Читать книгу Countering His Claim - Rachel Bailey - Страница 8
ОглавлениеLess than an hour later, Della rushed along a carpeted corridor to the boardroom where Patrick Marlow’s will was probably already being read. She hated being late. Hated it. Being late meant drawing attention to herself and that made her uncomfortable anytime. And this was such an important occasion.
The life of a shipboard doctor wasn’t frantic like a medical career based in a hospital, but occasionally there would be a run of patients. Just after Luke had left the clinic, they’d had a minor influx of passengers returning early from shore—a child with a bee sting, another with a twisted wrist after a fall, a young woman with a migraine and a man with a bad case of sunburn. She couldn’t have left them all to Cal.
She flicked a glance at her watch. Only three minutes past two—hopefully people were still taking their seats. Arriving late to Patrick’s will reading seemed disrespectful, and the thought made her skin prickle.
Gently pushing open the door, she let out a breath—although people were seated, there was still murmuring as the short, gray-haired man at the front table shuffled papers on his desk. Most chairs were taken, but she was relieved to see a vacant aisle seat in the back row. She slipped in and greeted the woman beside her.
“Have I missed anything?” Della whispered.
“No,” Jackie said. “He just asked everyone to take their seats. It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it? I still can’t believe Patrick’s gone, let alone that we’re all sitting around to talk about his money.” Jackie ran the housekeeping department and had been friends with the ship’s owner, as had many of the senior staff.
Tears stung the back of her eyes but Della blinked them away. “Even knowing how sick he was at the end, part of me kept believing he’d pull through.”
“Well, he thought he’d pull through,” Jackie said, shaking her head, her smile a bittersweet mix of admiration and sadness. “He was still making plans the last time I saw him.”
Breath tight in her lungs, Della had to pause before her voice would work. “Determination and optimism were probably what kept him going longer than his specialists expected.”
“You were a big part of that, too, Della.” Jackie took her hand and squeezed, and Della appreciated the warmth, the solidarity. “We all know the long hours you put in with him, going above and beyond. The way you devoted yourself to making sure he was as comfortable as he could be. And Patrick knew it, too. He sang your praises whenever he could, told us he was indebted to you.”
Della managed something of a crooked smile, but this time her constricted chest wouldn’t let her reply. Thankfully, the man at the front of the room cleared his throat and introduced himself as Patrick Marlow’s lawyer and executor of his will.
As he spoke, Della’s gaze drifted to Luke Marlow, also in an aisle seat, but in the front row beside the captain. His back was tall and straight in the chair and, just as when she’d first seen him when she was boarding a few hours ago, she found it difficult to drag her attention away. There was something magnetic about that man.
Then he slowly turned and searched the crowd before his gaze landed on her. A shiver of tingles ran down her spine. His head dipped in acknowledgment, and she nodded back, before he turned to the front again. Della tucked a curl behind her ear and tried to put Luke Marlow from her mind as best she could. She was here for Patrick.
The executor had finished his preamble and come to the division of assets. He’d left a collection of rare and first edition books to his sister-in-law, Luke’s mother, who, the executor noted, hadn’t been able to attend; he left some personal effects such as cuff links and a tie clip to various members of staff.
“Regarding the ownership of the cruise ship, the Cora Mae...” The executor paused for a muffled cough and darted a quick glance around. “I leave a one-half share to my nephew, Luke Marlow.”
The room was silent for the longest beat as though everyone was too shocked to move. Then a wave of murmuring washed over the small crowd.
Luke had inherited one half? As Della struggled to make sense of the phrase, her gaze flew to Luke. He sat very straight, very still.
One half meant...there was someone else. She could feel the sudden wariness of every crew member present—if their future had seemed uncertain five minutes ago, it was now even more unpredictable. She ran through Patrick’s stories of his family in her mind for possibilities, scanned the rigid bodies sitting in the front row. Although their tension was nothing compared to that emanating from Luke as he sat motionless, waiting, focused.
“The other one-half share,” the executor continued, “I leave to Dr. Della Walsh.”
What? Her heart skidded to a halt then leaped to life again, thumping hard in her chest, each beat a painful hammer in her ears. Oh, God.
Surely there was a mistake. She replayed the words in her head, looking for where she’d misunderstood, but found nothing. What had Patrick done?
People turned in their seats to face her, some with mouths open, others with confused frowns, a few whispering her name in incredulous voices.
Even through the bewilderment, the irony struck her—despite rushing and managing to arrive before the proceedings had begun, every pair of eyes in the room was on her, after all. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose up, then died again when Luke pinned her with fierce gray eyes.
