all he’d wanted to do was pull her into his arms and relive the warmth of her breath washing across his cheek, the steady beat of her heart.

He’d resisted the impulse. Thank God.

Tucking a few files into his attaché case, he slung the strap over his shoulder and headed out, locking his office behind him. When he got to the closed door of the reception area, a strange blend of scents hit his nostrils. Garlic. Tomato sauce. It smelled like … lasagna.

What the …?

Someone must have brought pasta from home and heated it in the microwave at lunchtime.

His stomach gurgled in sad protest, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything other than the ham sandwich that had been mysteriously deposited on his desk at lunchtime.

Maybe he’d swing by the hospital cafeteria after making his rounds. He had nothing at home, other than the bacon and eggs he’d bought a couple of days ago. And neither of those sounded very appetizing right now. Especially with his nose still twitching in anticipation.

Pushing through the door, he blinked at the quartet of aluminum containers lining the reception desk. And the lights were still on.

“I was just about to come and get you.” The voice came from his left. He didn’t have to look to know who it belonged to. Hannah.

He turned. Sure enough, there she was, her printed work smock gone and in its place a soft green blouse, cinched at the waist with a belt. The deep V-neckline drew his eyes down. He forced his gaze to stay above her collarbone, which was not quite as prominent as it had been during her treatments a year ago. That was a good sign. She was putting on some of the weight she’d lost. There were now curves that …

Clearing his throat, he met her gaze, noting the pink tinge from earlier was back in her cheeks. The color contrasted with her hair, the deep mahogany locks still fairly short, even after a year’s regrowth. He liked the choppy style she’d adopted. It matched her personality. “I thought you’d left a while ago.” He motioned toward the desk. “What’s all this?”

“I figured you wouldn’t stop to eat before going to the hospital, so I ordered takeout. Manicotti.”

Huh. So his nose hadn’t been too far off the mark. “I don’t pay you to babysit me.”

Her teeth came down on her lip, making him regret the words almost as soon as they’d left his mouth.

“I was trying to help. You work too hard.”

One shoulder went up in irritation. “I think we’ve already covered this territory. I’m not married. No kids. So I don’t think it’s anyone’s business how many hours I put in.”

“Your patients count on you.” Her voice was soft. Hesitant. And he had no idea what she meant. His patients were what motivated him to work so hard. Along with his sister’s faith in him.

“I’m trying to make sure they have reason to.”

She took a step closer. “No, I don’t mean they need you to work harder. They count on you staying healthy enough to make good decisions.”

Good decisions. A thread of anger unfurled inside his chest. He didn’t need this today. Especially after Mrs. Brookstone. “I didn’t hear you complaining when I treated you.”

“No. But I didn’t know what your office hours looked like back then.” Her gaze went to the desk, and she picked her handbag up from a nearby chair and hitched it on her shoulder. “I didn’t stay to argue with you. I just wanted to make sure you had a decent meal for once. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait.” He put a hand on her arm, the shirt just as soft and silky as it appeared. He let go once she looked up at him. She’d said she was trying to help, and all he’d done was gripe and complain. “At least stay and eat with me. It’ll be good to have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around malignancies and treatment options.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think … There’s only one plate.”

“Then we’ll improvise.” Why was he insisting? Because her thoughtfulness had touched him? Because the perks of not having anyone waiting for him at home came with a hefty—and lonely—price tag?

He had no idea, but he knew he wanted some company. He didn’t want to sit here by himself and dwell on his patients. What he’d said was true. There were times he craved conversation that had nothing to do with his job or his struggles—something his sister had intuitively known. But she wasn’t here to make him smile anymore.

“Okay. Wait here.”

The ease at which she’d given in surprised him almost as much as it had earlier. He smiled. He noticed she hadn’t once said his name again, though.

She would before the meal was through. He’d see to it.

Punching the buzzer that unlocked the back area, she dragged a chair over to the door and propped it open, then disappeared for a few minutes. When she came back, she was holding a pink emesis basin.

“You’re kidding.”

She shrugged. “It’s clean. I’ve eaten chili out one of these more than once.”

Greg’s lip curled half in disgust, half in amusement. “Have you ever thought of bringing in a package of paper plates and stashing them somewhere?”

“Yep, but I never got around to it. You said to improvise.” Her head tilted, a quick smile forming. “This is me, improvising.”

Okay, she had him there.

“And silverware? Are we supposed to share?” The thought made something heat in his chest.

She pulled a clear plastic package out from behind the desk. “Nope, the girls always keep their leftover plastic ware in case of an emergency.”

What kind of emergency, other than eating, required sets of plastic knives and forks? He didn’t think he wanted to know. “I guess we’re all set, then.”

Greg helped her dish out the food, noting she took the emesis basin for herself and gave him the plate and silverware provided by the restaurant. Besides the manicotti, there were two kinds of sauce, white and red, as well as a Caesar salad and garlic rolls. She’d expected him to eat all this himself?

“I see I owe you some money.”

She shook her head, spooning white sauce over her own portion. “I took money out of the petty-cash drawer.”

His brows went up. “We keep that much in there?”

“Fifty bucks.” She dropped the spoon back into the container. “But this pretty much cleaned it out.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent that much money on a meal for himself. The warmth in his chest grew, bringing with it the uncomfortable awareness that he was in a deserted medical building with a woman he couldn’t begin to understand. One he found dangerously attractive.

She was also one of his employees. Asking her to stay and eat with him had been a big mistake. Huge!

But he couldn’t very well ask her to leave now.

