Читать книгу Always On Her Mind - Emily McKay, Catherine Mann - Страница 16

Disoriented, Celia pushed through the fog back to consciousness, confusion wrapping around her. Was it morning? Was she at home? No … She was in a car.

With each deep breath she inhaled, she drew in the essence of Malcolm. She knew he was beside her.

The past merged with the present, bringing memories of another time she’d fainted. When she was sixteen, she’d snuck out of her room at midnight to meet Malcolm when he finished at the burger joint where he worked after school. She’d been skipping meals because of nausea, and it had been all she could do to stay awake to meet him as promised. But talking to him had been so important. She’d needed to tell him before her parents saw the signs. Before she started to show. But before she could finish telling him, she’d passed out.

Malcolm had rushed her to the emergency room, where of course the doctor called her parents. She squeezed her eyes closed tighter even now over the explosion of anger that had erupted in that E.R. over her pregnancy. Malcolm had insisted they get married. Her father had lunged at Malcolm. Her mother had sobbed.

Celia had wanted to die….

Well, at least she knew for damn sure she wasn’t pregnant now. She’d blacked out for an entirely different reason.

Slowly, she took in the feel of the leather seat of the limousine. She must have been carried and put inside. The sounds of the voices around her steadied and the cause of this fainting spell gelled in her mind. She’d been freaking out and gasping for air until she passed out on the boat. Her eyes snapped open. She was inside a limousine with Malcolm and his entire entourage of alumni pals.

He leaned over her, stroking back her hair. His buddy Dr. Rowan Boothe had her wrist in his hand, taking her pulse. The rest of their friends loomed behind them, her world narrowing to this stretch limo with tinted windows and a lot of curious, concerned faces.

How incredibly embarrassing.

She pushed up onto her elbow, sitting. “What time is it? How long have I been—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on …” Malcolm touched her shoulders and glanced at Rowan. “Doc?”

“Her pulse is normal.” Rowan set her hand aside and tucked himself back onto a seat. “I don’t see any reason to go to the E.R. I can check her over more thoroughly once we’re on the plane to Germany.”

Malcolm moved closer again, looking unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened back there?”

“I’m fine.” She sat up straighter, blinking fast as she tried to regain equilibrium. “Probably just low blood sugar from skipping breakfast.”

The lie tasted bad on her tongue. But admitting the truth? Explaining her lingering battle with panic attacks? She wasn’t ready to share that.

Malcolm seemed to accept her explanation, though. His shoulders relaxed a little as he opened the mini-fridge. He passed her a bottle of orange juice and a protein bar. “No offense, beautiful, but you don’t look okay.”

She twisted off the cap and sipped, just to appease him and make her story more believable. What she really needed were some breathing exercises or her emergency meds. Or a way to distance herself from all the feelings Malcolm was stirring up.

She looked out the window as they drove along the shore of the Seine River.

He eyed her for five long heartbeats. “We used to understand each other well, from the second on the playground when you threw sand at that kid for making fun of my asthma attack. Now, though, I want the chance to fight back for you.”

Without another word, he gave her the space she’d requested and took a seat at the far end of the stretch limo. Quite a long way. Especially with all of his friends, plus Hillary and Jayne, sitting between them and trying to pretend there wasn’t a thick, awkward silence all the way to the airport.

Once the Learjet was airborne to fly them to Berlin, Malcolm continued to honor her request for space, which was actually the best way to get closer to her again. Did he remember that from their past? She fished in her floral bag for her eReader to pass the time and calm her nerves, still jangled from the incident on the boat. She had to steady herself before she ran the gauntlet for the next concert. She pulled the reader case out, her fingers fumbling with the zipper.

Dr. Boothe knelt in front of her, taking the case from her hand and opening it before setting the eReader beside her. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

She glanced around the plane. Everyone else seemed occupied with the business station or talking in the next cabin. Hillary, an event planner, was in deep conversation with Jayne about a fundraiser in the works for Dr. Boothe’s clinic—where apparently Jayne worked, as well. Even the steward was busy readying lunch in the galley.

