Читать книгу Prescription: Marry Her Immediately - Jacqueline Diamond, Lori Copeland, Jacqueline Diamond - Страница 9

The newborn waved her tiny fists as she lay along Dr. Quentin Ladd’s arm with her head cradled in his hand. Her face, still red from the journey into life, quirked with a hint of a smile.

“Seven pounds, three ounces. Ten fingers and toes,” he told her, and double-checked the name on the bassinet. “Lisa, you passed your first test with flying colors. Next stop, Harvard.”

Baby-blue eyes blinked at him, not quite focusing. Then she sneezed.

“That’s good,” Quent said. “You can clear your airways with the best of them. I knew you were a winner.”

He’d made a thorough test of her reflexes, heartbeat, breathing and other parameters. All normal. He was glad for her sake and for that of her numerous doting relatives, who had overflowed the waiting room during her birth.

It was one more happy event for Doctors Circle, a private hospital and clinic established in Serene Beach, California, to ensure the best care for mothers, would-be mothers and their babies. As a newly minted neonatologist, Quent had been thrilled when he was invited to join the staff a couple of months ago.

While he was gently replacing the baby beneath her warmer light, Lisa’s gaze connected, ever so briefly, with his. A sense of wonder spread through Quent as the little girl’s future shimmered before him, from her first step to the day she would hold a baby of her own.

Where had all that come from? It wasn’t as if he were going to be spending a lot of time with this particular infant, cute as she was. But it gave Quent a gut-level appreciation for the joy he saw on the faces of new fathers. Babies had always interested him from a clinical point of view, but lately he’d begun to take a more personal interest. This was the most intense experience yet.

Perhaps it was because he’d spent so much time this past year with his now fifteen-month-old niece and four-year-old nephew. Or maybe it had something to do with finally, at age twenty-nine, having finished his training and taken his place as a full-fledged specialist.

Turning away, he stripped off his gloves and picked up his clipboard to finish his notes. Then, smiling, Quent paced through the dimly lit nursery, saying hello to babies he’d checked in the past day or two. He would see them again when their parents brought them for regular care at the Well-Baby Clinic in an adjacent building, where he spent most of his hours.

Before leaving the nursery, he removed his white coverall and stuffed it into a laundry container to be sterilized. A nurse, Sue Anne, greeted him with a flare of interest on her face.

Quent wasn’t sure why he didn’t invite her to join him for dinner, since it was almost five o’clock on a Friday night. She was pretty and friendly, and, until recently, he’d enjoyed playing the field. These days, though, he’d lost interest in spending time with anyone except his best buddy.

Having a woman, even a colleague like psychologist Amy Ravenna, as his best buddy was unusual, he supposed. Still, they’d started attending ball games and playing sports together as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and going with the flow suited Quent.

Speak of the devil, when he emerged from the nursery, there she stood, Amy in the flesh, gazing through the window at the babies. Among the usual scattering of cooing grandparents, aunts and uncles, her tall, slim figure stood out.

In profile to him, Amy studied first one baby, then another. As the staff psychologist, she must be treating the parents of one or more infants, Quent figured. Checking out the newborns apparently figured into her counseling strategy, although he could have sworn he saw wistfulness in her expression.

He’d never met anyone with such an intriguing mixture of professionalism and tomboy enthusiasm. It amused him to see how, this late in the day, her black French braid was beginning to unravel behind her tailored suit jacket.

“Hey,” he said.

Startled, Amy swung around. “Oh! Hi, Quent.” He noticed, as he did every time he saw her, how stunning she was, with her high cheekbones and lively dark eyes, and how utterly unaware she was of it. No wonder she had to fend men off with a stick.

“What brings you here?” With a teasing note, he added, “Coming to see me, I hope.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Before I left for the day, I wanted to ask you about the rain,” she said.

“It’s raining?” Mid-November was well into the southern California rainy season, but it had been only partly cloudy earlier this afternoon.

“Not yet. It’s in the forecast for tomorrow. We’re supposed to catch the tail of a hurricane that’s lingering down off Mexico,” Amy said. “Do you want to cancel our plans?”

“I’m not afraid of a little water. Are you?” He already knew the answer, but challenging each other was part of the fun.

Soon after he’d arrived in Serene Beach, he’d run into Amy at the sports-oriented Paris Bar and recognized her as a colleague. That first night, they’d battled each other at video games until their eyes crossed from overuse. Soon they were jogging together, watching ball games and simply hanging out after work, with no strings attached. Amy was never flirtatious as other women were.

At first, that had been a relief. Lately, it had occurred to Quent that maybe, being four years older than him and accustomed to more sophisticated men, she considered him too young for anything more involved than going to the movies. He might surprise her one of these days.