She leaned back against the chair, away from the force of his unspoken accusation. Abruptly, he stood and the crowd’s attention switched to him. Her skin went cold as he stalked down the aisle then stopped to loom over her.
“Dr. Walsh,” he said through a tight jaw. “A word in private, if you please.”
He held his hand out, plainly expecting her to rise and precede him out of the room. Her jellied joints felt unequal to the task but after a moment she managed to force herself to her feet. As she swiveled, she nearly stumbled. A firm warm grip encircled her elbow, steadying her, saving her from that ignominy.
She turned to thank him but her throat seized as she met the hard glitter in his eyes. Her stomach flipped. With all the grace she could muster, she allowed him to guide her out to the corridor.
Once the door to the boardroom had shut behind them, he looked from closed door to closed door. “An empty room where we can talk undisturbed?”
Willing her brain to work, she indicated the door on the left and he headed for it, still gripping her elbow. It was smaller than the room they’d come from, designed for meetings of no more than ten people, furnished with a rectangular table surrounded by chairs and one porthole.
As soon as the door clicked closed, Luke released her and his hands moved to his hips, suspicion and anger radiating from every inch of his six-foot-plus frame.
“Tell me something, Dr. Walsh,” he said, his voice harsh and a sneer curling his top lip. “What exactly did you do for my uncle to earn yourself half a ship?”
It took a moment but then his meaning slammed into her. He thought she’d used her body, sold herself to manipulate sweet, lovely Patrick for financial gain. Rage charged through her veins, hot and wild. Before she’d even realized her intention, her hand was swinging toward him. His eyes widened. He began to turn away, but it was too late.
A crack echoed as flesh met flesh. The force of her slap jerked his head sideways. Heat and pain streaked across her palm, leaving the rest of her body icy cold, and the jolt shuddered all the way up her arm to her shoulder.
And then she froze. She’d struck another human being in anger. The violence felt ugly, alien...she felt alien. She looked down at her upturned palm. Warily her gaze crept up to Luke’s face, to the red imprint of her hand on his cheek and a wave of nausea cramped her stomach.
* * *
Luke swore under his breath. He’d never been slapped before. Now that he had, it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat in a hurry. His cheek hurt like hell.
Della’s hand still hung in the air as if she didn’t know what to do with it now. Her face was blanched of color. Whatever else he may think of her, he could see the slap was out of character. Not that it mattered. What mattered more was that he’d lost his temper. If he were to succeed, control would be his friend. Control over himself, leading to control of the situation. No more angry outbursts—a cool head would win the day.
He spun away and strode over to the other end of the room, trying to find his bearings. He glanced up at a framed photo on the wall of the original Cora Mae proudly entering Sydney Harbour over fifty years ago. Patrick’s Cora Mae had been named after the ship in the photo, which had been Luke’s grandfather’s, and that ship had been named for Luke’s grandmother, Cora Mae Marlow. Now he was effectively sharing his heritage with a stranger...at least until he could rectify the situation. A heaviness pressed down on his shoulders.
What had Patrick been thinking to put him in this position? He scraped both hands through his hair and blew out a breath.
“I have to know,” he said, still facing the photo of the Cora Mae. “When we met earlier and you stitched my hand. Were you aware then that Patrick was leaving you half the ship?”
He turned to face Della. She’d slipped into a chair, her head was bowed, her hands in her lap—her left hand held her right wrist as though she was afraid of what it might do next. Those were the long slender fingers that had stitched his wound with such dexterity, such tenderness. Who’d have thought they’d be capable of delivering such a stinging rebuke.
“No.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I had no idea.”
He surveyed her, curling his fingers around the top of the chair, feeling the padding give under his fingertips. She was the doctor who’d nursed Patrick through his final illness, when he’d been at his most vulnerable. Had she used that time to sway him? To garner a financial reward? Perhaps exerted subtle—or not so subtle—influence over a susceptible, sick man?
He released the chair, dug his uninjured hand into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “It’s a pretty big gift to be a surprise.”
“Patrick had said on more than one occasion that he was grateful I’d arranged for him to be cared for on the Cora Mae. The ship was his home and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay here. Which was why he tried to hide his symptoms as long as he could.” Her eyes closed tight for a long moment, and when she opened them again, she focused on the ceiling. “He also said he’d leave me ‘a little something’ in his will.”
Luke let his silence ask the questions.
She folded her arms under her breasts. “I told him it was unnecessary, that I was just doing my job.”
“But you did more than your job, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “You were with him almost constantly.”
“Yes.” Her eyes flashed but her voice was even and calm. “I loved Patrick and I would have done anything for him. I know what you’re implying but I didn’t care for him for any reward. He was part of my onboard family as well as a mentor and a friend.”
