The Doctor & the Runaway Heiress. Marion Lennox
‘Her mother’s sure she’s suicidal.’
‘How much does your mother know about you?’ Riley demanded.
‘I’d hate to imagine,’ Cordelia retorted—which was a lot of speech for Cordelia. She was quiet at the best of times, but tonight her head cold was making her miserable.
There was a moment’s pause while they all thought this through. Then: ‘I guess it’s worth a shot,’ Harry said, and hit the radio. ‘Assuming an eight o’clock entry,’ he asked Bernie in their control room, ‘can you rework the expected position?’
They did two more unsuccessful sweeps before Bernie was back with a location.
‘Half a kilometre north and closer to shore,’ Harry relayed. ‘Let’s go.’
It’d be so easy to slip under.
There will be no headlines. Not.
She was so tired.
The light. Had it turned? Was it coming?
She was imagining it. Her mind was doing funny, loopy things. The stars, the fluorescence of the waves and the roar of the sea were merging into a cold, menacing dream.
If this light wasn’t really in her head she should raise her hand. If she could summon the energy. She could just …
Maybe not.
She must.
‘Something.’
The Squirrel banked and turned almost before Riley barked the word. Harry was good.
So was Riley. His eyes were the best in the business. But still … the water was so choppy. They were in by the cliffs; any closer and they’d be victims themselves.
‘Sure?’ Harry snapped.
‘No. Ten back. Five left. Hover.’
They hovered. The floodlight lit the water. The downdraught caused the water to flatten.
There …
‘Got it,’ Cordelia snapped.
They both had it. And what’s more … There was a hand, feebly raised.
‘She’s alive,’ Riley said, and he didn’t try to keep the exultation from his voice. ‘How about that? Suicide or not, it seems our bride’s changed her mind. Hold on, Phillippa Penelope Fotheringham, we’re coming.’
The light … the noise … It was all around her. She couldn’t think.
She also could no longer make her feet tread water.
A shadow was over her. Someone was yelling.
She was so tired.
Do not slip under. Do not.
Please.
Something was sliding into the water beside her. Someone.
She was too weak to clutch but she didn’t need to. Arms were holding her. Just … holding.
Another human.
She was safe. She could let go. She had to let go. She could slip into the darkness and disappear.
‘Don’t you give up on us now, Phillippa Penelope Fotheringham,’ someone growled. ‘I’ve got you.’
She made one last effort. One massive effort because this was really, really important.
‘I am not marrying Roger,’ she managed. ‘My choice, not his. And my name is not Phillippa. I’m Pippa.’
CHAPTER TWO
THERE were sunbeams on her bedcover. She woke and the sheer wonder of sunlight on linen was enough to make her want to cry.
Someone was standing at the end of her bed. Male. With a stethoscope.
She was in hospital?
Of course. The events of the night before came surging back—or maybe only some of the events, because there seemed to be gaps. Big gaps.
Water. Dark. Terror.
Then in the water, someone holding her, yelling at her, or maybe they were yelling at someone else.
Someone fastening her to him. Large, male, solid.
‘You’re safe. You don’t need to hold on. I have you.’
Noise, lights, people.
Hospital.
‘Hi,’ the guy at the end of the bed said. ‘I’m Dr Riley Chase. Welcome to the other side.’
The other side.
She surveyed the man talking to her with a certain degree of caution. He was … gorgeous. Tall, ripped and, after the nightmare of last night, reassuringly solid.
Beautifully solid.
She took time to take him in. Detail seemed important. Detail meant real.
His face was tanned and strongly boned. His deep blue eyes were crinkled at the edges. Laughter lines? Weather lines? Weather maybe. His near black hair—a bit unkempt, a bit in need of a cut—showed signs of sun-bleaching. That’d be from weather. He was wearing cream chinos. His short-sleeved shirt was open at the throat—this guy was definitely ripped—and his stethoscope was hanging from his top pocket.
Welcome to the other side?
Gorgeous fitted the other side description, she decided. Doctors didn’t.
‘Doctors aren’t in my version of heaven,’ she said, trying her voice out. She was vaguely surprised when it worked. Nothing felt like it should work this morning.
‘It’s definitely heaven,’ he said, smiling a wide, white smile that made him look friendlier—and more heart-stoppingly gorgeous—than any doctor she’d ever met. ‘In the other place the pillows are lumpy and we’re big on castor oil and leeches.’
‘And here?’ she managed.
‘Not a leech in sight, we reserve our castor oil for emergencies and there are two pillows for every bed. And because you were soggy the angels have decreed you can have more.’ He waved an expansive hand around her not-very-expansive cubicle. ‘Luxury.’
She smiled at that. She was in a two-bed cubicle that opened out into the corridor. The nurses’ station was on the other side, giving whoever was at the station a clear view of her bed. Luxury?
‘And heaven also means your medical care’s totally free,’ he added. ‘Especially as your documents say you have travel insurance.’
Her documents?
There was enough there to give her pause. To make her take her time about saying anything else. She looked at Dr Riley Chase and he gazed calmly back at her. She had the impression that he had all the time in the world.
‘Dr Chase?’ a female voice called to him from the corridor. Maybe he didn’t have all the time in the world.
‘Unless it’s a code blue I’m busy,’ he called back. He tugged a chair to her bedside and straddled it, so he was facing her with the back of the chair between them. She knew this trick. She often wished she could use it herself but it was a guy thing. Guy thing or not, she appreciated it now. It gave the impression of friendliness, but it wasn’t overly familiar. She needed a bit of distance and maybe he sensed it.
‘You’re on suicide watch,’ he said bluntly. ‘We have a staff shortage. Are you planning on doing anything interesting?’
She thought about that for a bit. Felt a bit angry. Felt a bit stupid.
‘We’re struggling with priorities,’ he said, maybe sensing her warring emotions. Feeling the need to be apologetic.