“We’ll have separate bedrooms, of course…” Quent said, answering Amy’s unspoken question

Then mischief glinted in his smile. “But we don’t have to keep it that way. You might find having me around more tempting than you expect.”

Amy didn’t doubt that. She was all too aware of his muscular strength as he guided his car. But she reminded him, “We’re doing this for the kids.”

“You know I love them,” he said.

Amy nearly stopped breathing until she heard the word them. For a moment she’d thought he was going to say he loved her. “I never saw you as the daddy type,” she said unsteadily.

“People change,” he answered.

“Yes, they do…” she murmured, wondering if he’d ever change enough to want to be a husband, as well as a father.

When that happened, she could only hope she was the one he fell in love with….

Dear Reader,

Our yearlong twentieth-anniversary celebration continues with a spectacular lineup, starting with Saved by a Texas-Sized Wedding, beloved author Judy Christenberry’s 50th book. Don’t miss this delightful addition to the popular series TOTS FOR TEXANS. It’s a marriage-of-convenience story that will warm your heart!

Priceless Marriage by Bonnie Gardner is the latest installment in the MILLIONAIRE, MONTANA continuity series, in which a “Main Street Millionaire” claims her “ex” as her own. Jacqueline Diamond pens another charming story in THE BABIES OF DOCTORS CIRCLE series with Prescription: Marry Her Immediately. Here a confirmed bachelor doctor enlists the help of his gorgeous best friend in order to win custody of his orphaned niece and nephew. And let us welcome a new author to the Harlequin American Romance family. Kaitlyn Rice makes her sparkling debut with Ten Acres and Twins.

It’s an exciting year for Harlequin American Romance, and we invite you to join the celebration this month and far into the future!

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance

Prescription: Marry Her Immediately

Jacqueline Diamond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The daughter of a doctor and an artist, Jacqueline Diamond claims to have researched the field of obstetrics primarily by developing a large range of complications during her pregnancies. She’s also lucky enough to have a friend and neighbor who’s an obstetrical nurse. The author of more than sixty novels, Jackie lives in Southern California with her husband and two sons. She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 1315, Brea, CA 92822, or by e-mail at JDiamondfriends@aol.com.

Books by Jacqueline Diamond

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

79—THE DREAM NEVER DIES

196—AN UNEXPECTED MAN

218—UNLIKELY PARTNERS

239—THE CINDERELLA DARE

270—CAPERS AND RAINBOWS

279—GHOST OF A CHANCE

315—FLIGHT OF MAGIC

351—BY LEAPS AND BOUNDS

406—OLD DREAMS, NEW DREAMS

446—THE TROUBLE WITH TERRY

491—A DANGEROUS GUY

583—THE RUNAWAY BRIDE

615—YOURS, MINE AND OURS

631—THE COWBOY AND THE HEIRESS

642—ONE HUSBAND TOO MANY

645—DEAR LONELY IN L.A….

674—MILLION-DOLLAR MOMMY

687—DADDY WARLOCK

716—A REAL-LIVE SHEIKH

734—THE COWBOY AND THE SHOTGUN BRIDE

763—LET’S MAKE A BABY!

791—ASSIGNMENT: GROOM!

804—MISTLETOE DADDY

833—I DO! I DO!

855—DADDY, M.D.

875—KISS A HANDSOME STRANGER

889—SURPRISE, DOC! YOU’RE A DADDY!

913—THE IMPROPERLY PREGNANT PRINCESS

962—DIAGNOSIS: EXPECTING BOSS’S BABY *

971—PRESCRIPTION: MARRY HER IMMEDIATELY *

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

435—AND THE BRIDE VANISHES

512—HIS SECRET SON

550—CAPTURED BY A SHEIKH

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

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.

Chapter Two

“That’s one heckuva palm tree,” said the fireman, studying the wreckage from the rain-drenched parking lot.

The tree had fallen straight across Amy’s roof, smashing shingles and the gutter. The fire-team members, their bright yellow slickers deflecting the downpour, had thrown a tarp over the roof to protect the contents from further damage, but it was clear the place would be unlivable for some time to come.

“How big do you make it?” Quent asked. “Twenty, thirty feet?”

“Hard to tell. You’ll need to get a private contractor out here to cut it up and haul it away, and you’ll need to board over that hole it made. I’d suggest you contact a roofer as soon as possible.” The man turned to talk to another firefighter.

The sheeting rain and stormy late-afternoon darkness diffused the lights of the rescue vehicles. Their flashing reds and haloed whites reflected eerily off the blacktop.

Holding the umbrella a neighbor had loaned them, Quent strolled to the overhang where Amy stood surveying the mess. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good roofer, would you?” he asked.

“The condo association will take care of it,” she said. “I already called the manager.” Somehow, he saw, she’d managed to snag her purse and cell phone on their way out of the unit. “They’re the ones who carry our insurance and maintain the common roof.”

“We’ve been complaining about that tree for years,” grumbled the middle-aged woman who’d given Quent the umbrella. “I’m glad nobody got hurt.”

“I’m going to ask the battalion chief if it’s safe to go in and fetch some of my clothes.” Amy took the umbrella. “My laptop, too, and some case files I brought home.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Quent swiveled toward the firemen.

“It’s my condo. Besides, those guys have been taking funny looks at your sweatshirt,” she said.

“Huh?” He glanced down in surprise. Darn, he’d forgotten about the pink top and the feminine-looking cat.

“I can handle the situation,” Amy said. “Why don’t you just stand here and look pretty?”

“Why not? I’m so good at it,” he shot back. Her answering grin told him she’d enjoyed the quip.

Despite his remark, Quent would have preferred to take care of business himself, but Amy had already crossed the pavement. Her slim figure managed to be authoritative and sweetly appealing at the same time as she put her case to the man in the yellow slicker.

“Tell Amy to keep the umbrella as long as she needs it,” said the neighbor, and went inside.

Quent stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from obeying his instincts to charge out there and protect Amy. It was obvious she didn’t need his help.

She stood her ground, speaking calmly as the chief listened. A younger fireman, working nearby, kept glancing at her with unconcealed interest. If that guy came any closer, Quent was going to intervene.

It came as a relief when the younger man moved away. Besides, the guy looked too callow for Amy.

Quent hoped he hadn’t annoyed her by grabbing her that way on the couch. After holding himself in check all these weeks, he’d seized his chance so abruptly he hadn’t shown much subtlety.

Maybe it was a good thing they’d been interrupted. Going to bed with Amy would be fabulous, but he wasn’t sure how they could strike the right balance. Relationships, in his experience, had a way of careening out of control.