Luke paced across to the porthole, giving himself a few moments to regroup. Patrick was her family and her friend?
Why hadn’t his uncle asked for him? He’d have dropped everything in an instant if he’d known Patrick was so seriously ill. He’d have wanted to be at the old man’s side, wouldn’t have cared that he was frail or tired or any of the other things that the illness had caused. He just wished he’d been there, to talk to him, to hold his hand, to watch over him. A hot ball of emotion lodged in his throat.
Was this part of his problem with Della? She had been here, she had talked to Patrick, helped him, perhaps comforted him in his hours of need. Her competence had provided succor, and Luke wished he’d been a part of that care. It made his voice harsher than he’d intended.
“He was a friend with the capacity to make you a rich woman.”
“Challenge the bloody will, then.” She looked glorious in her anger, her dark eyes shining bright and color high on her cheeks. “Drag it through the courts. Make it look like Patrick wasn’t of sound mind. Knock yourself out.”
Her angry words brought him up short. It would go against the grain to tarnish Patrick’s memory by publically claiming his uncle was incompetent. But he might not have a choice. This was his heritage—how could he just let that go?
The silence was thick and heavy, and when a knock came at the door, it startled him back to the surroundings.
Della turned and wrenched open the door. A crew member stood on the other side. “The executor would like Mr. Marlow back in the room. He’s outlining personal effects, so I expect you’ll be mentioned again.”
Luke nodded then turned to Della. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“I look forward to continuing it,” she said, and stalked from the room.
He watched her leave—the movement of her hips under the soft fabric of her trousers, the bounce of her dark curls at her shoulders—and shook his head. Wasn’t this going to make it hell for negotiating? The last thing he needed was this simmering desire, this spark with his uncle’s doctor—and the part-owner of Luke’s ship. He’d already paid the price of handling her with uncontrolled emotion. A stinging slap and the knowledge that his fierce self-discipline was not as unassailable as he’d believed.
Next time they met, his control over his temper and his body would once again be ironclad.
* * *
Della sat in the back row for the remainder of the will reading, listening to various possessions being allocated to family as well as crew members who had been treasured friends. Although she tried to prevent it, her gaze kept straying to Luke Marlow, his accusations replaying in her mind. The first—that she’d been more than a doctor to Patrick—still sat in the air like a blight on Patrick’s memory. And the second—that she’d somehow influenced Patrick to leave her half the ship when he was in a vulnerable state—was abhorrent. But admittedly, Luke didn’t know her well enough to know she could never stoop to doing something like that. Which didn’t stop the insult from eating at her gut like acid.
There was an aura of restrained tension in and around Luke’s body as he sat facing the front. Others may not notice, but she’d been watching him before the executor had announced that Patrick had left them half the ship each and there was a definite difference in the set of his shoulders now. She could imagine he was probably grinding his teeth, as well. Life had probably come so easily to him—born into a wealthy family, having the advantages of looks, charm and intelligence—that being disappointed like this was likely a new experience. Luke and disappointment probably hadn’t even been on speaking terms until now.
But that wasn’t her problem. And if he wanted to challenge the will in court, so be it. Patrick had been lucid until the last couple of days and there was a large group of people on board who’d be able to testify to that. She might not have been expecting to be left a gift this size, but neither was she about to throw it away simply because a rich man was used to getting his own way. She needed time to think about it all, to let it settle in her mind.
As the executor wound up and said he’d be in touch again with all the beneficiaries, Della sneaked out the door. She wasn’t in the frame of mind to deal with the questions and comments from the crew, or for Luke to pick up their unfinished conversation.
Temples pounding, she hurried down the corridors until she reached her cabin. After a cup of coffee and half an hour to catch her breath, she rang her parents to see if they’d known of Patrick’s intentions. Despite her father becoming close friends with Patrick while he was captain of the Cora Mae, they were as surprised as she, but they were thrilled.
She skipped lunch, her stomach in too many knots for food, and sat staring out her porthole, playing the morning’s events over in her mind. By dinnertime, she hadn’t come to any conclusions, but knew one thing. She had to face the ship. There was no doubt that this would be the hot topic of gossip and the thought made her cringe, but she refused to hide out. The captain was expecting her at his table tonight. She dressed for dinner in her favorite teal satin dress, which always made her feel good—but it would have a tough job tonight.
One final deep breath before she opened the door, ready to face the questions that were surely coming. Face the stares. Face the man.