Turning back to the fair-haired doctor, she said carefully, “I already told Malcolm. I forgot to eat breakfast, but I’m feeling better now,” but he still didn’t move away. “I’m just going to read until lunch. Thank you.”

He picked up her wrist. “Your pulse is still racing and you’re struggling for breath.”

“You said back at the limo that my pulse rate was fine.” She tugged her hand away.

“It wasn’t Malcolm’s business unless you chose to tell him.”

“Thank you.” She picked up her eReader pointedly. “I’ll let you know if I have a heart attack. I promise.”

He shifted to sit beside her. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on here, medically speaking.”

Of course it wasn’t, but she didn’t particularly want to trot out the details of how she’d screwed up and left her medicine at home. She didn’t need it all the time, and it had been so long since she’d reached for an antianxiety pill, she’d hoped …

Dr. Boothe stretched out his legs, as if in the middle of some casual conversation. “We can make this a patient/doctor thing, and then I can’t say a word to anyone else. The whole confidentiality issue.”

She shot a quick look at him, and he seemed … non-judgmental.

Weighing her options, she decided it was better to trust him and hope he could help her rather than risk another embarrassing incident. “I’m fighting down a panic attack. I left home so quickly I didn’t have a chance to get my, uh, medicine. I don’t have to take anything regularly anymore, but I do have a prescription for antianxiety medication. The bottle just happens to be sitting in my bathroom cabinet.”

A big oversight given that she had a stalker on her tail. But oddly, the thought of being in danger like that wasn’t half as scary as the resurrection of her old feelings for Malcolm. The memories of what they’d given up. She hadn’t realized how deeply this time with him might affect her.

She hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Rowan nodded slowly. “That’s problematic. But not insurmountable. Your doctor can call in the prescription.”

She had already thought of that. “Malcolm is so worried about the stalker back home that I can’t make a move without him noticing. It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything. I’m just not ready to tell him yet.”

“Understood,” he said simply, the window behind him revealing a small and distant Paris below. “If you’ll give your doctor permission to speak with me, I can take care of a prescription.”

“Thank you.” The tightness in her chest began to ease at the notion of help on the horizon.

“If you don’t mind my asking, when did these attacks begin?”

She recognized his question for what it was, an attempt to help talk her down. “After I broke up with Malcolm. I’ve had some trouble with depression and anxiety. It’s not a constant, but under times of extreme stress …”

She blew out a slow breath, searching for level ground and some control over her racing pulse.

“This sure qualifies as a time of stress, with the threats back home and all the insanity of Malcolm’s life.”

As the engine hummed through the sky, she thought about the patients he saw on a regular basis in Africa, of their problems, and felt so darn small right now. “You treat people with such huge problems. I probably seem whiny to you, the poor little rich girl who can’t handle her emotions.”

“Hold on.” He raised a hand. “This isn’t a competition. And as I’m sure your own doctor has told you, depression and anxiety disorders are medical conditions like diabetes. Serotonin or insulin, all chemicals your body needs. And you’re wise to keep watch over your health.”

“But your patients—” She stopped short as Malcolm stepped away from the business center. She picked up her eReader. “Thanks, Dr. Boothe, for checking on me. I appreciate your help.”

She powered up her book and pretended to read the most recent download from her book club. If only she could act her way through the rest of her problems.

But when it came to Malcolm, she’d never been all that adept at hiding her feelings—feelings that were escalating with him in such close proximity. No question, the man disrupted her well-ordered world, and she feared where that could lead.

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye.

His suite in downtown Berlin looked much the same as their digs in Paris, except with less gild to the antiques. But then his tours usually became a blur of hotel rooms and concert halls. God knew his attempt at a bit of sightseeing for Celia in Paris hadn’t played out that well. He needed to step back and rethink how to win her over.

Starting with clearing out his well-meaning, advice-peddling pals. They interfered with his plans to get Celia alone. He’d thanked them for gathering around him when he’d called them to help build a wall of protection around Celia as the concert tour started, and he appreciated their ready turnout. But the need for their help had passed. Once they left Germany, his friends would be peeling off, returning to their lives.