So he sat on one of the brown leatherette chairs in the waiting room next to her, balancing a flimsy plate across his knees.

Hannah, on the other hand, looked perfectly at home, cutting into her manicotti with a plastic fork and popping a piece into her mouth. “Mmm.” Her lids came down for a brief second as she seemed to savor the food.

He swallowed, despite the fact that he had nothing in his mouth other than the lump that was currently stuck in his throat.

Incredibly long lashes swept back up, and green eyes regarded him. “Aren’t you going to taste it?”

The only thing he wanted to taste were her lips.

Ah, hell.

He forked up a big bite and shoved it past his teeth, dumping the food onto his tongue before he could do or say anything stupid. He chewed. Swallowed. His stomach gave another fierce rumble.

Okay, so she’d been right. He was hungry. And evidently that fact was going to trump any other urges for the moment. He relaxed into his seat, figuring he could eat and then get the hell out of there before his belly figured out it was full and let his other instincts out of their cage. “It’s good.”

“I know. It’s my go-to place for takeout. I order from there at least once a week.”

He didn’t like to think of Hannah at home alone, eating from disposable metal containers. But it wasn’t much better than what he did day in and day out. He was content with it, so why would he assume someone else wouldn’t be?

Greg just couldn’t imagine her having weekends free, figuring she’d be out making up for the year she’d lost. There was something inside her that burned brightly. That glow could have been snuffed out in an instant. Not something he wanted to think about right now.

He covered by saying, “I normally just grab something from the hospital cafeteria.”

“I know.”

She did?

Before he could ask, she added, “I used to see you walking down the corridor with a sandwich container in your hand.”

“When …?”

“When I was getting my chemo infusions. I saw you sometimes.” Her hand went to her collarbone area and fingered the pale scar where her port had once been. Greg was so used to seeing those that he hadn’t even noticed it.

He also hadn’t realized she’d been in that treatment room. Had seen him. How many other patients had he walked by without noticing? Another brick of guilt settled into place. “I’m sorry. I’m normally so busy, I don’t stop in there all the time.”

Putting her fork into her bowl, she reached out and touched his hand. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. I’ve just learned how important it is to eat a balanced meal.”

She was right. Again. He often preached to his patients that they needed to strengthen their bodies as much as possible to help during the chemo treatments as well as to aid in the fight of their disease. That meant making healthy choices when it came to food. And yet, just like a pulmonologist who indulged in the occasional cigarette, Greg was unwilling to abide by his own advice.

“I don’t have cancer, but I also don’t cook.”

She picked up her fork again, avoiding his eyes this time. “That’s why there are places like Piazza Toscana.” The comment, unlike her lighthearted ones from a few moments ago, was tight, as if …

I don’t have cancer.

How damned insensitive could he be? She’d spent a year undergoing chemotherapy. Hadn’t known for sure if she’d live or die.

Maybe she was right. He worked so hard that he no longer paid attention to social conventions or cared how his words might affect someone else.

No, that wasn’t right. He did care.

Setting his plate onto the chair next to him, he shifted sideways to face her. “Hey.” He waited until she looked at him before continuing. “I’m sorry for saying that. There’s no good reason, other than I’m tired and not thinking straight.”

She blinked, and he wasn’t sure whether the light was playing tricks on him or if there’d been a trace of moisture rimming her lower lids. But when he looked closer, it was gone.

“How long will you be at the hospital tonight?” she asked.

“About an hour.”

Glancing at her watch, she set her own plate to the side and went over to the low sofa and picked up one of the leather pillows. Coming back, she lowered herself to the padded loop carpet at his feet.

His mouth went dry as she set the pillow down and patted the area next to her. “It’s only seven. Why don’t you stretch out for a while? Take a quick nap. I promise I won’t let you sleep longer than an hour.”

Was she crazy? After the thoughts that had just gone spinning through his head? There was no way he was going to lie down on the floor and—

Even as the words slid through his mind, a wave of exhaustion washed over him, staggering him with its force.

It was the food. The heavy meal was making him sleepy.

What would it hurt? If his eyes were shut, he could block out her face. No more trying to make small talk. No more worrying about how he was looking at her. About what her kneeling on the floor with that pillow had made him imagine.

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he’d done as she’d suggested and stretched out on his back, his head on the pillow she’d laid next to her hip. Every muscle in his body seemed to go boneless, and he glanced up to see her leaning over him with a smile. Her fingers brushed across his forehead, the touch light. Comforting.

He pulled in a deep breath. Let it out.

“Close your eyes, Greg. I promise I’ll be right here.”

Even as his lids seemed to obey her every command, a tired sense of triumph went through him.

He’d been right. She’d said his name. Again.




CHAPTER THREE


THE trill of Hannah’s watch alarm registered in her ears, but it took her brain a little more time to place the sound.

Opening her eyes, she punched a button before noticing Greg’s dark, mussed hair, his even darker eyes regarding her with a slight smile. He was upside down. No, wait. She was. Hadn’t she been sitting up while he’d slept? Why were they now reversed?

Ack. Because she’d fallen asleep, too. Had evidently just keeled over sideways and was lying on the floor, looking pretty much like she’d looked sitting up. Bent at the hips, legs straight out.

Greg’s lips curved higher. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who was tired.”

Only he didn’t seem tired. Not anymore. His eyes glittered with life, and the dark circles beneath them had eased. He also looked much more relaxed. Or was that still due to the topsy-turvy world she’d awoken into? Maybe his smile was really a frown.