* * *
Luke sat at the captain’s table, engaging in small talk with the captain to his left, but most of his attention was on scanning the crowd for Della Walsh. He’d spent the afternoon trying to track her down. First stop had been the medical suite but she hadn’t been on duty and the staff had been protective, refusing to give out her details. In fact, wherever he’d tried, he’d come up against a brick wall—the crew of the Cora Mae were like a shield around their doctor. But the captain had told him Della was expected at dinner tonight and she’d never missed dinner at his table when she was expected. So Luke had arrived early and bided his time. He would talk to Dr. Walsh about Patrick’s will tonight.
His gaze flitted from person to person, taking in the suited men, the women in richly colored evening gowns, the sparkling jewelry. Then he saw her weaving her way around the tables and his heart skidded to a halt. The fabric of her dress caught the light from the chandeliers and shimmered, her brown hair in soft waves on her shoulders. Her dark eyes met his for a sweet moment before her attention was snared by a woman at her elbow. Beautiful was such an inadequate word.
He stared at her for a full five seconds after she looked away, only vaguely aware of whatever the captain was saying beside him. Then he pulled himself up. He’d met a lot of attractive women in his life—some he’d dated, some he’d merely admired, one he’d married. But he had a golden rule: never be distracted by a woman; never rely on anyone.
Aside from his disastrous marriage, he’d managed to live his life pretty much according to that rule. The only exception was for his three friends—the blood brothers he’d made at boarding school, where he’d made the cut in his thumb that Della had noticed when she’d done his stitches. He still saw them regularly, particularly to play billiards, but even with them he’d always managed to keep part of himself hidden. Safe.
He wasn’t in danger of breaking the second part of his golden rule—to never rely on anyone—with the ship’s doctor. But it seemed he might need to watch himself in terms of being distracted by Della Walsh.
He’d admired her this morning when she’d done his stitches, but watching her now as she came another few steps closer before she was waylaid again, his reaction was stronger. Deeper. Perhaps it was seeing her in an evening dress. Perhaps he was more keenly attuned to her since the will reading. Whatever it was, he would not be distracted from the pressing issue: the unresolved questions involving ownership of the Cora Mae.
Della finally made it to their table, and an usher seated her in the vacant seat to Luke’s right.
“Good evening, Dr. Walsh,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, obviously noting his use of her title after making a fuss about using first names in her medical suite. But he needed to remind himself that they were now locked in a business situation. He wouldn’t jeopardize the future of his family’s assets over a beautiful woman. He’d learned that lesson already and wasn’t in a rush to repeat it.
Luckily, when his ex-wife had taken him to the cleaners, his father had still been alive and Luke had yet to inherit the family business. If he’d been blind to Jillian’s machinations for another year or two, the outcome would have been much worse.
Della shook out her napkin and laid it across her lap. “Good evening, Mr. Marlow.”
“I hope you had a pleasant afternoon. Unfortunately, I had no luck locating you to continue our discussion.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said pleasantly enough, but it was clear she wasn’t sorry in the least. “How fortunate that you’re on a cruise ship equipped with many ways to fill your afternoon.”
Before he could reply a middle-aged man in the crisp white uniform that indicated his senior crew member status stopped at Della’s shoulder. “Della, I was so pleased when I heard the outcome of Patrick’s will. We’re all so glad for you.”
“Thank you, Colin.” Her chin lifted ever so slightly, as if she was meeting a challenge. “I appreciate it.”
He glanced at Luke, as if remembering he was there. “And you, too, Mr. Marlow.”
“Thank you,” Luke said. But he’d caught the undercurrent—the crew was pleased that one of their own had inherited a share of their home and workplace. Understandable, even if the situation wouldn’t stand like this for long.
Colin turned back to Della. “You’ll be resigning your post as doctor, I assume.”
“I haven’t made any decisions yet,” she said calmly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to leave Dr. Bateman in the lurch.”
The man laid a hand on her shoulder and gave a friendly squeeze before moving along. Uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t liked seeing another man’s hands on Della’s bare flesh, Luke watched her over the rim of his wineglass as she straightened the cutlery beside her plate. She’d changed when the man had said he was happy for her. And now a woman sitting two seats farther along than Della leaned over and congratulated her, and again, Della seemed uncomfortable. Almost as if her colleagues being happy for her made her nervous. Interesting.
When Della turned back, Luke laid a hand over her forearm to ensure her attention wouldn’t be stolen this time. She glanced up, as if startled by the touch, but he left his hand on the warmth of her skin. “We need to talk. To finish the conversation we started earlier.”
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I know.”
A man hovered at Della’s shoulder and she began to turn, but Luke tightened his grip on her forearm to a firm but gentle hold. Della held his gaze and the man stepped away.