At least his concert in Berlin tonight had gone off without a hitch since he’d left “Playing for Keeps” off the playlist. He scanned the living room full of his friends until his eyes landed on Celia curled in a chair, her head resting on her arm as she listened to Troy turn storyteller about their school days, sharing a tale about Elliot Starc since the race-car driver had left earlier.

Not much longer and Malcolm would have Celia all to himself. Finally, they would be alone, aside from his manager. Logan knew how to make himself scarce, though, probably keeping busy working the next angle for his client. Malcolm felt like a jerk for wishing they would all hit the road now.

Part of his impatience could have something to do with what great buddies Celia and Rowan had become. More than once today, they’d sat in a corner, their heads tucked close in conversation. The good doc had even brought her a bag of pastries to make sure she ate enough.

Hell, yes, Malcolm was jealous. The guy had pastries, and Malcolm didn’t even have a hint of a plan for what to do next as far as Celia was concerned. His other plans had backfired—kissing for the press, singing “Playing for Keeps.” So he did what he did best. He lost himself in music, while staring at Celia’s beautiful face. He hitched his guitar more securely on his knee and plucked strings softly while Troy continued his story.

“My senior year—” Troy twirled his fedora on one finger as he talked “—Elliot was new to the school and wanted to impress us, so he hot-wired one of the laundry trucks and smuggled us all out for the night. We snuck into a strip club.”

Hillary snagged her husband’s spinning hat from his finger. “Strip club? Seriously? This is the story you choose to tell?”

Jayne laughed softly, snuggling into the crook of her husband’s arm. “Someone’s sleeping alone tonight.”

Troy spread his hands wide. “Let me finish. We quickly figured out the club wasn’t anything like we’d seen in the movies. The women looked … weary. A couple of the guys wanted to stay but most of us left and went to a pancake house that stayed open all night.”

Malcolm remembered the night well. He’d opted to stay in the truck, in a crummy mood because it was Celia’s birthday and he resented like hell that he remembered. He’d been aching for her.

Not much had changed.

Hillary dropped her husband’s hat onto her head. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

Troy kissed his wife’s head. “I would never lie to you, babe.”

Hillary rolled her eyes. “I’m assuming Elliot went with them to the pancake house since otherwise how would you have gotten the truck started?”

Conrad raised his hand. “Me, too, for the record. I did not stay at the strip club, just so we’re clear. I had pancakes with blueberry syrup, extra bacon on the side. Waitresses fully clothed.”

Jayne thunked him in the stomach. “Enough already.”

Their ease with each other reminded Malcolm of what he and Celia once had—and lost.

Celia hugged a throw pillow. “Why did Elliot end up at the school?” She glanced at Malcolm. “Is that okay to ask?”

“It’s in his public bio, so it’s no secret.” Malcolm sat in the wingback chair beside her—before Rowan could claim the seat—and continued to strum the guitar idly, playing improvised riffs and breathing in the pralinesweet scent of her. “His Wikipedia page states that Elliot was sent to the school for stealing cars. In reality, he took his stepfather’s caddy out for a spin and smashed it into a guardrail.”

The calm seeped from Celia’s face. “Seems like a rather extreme punishment for a joyride.”

Malcolm slowed his song, searching for a way to steer the conversation in another direction so she would smile again.

Troy answered, “Multiple joyrides. Multiple wrecks. His stepfather was beating the crap out of him. He wanted to get caught or die. Either way, he was out of his house.”

Celia leaned forward. “Why wasn’t his stepfather stopped and prosecuted?”

“Connections, a family member on the police force. Lots of warnings, but nothing happened.”

Her lips went tight, and she shook her head. “His mother should have protected him.”

“Damn straight,” Troy agreed. “But I’m sliding off my path here. Let’s get back to more entertaining brotherhood tales, like the time a few of us were stuck staying at school over Christmas break. So we broke into Salvatore’s office, spread dirt on the floor and tossed quick-grow grass seed. He had a lawn when he returned. He knew we did it, but the look on his face was priceless….”