“Did you sleep well?” She cleared her throat when her voice came out as a hoarse squawk.

“Like a rock. Good thing you set that alarm.”

He could say that again. She’d only set it so she wouldn’t be tempted to wake him with the proverbial kiss. Like a reverse Sleeping Beauty. That analogy fit her current mixed-up thought processes to a T. “Sorry. I had no idea I was that tired.”

“I should be the one saying sorry. I don’t expect you to keep the same hours I do.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized she should be moving. “Don’t you think I’m capable of it?”

He gave a soft laugh. “Oh, I know you are. I just don’t want you to run you off before I’ve …”

His words trailed away.

“Before you’ve what?”

“Before I’ve proven I can take better care of myself.”

That made her smile. But when she did try to sit up, the awkward angle at which she’d been lying made her back muscles give a warning twinge. She eased back down, licking her lips as she waited for the spasm to pass.

He frowned. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Lord, what was she going to do? She couldn’t very well wave him off and send him on his way while pretzeled on the floor. What if she couldn’t get up after he left and he returned in the morning to find her still here? Still folded like a crazed contortionist? “I’ll be fine in a minute. My … er, foot’s asleep.”

He angled away, his gaze sweeping down her pants’ legs. He reached down and plucked off one of her white leather slip-ons and then the other. “Which one?”

“No, don’t touch it!”

Okay, that screech hadn’t been exactly the calm tone she’d been going for. But her feet were seriously ticklish—one wrong move and she’d wrench her back even further.

“Shh. I won’t.” He propped himself on one elbow as he continued to regard her. “Your foot might keep you from walking but it wouldn’t keep you from sitting up. Why didn’t you at least get a pillow for yourself?”

Because I didn’t expect to crash to the floor like a felled tree. Was so busy watching each breath you took that …

No, that wasn’t right. She’d been merely biding her time, letting him get some much-needed rest.

“I just closed my eyes for a second or two.”

“Or more.” He paused, still watching her face. “Do you want me to help you up?”

Her body tensed, her back already sending up a frantic mayday. “No.” She even managed to smile, although she could only imagine what it looked like to him. She’d better come clean before he did something that made the situation worse. “My back is a little … sore. From lying in this position.”

“I thought it was your foot?”

“I lied.” The admission came with a real smile this time.

“Hannah, Hannah, what am I going to do with you?” The soft murmur trailed across her senses, making her back tighten further.

She pulled in a careful breath. “How about leaving me to die in peace?”

His face stilled. “Don’t say that.”

“Don’t say …?” It hit her. Mrs. Brookstone’s turn for the worse. How hard he’d worked to keep that from happening to any of his patients. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He stood up and carefully lifted the chair behind her out of the way. Then the two on either side of it.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help you sit up.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

When he knelt on the floor behind her and put his hands on the muscles on her right side, a quick flicker of fear went through her. But he didn’t try to jerk her upright. Instead his fingers played over the different areas of her back before muttering something under his breath. Then he said, “I can’t feel anything through your shirt. I need bare skin.”

Her heart went into overdrive, threatening to hammer its way out of her chest. “Wh-what?”

“Sorry. I meant your muscles.” He paused. “Where does it hurt?”

“Below my right shoulderblade.”

His fingers shifted, testing. “Can you roll onto your stomach?”

“I don’t know.” She tried, inching to the right, his palms taking some of the work off her back muscles. Then she was there, legs stretched straight behind her, feet bare, all the while a group of muscles sizzled with fire. Even drawing too deep a breath caused it to tighten further. A tiny whimper made its way out before she could stop it.

His fingers began exploring her back again until he reached the ball of agony around which her world currently swirled.

“Oh, God, don’t. Please.” She was horrified at the hoarse plea in her voice.

He swore softly.

“Stay here. I’m going to get a muscle relaxant and a heating pad. I’ll be right back.”

As he walked away, Hannah heard him talking softly to someone, giving them his cell number and asking whoever it was to call him if there was an emergency. The hospital? His answering service?

She hadn’t wanted to interfere with his work. She’d just wanted to leave some food for him and be on her way.

He could have just left her, like she’d suggested …

But he wasn’t that kind of man.

She heard him come back. “I don’t want you to take the pill lying down like that, so we’ll see if we can loosen you up a little first.”

Despite the pain, she giggled. It sounded more like he was trying to get her drunk than help her get back on her feet.

“You find this funny?”

“No. It’s just … Never mind.”

A second later he draped something across the sore part of her back and the sound of a switch clicking hit her ears. Soft vibrations made their way through her back, not hard enough to hurt but enough that she knew it was there.

“It’ll warm up in a minute or two.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t normally have back spasms.” The last time had been after her biopsy, when lying in one position for a prolonged period of time had left her muscles stiff and sore. She’d moved too quickly and driven home in quiet agony, too embarrassed to tell anyone at the hospital what was going on. It had taken two days for the pain to ease—she hadn’t even been able to lift her arm to brush her hair. And it had been in the same muscle group as now.

What if she were laid up for two days again? No. If she could just get up, she’d be fine.

Greg’s voice came back to her. “It’s okay. Just rest a few more minutes.”

Unable to do anything else, she watched as he cleaned up the remainder of their shared meal, tossing containers into one of the trash cans and drawing the plastic bag up tight.

Sure enough, the vibrating pad began to warm, the heat working its way into the affected muscle. It didn’t completely relax but the pain wasn’t quite as severe as it had been moments earlier. Maybe she could … Shifting a bit, she gasped as the muscle contracted again.