Several years ago, Quent had nearly become engaged to a graduate student in business. The closer he and his girlfriend grew, however, the more they’d quarreled.

She’d resented his long hours at the hospital, while he’d experienced a spurt of jealousy when he saw her studying with a male friend. Their friendship had degenerated into mistrust and tension that all his efforts had failed to dispel. Soon they’d broken up and gone their own ways.

He didn’t want anything like that to happen with Amy. He didn’t want to lose her, and he knew their relationship would change irrevocably once they became intimate. Yet there’d been a fierceness to her response that stirred him profoundly. The things she could teach him…

He swallowed hard and tried to turn his thoughts to something unpleasant to cool his ardor. Foul-tasting medicine. Tetanus shots. Dr. Fingger, the interim head of the Well-Baby Clinic, wearing his customary prune-sucking expression of disapproval.

The tactic failed, to Quent’s dismay. He knew perfectly well that his cutoffs didn’t hide much of anything. He preferred not to think of Amy’s pals chuckling if she described his awkward groping on the couch, followed by his obvious physical arousal as he stood watching her in the rain like some lustful tomcat.

Oh, heck, Amy wasn’t the kind of woman to make fun of him to others. At least, Quent didn’t think so, but the image of her friends’ mirth succeeded where his discouraging thoughts had failed, and his body came under control.

Amy returned a moment later. “They believe the place is structurally safe but they have to err on the side of caution,” she said. “They’re going to allow me inside for ten minutes. Can you believe that? Ten minutes to collect my gear for who knows how long!”

“Let me help,” he said.

“Great! I’d appreciate it.” She led the way to the wide-open front door. “We’re ready,” she told the battalion chief.

He nodded. “Go on in.”

The two of them hurried into a living room that resembled a war zone. It was too bad one lousy tree could do so much damage.

The other rooms appeared undamaged. With her usual efficiency, Amy handed Quent a suitcase from the hall closet.

“I’m going to get the papers and laptop out of my office,” she said. “Grab my clothes out of the bedroom, will you? Business suits, jeans and blouses are in the closet. My underwear’s in the top drawer of the bureau and my nightgowns are in the middle.”

“You want me to handle your—?” He stopped, remembering that they had only ten minutes and he was wasting time. Her approach made sense, since he’d have no idea what papers to take or where to find them in her office. “Okay.”

She vanished through a doorway to the right. The other bedroom on that side was empty, so Quent turned left.

The first thing that struck him was Amy’s fresh floral scent. The second thing were the framed posters of ice skaters and gymnasts. He was surprised not to see one of the 49ers, and realized she must not be as big a fan as she claimed.

After plopping the suitcase on the bed, he retrieved some clothes from their hangers. There wasn’t time to fold them neatly. Suits, jeans and blouses all got rolled up and stuffed inside.

Although he knew they were pressed for time, Quent hesitated before opening the bureau drawers. He didn’t like invading Amy’s privacy. Even with his girlfriend, his only contact with her lingerie and lace nighties had been removing them in a hurry.

He yanked on the center drawer first and took out a folded nightgown. The silky fabric flowed across his hands like warm water. Draped on Amy’s body, it must reveal every curve and inlet, he thought, and hurriedly stuffed it into the suitcase.

Quent braved the top drawer. Panties and bras were stuffed together, entangled with pantyhose. The jumble reminded him of his own sock drawer.

Try as he might, he couldn’t suppress an image of Amy wearing this stuff and peeling it off in front of him. With her experience, she’d probably perfected the art of the striptease.

“Hey!” the subject of his yearnings called from the hallway. “They’re calling for us to come out. You ready?”

“I’ll be right there!” Quent grabbed a handful of underwear, shoved it into the suitcase and clicked it shut.

They scurried out together. Amy lugged a satchel full of papers plus her laptop and the umbrella. “I’m glad they let me in there. I kept thinking of other things I need. Did you get everything?”

“You bet,” Quent said. “If I ever need a job as a ladies’ maid, you can give me a reference.”

“You did take some shoes, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Shoes?”

“You know, the things to go on my feet?” Amy groaned as they emerged into the blustery day. “Oh, well, I suppose it’s my fault for forgetting to mention it.”

The firemen refused to let them back in. “The building inspector called and said to keep the premises vacated until he makes sure it’s safe,” the battalion chief told them. “He won’t be able to get here before Monday.”

“I’ll survive,” Amy said. “At least I’ve got my credit cards.”

“I’ll pay you back for the shoes,” Quent said.

“You will not. I can always use a new pair.”

She left the place open, after the chief promised to lock up personally when his crew was finished and give the key to her neighbor. Even under the eaves, the air hung heavy with moisture, and Quent knew they both needed to get dry.

In the parking lot, he got a bright idea. Well, maybe not totally bright, if he’d given himself time to think about it, but right now Quent’s brain couldn’t stretch beyond the need to get Amy alone and resume the activity that had been so rudely interrupted.

“You can stay with me,” he said.

She handed him the umbrella and, waving aside his attempt to help, began stowing things in the trunk of her sporty sedan, which she’d moved out of her carport because it, too, was damaged. “You’re inviting me to move in with you till my roof gets fixed?”

“Why not?” That was one of Quent’s mottos.

“Because…” Amy pushed back a strand of black hair that had draped itself across her cheek. Quent fought down the urge to reach out and stroke that tantalizing wisp. “We’re friends. If I move in with you, stuff will happen, and then we’ll both get self-conscious about it and we might not be friends anymore.”

“Sure we will.” He had a sneaking suspicion she was right, but it didn’t pay to think too far in advance, because you never knew what the future would bring. “Life’s too short to deny yourself.”

“You really believe that?”

Quent shifted the umbrella, trying to keep them both dry. Rain tickled the back of his neck. “Sure I do.”

“Don’t you ever worry about consequences?”

“Not if I can help it.” At least, that had been his attitude until last year, when his niece and nephew were orphaned. Even since then, however, he preferred not to dwell on things he couldn’t control.

Amy shook her head. “Whatever works for you. Anyway, thanks for the offer, but my aunt lives a couple of miles away. I’m hoping she’ll take me in.”

A mixture of disappointment and relief welled up in Quent. Sure, he wanted to take Amy home and ravish her. He’d been fantasizing about it for weeks.

But underneath her gung-ho exterior, he knew Amy was complicated. Around her, he sometimes caught himself thinking about things he was in no way ready for, like a long-term relationship.

“You’re sure?” he said.

“Positive.” She reached out and ruffled his hair. “See you at work on Monday.”

“You bet.”