“Afraid of water? Certainly not.” She sniffed in feigned indignation. “The fact is, I figured you might wimp out on me. It’s going to be hard enough jogging in the sand when you’re not used to it, without having to deal with a downpour, too.”

“If you can handle sand, so can I.” He couldn’t resist adding, “I’ll probably run you ragged.”

“I’ll bet you won’t.” The way Amy lifted her chin reminded him that she’d held her own in a household with three brothers.

“You’re on for tomorrow,” he said.

“My place. Three o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.” He was looking forward to it.

AMY JOGGED in place, waiting for the light at Pacific Coast Highway to change. The rain was so heavy, she could hardly see the signal.

“I thought you could handle anything,” Quent challenged. Beside her, he stood grinning cockily, not seeming to mind that the downpour had flattened his thick blond hair and made his T-shirt cling like a second skin to his sculpted chest.

“So I lied,” she said, tearing her gaze away from his muscular build.

Everything was fine as long as they kept things on a buddy level. Amy would rather shrivel up and get rinsed down the drain than let Quent know that she found him just as irresistible as did all the nurses and receptionists who gossiped about him at work.

He assumed, because she encouraged him to, that Amy knew the ropes. She made frequent, joking references to her active social life and many admirers because that was a lot more comfortable than letting him, or anyone other than her closest friends, know the truth.

She was a tomboy who rarely dated. Always had been and, like it or not, probably always would be.

Amy wished she knew how to be more feminine, but, until she’d met Quent, she hadn’t had a good enough reason to venture outside her comfort zone. Now she didn’t know where to start. Maybe, with him, it was too late.

At one point this afternoon, they’d drifted a short distance apart while jogging. The next thing she knew, a lushly built woman in tight exercise shorts and a halter top had fallen into step with Quent and was inviting him home for a drink.

The woman hadn’t even known his name! Where did she get the nerve? Or the courage?

Amy wished she knew how to flirt so easily. She wished she were smaller and daintier with a large bust and full lips.

On the other hand, Quent hadn’t accepted the offer, had he?

The light changed. “Go!” Amy said, and shot forward.

Although she’d been faster off the curb, Quent’s long stride caught her up by the time they’d crossed the six lanes. With her peripheral vision, Amy could see the hard muscles pumping in his thighs and buttocks as he passed her.

Determined not to be left behind, she put on a burst of speed and moved ahead. Growing up in a family of men, she’d learned to push herself to the limit.

Quent made no effort to reclaim the lead. He seemed content to match her pace as they traversed the funky neighborhood, whose narrow streets and pocket-sized dwellings belied its exorbitant real-estate prices.

Living near the beach wasn’t cheap. Amy was grateful that she’d managed to find a condo that suited her budget.

A quarter mile farther on, they arrived breathless at her complex. The condos were two stories high except for hers, at one end. Due to the lay of the land, if it had had more than one story, it would have blocked the view from an expensive home located behind it. Serene Beach had an ordinance protecting properties’ views.

As the two of them hurried along the walkway, rain streamed into the unoccupied swimming pool and a couple of palm trees swayed in the stiffening wind. This was turning into a gale.

Amy unlocked her door. “Coming in?”

She wasn’t sure what she hoped he’d say. They usually met in neutral places, only entering her condo for a game of darts or to grab a beer from the fridge. Partly by choice, she hadn’t visited Quent’s apartment at all.

There was no sense in tormenting yourself with what you couldn’t have. Or, more accurately, with what you doubted you could handle.

“That’s the best invitation I’ve had all day.” With a grin, he waited for her to enter, then followed her in.

There was no turning back now. Not that she expected anything much to happen.

While Quent waited, dripping, in the tiled entryway, Amy retrieved a couple of towels from the bathroom and tossed him one.

“Great,” Quent said, drying his face. “This will greatly lessen our risk of hypothermia.”

“Spoken like a doctor.”

“I’m not entirely kidding. I can hear your teeth chattering,” he said.

Okay, so she was shivering in her running clothes. Big deal. “I’ll be fine as soon as I make coffee.” Amy pulled off her sodden shoes and dropped them in a corner. “No, wait. I’m out.”

“You’re out of coffee?” Quent said. “That’s un-American.”

“I think I’ve got a bag of microwave popcorn left.”

“Just one?”

“I didn’t make it to the supermarket this week.” Amy swiped the towel across her legs.

When Amy was twelve, her mother had run off with another man, and she hadn’t wanted to become a substitute housekeeper for her brothers and her father, a chiropractor. As a result, she’d avoided cooking and shopping as much as possible.

Unfortunately, her youthful habits had become in-grained. Amy had developed such a mental block that, even as an adult, she procrastinated about any kind of shopping. If her friends Natalie and Heather hadn’t pushed her to find furnishings for her condo, she might still be sleeping on a futon.

“I’ll make the popcorn. You go change.” Quent caught her shoulders and steered her toward the bedrooms.