“Lie still. You’re not going anywhere for a couple of hours.”

A couple of hours? A second ago he’d said to rest for a few minutes.

“Why don’t you go to the hospital and then head home? I’ll be fine in a little while. Promise.”

“Not going to happen, Hannah. The hospital can do without me for one night. I’ve already told them to call me if there’s an emergency.”

Guilt rolled through her. He never skipped his rounds that she knew of. Always did them every night. Even weekends.

And here he was, stuck at the office, babysitting the person who’d told him to get some rest. Having to take care of her. Again. Just like during her treatments.

The thought brought tears to her eyes. She never wanted to go back to those days of fear and pain and that dark hole that had threatened to close over the top of her.

Stop it. You’re not sick. It’s just a muscle cramp.

The pain would soon be gone then she’d be strong and healthy once again. Free to live every day to the fullest. She visualized those words, made them her reality. Added an image of herself with a rounded tummy and pink, glowing cheeks. She was happy. Content.

Pregnant.

She blinked, remembering the procedure she’d undergone just that morning. She also realized her back was feeling better, at least while she was lying still. If she could just stay where she was a few minutes longer …

A half hour later, she found herself again nodding off, the pain finally sliding away. The vibrations stopped and she was aware of the heating pad being lifted off and gentle hands again moving over her back, this time right where it had hurt. She pulled in a deep breath and felt nothing but that contentment she’d reached for a few minutes earlier. “It’s gone.” She whispered the words, afraid the pain would find her again if she spoke any louder.

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to put it back?”

“Put it …?” She realized he was talking about the heating pad. “No, I meant my back feels better. Can you help me sit up?”

“Yes, but we’re going to roll you onto your back first so you won’t have to twist at an awkward angle. I don’t want to give that muscle any reason to flare up again.” He placed his hands on her right shoulder and hip. “Ready?”

His fingers were almost as warm as the heating pad and a tiny shudder went through her. “I’m ready.”

“On three.” He counted slowly and when he reached three, before she could even brace her hands on the floor and help, he’d gently rolled her over.

Moving a tiny bit, she tested her muscles. Nothing felt out of place or sore.

His brown eyes slid over her face. “Everything okay?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s just wait a minute or two.” He nodded toward the reception desk. “I have some carisoprodol, just in case.”

She shifted again, a little more this time, to see if anything acted up. Still nothing. “I think the worst is over. And I’d rather not drive with that kind of medication in my system.”

“I’ll take you home.”

“Muscle relaxants knock me for a loop, and I’m never myself the next day.” She didn’t want to tell him that her year of treatment had conditioned her throat to constrict at the sight of anything that resembled a capsule. “I have to work tomorrow, remember?”

“Stay home.”

She lifted her hand, feeling at a distinct disadvantage lying flat on her back. “Help me up, and then we’ll talk about it.”

Greg stood and then curled his hand around hers. She sensed a slight hesitation on his part before his grip tightened and his arm bent at the elbow as he applied steady pressure. Their connected palms were doing crazy things to her stomach so, in an effort to hurry the process up, she braced her feet and launched herself into a vertical position.

Her momentum carried her straight into his chest where she landed with a thump.

Ack!

Greg wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against his solid body as she tried to catch her breath.

At least her stupid move hadn’t sent her back into another spasm.

Something she couldn’t say about her heart, which was pumping at an alarming rate. A hundred and twenty beats per minute at least … and rising by the second.

She tried to act nonchalant, as if falling against her employer was something she did on a regular basis. And it was no big deal. She’d hugged him before after all. “Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have gotten up so fast.”

“I’ll say.” The murmured words ruffled her hair and sent her heart on another race for the finish line. “How’s your back?”

She wiggled the upper part of her body back and forth to feel it out, then realized she’d just done a quick shimmy against his thorax.

Her nipples contracted in reaction, and she blurted out the first thing she could think of: “Can’t feel a thing.”

The hand at her back tightened. “Can’t you?”

Um, yeah. And it wasn’t good. Because she was suddenly aware of every inch of male flesh pressed against her. Muscular chest, firm abs, taut thighs, and …

No, it couldn’t be. She licked her lips, telling herself to pull back now before he realized that she realized that he was …

He was …

Yes. He was.

And if she shifted one millimeter, she’d be rubbing right against his was. Lord, did she want to press just a little bit.

And like that horrible thing that often happened when you told yourself not to do something—like not to eat that whole pint of ice cream in one sitting—your body did the exact opposite.

She pressed.

And the sound of his breath hissing in through his teeth met her ears.

Okay. Now he knew that she knew.

She slowly lifted her head and met eyes that were sizzling with something she hadn’t seen in a very long time in a man. Especially not directed at her.

Desire.

Steaming. Naked. Toe-curling need.

“Greg?” She had no idea why she said his name, but his gaze darkened further.

One hand came up and slid into her hair, his thumb resting along her jaw. “How’s your back?”

“Better.” The words came out in a whisper, because suddenly she knew why he was asking. She emphasized her point. “Much better.”

“Hannah.” His thumb applied gentle pressure to tilt her head up, even as he angled his own down until only a breath of space remained between them. “You know this is a very bad idea.”

“Worse than playing with matches?”

“Much worse.”

It was. But the fascination of running that match across a strike plate and watching it flare to life proved too much to resist. Besides, she wasn’t sure she even had what it took to light that particular fire. Closing her eyes, she bridged the gap between them, deciding to prove him right … and herself wrong.

He didn’t want her. Couldn’t.