He handed her the umbrella and waited until she pulled out of the parking lot before taking refuge in his SUV. Quent debated whether to stay and keep an eye on her unit until the condo association got workmen out here. Considering that it was nearly dusk on a Saturday, however, he might have a very long wait. If Amy wasn’t worried about security, she probably knew best, he decided, and pulled away.

He negotiated the side streets to Pacific Coast Highway and swung north onto Serene Boulevard, which ran uphill toward the inland mesa area where he lived. Partially blocked by fallen palm fronds and other wind-blown debris, traffic inched up a steep incline toward the bluffs that separated the beach area from the mesa.

Quent was passing Serene Park, a green expanse with a great view of the ocean, when one of his contact lenses began to smart. It was a sharp, intense itch, as if a grain of sand had worked its way under there. Concerned about driving with such a distraction, he pulled into the deserted park and stopped.

There was no sense trying to fix things under these circumstances, so Quent popped out both lenses. He replaced them with a pair of glasses from the glove compartment.

Water gusted across the windshield and drummed on the roof. The SUV swayed in a burst of wind. Even the tail of a hurricane could pack a lot of force, he mused, and decided to wait awhile before resuming his journey along the clogged street. Maybe this downpour would let up.

Only now, sitting quietly with rain pounding outside, did Quent become aware of the tautness in his body. It wasn’t the pleasurable sexual tension he’d felt earlier with Amy, but an intermittent uneasiness that had dogged him for the past year.

He realized he was having a delayed reaction to the crash of the tree breaking through the roof. It had brought back with vivid clarity the moment when he’d awakened in darkness to the jarring ring of the phone. He’d still been living in San Diego, where he’d grown up, and had been finishing his neonatology residency.

For a disoriented moment, he’d figured one of his roommates would grab the phone. When neither answered, he’d remembered they were both working the night shift, so he’d answered.

He could still hear his father’s voice, almost toneless with shock. “They’re dead,” he’d said. “I should have seen it coming. Why did Jeffrey let her drive?”

Quent’s first reaction had been confusion. “What do you mean, they’re dead? Who’s dead?”

“Everyone,” Bruce Ladd had growled. “All of them. Except the kids.”

Until that moment, the demands of studying and working combined with his own playful nature had kept Quent from paying much attention to his family’s problems. He’d assumed the people he loved would always be around, always be fine, always be able to manage.

He knew that his mother, Alice, drank too much, and that his father responded by withdrawing emotionally. He’d never understood why his older brother Jeffrey refused to acknowledge the seriousness of Alice’s drinking, but then, Quent had tried to persuade her to seek help and knew how futile that was.

That night changed everything, too late. He hadn’t known, at a gut emotional level, that the people you loved could suddenly be snatched away from you. And he’d never imagined the abyss that would open up inside.

At the hospital, he learned that Jeffrey, Jeffrey’s wife Paula, their infant daughter and young son had gone with Alice to a friend’s barbecue in the countryside. Quent’s father, Bruce, had declined, because he had brought home overflow work from his law practice.

At the barbecue, liquor flowed. Afterwards, even though Jeffrey must have known Alice had been drinking, he’d allowed her to take the wheel of her car. It was, sadly, typical “enabling” behavior.

Driving too fast at night, she’d swerved to avoid hitting the back of a slow-moving semi truck. The car had veered off a small bridge and into a swollen creek.

All three adults were killed. The truck driver and a passerby had managed to unstrap the children and bring them to safety, but they’d been unable to save the others.

In the months that followed, Quent had steered his father into treatment for depression while struggling with his own sense of helplessness and regret. He’d also done his best to help the children get settled.

At the time, Quent had been working rotating shifts that made parenting an infant and a preschooler impossible. Since his father was in no condition to raise them and Paula’s mother suffered from severe arthritis, Paula’s sister Lucy had become their guardian.

Single and a bit flaky, she was a good sport, but he wondered now if she’d realized what she was taking on. Although Quent had visited frequently while he lived in San Diego, he had to be on call most weekends since moving to Orange County and it was hard to find time to make the three-hour round-trip drive.

As another blast of rain hit the glass, he recalled with a guilty twinge that he hadn’t talked to his niece and nephew in several weeks. The last time had been when Lucy called to thank him for some gifts he’d sent Tara and Greg.

He took out his cell phone and dialed.

“Hello? Enlighten me.” It was Lucy, who, even at twenty-six, sometimes talked like a teenager. During the week, she was an assistant department manager at a large insurance company that provided child care. On the weekends, her passion was long-distance running.

“It’s Quent. How’s the weather down there?”

“Miserable, which is why I’m working out indoors.” In the background, he heard the squeak of her treadmill. “Man, I hate this humidity. If I wanted humidity, I’d move to Florida.”

“How’re the kids?”

“Going crazy from being cooped up. Hang on.” A moment later, she put Greg on the phone.

Sounding grown-up for a four-year-old, he filled Quent in on his day-care group’s adventures in making something called stone soup. Apparently it included numerous ingredients, although no actual stones.

“We heard this story about it. The man said he could make soup from a stone,” Greg explained. “He talked this old lady into giving him stuff to make it taste better. You know, like noodles and onions.”

“Very clever,” Quent said.

Next, Tara babbled away happily, interposing a few recognizable words with her baby talk. Child development fascinated Quent. He’d studied the physical and emotional facts of childhood, but it was much more striking to observe them outside a clinical setting, especially when you cared so much about the youngsters.

He wondered if Amy liked kids. As a counselor who spent her life helping people, surely she did, and she’d shown a marked interest in the newborns yesterday. Maybe someday she’d enjoy meeting Tara and Greg.

“I’ll come see you soon,” Quent promised before saying goodbye to each child in turn.

“They miss you,” Lucy said. She didn’t include herself. The two of them had been practically strangers until the tragedy and, although they got along fine, had little in common apart from the children.

“How’re you doing?” he asked.

“Okay. I’m not much of a mother type but we muddle along. Thank goodness they like macaroni and cheese,” she said.

“I’d like to come visit soon. When would be convenient?”

“I’m not sure. We’ve got a lot of changes at work and I’ve had to put in some extra hours,” Lucy said. “I’ll give you a call, okay?”

“Thanks.”

After he rang off, Quent was glad to see the rain slackening. It was growing dark, turning from daytime into Saturday night. After years of overwork, he loved to party, and rarely got the chance. Now where had he put that flier?

He dug through a handful of papers on the passenger seat. There was a staff memo from Dr. Fingger about the Thanksgiving holiday schedule, filled with exhortations not to be late or ask for changes. The guy really needed to loosen up.