Malcolm started strumming again, adding his own impromptu score to Troy’s tales, but his brain was still stuck on the moment Celia asked why Elliot’s mother hadn’t protected him. Her reaction was so swift, so instinctive he couldn’t avoid the image blaring in his brain. An image of Celia as the mother of his child, fiercely doing everything in her power to protect their baby. He’d been so frustrated—hell, angry—for so long over losing the chance to see his kid that he hadn’t fully appreciated how much she’d been hurt.

And damn it all, that touched him deep in his gut in a way that had nothing to do with sex. Right now, he had less of a clue about what to do with this woman than he had eighteen years ago.

The next night, after Malcolm’s concert in the Netherlands, Celia put together a late-night snack in their suite. Foraging through the mini-fridge, she found bottles of juice, water and soda, along with four kinds of cheese. She snagged the Gouda and Frisian clove to go with the crackers and grapes on the counter.

Yes, she was full of nervous energy since Malcolm’s friends had all gone home. Now she was finally alone with him. How strange that she’d resented their presence at first and now she felt antsy without the buffer they’d provided. Malcolm’s manager had stood backstage with her at the concert tonight in Amsterdam. But Logan had his own room here on another floor.

Not that Malcolm had pressured her since they’d checked into the posh hotel. In fact, since her panic attack during the Seine River tour, he’d backed off. On the one hand, she’d wanted him to quit tempting her, but on the other it hurt to think he was turned off by her anxiety.

They had a two-bedroom suite with a connecting sitting room. He was showering, the lights having been particularly powerful—and hot—tonight at yet another sold-out show.

As she heard the shower in the next room stop, she arranged the food on a glazed pottery tray to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied with something other than wondering how different the adult, naked Malcolm looked. And what he thought of the “adult” her. She smoothed her hands down her little black dress, lacy, with a scalloped hem that ended just above the knee. Should she rush and change?

She shook off vanity as quickly as she kicked off her heels and loosened her topknot. Lifting the tray with food and a pot of tea, she angled around the bar, past the baby grand piano and into the living area.

Overall the room was brighter, lighter than the other places they’d stayed, the Dutch decor closer to her personal style. On her way past, she dipped her head to sniff the blue floral pitcher full of tulips. She placed the tray on top of the coffee table and curled up on the sofa with her tea. She’d made a pot with lemon and honey to soothe Malcolm’s throat after three straight nights of concerts. He had to be feeling the effects.

The door to his bedroom opened, and her eyes were drawn directly to him. So drawn. Held. He stood barefoot, wearing a pair of jeans and T-shirt that clung to his damp skin. His hair was wet and slicked back. And God, did her hands ache to smooth over those damp strands.

What else did she want?

Silly question. She wanted to sleep with Malcolm again, to experience how it would feel to be with him as a woman. All the tantalizing snippets his friends had shared of his past and present drew her in, seducing her with both the Malcolm he’d been and the Malcolm he’d become. She burned to sleep with him, and she couldn’t come up with one good reason why she shouldn’t.

Would she have the courage to throw caution to the wind and act on what she wanted? “I made us something to eat—as well as tea with lemon and honey to soothe your throat.”

“Thanks, but you don’t have to wait on me,” he answered, his voice more gravelly than usual, punctuating her point about the need for tea. He walked deeper into the room, his hand grazing a miniature wooden windmill, tapping the blades until they spun in a lazy circle.

“Direct orders from your manager,” Celia said. “You’re to have something to eat and drink, protect your health for the tour.”

“What about you? Any more dizzy spells today?” He sliced off a sliver of Gouda. “Here … have some cheese.”

She rested her fingers on his wrist, a small move, just a test run to see how he would react. “I’m good. I promise. Your pal the doctor gave me two thumbs up.”

Malcolm eyes narrowed before he tossed the cheese into his mouth and paced restlessly around the room, past the baby grand piano, a guitar propped against the side. “You two seemed to hit it off.”

Wondering where he was going with the discussion of Rowan, she poured another cup of steaming-hot tea. “What exactly did he invent?”

Malcolm dropped onto the other end of the sofa and reluctantly took the tea. “He devised a new computerized diagnostic model with Troy. They patented it, and they both made a bundle. Essentially, Rowan can afford to retire if he wishes.”

Interesting, but not surprising given what she’d gleaned about Malcolm and all his friends. “And he chose to work in a West African clinic instead. That’s very altruistic of him.”