The second her lips met his, though, and the hand at her nape hauled her even closer, she knew.

He could.

And he did.




CHAPTER FOUR


GREG wasn’t sure who kissed whom first, but he knew with certainty there was nowhere he’d rather be right now. First she’d coaxed him to eat. Then to sleep. When he’d awoken, he’d found her right there beside him—even if she had been folded into something reminiscent of a cube. Her mouth had been slightly open, one hand curled softly against her chest. Her breasts had slowly risen and fallen as she’d breathed. The sight had sent his endocrine system on a rampage, pumping chemicals through his body. Then she’d looked up with those big green eyes, and he’d been lost. He’d stayed where he was, when he should have run.

No, that wasn’t completely true. He’d been pretty sure he could walk away without a problem, until that singular moment when her hips had seemed to zero in on a certain part of his anatomy. The part that was now issuing all sorts of commands he wasn’t sure he could resist.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, ready to pull back at the first sign of hesitation on her part.

Damn it, what was he thinking? Her back had just gone through hell and back, and here he was, mauling her to within an inch of her life.

But wasn’t she mauling him right back, her fists buried in his starched shirt and hanging on for dear life?

Still, he had to be sure.

“Your back,” he whispered against her lips.

“Forgotten.”

“But—”

She pulled him close and cut off his words with another lingering kiss.

Okay, if that’s the way she wanted to play this, who was he to complain? Besides, he was tired of warring against his emotions, trying to keep them in check so as not to alarm his patients, or hand out undue hope, if things took a turn for the worse.

Like with Martha Brookstone?

No, don’t think of that right now.

He was with someone who’d fought the disease. Who’d won. He gloried in that. Celebrated Hannah’s life. Her health. It was why he’d surrounded himself with people just like her, to remind himself that cancer could be beaten. Not all of the time. His own sister had …

His fingers tightened in Hannah’s hair, desperate to feel the life force coursing through her body, her heart pumping strongly against his own.

Life! This was what it was about. The need for closeness, to reaffirm your own existence.

Surely just this once he could block out the real world.

The blinds were closed. Door locked. Alarm set.

And, most of all, there was a beautiful, willing woman in his arms.

Her low sigh melted his resistance even further, and Greg gentled his kiss, taking the time to taste her, to measure the softness of her lips against his. His tongue slid in a slow arc across the surface of her teeth, then back again, his senses roaring to life when she opened her mouth in invitation. Stunned by the force of his reaction, he hung around outside for a second or two, until her tongue touched the underside of his, leading him inside. Coaxing him, just like she’d done with his meal. Before he knew it, he was right there, the interplay of textures and heat making it impossible for him to retreat again.

His hand left her hair, sliding down her back until it lay just above the curve of her buttocks. A very dangerous place to be. Once he took that leap there’d be no going back.

On that note, he lingered in her mouth, needing to show her exactly what she was doing to him, and that if she intended to call a halt to things, it needed to be soon.

She didn’t. She met each stroke by moving closer, protested each withdrawal with a soft bite to his lower lip. His hands slid down and over in unison, his fingers curving on the rounded flesh he found there. It filled his palms, set his whole body on fire.

He pulled her up and against him, hoping to relieve a little of the ache that was growing steadily worse. And hoping the shock would knock them both back into the realm of reality. Except Greg didn’t want reality. He wanted the fantasy … to keep her here. With him. Wanted to wish their clothing gone and to drive every last inch of himself into her—to fill her to capacity and beyond.

Hannah released her hold on his shirt, and at first he thought she meant to pull away. Instead, the top button of his shirt popped free, as if …

His lips left hers in question, and he caught her smile. Then another button was plucked loose.

She was undoing his shirt. There went the third button. It was either allow her to keep going or let go of her and stop her.

Her hands settled on his bare chest, upping the ante. Especially when they wandered down, purposely sliding over his nipples in the process. His eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold on to some small portion of his sanity.

When her fingers seemed to want to stay and visit for a while, teasing and testing, he had no choice. He let go of her, reaching up to capture her wrists and carry them behind her back.

“You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

Her brows went up. “I hadn’t even gotten to the dangerous part yet.”

Greg couldn’t stop a quick laugh of surprise. This was a side of Hannah he hadn’t known existed. But he liked it.

He took her mouth again. Harder this time. His free hand slid beneath her blouse and claimed the very thing he’d just denied her, the lacy bra providing almost no barrier. And he reveled in it—in the tightly drawn nipple that pressed against the fabric and scraped lusciously against his palm. When he rolled the bud between his thumb and forefinger, she moaned into his mouth.

Yes.

God, he wanted her. Now.

He let go of her and grasped the bottom of her blouse, holding her gaze as she slowly raised her arms above her head so he could take it off. Her shirt was as far as he got, though, because she reached back and unhooked the black bra herself, letting it fall from her body. Still no sign that her back was bothering her. But, hell, if the sight of her naked breasts didn’t hurt him in a very different kind of way.

When he started to move forward again, she backed up a step and reached for the button of her slacks. “Here’s where it starts getting dangerous.”

Holy hell. Surely she didn’t mean to …

In an instant she’d unzipped them and pushed them down her hips, kicking them away from her. Her black panties were barely there, just a scrap of lace with a crisscrossing of strings on the sides. He had no idea where they led or what the back looked like, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Hannah,” he warned, when her fingertips slipped beneath the ties.

She gave a soft laugh. “Your turn, then.”

His turn to what? Take off his clothes? Remove her last article of clothing himself?