Amy wasn’t sure which pleased her most, his touch or the fact that he was taking care of her. Not that it meant anything. He was her buddy, that was all.

“Need a dry sweatshirt?” she asked. His thin running shorts looked like the type to dry quickly and, besides, she definitely didn’t have anything that would fit him there.

“Sure,” he said. “As long as it doesn’t say 49ers on it.”

“I hope you don’t think I would sully my house with a Chargers sweatshirt!” Amy retorted.

They both claimed fierce allegiance to their home teams. She wasn’t sure either of them really meant it, and, since Serene Beach was located between the two teams’ territories, their rivalry never amounted to more than a little teasing.

Come baseball season, no doubt they’d simply switch the names of the teams and continue their rivalry. Or, more likely, by then Quent would have found himself a girlfriend and wouldn’t have time to kid around with her. Amy’s throat tightened at the prospect.

In a bedroom that featured sports posters above a light-oak bed and bureau, she stripped off her soaked garments. After a moment’s debate, she pulled on a forest-green sweater over a pair of jeans and brushed her long black hair out of its ponytail. She added a touch of lipstick, which was as much makeup as she usually wore.

Amy regarded herself in the small mirror above the dresser. Darn, she couldn’t see the whole picture. Come to think of it, she didn’t own a full-length mirror, because she so rarely needed one.

What was she fussing about anyway? she asked herself grumpily. It wasn’t as if Quent was going to suddenly notice she was a girl. Or as if she wanted him to, given that he’d made it clear when they’d first met that he was bent on sowing his wild oats after years of grinding away at his medical studies. The last thing Amy needed was to lose her heart to a man who was only looking for a good time.

Remembering her promise to provide him with warm clothing, she prowled through the closet. From the back, she lifted out a bright-pink sweatshirt bearing the image of a black cat. Her friend Natalie Winford, who was soon to become the bride of the clinic’s administrator, had bought it for her at the nearby Black Cat Café as an impulsive gift.

Pulling it off the hanger, Amy scooted past the second bedroom, which served as a home office, and the third one, which was empty. The combination living-dining room had the usual assortment of furniture, thanks to her friends’ supervision, but Amy had augmented the decor with a few touches of her own.

There was, for instance, the electronic dartboard on one wall. Also, a video-game system dominated the dining table. To Amy, they made the place feel like home.

There was no sign of Quent. Judging by the mouth-watering scent, he’d kept his promise to make popcorn.

She found him in the kitchen, larger than life and twice as sexy, leaning against the counter. When Quent wasn’t working or otherwise active, he always seemed to be leaning on something, Amy mused.

The first time she’d seen him, he’d been holding up one wall of the hallway between her counseling office and the Well-Baby Clinic. She had the same reaction now that she’d had then: a racing heartbeat and a melting sensation in her core.

Now, as then, she did her best to ignore it.

“I’m glad to see what a gourmet cook you are,” Quent joked, nodding toward the take-out sacks stuffed in the wastebasket.

“Huh. Anybody can whip up a chicken cordon bleu.” Amy indicated a refrigerator magnet displaying the phone number of a local pizza parlor. “I’m famous for devising the most inventive combinations this side of Italy. Ever try pineapple, anchovies and onions?”

“I think I treated a kid for eating one of those last week,” Quent said. “By the way, I made the mistake of opening your fridge and nearly got sucked into the void.”

“You’re just mad because I’m out of beer.”

“That, too.” He removed the bag of popcorn from the microwave and replaced it with two mugs of water. Judging by the box of hot chocolate mix sitting nearby, Amy guessed she was in for a treat.

A thrumming noise drew her attention to the window. “What a torrent! It’s only rained this hard once or twice since I moved in.” She’d come to Serene Beach four years ago, after counseling patients at a low-cost clinic in Fresno.

“We could light a fire in the fireplace,” Quent said.

A crackling blaze, hot chocolate, the man of her dreams taking her in his arms…Abruptly, Amy’s idyll vanished and she came down to earth. Or, more accurately, down to hearth.

“I don’t have a fireplace,” she said. “How about a portable heater?”

“Does it glow when it gets hot?” Quent asked.

She nodded.

“That’ll do.” He indicated the garment tucked under her arm. “What’s that?”

“Catch.” She tossed him the pink sweatshirt. “As I promised.”

He held it up. “Not really my color.”

“Pink looks good on blondes,” Amy said.

“In that case, how can I refuse?” He shrugged off his clinging wet shirt, gave his powerful chest a swipe from his towel, and reached for the sweatshirt.

Her kingdom for a camera, Amy thought. She wanted to stroke him so much her palms itched. It was almost an ache, this need to run her hands along that rippling bare skin and feel the masculine hardness.