Beneath it lay a reminder about the annual pre-Christmas soiree hosted by the Doctors Circle administrator, Patrick Barr, which this year was going to double as his wedding reception. It made sense to Quent that the guy was getting maximum bang for the buck.

Here it was! He pulled out the flier he’d been handed by Rob Sentinel, a new obstetrician at the clinic. Rob was hosting a bring-your-own bottle party tonight, promising loud music, lousy food and nowhere near enough chairs. Perfect!

It would be more fun if Amy could go, but he suspected she’d be busy settling in at her aunt’s. Well, the two of them weren’t joined at the hip.

After the grind of medical school, Quent had sworn to take it easy when he got the chance. He’d had less time for fun than he expected during his residencies, and now he seized every opportunity to blow off steam.

He put the SUV into gear and headed to a convenience store. He’d better pick up some taco chips and spray cheese in case Rob ran short. It wasn’t fair to let one guy shoulder the whole work of staging a party by himself.

Chapter Three

Amy was almost asleep when the cell phone rang on her bedside table. Thinking it might be one of her clients, she shook off her daze as she grabbed it. “Amy Ravenna,” she said.

“Quentin Ladd,” came the response. He sounded utterly mellow. The background noise of conversation and music gave her a clue why.

Amy checked the clock. Nearly midnight. “You went to that party of Rob Sentinel’s, didn’t you?” She tried to quell a spurt of jealousy that came from knowing plenty of single nurses must be present.

“Bingo,” he said.

“And you’ve had a few beers.”

“Two,” he said. “I never have more than two.” He made a point of never drinking to excess.

“Is something wrong?” she asked sleepily, and hoped the ringing phone hadn’t disturbed her aunt Mary or seventeen-year-old cousin Kitty, who’d both gone to bed an hour ago.

“Yes,” Quent said. “You’re not here.”

Warmth seeped through Amy. “I thought of going, but Aunt Mary and I were figuring out what to fix for Thanksgiving.” It was only a few days away.

“Throw on some clothes and come join me.”

She’d rather he took off his clothes and joined her. Uh-oh. She hadn’t said that aloud, had she? “I’d better not,” Amy said. “I’m tired and it’s raining.”

“It’s stopped. Besides, we have some unfinished business.” His tone wasn’t exactly suggestive, and he certainly wasn’t applying pressure. It was more of an open invitation, leaving the decision to her.

Amy knew how she had to respond. “It’s best left unfinished.”

“We’ll see.” A couple of short breaths revealed that he was yawning.

“You’re tired,” she said. “Go home.”

“I needed somebody to tell me that,” Quent admitted. “I hope I’m not getting too old to party hearty anymore.”

“You’re nearly thirty.”

“Ouch!”

“A little maturity will look good on you,” she said.

“That’s encouraging.” In the background, someone turned up the volume. Nearly shouting, Quent added, “That could damage my hearing!”

“You’re definitely too old for that scene,” Amy said. “Go put on your tasseled nightcap and heat a water bottle for your tootsies. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Count on it,” he said.

After ringing off, Amy couldn’t resist picturing what might have happened if she’d accepted his invitation. They’d have ended up alone at his apartment, stroking each other, kissing, sinking onto the couch with no one to interfere and no inconvenient tree to collapse on top of them….

She pushed the image away and picked up a psychology journal from the bedside table. It was half an hour before her eyes drifted shut again.

SHOES. Who knew they could be such a problem?

Amy’s size must have been wildly popular, because on Sunday her favorite department store was out of stock in all the pumps that appealed to her.

She didn’t blame Quent. She hadn’t mentioned packing her shoes, although heaven knew what the guy had been thinking.

Uh, wait. She did know. He’d been thinking about their hot-and-heavy madness on the couch. What else was a twenty-something guy supposed to think about?

Not to mention a thirty-something woman.

Amy tried not to survey the men as she raced down the mall to a specialty shoe store. She didn’t want to compare their butts—unfavorably—to Quent’s, or to notice how their hair lacked the wild springiness of his.

She was not going to view him as a sex object. He was her buddy and her respected colleague. And way too eager to make love to the woman of the world he assumed her to be.

If only they had met in an alternate reality where mindless fun carried no consequences, they could indulge themselves and go right on being friends and coworkers. If that were true, her images from last night would already have become a sizzling reality.

Giving herself a mental slap, Amy entered the store and picked out several pairs of pumps. At last, she found a pair that fit and finished paying barely in time to meet her two closest friends for their appointment at the bridal shop.

Natalie Winford, a blond divorcée with a wicked sense of humor, was getting married in two weeks to the administrator of Doctors Circle. A pediatrician who’d left his practice to work full-time as director, Patrick was the son of the clinic’s late founder.

Natalie, his longtime secretary, had nursed her secret love for years until the two of them got carried away one night after a party to raise money for the center’s Endowment Fund. Now here she was, due to deliver a baby next May and deliriously happy after discovering that Patrick had been secretly in love with her, too.

Several weeks earlier, the attendants had picked out their turquoise bridesmaids’ gowns along with matching hats. The problem, once again, was the shoes.

“I’m sorry,” the store proprietor said, holding up a pair of emerald pumps. “They came out the wrong color. I called you as soon as I saw them.”

“Dye another batch,” Natalie said promptly.

“The company we use is backlogged, and so is everyone else,” the woman said. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve called all over Orange and Los Angeles counties and I haven’t had any luck.”

“We could wear white shoes,” suggested their friend Heather Rourke, an obstetrician who was on two months’ leave for personal reasons. “Or would we be stepping on the bride’s toes?”

“If that was an intentional pun, I’m going to stick you with a diaper pin,” Amy said.

Heather laughed. “I don’t think they make diaper pins anymore. Everything’s got Velcro or tape.”

“You should know.”

“Just call me Diaper Lady!”

The beautiful redhead had recently admitted to her two closest friends, after swearing them to secrecy, that she’d given up a baby for adoption while in her teens. Following the deaths of the adoptive parents, her daughter Olive had contacted her, and they’d become close. Then Olive became pregnant.

Heather had taken leave to coach her daughter through childbirth while Olive’s fiancé served overseas in the marines. Now the new mother and baby Ginger were staying with Grandma, which seemed to Amy an absurd title for such a young-looking thirty-six-year-old. No one else at the center knew anything about the situation, and Heather, who prized her privacy, intended to keep it that way.

“I wish my sister hadn’t had to work today so you could all pick out your shoes,” Natalie said. “We’re getting awfully close to the wedding.”

“Candy doesn’t have to wear the same shoes we do,” Heather pointed out. “She’s the maid of honor.”

