The Doctor's Secret Child. Catherine Spencer
“You talk as if it’s a fait accompli that you’ll father a child.”
He laughed. “It’s not a done deal, if that’s what you mean. I’m conventional enough to believe marriage comes before children.”
These days, maybe! But where were your fine scruples when you seduced me and forgot to use a condom?
“Are you planning to get married soon?” It shouldn’t hurt so much to ask, but it did. Pain shot through her like a live wire, leaving her winded from the shock of it.
“We’re in no hurry. We’re both busy with our careers. It’ll happen when the time’s right. What about you? Ever think of remarrying?”
“No,” she said. “I’m too busy raising a daughter and running a business—and now, looking after my mother. I don’t need the complication of a husband.”
He dropped two lumps of sugar in his coffee, added a dollop of cream and stirred thoughtfully. “But you must have been glad of one when you were pregnant, and especially when you gave birth?”
Straightforward enough, at least on the surface, the question slipped between the cracks in her defenses, and laid open a wound too grievous to endure a second time.
In the blink of an eye, it all came back. The fear, even though there’d been three nurses and two doctors in attendance—kind, competent professionals every one. The pain which nothing could assuage. The terrible, aching loneliness, even though Rob had been there the whole time, cheering her on.
But Molly had wanted Dan. Wanted him to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Wanted his hand to clutch when the contractions grew too strong to bear, and his encouragement when exhaustion wore her down to tears. And most of all wanted him to hold her in his arms and kiss her and tell her she was brave and wonderful and that he loved her, when at last it was all over and Ariel lay, bathed and sweetly sleeping, in her bassinet.
“Why so downcast? Don’t tell me you went through that time alone, Molly!”
She blinked and wrenched herself back to the present, taking comfort in the tangible warmth of the log fire smoldering in the hearth, and the pots of silk ivy trailing from brass planters hanging on the wall. “No,” she said softly, the break in her voice caused by another, more recent sorrow. “Rob was by my side the entire time, and he was wonderful.”
“At least you have some good memories then.”
More than he could begin to know but almost certainly not the kind he imagined. She doubted Dan could appreciate or understand the relationship she’d shared with Rob. Most men wouldn’t.
“I really have to go,” she said, pushing away from the table not just because the afternoon was slipping away but because it was safer to put an end to a conversation which had trespassed into territory altogether too personal. “Ariel and my mother have been alone long enough.”
He was out of his chair in a flash and helping her with her coat despite her protests that she could manage on her own. She didn’t want the scent of his cologne drifting out to touch her, or his fingers brushing warmly over the nape of her neck, or his breath ruffling her hair. She wanted him at least six feet away, in a starched white medical jacket and smelling of antiseptic.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said.
“No need. I know the way.”
“I’m sure!” He pulled a credit card from an inside pocket and made for the cashier’s desk. “I’ll walk you out anyway, as soon as I’ve settled up what we owe.”
Not about to waste opportunity when it stared her in the face, she headed for the door and almost made it out of the square and onto the main street before he caught up with her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re afraid to be seen with me, Molly,” he chided genially.
“I’d think you’d have better things to do than idle away the afternoon with someone who isn’t even a patient.”
If she hadn’t been so occupied trying to dislodge the hand he persisted in clamping around her elbow, she might have noticed sooner the woman headed toward them, and had the presence of mind to cross the road before the almighty Mrs. Daniel Cordell Senior descended like a crow about to feast on a hapless quarry.
Frozen-faced, she brought her glance to rest on Molly. “What a surprise, Daniel,” she remarked, her cultured tones ringing with disdain. “I expected you to be spending the afternoon gainfully employed in caring for the sick and down-at-heel.”
“Nice to run into you, too, Yvonne,” he said. “You remember Molly Paget, don’t you?”
“I don’t believe we’ve ever met, though the name’s vaguely familiar.” The hint of a frown ruffled the smooth perfection of her brow. “Wasn’t it a Paget who drove his car directly into the path of a train, thereby managing to kill himself and leave his widow crippled for life?”
“More or less,” Dan said with undisguised annoyance. “But leave it you to paraphrase the incident so succinctly. Pity your memory’s not quite as acute in this instance. You met Molly long before her parents suffered such a tragedy. Over ten years ago, in fact.”
“Did I? I can’t imagine how or why.”
“I brought her to the house for dinner once.”
“Ah yes, now that you mention it, I do seem to recall some such incident.” She might as well have said, Wasn’t she the girl who didn’t know the difference between a wineglass and a demitasse? Dear heaven, Daniel, have you lost your mind? “And you’re still friends?”
“Hardly!” Bristling, Molly at last succeeded in prying her elbow free. “Dr. Cordell was merely bringing me up to speed on my mother’s prognosis.”
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