He assumed she meant for him to start shucking his own clothes, so he finished unbuttoning his shirt and slung the garment to the side. His fingers weren’t quite as steady as hers, but it had been a long time since he’d been with anyone. A very long time. His hours were too crazy, and he was too exhausted by the time he got home.

And yet right now he seemed to have the energy of an eighteen-year-old boy.

Hannah moved back in before he could go any further and slid her palms up his chest, and rested them on his shoulders, leaning in to kiss the base of his throat.

That wasn’t where he wanted her. “Hey.”

When she looked up, he took her mouth, wrapping his arms around the bare skin of her back, trying to absorb everything at once. The heat of her skin against his, the softness of her breasts.

Breasts he wanted to devour.

He gripped her hips, intending to ease her back so he could cup them, but the strings on her panties sidetracked him. He followed them around. The back had a satiny feel as opposed to the lace in front. Part of him was relieved, part of him disappointed. He’d half hoped to find nothing there.

But it didn’t matter, because he could just do this …

He slid his fingers between the elastic band and her skin and repeated on her bare bottom what he’d done earlier when she’d still been wearing pants. He squeezed, trying to get his fill, then pulled back enough to push her underwear halfway down her legs, his mouth having to leave hers to do so. This time when his hands returned to their perch, he pulled her tight against him, her bare flesh pressing directly on the hard bulge at the front of his slacks. He ground against her, once … twice, swallowing hard when she gave a tiny whimper, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Enough!

He scooped her up in his arms in a quick movement and carried her past the still-propped-open doorway in back. His office had a couch.

And a desk.

Yes.

That’s where he wanted her. On his desk, legs splayed open, with him between them. His flesh tightened beyond belief.

That decadent image would carry him through many a lonely night.

And there’d be no danger of hurting her back.

He gave a rough laugh.

Sure. That was the reason.

He pushed on the handle, but it didn’t budge. Damn. Locked.

“Where’s the key?” she whispered.

“Left front pocket.” Thank heavens he’d kept his trousers on.

“I think I can get it.” Hannah scooched her arm between their bodies, her breasts jiggling in a way that made his mouth water. She found his pocket, dipped in and instead of finding his keys and retreating, her hand drifted to the right and curved over the tight ridge of flesh. The fingers massaged and squeezed and drove the breath from his lungs.

“Those aren’t my keys, woman.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I know.” Her nails scraped down his length, the fabric keeping it from hurting while also making it the most erotic sensation he’d ever felt. He almost did the unthinkable standing right there in front of his door.

“Hannah … please.”

She kissed the side of his neck and retrieved his keys. “I like it when you say please.”

That “please” now encompassed asking God to help him make it inside his office.

“Unlock the door.”

He turned his body sideways to allow her to reach the lock, which she undid in record time. Pushing his way past the door, he carried her over to his desk. He surveyed it, trying to figure out where to put her. “Push the pencil cup onto the floor.”

Her brows went up, but she did as he asked, the offending object flying off the side of the desk, shedding pens and pencils as it went. He then set her on the edge and stepped back to watch her as he undid his own pants.

He was afraid she’d get up, but she didn’t. She sat there, panties still halfway down her legs, her arms going back to prop herself on the wide wooden surface. The act pushed her breasts up and out, while pushing his self-control to the breaking point.

Making short work of the rest of his clothes, he moved over to her and rested his arms on either side of her hips. He gave her a long, slow smile. “My turn to get a little dangerous.”

“Believe me, you already are.”

Her tongue came out to moisten her lips. He leaned in and did the same, drawing his tongue slowly across her already wet mouth. He then kissed her chin, before nudging her head back so he had access to the underside of her throat. Working his way down to her shoulder, he dipped further until he reached her right breast.

The second his lips closed over her nipple, he knew it had been worth the wait. Her reaction was immediate. She arched toward him with a moan. But when she went to lift her arms, he put his hands over hers, trapping them on the desk.

She thought she could drive him crazy with no recourse? Well, he was about to get a little of his own back. He suckled and nibbled, holding her in place with his teeth while his tongue lapped over her. When he finally released her, the nipple was slick and tight.

Just like she would be when he finally entered her. And it had to be soon.

He finally stood upright. Hannah’s teeth were digging into her lower lip, eyes sealed shut. Her hips made tiny movements on the surface of his desk.

He wanted to be right in the middle of that.

He slid her panties the rest of the way down her legs, and as soon as they were gone, her thighs spread apart. He swallowed as he moved between them, trying to think about anything other than what was about to happen, and failing miserably. Instead, he gave her a deep open-mouthed kiss, settling against her and finding her just as slick and ready as he’d hoped.

To be sure, he slid his hand between them, thumb seeking the right spot and then stroking gently. She pressed closer, moaning against his mouth. Her flesh enveloped his tip, the heat and tightness driving him to the very edge of insanity. It was all he could do not to thrust into her and lose himself in a fiery rush. As if reading his thoughts, she reached around to grab his butt, pulling him even deeper.

She was so wet, so hot. Her hips were still making those tiny thrusting motions against his arousal … against his thumb. Growing stronger. Quicker.

He sped up the motion of his thumb, knowing that the second she went over the edge, he was going with her. And he’d be able to push deeper. Harder.

No! Wait. Condom!

He started to withdraw, only to have her hands pull at him desperately, her calves wrapping around him, hips sliding forward until she had him fully within her. She lay back on the desk, her eyes pleading with him.

“Greg, now. Please.”