“I don’t see why any of our shoes have to match,” Amy said. “Who’s going to notice? We’ll look weird enough as it is, wearing turquoise at the reception. I assume the Barr mansion will be decked out in red and green as usual.”

Every year, Patrick hosted the Doctors Circle staff and supporters at a holiday party the first week in December. Since he and Natalie had become engaged at the end of October, they’d had such a short time to prepare that they’d decided to let the annual event do double duty.

“I thought about having a Christmas-themed wedding,” Nat admitted. “But red is too far out and I couldn’t stick you guys with bright green dresses.”

“Thanks, more than you’ll ever know,” Amy said.

She couldn’t imagine how brides kept track of all the details and conventions, anyway. If she ever got married, she’d have to elope, because otherwise she would make a whole series of embarrassing faux pas.

“I’m glad you picked turquoise and silver,” Heather said. “The church will be beautiful.”

“Silver! That’s it!” Although Amy had the fashion sense of a sea slug, she knew she’d hit on something this time. “Last year at Patrick’s Christmas reception, there were silver bows on the staircase. If we wear silver shoes, they’ll work at the wedding and the reception.”

“Silver would be lovely,” Natalie agreed.

“I don’t suppose you have any silver shoes on hand, do you?” Heather asked the proprietor.

“I’m afraid not.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon traipsing around the mall, and found two attractive styles of silver sandals that would look fine side by side. Heather’s had a higher heel, which evened things up a bit, since she was five inches shorter than Amy.

“Candy can pick up a pair next week,” Natalie said. “Hooray! We’re done!”

A few minutes later, the bride waved farewell, since she’d parked near a different exit than her friends. As Heather and Amy sauntered in the opposite direction, Heather said, “Now that we’ve got a moment alone, I’d like to ask a favor.”

“Is it baby-sitting? I don’t have much experience, but I’d be glad to give it a try.” Amy had been fascinated by the babies she’d seen through the nursery window en route to talk to Quent on Friday.

“Thanks, but it’s not baby-sitting,” Heather said. “It’s about the Moms in Training program.”

Both women volunteered at a program for pregnant teenagers. Amy offered counseling and collected donations from the community to help the young women. Heather gave advice about healthy pregnancies. In private conversations with some of the girls, she had also confided about her own experiences as an unwed mother and how adoption had helped her get her life on track.

“What can I do?” Amy asked.

“I’d like a pediatrician to come discuss child development. The director asked me to try to set something up for next Saturday. It’s Thanksgiving weekend, but most of the girls want to meet anyway.” Heather tore herself away from the shop window. “I’d also like you both to talk a little about child discipline.”

“Great idea,” Amy said. “I’d be glad to help.”

They were passing her favorite video-game store, and she couldn’t resist eyeing the display. Half hidden in one corner was a copy of Global Oofstinker, a goofy game about a cartoon skunk trying to take over the world.

The reviews had been mediocre, and so were the sales. Too bad. The manufacturer, WiseWorld Global Productions, had promised a donation to the Doctors Circle’s Endowment Fund drive, but the size of the donation was pegged to the game’s success.

“The favor I’m asking involves more than just your participation.” Heather gave an embarrassed cough.

“Well, don’t have a hacking fit on my account,” Amy said. “Spit it out.”

Heather laughed. “I should have known to get to the point with you.”

“Always!”

“I’d like you to ask Quentin Ladd to give the talk,” her friend said as they strolled. “Whoever joins us is likely to hear about Olive and Ginger. You know how strongly I feel about my privacy.”

“And we both know how the tongues can wag at Doctors Circle,” Amy noted.

“Natalie says everyone’s been speculating about the reasons for my personal leave. It would be too good a tidbit for one of the older doctors to keep to himself.”

“Whereas Quent’s new on the block,” Amy finished for her. “And he’s a great guy. He won’t shoot his mouth off if we ask him not to.”

“Exactly,” Heather said. “So you’ll talk to him?”

“You bet.”

Amy didn’t know why, underneath her confidence, she felt a tremor of uncertainty. She and Quent were buds, right? Why shouldn’t she ask him?

She and Heather emerged into crisp sunshine, yesterday’s bad weather having vanished with the sea breezes. Amy said goodbye and didn’t give the subject of Quentin another thought for at least, oh, thirty seconds.

She wasn’t thrilled that Heather had asked her to include him in yet another aspect of her life. They’d have to work closely together on their presentation about discipline.

Talk about discipline! When it came to Quent, Amy needed some of her own. She’d thought of him first thing this morning, kissing her until her lips were swollen. Pulling her onto his lap. Rubbing her breasts.

Still, inviting him to speak was for the good of the young moms-to-be, so she’d do it. Amy got into her car and sat there enjoying the warmth after the briskness of the November day. Heck, she told herself, she could deal with Quent and any feelings that might crop up.

Her dad had always told her that, whenever she found herself in a difficult situation, she should take charge. “Don’t wait for other people to come to your rescue,” he’d said. “If you want something, go for it.”

That advice had helped Amy become a star in high-school sports. Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked as well when, tired of being the gawky kid who sat home on Saturday nights, she’d applied it to boys.

After she’d commandeered a couple of dates for school dances during her sophomore year, the guys she liked started to edge away when they saw her coming. At last someone admitted that she’d earned the nickname “The Bulldozer.” Embarrassed, Amy had decided to back off and wait until a boy asked her out first.

She’d spent the rest of high school waiting. After a while, she’d been accepted back as one of the guys, but she never seemed to light any romantic fires.

Well, she wasn’t going to ask Quent to a dance, Amy reminded herself. It was his professional skills she required, nothing more.

HER FIRST CLIENTS on Monday morning were parents whose three-year-old son had become disruptive after the recent birth of a baby sister. They were happy to receive a list of suggestions, including spending time alone with the preschooler and making sure visitors paid him plenty of attention.

“We think of him as grown-up in comparison to the baby,” the mother said. “Now I realize he’s still a baby himself.”

Amy was glad to help. She wished she had more personal experience with young children to contribute, but thank goodness there were experts to rely on. Plus, she’d always had an instinctive sympathy for kids, a sensitivity to the needs and emotions they weren’t able to voice.

When she opened the door at the end of the session, the sharp smell of paint wafted in from the hallway. Her clients said goodbye, then picked their way out through a maze of stepladders and spattered drop cloths.

The whole complex, including the east and west office wings and the three-story Birthing Center, was getting a face-lift. Amy liked the new colors of yellow, aqua and mint green, although she wasn’t crazy about the odor that pervaded the west wing, where she worked.