“You can join the Rowan Boothe fan club. It’s large.”

She lifted an eyebrow in shock. “You don’t like him?”

“Of course I do. He’s one of my best friends. I would do anything for him. I’m acting like a jealous idiot because you two seemed to hit it off.” He tossed back the tea, then cursed over the heat. He set the cup down fast and charged over to the mini-fridge for bottled water.

He was jealous? Of her and Rowan? Hope fluttered.

She set her cup down carefully. “Your charitable donations have been widely reported. Every time I saw you at an orphanage or children’s hospital … I admire what you’ve done with your success, Malcolm, and yes, I have kept up with you the way you’ve kept up with me.”

Malcolm downed the bottle of water before turning back to her. “Rowan’s the stable, settle-down sort you keep swearing you want now. But damn it all, I still want you. So if you want him or someone like him, you’d better speak up now, because I’m about five seconds away from kissing you senseless.”

“You silly, silly man.” She pushed to her feet and walked toward him. “You have nothing to be jealous of. I was asking for his medical help.”

“What did you say?” He pinned her with a laser stare. “Are you ill? God, and I’ve been hauling you from country to country.”

“Malcolm, stop. Listen. I have something I need to tell you.” She drew in a bracing breath and willed her fluttering pulse to steady. Before they got to the kissing-senseless part, she needed to be sure he was okay with what had happened during the boat ride. Trusting him—anyone—with this subject was tough. But she hoped she could have faith in the genuine, good man she’d seen earlier with his friends. “I was having a regular, old-fashioned panic attack.”

He blinked uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before clasping her shoulders. “Damn it, Celia, why didn’t you tell me, instead of—”

She rested a hip against the baby grand piano. “Because you would have acted just like this, freaking out, making a huge deal out of it, and believe me, that’s the last thing I could have handled yesterday.”

Comprehension slid across his leanly handsome face. “Rowan helped you. As a doctor.” He plowed his fingers through his hair. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Not an idiot. Just a man.” She sighed with relief to finally have crossed this hurdle without a drawn-out ordeal. “I left my medicine at home. He helped connect with my doctor and get my prescription refilled.”

“You’ve had panic attacks before?”

“Not as often as I used to, but yes, every now and again.”

His shoulders rolled forward as he rubbed his forehead. “The concert tour was probably a bad idea. What was I thinking?”

“You had no way of knowing because I didn’t tell you.” She couldn’t let him blame himself. She stroked his forehead for him, nudging aside his hand. Just a brief touch, but one that sent tingles down her arm. “Staying home with some criminal leaving dead roses in my car wasn’t particularly pleasant, either. For all we know, I would have had more anxiety back home. You’ve taken on a major upheaval in your life to help me.”

“Are you okay now?” He reached for her, stopping just short of touching her as if afraid she would break.

“Please don’t go hypercautious with me.” She eased back to sit on the piano bench. “I felt much better after a good night’s sleep. The medicine isn’t an everyday thing. Not anymore. The prescription is just on an as-needed basis. And while I needed help yesterday, today’s been a good day.”

He sat beside her, his warm, hard thigh pressing against her. “When did the panic attacks start? Is that okay to ask?”

Gathering her thoughts grew tougher with the brush of his leg against hers. “I had trouble with postpartum depression after … The doctor said it was hormonal, and while the stress didn’t help, it wasn’t the sole cause—” she pointed at him “—so don’t start blaming yourself.”

He clasped a hand around her finger, enfolding her hand in his. “Easier said than done.”

“You are absolved.” She squeezed gently, her heart softening the rest of the way for this man. She’d never had any luck resisting him, and she wondered why she’d ever assumed now would be different. “And I mean that.”

“After what happened yesterday, I’m not so sure I can buy into that.” Guilt dug deep furrows in his lean face.

“You have to.” She cupped his cheek in her palm, the bristle of his late-day beard a seductive abrasion against her palm. Until, finally, she surrendered to the inevitable they’d been racing toward since the minute he’d walked back into her life again. “Because I desperately want to make love with you, and that’s not going to happen if you’re feeling guilty or sorry for me.”