The sight of her lying naked on top of his desk drove every rational thought he’d had a few seconds ago from his mind. Grasping her hips, he pushed into her, reveling in the tight heat that gripped him to perfection. She put her heels on the edge of the desk and rose to meet him stroke for stroke, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead as he fought for control.

Control he couldn’t seem to find.

No need because Hannah was at the end of hers as well, pushing herself onto him, her hips now leaving the desk every time he drove into her. Within a few seconds she arched up and gasped, her body tightening around him in a series of explosive waves. He gave up and held on for dear life, hands braced on the desk as he thrust into her again and again, her name falling from his lips as he found his own release deep inside her.

He went down onto his elbows as the world slowed, as time began to trickle back to normal. Hannah’s breath floated past his cheek, her sweet, womanly scent washing over him as he struggled to piece together what had just happened.

No need to ask. He already knew.

Hannah had happened. And he realized he’d been trying to avoid this moment for months. Definitely since that fateful hug. Maybe even the entire time he’d known her.

And as reality crystallized, hardening into a rock that blocked his throat—filled his chest—another realization swept over him. This one much more deadly.

His wallet contained an object around which his thoughts and regrets now circled like vultures.

A single, unopened condom.




CHAPTER FIVE


HORRIFIED.

The word she’d been searching for all morning finally came to mind. The one adjective that described Greg’s face when he’d caught his breath enough to stand upright and look down at her. Not regret. Not joy. Not satisfied exhaustion.

Horror.

It was an expression she’d never forget.

Her cheeks burned as she balled up the used exam-table paper and tossed it in the waste receptacle to prepare the room for the next patient. How was she going to get up the nerve to walk into his office and look at that desk? The second she did, would her mind picture him going down on his elbows in those final few seconds, would she remember her own soft cries of pleasure filling the room?

Oh, God.

The man had helped her up afterward, and they’d dressed without a word. Had collected their things, walked through the office and out the front door in silence. Until she’d inserted the key into her car door, only to have a hand cover hers, stopping her from fleeing into the night.

“Hannah, I’m sorry. We’ll talk … later.”

Sorry. The very word she’d dreaded hearing. It ranked right up there with horrified and talk.

She didn’t want to talk. Or even face him.

He was in surgery this morning, leaving Hannah with a full slate of patients who needed her to be on her game. And no time to plan what she’d say when she eventually saw him again.

And she would.

Unless she quit. The idea had come to her the night before, tickling her with temptation before she dismissed it as ridiculous. She needed this job, especially now. What had happened last night was a fluke. Greg had been hurting, and she’d botched her attempt to comfort him by sending out the wrong signals.

No. That was a lie. They had been the right signals, and he’d picked up on them as easily as the PET scan had homed in on the cancer in her lymph nodes.

Stella poked her head into the room. “Are you ready for the next patient?”

“Yep.” She forced a smile, knowing it probably looked as strained as she felt.

“You okay?” The receptionist’s concern only made her feel worse, because she was far from all right.

Why couldn’t her little encounter with Greg have happened two weeks from now? A month? Anything outside the five-day lifespan of sperm? And with the washed sperm used during inseminations, that window was even narrower.

If she got pregnant now, nothing other than a D.N.A. test could prove whether the baby was the donor’s or Greg’s.

“Hannah?” Stella’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“Sorry. I’m fine. Just daydreaming.”

Or nightmaring, whichever you chose to call it.

The receptionist stepped inside the room and closed the door. “About anyone I know?”

“No.” The word came out on a strange wobbly note, and she decided some kind of explanation was due. “I had an I.U.I. procedure yesterday, and I was thinking about the possibilities.”

And that was the absolute truth.

“Oh, honey, congratulations!” Stella enveloped her in a bear hug, and if the fifty-year-old’s ebullience was in direct proportion to the tightness of the squeeze, it was off the charts, since she’d just wrung the last molecule of air from Hannah’s lungs.

Her brain a bit woozy from the lack of oxygen, she hurried to add, “I don’t even know if it took yet or not, so please don’t tell anyone.”

Especially not their boss.

All she needed was for Greg to hear she was pregnant the second he walked into the office.

He’d immediately wonder if she was angling for something, since there’s no way she could know twelve hours out whether or not he’d knocked her up.

Right.

Horrified would be the least of her worries, if that happened. And looking for a new job would be the order of the day.

“Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

Since those lips tended to flap around like pancakes tossed from a cast-iron skillet, this could mean trouble. Which meant she’d have to talk to Greg, like it or not.

Too bad she couldn’t rewind to yesterday and go back to calling him Dr. Mason. Only if she did that now, he’d assume she was doing it because of their little interlude, and he’d be right. No, the less emphasis she placed on what had happened, the less likely it was to change their working relationship.

“Okay, Stella, where’s our next patient?”

* * *

The next two hours passed in a frenzy of work and worry. She forced the latter to remain in the background, only letting it surface when she had five minutes to spare, which was thankfully not often.

Her last patient of the day sat on the exam table, a jewel-toned silk scarf artfully draped around her head. The woman’s blue eyes sparkled with life. Claire Taylor had already defied the odds once and was well on her way to doing it a second time. The lumpectomy she’d had three years ago was now a mastectomy scar, but she was cheerful and positive. Since her first diagnosis, the twenty-six-year-old had gotten married and was already looking ahead to a bright future.

“I talked to a plastic surgeon last week about reconstruction.”

Hannah glanced up from her examination. “I didn’t realize you were even thinking about it.” Claire had opted not to have the reconstruction right after the surgery. She’d been through a chemo regimen once before and didn’t want to have to worry about anything but getting through that ordeal. She was halfway through her eight-treatment cycle—heading down the home stretch.