She especially wasn’t looking forward to the disruption when her own office got painted. Still, the beige walls could use freshening and she’d decided to have the worn couch and chairs recovered. Also, she was tired of the framed photographs of children and young couples, and this would give her a good excuse to replace them.

The idea of redecorating reminded Amy of her condo, so she put in a call to her association’s manager. The news was not good.

The weekend’s storm had done considerable damage around town, and most repairmen had more work than they could handle, he told her. Although the tree had been removed and his handyman had nailed boards into place, no roofers would be available for several weeks.

There was some good news, though, he said. The building inspector had left word that she could move back in during the interim.

Sure she could, Amy thought, as long as she didn’t mind a mildewing carpet and the messed-up ceiling. She planned to replace them, but that would take time, too.

Until the place was finished, Aunt Mary’s house was a better bet for her peace of mind. Although her aunt ran a small day-care center downstairs on weekdays, the large, comfortable home was quiet at other times.

Amy thanked the manager, hung up and fetched a cup of coffee from the break room. Resolutely, she put the condo out of her mind and turned her attention to two job applicants who’d arrived for their screening tests. As the only full-time psychologist at Doctors Circle, Amy handled a range of tasks involving staff members as well as patient families.

While she waited for the pair to finish the written tests, she tried not to wince at the whine of saws echoing from across the medical complex. The east wing’s lower floor was being remodeled into an expanded infertility center, scheduled to open in April. An infertility expert named Jason Carmichael had been hired as the director.

After her two charges departed, Amy met with a new mother and her husband who needed help dealing with the woman’s overbearing parents. Talking earnestly, they overstayed their hour, and Amy was too absorbed to cut them off.

By the time they left, she had less than thirty minutes for lunch. From a drawer, she removed a packaged tuna salad kit.

“Eating at your desk isn’t healthy, you know.” Under cover of the racket from across the way, Quent had arrived in her doorway undetected. He didn’t have far to travel, since his clinic was down the hall.

Above the white coat and stethoscope, his blond hair flopped raffishly onto his forehead. Despite her resolve to keep her distance, Amy’s spirits leaped.

“Don’t tell me you have time to go out for a three-course meal,” she said.

“I planned to invite you to take your repast with me in the courtyard.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Want to come?”

The office wings flanked a center court. Its tiled fountain, coffee kiosk, benches and round concrete tables made it a popular spot for lunch.

“I can’t. I’ve got an appointment at one.” The way Quent was grinning at her, Amy wondered if she’d dabbed mayonnaise on her nose. She stifled the instinct to check a hand mirror, but she couldn’t stop herself from patting her French braid to make sure her hair remained in place.

“Why are you wiggling so much? It makes you look twitchy,” he said.

“Is that like bewitching?”

“It’s more like itchy,” Quent joked. “It must be all the noise and smell around here. You should come with me to the Casbah.”

“That sounds faintly indecent.” Oops. She didn’t want to ruin her “been there, done that” image. “Not that I’m against moral decadence, but not on my lunch break.”

“Okay. Why don’t you come over to my apartment tonight instead?” he said. “I’m working the late shift but I’ll be done by seven.”

Before Saturday, Amy hadn’t worried about giving Quent the wrong idea because he treated her like one of the boys, but that had changed. “What are you proposing?”

“How about Ping-Pong, followed by getting to know each other a little better?” He waggled one eyebrow suggestively, à la Groucho Marx.

“You have a Ping-Pong table in your apartment?” It didn’t fit with her mental image of a seductive bachelor pad.

“It was either that or a pool table, and Ping-Pong is more portable in case I have to move,” he said. “How about it?”

She’d love to play. But that wasn’t all he had in mind, and Amy knew where it would lead. “No, thanks.”

Quent regarded her with a crestfallen expression. “Is it my breath?”

“No!” Amy laughed. “It’s just…I mean, I’d rather keep it light. I already told you…” An idea hit her. “Actually, there is something I want to discuss.”

“Great!” He beamed at her, lighting up the room. “We can talk over pizza at my place.”

“We can discuss it now.” She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. “It’s about the Moms in Training program.”

“Something I can help with?” Quent straightened. “I’d be glad to.”

Amy explained Heather’s request about the presentations. “You’re the expert on infant development. When it comes to child discipline, you could provide a pediatrician’s perspective and I could discuss it from a counseling perspective.”

Quent was all business now. “It would be my pleasure, but shouldn’t you pick a doctor who has kids of his own?”

Amy decided to level with him. “There’s another matter involved that calls for discretion, and I’m afraid the other doctors might be tempted to gossip. It concerns Heather.”

“What about her?”

She searched for a way to explain without revealing too much. “About the reason she took leave. It’s likely to come out when you visit the center.”

“What’s all the mystery?” Quent asked.

“It’s not my story to tell,” Amy said. “I’d just ask that you keep anything you learn confidential.”

“Okay. I promise not to blab any deep dark secrets.” After a moment’s thought, Quent added, “You realize we’re going to have to meet to prepare our joint program.”

Amy was about to say they could do it at the office, when she realized it wouldn’t be appropriate. Although her involvement with the young mothers was good public relations for Doctors Circle, it was a volunteer job and shouldn’t be done on her work time. “I suppose so.”

“Which brings us full circle,” Quent said cheerfully. “Seven o’clock at my place. I’ll buy the pizza.” He wrote the address on a scratch pad and handed it to her. “We’ll keep it strictly on the up and up. Unless, by mutual consent, we decide to lie down on the job.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“A guy can hope, can’t he?”

A figure appeared behind Quent in the doorway. Gray of complexion, with pouches that gave his eyes a perpetual squint, Dr. Dudley Fingger wore the frown of a disapproving bureaucrat. “There you are, Dr. Ladd. You were due back from lunch five minutes ago.”

“Really?” Quent looked at his watch, then made a show of putting it to his ear, frowning and shaking it.

Amy hid a smile. Dr. Fingger was a fussbudget whose plodding sternness never failed to stimulate Quent’s penchant for teasing.

Seniority had led to Dudley Fingger’s appointment one month ago as temporary director of the Well-Baby Clinic. His predecessor, Dr. Spencer Sorrell, had been a pompous bully whose departure had been cause for celebration.

“The gift shop carries an excellent selection of watches,” Dr. Fingger said solemnly.

“I’ll check it out. Should I go there now?” Quent asked with pretended earnestness.

“You have patients waiting!”

“Oh, I see,” Quent answered. “I guess I should go back to work then, huh?”

“Yes, you should,” said his supervisor. “Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Ravenna.”