“We can’t talk privately here,” Luke said. “As soon as dinner is over we’ll go somewhere where no one can interrupt.” He glanced around at the people nearby who were subtly—or not so subtly—watching them. “Or eavesdrop.”
She scanned his face for long moments before nodding. “I know a place.”
“Good,” he said and turned to face the table again. “As soon as we’ve finished eating, you’ll take me there.”
He’d prefer to go at once, but was prepared to be civilized. And it was better for the crew to see them handling this in a calm manner. Skittish crew members would spook the passengers.
As would a challenge to Patrick’s will through the courts. Which was why he’d prefer to resolve this as quickly and as privately as possible. Of course, if he couldn’t obtain the outcome he wanted privately with Della, a legal challenge was still plan B.
Della smiled at an older couple taking their seats on her other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Flack, Mrs. Flack.”
She turned back to Luke. “Mr. Marlow, this is Mr. and Mrs. Flack. They’re regular patrons of the Cora Mae.”
Mr. Flack leaned across to shake Luke’s hand while his wife said, “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Marlow.”
Luke stood and reached down in front of Della to shake the guests’ hands, an action that gave him a burst of her perfume, a brush of her arm. He refused to let it affect him, and took his seat again.
The wine waiters came and delivered their drinks, and soon all ten seats at the table had filled and Captain Tynan led the conversation among the group. He was obviously an old hand at this, and it gave Luke an opportunity to observe Della some more. Preparation was the key to any confrontation, and he had a lot riding on their meeting after dinner.
After the waiter had taken their meal orders, the main conversation trailed off and Luke turned to Della. “Tell me about yourself.”
She took a sip of her wine before answering. “You didn’t come to dinner to talk about me. How are you finding your cabin?”
Luke toyed with the stem of his glass as he watched her. In some ways, Della reminded him of a cat—detached and ready to turn and walk away at the slightest provocation. What would make a professional, independent woman like Della feel that way? Was it the conflict with him over the Cora Mae, or her reaction to him personally? It was an intriguing question. But he allowed the change of subject to pass without comment.
“Surprisingly comfortable,” he said and leaned back in his chair. The duplex suite they’d been able to find him at short notice was much more spacious and luxurious than the cruise ships of his childhood. Ships had come a long way in twenty-five years, or at least his uncle’s had. “To be honest, I’m a little surprised at the high standard.”
“The Cora Mae is a luxury cruise liner. Our guests expect nothing less than absolute quality.” She tilted her head to indicate the expansive dining room, decorated in opulent whites and sparkling crystal, its walls draped in lilac gauzy fabric. In the soft glow of the room’s light, she was breathtaking. His pulse picked up speed. She wore a simple teal evening gown and the lightest of makeup, her nut-brown hair hanging in loose, shiny curls. Yet, for all her understatement, there was a magnetic charge that surrounded her.
He cleared his throat. “Have you had a busy time in the medical rooms since I was there?”
“I was only on duty until the will reading, so there wasn’t too much,” she said, absently wiping a finger through the condensation on the side of her glass.
“No other stitches?”
One side of her mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “You were the only one. After you left I saw a case of sunburn, a twisted wrist from a fall over a mat and one child with a bee sting.”
“Was the mat on the ship?” he asked casually, words like liability and lawsuit flashing through his mind.
She shook her head. “A guest who’d been ashore for the day.”
He nodded and sipped his wine. He’d only just inherited the ship—well, half the ship—and legal action or other complications weren’t the best way to start.
He tipped his glass toward her. “So I was the most interesting patient of the day?”
“You could say that,” she conceded with a smile.
“Then I’m glad my suffering was of service,” he said slowly. For a fleeting moment, the veil lifted and awareness flashed in her toffee-brown eyes. Something in that awareness, in the yearning that lay behind it, called to him on a primal level, made his blood pump faster, hotter. His muscles tensed, then she blinked and the expression, and the moment, were gone. He’d felt a similar pull when she’d first arrived at the table. There was some chemistry between them, no denying it. Also no denying that Della wasn’t happy about it.
He’d never had to try too hard with women before—even Jillian, the wife who’d left him in such grand style, had practically handed herself to him on a platter. The fact that Della—despite her attraction to him—would be more comfortable somewhere else fascinated him more than he would have predicted.
Their meals arrived and Della was drawn into other conversations. Luke talked to the captain beside him and others around the table, but part of his attention remained on Della, whether he wanted it to or not. He knew when she took a bite of her roast vegetable salad. Knew when she touched her mouth with her napkin. Listened to her gentle laugh. Smelled a faint vanilla fragrance when she ran her fingers through her hair. And he silently cursed himself for it. Because in less than an hour, she’d once again be his opponent.