She didn’t dare risk changing their relationship that way. Either Quent would start to feel uncomfortable around her or he’d add her to his collection of conquests. Either way, it would spell the end of their good times.

He yanked the sweatshirt into place. Although loose on Amy, it clung to him. “Not bad,” he said. “You loan this to all your boyfriends?”

“Only the blond ones,” she said.

“I hope you wash it in between.” The microwave bell rang, summoning Quent.

“Usually. If I remember. I mean, they come and go so fast, who can keep track?”

She didn’t like misleading him, even as a joke, but if Quent discovered how little experience she had, the man would laugh. Amy couldn’t bear to be teased about the fact that she’d reached her third decade still a virgin, and not entirely by choice. Above all, she didn’t want Quent to be the man to whom she finally gave herself, because it would mean so much more to her than it possibly could to him.

Someday, Amy hoped to find a gentle, undemanding guy who would love and treasure her. The problem was that when she did meet men of that description, she felt a big fat nothing toward them. Certainly not the scary, exhilarating sense of riding a roller coaster that hit her every time she imagined Quent’s mouth covering hers, his body pressing her down…

“Is it something I said?” He stood there holding out a steaming mug of cocoa. “Or are you ignoring me on purpose?”

“I was remembering the last macho hunk who wore that sweatshirt,” Amy invented.

“I could wipe up the floor with him.”

“Oh, yeah? He was a wrestler.”

“Professionally?” he asked.

“Just with me,” she said. “I won, by the way. Pinned him best two out of three. Come to think of it, we never got to three.”

Carrying the popcorn, Quent led the way into the living room. “Maybe we should try that.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” she said.

“Hurt me? You didn’t take a close enough look at my muscles while I had my shirt off,” he shot back. “Care for me to strip again?”

With all my heart. “I’ll pass,” Amy said. “Hang on.”

She set aside her mug and dug through the front closet for the portable heater. She found it behind her ski poles and Boogie board.

Set up in front of the couch and plugged into an extension cord, it radiated a luxurious circle of warmth. Amy and Quent sank onto the sofa to enjoy it.

For some reason, they kept sliding to the middle. She tried not to react when his knee nudged hers or to the brush of his shoulder as he raised his mug to drink. But she couldn’t help it.

“I like your hair loose that way.” Quent’s voice sounded hoarse.

“It won’t dry in a ponytail so I shook it out.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, not sitting this close. They’d practically be kissing.

Overhead, a gust of wind hit the roof. Instinctively, she shifted closer to Quent, as if he could protect her from the storm.

Their hands met when they reached into the popcorn bag at the same time. Amy’s skin prickled.

“Next time I’ll stock up on supplies so we can each have our own,” she said.

“I prefer it this way,” Quent murmured.

She stopped trying to deny the heat deep inside her, the tingling in her lips, the inability to think of anything except Quent’s broad chest. She simply had to find an excuse to touch him, just once.

“Are you sure that sweatshirt isn’t too tight?” She ran her hand across his shoulders. “It looks snug.”

“I can’t tell you what that does to a guy.” He set his mug beside Amy’s on the coffee table and clasped her waist. “You’re going to slug me for this, but I can’t resist.”

Amy’s mind went white. Time slowed, and the universe filled with the slow, inevitable descent of Quent’s mouth onto hers.

Her lips parted to welcome him. Despite its tenderness, the kiss jolted her. She swayed toward him until her breasts grazed his chest.

His palms caressed her hips, bringing her closer, then raised trails of sparkles as he stroked up her rib cage. She ought to draw back. Ought to, but couldn’t.

Amy played her hands along Quent’s back, down to that incredibly tight masculine butt. She might never get this chance again, she thought dazedly.

When his tongue explored the corners of her lips, she teased it with light nips that intensified his probing. At the same time, wonder of wonders, his strong, skilled hands slid beneath the waistline of her sweater and smoothed upwards to the swell of her breasts.

She wore only a thin sports bra, a fact that he discovered rapidly. His hands covered the small nubs, arousing white-hot flames that licked through her body.

Was he simply acting like a guy, responding unthinkingly to whatever woman he found himself with? Amy didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. She’d never felt such powerful sensations before.

“Amazing.” Quent drew his head back. “I should have known you’d be…you’d be…”

Whatever he meant to say, Amy was never to learn, because at that moment a huge crash shook the room. It felt as if a bomb had gone off.

She was too shocked to move until cold water blasted her face and tiny pieces of something spattered across her hand. “What on earth?”

With an oath, Quent pulled her away from the couch. “We’d better turn off the power before something catches fire.” He reached down and unplugged the heater. “That’s for good measure.”

There were pieces of white ceiling plaster clinging to her sweater, Amy realized. Her brain still struggled to accept what had happened, but by the time they reached the doorway en route to the fuse box, the truth dawned.

She’d finally kissed the man of her dreams, and the roof had caved in.