“No problem.” Amy wondered if she should suggest that the strait-laced pediatrician address her as “Doctor,” just to amuse Quent, but decided against it.

Given his nature, Dr. Fingger would no doubt go around insisting that everyone call her Dr. Ravenna. Although she’d earned her Ph.D., she didn’t like to use the title in case people got the mistaken idea that she was a physician.

Quent started off, then returned to poke his head in the door. “Tonight.” With a wink, he scooted away.

Amy chuckled. What a scoundrel!

She sobered at the realization that she would be spending the evening alone with Quent. She’d have to rely on her strength of will to keep him at arm’s length.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

Chapter Four

Amy tried on two outfits while deciding what to wear to Quent’s house. If she’d had any more clothes with her, she would have tried those on, too.

“This must be some hot date,” said her cousin Kitty, who’d popped in to visit and was reclining atop the brightly colored comforter on the double bed. At seventeen, she had an outgoing nature and plenty of curiosity.

Unfortunately, there was no question of borrowing her clothes. Not only was she shorter than Amy, but she preferred skin-tight pants and tops.

“I’m just going to see my friend Quent.” Amy turned sideways to study her jeans and pink turtleneck in the full-length mirror. “We’ve got some work-related stuff to discuss.”

If she wanted to look her best, she was going to have to buy a mirror like this when she got back into her condo, she decided. Or maybe she should give away every mirror she owned and put on her makeup by feel. There was much to be said for giving your appearance as little thought as possible.

“I’ll bet he’s cute.” Kitty flipped back a long strand of brown hair.

“He is,” Amy agreed. “But he’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Too much of a playboy,” she said.

“If he’s in love with you, he’ll change,” advised her cousin with wisdom accumulated from years of watching TV shows.

“He’s not in love with me.” Amy shrugged off the pink turtleneck and returned to her first choice, a blue work shirt.

“He never will be, either, if you dress like a boy!” Kitty said. “No offense or anything.”

“Don’t you have homework to do?”

Her cousin heaved an exaggerated sigh, the kind that teenagers reserve for grown-ups. “I do my homework after dinner.”

“Your mom doesn’t make you do it first? Lucky you! My dad was really strict,” Amy said.

“Mom says parents have to pick their battles. As long as I keep my grades up and help out with the day-care kids during school break, she doesn’t nag me.”

That bit of motherly wisdom made sense to Amy. She stored it away to share with the Moms in Training.

After tucking in the work shirt, she decided she looked fine for tonight. The only thing she lacked was a coat.

“Do you have a jacket I could borrow?” She made a mental note to stop by her condo and pick up more clothes, now that she was allowed inside.

“Take whatever you want,” Kitty said. “It’s the least I can do after you loaned me your car last night.”

“That was an emergency.” An ailing neighbor had needed help picking up her medication. Since Aunt Mary was out, the teenager had volunteered to go.

“I like helping people,” Kitty said.

“You’ve matured a lot.” Amy regarded her young cousin affectionately. “You’ve been a good sport about my moving in like this. I hope I’m not getting in your way.”

“It’s fun having you here.” Kitty sat up on the bed. “When the little kids go home, it gets too quiet. I wish Dad would hurry back.”

“I know he misses you a lot, too.” Uncle Will, an engineer with a multinational company, was on long-term assignment overseas. It was his third stretch of being gone for months at a time but, Aunt Mary had explained, in another year he’d be able to take early retirement.

Amy hoped that, when she got married, she never had to be separated from her husband for more than a day or so. That was, assuming she ever found the right man.

Of course, women these days didn’t have to get married to lead fulfilling lives, she reminded herself. She had an interesting job and plenty of friends. That ought to be enough.

But it wasn’t.

Out of nowhere came an image of Quent in a tuxedo, standing in a church with love written on his face as she, Amy Ravenna, sailed toward him in a wedding dress. Not just a church, but a vast cathedral-like expanse of high arches and stained-glass windows; not simply a wedding dress, but a designer extravaganza spun from yards of silk and lace; not merely love, but utter adoration…

What was she thinking? Amy wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to plan a wedding like that! And as for Quent, he’d stated soon after they met that he wasn’t the marrying kind.

“I gotta go help with dinner.” Kitty hopped to her feet. “Good luck tonight.”

“I don’t need good luck. He’s a friend,” Amy said, and went to her cousin’s room to borrow a jacket.

WHEN HE’D RENTED his apartment, Quent had gotten a kick out of decorating it to suit his own taste and no one else’s. Now he wished he’d given more thought to the future.

The large recliner in one corner was about as far from seductive as furniture could get, and while that clunky lamp provided lots of reading light, it wasn’t likely to inspire Amy to do a striptease. He didn’t even have a couch, just a bunch of plastic chairs clustered around the Ping-Pong table. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Leaving the pizza box and take-out soft drinks next to the net, Quent went into the bathroom to remove his contact lenses. The paint fumes at work made them sting after a while, and it would feel good to put his glasses on.

They didn’t look bad, he thought a minute later, regarding the frames in the mirror. In fact, they added a touch of class.

When he was younger, he’d figured most women would find him more attractive with contacts, but he doubted Amy cared. What a relief not to worry about something so superficial, he thought, and went to the kitchen to get paper plates.

THE GLASSES gave Quent a sexy, mature look, Amy thought when he opened the door. The contemporary shape of the rims emphasized the blue of his eyes and the strong contours of his cheekbones.

“I like them,” she said after studying him for a moment.

“These?” Absentmindedly, he pushed up the bridge. “They’re comfortable, I’ll say that.”

“You should wear glasses all the time. They’re cute.” She stepped inside and got her first clear look at the apartment.

Amy nearly laughed in relief. While she’d been imagining a den of iniquity, all she saw were the Ping-Pong table, a recliner, a few resin chairs and, in one corner, a tier of audiovisual equipment.

“The kitchen table is tiny,” Quent said. “I figured we could eat out here on the Ping-Pong table, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “We can pretend we’re having afternoon tea at Wimbledon. In miniature, of course.”

“Wimbledon. Isn’t that a race track?” he asked as he opened the pizza box.

“It’s a tennis court in Great Britain.”

“Oh, right.” From a sack, he extracted napkins. “So you’ve been to England?”

“A couple of years ago.” Amy used most of her vacation weeks for travel.

“Where else have you gone?”

“One year I did a whirlwind tour of Europe,” she said. “Another trip, I went to Washington, D.C., and New York City. I love historic sites.”

“I knew you were a woman of the world, but I didn’t realize the extent of it,” Quent teased. “Let’s see…I went to Tijuana a few times.” The Mexican border town lay a few miles south of San Diego.