“I wasn’t. But I haven’t been as sick this time as I was the last time. Or maybe I just remember it being worse because I didn’t know what to expect.”

Hannah could relate to that. She’d saved her scarves—all fifty of them—as a reminder that she was a survivor, and that she intended to keep on living. Every once in a while she wore one around her neck and talked about it with her patients. As one survivor to another.

Maybe Claire was at that point as well—gearing up to tell the world she was ready to enjoy the rest of her life. “What did the surgeon say?”

“That he could take some skin from my stomach to construct the breast. So I’d get a tummy tuck and a perky new boob at the same time.”

“Wow, a twofer—you lucky girl.”

Right as she said it, she winced, realizing she’d also gotten one of those: two batches of sperm for the price of one. But in this case she could have done without the figurative tummy tuck and been perfectly happy sticking to the lab-generated portion.

Claire laughed. “I know, right?”

“What does your husband think of all this?”

“Oh, you know how they are. He claims to love me just as I am, says I don’t need it.” The woman’s lips twisted. “So who said I was doing it for him, anyway?”

It was Hannah’s turn to laugh. “Did you tell him that?’

“No way. Let him think it. It’ll add some spice to our love life.”

Hannah could feel the heat crawling up her stomach on its way to her face. The sound of a knock and then the door opening didn’t help, especially when Greg strolled in, his face a study in exhaustion. But when he saw Claire, his eyes softened, the edges of his mouth turning up in a smile. “I couldn’t let one of my favorite patients get away without a single hello.”

Claire laughed. “Okay, then. Hello.”

Had he really come back to the office to say hi his patients? Or was he here to have the Dreaded Talk?

Why hadn’t he just gone home? This could wait. She was tired too, and she wasn’t up to a conversation about regrets.

He continued talking to his patient, not giving Hannah a second glance as he listened intently to Claire’s plans for surgery. He held out a hand for the chart, which Hannah gave him. A moment passed as he perused the contents, flipping pages. “I’d like it if you waited until after you complete the regimen, just to be sure. You’ll be stronger and there’ll be less worry about infection.”

“That’s what the surgeon said, as well.” Her hand crept up to the robe, and the hollow left by the mastectomy. “It’s healing well, and he says I’m a good candidate.”

“I agree. There’s no reason to think you wouldn’t be. Let’s just get you through the next couple of months.”

Maybe that’s what she needed to focus on: getting through the next couple of months. Well … nine, in her case.

Standing in the hallway with Greg while Claire got dressed, she cast about for something to say that would send him on his way. But he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, leaning against the wall, watching her.

Why was he doing that? Why hadn’t he just gone straight to his office and let her finish up with the patient?

“How did surgery go?”

“Pretty well.”

“This was the Hodgkin’s patient, right?” She tried to get him to keep talking, in part to prevent the silence from growing more awkward but also because this was a diagnosis close to her heart.

At his nod, she pressed forward. “Did you have to perform a splenectomy?”

“She was in the early stages, so yes.” He paused and glanced down the hallway toward his office. “I don’t like doing them, but …”

“I know.” Her fingers itched to go to his arm and reassure him, but she didn’t dare. “I’m doing fine without mine, though.”

“Sometimes it’s the only way to know for sure how much lymph-node involvement there is.”

Hodgkin’s cells tended to collect in the spleen early in the disease. Hers had been removed for the same reason.

Before she could reply, Claire came through the door, her huge handbag slung over her shoulder. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.”

“I’ll try to peek in on you at the hospital during your next treatment. When do you go in?”

Hannah’s brows went up. Since when did he do that? He’d never come into the chemo room when she’d been having her infusions. And it wasn’t like his time wasn’t sucked in every direction under the sun already. They saw Claire off and then she turned to face him. “Are you doing that for all your patients now?”

“Doing what?”

“Checking in on them during chemo treatments.”

He pulled his shoulder off the wall and stood straighter. “When I’m at the hospital, I try to.”

A small ache went through her heart. “You’re going to kill yourself, you know.” She wasn’t sure whether or not she should follow that thought, but the words just kind of came out. “I know what it’s like to wonder if you have a tomorrow. It’s made me grab at life and enjoy every second I have.”

His eyes met hers, and his jaw tightened. “Some of us don’t have that option.”

“That’s ridiculous. You have as much choice as the next person.”

A hard laugh echoed through the hallway. “I see. And your way of enjoying life is to do whatever strikes your fancy at that particular moment—especially after business hours—no matter what the consequences?”

The inference was plain.

She glanced down the hall, hoping no one was within earshot. “Maybe that’s what’s needed sometimes. Less thinking, more doing.” Hannah didn’t believe that for a second, but she wasn’t about to admit how much his attitude hurt. There was almost an accusatory slant to his tone that made her wonder if he really felt that way about her.

He stared at her for several seconds then sighed. “I think we need to have that talk before this goes any further.”

Afraid he was going to suggest going to his office—the last place she wanted to be right now—she almost sagged in relief when he motioned toward the door of the exam room Claire had just vacated. Maybe he felt the same reluctance to share his office space with her. Fine, as far as she was concerned.

She swept through the doorway ahead of him, grabbing up a few items and starting to stow them away. The snick of the lock stopped her cold. Swinging around to face him, her eyes went to the door, which was indeed locked. What was that all about?

“I didn’t think you wanted anyone to overhear this particular discussion.”




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