“It’s a start,” Amy said. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Mostly I shopped. The last time, I bought a poncho and some toys for my niece and nephew,” he said. “And practiced my high-school Spanish on the natives. They were very patient.”

“Do you plan to travel more?”

“I guess so.”

They seemed to have run out of things to say. Always before, they’d chattered away about sports, favorite shows on television—they both enjoyed science fiction—or whatever was in the news.

Tonight, Amy felt stiff and self-conscious. She decided it must be due to hunger. Once they started eating, they’d bounce back to normal.

When she pulled up a chair, the Ping-Pong table proved an awkward height, but she supposed there were advantages to having her food closer to her mouth. Less likelihood of spilling it on herself, for instance. “Oh, good, you got pepperoni.”

“Everybody likes pepperoni.” Quent distributed slices onto paper plates.

“Not vegetarians,” she said.

“Everybody except vegetarians.” When he sat down and stretched his long legs, they brushed hers. A shiver ran through Amy. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She tried not to think about how much she’d enjoyed that brief contact. Then she remembered the purpose of their meeting, and seized on it gladly. “I brought a list of topics for us to discuss.” Amy nodded toward a file folder she’d set next to the pizza box.

Quent swallowed a bite of pizza. “Just because I’m not bubbling with conversation doesn’t mean I need prompting.”

“About child discipline,” she said.

“Oh, right.” It was hard to read his expression behind the glasses. “Do you subscribe to any particular theory?”

“Love and communication.” To Amy, those were the keys to any relationship.

“How about safety?” Quent said.

“That’s important,” she agreed. “But I don’t see what that has to do with discipline.”

“What if love and communication don’t stop a child from trying to knock over the baby’s crib?”

“I’ll have to think about that one,” Amy admitted.

Quent downed what must be his third or fourth slice. “Want more?”

“No, thanks.” She’d had three pieces, which was her limit.

“Great!” He gave an apologetic shake of the head. “That didn’t come out right. I meant, if you’re sure you’ve had enough, I’ll save the rest for breakfast.”

“I used to love pizza for breakfast when I was a teenager,” Amy said.

“Wow.” Quent stood and closed the box. “I’ve never met a woman who understood about eating pizza for breakfast. Most of them think it’s gross.”

“It comes from growing up in a house full of guys,” she said. “Ready for Ping-Pong?”

“You bet,” he said.

“We can go over ideas for the presentations while we play.” Amy, like Quent, was kinesthetic, which meant she learned and thought best while in motion.

After he put the pizza away, they tossed the paper plates in a wastebasket. Soon they were slamming the ball back and forth almost as fast as they volleyed remarks about how to discipline children.

The problem was that they didn’t see eye-to-eye. Amy believed explanations and careful listening were vital to teaching children the rules. Quent stressed timeouts and suspension of privileges for disobedience.

He served the ball without losing the flow of their conversation. “Personally, I think there are kids who benefit from the occasional mild spanking. Since these young mothers may not understand the difference between appropriate punishment and hitting a child in anger, though, I’ll leave that out.”

“You believe in spanking?” Amy was so shocked, she barely managed to return his shot. “I would never spank a child!”

“What if he kept running into traffic?” Quent slammed a ball right by her. “My point.”

“I thought we weren’t keeping score.” They’d agreed that conducting a formal game would interfere with their work.

“Doesn’t matter. I still like knowing I won the point.” He grinned.

“It depends which point we’re talking about. I don’t agree about spanking,” Amy said as she retrieved the ball from behind a stereo speaker. “My dad never spanked us, and we didn’t run into traffic.”

“Maybe he didn’t spank you because you weren’t the kind of kids who needed to be spanked.”

“You’re baiting me.”

“You just hate to admit I’m right.”

She glared. Quent laughed. “Don’t worry. I promise not to mention corporal punishment in our talk.”

“Good.” After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I think it’s okay for us to have differing opinions as long as we agree on the main issues.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “When are we giving these talks?”

“Saturday morning, if you’re free.” Amy had forgotten to mention the short notice. “I know it’s the Thanksgiving holiday, but most of the girls will be there.”

“No problem. I’m on duty, so I’ll be around,” Quent said. “The department has some charts I can use.”

“Great!”

Amy was glad to get the matter settled. Quent looked so appealing with his blond hair ruffled and his polo shirt clinging to his chest that she had a hard time thinking about the presentation.

If there’d been a couch, she would have been tempted to push him onto it. But the very thought of trying to curl against him in the awkwardness of a recliner suggested a humorous rather than amorous result.

“So how many kids do you want to have?” Quent asked.

Surprised by the question, Amy lost her concentration and served the ball into the net. “Why do you assume I want kids?”

“When you were staring at those babies at the birthing center, you had a look on your face like…like…”

“Like what?”

“Like you wanted to hold one in your arms.”

“Sure. They’re cute. Big deal.” The last thing she wanted was for him or anyone to feel sorry for her. So what if she hadn’t been able to make her dreams come true? There was plenty of time left.

Yet for some reason, she served the ball so hard it nearly missed the table. It chipped off the edge at an angle and shot by him.

“Foul!” Quent called as he went after the ball.

“It is not!” She refused to concede, even though she suspected he was right. Besides, they weren’t supposed to be playing for real.

“It was over the line.”

“There is no line.” The table, which he must have bought secondhand, had faded. Amy saw nothing wrong with using that fact to her advantage.

“Everybody knows there’s a line.” Quent returned to his place. “However, I’ll concede if you answer my question.”

“Which question?”

“How many children do you want?”

“I never thought beyond one,” she said.

One child to hold in her arms. One cradle to rock. One tiny pair of upraised arms and one little face gazing at her lovingly. It seemed like a whole universe.

To Amy’s annoyance, his serve whizzed past her. The man had an annoying way of distracting her.

“One?” Quent shook his head, which made his glasses slip lower. “I picture you as an earth mother. Three or four at least.”

“Then I’d better start soon. Not tonight, however,” she added in case he misinterpreted her remark.

Quent reddened. “I wasn’t implying that you should. I hadn’t even thought that far.”

It was time to quit dancing around the obvious. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had sex on your mind since we nearly got beaned by that palm tree,” Amy said. “Well, get over it.”

“How about you?” he demanded. “You’ve been thinking about it, too, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Too late, she saw the trap she’d set for herself by raising the issue. It would be unthinkable to tell the truth about her lack of experience and how much making love would mean to her. Instead, she said, “You’re my buddy. We’d both regret it if we yielded to impulse.”

“I’m not so sure,” Quent said. “Maybe we ought to go ahead and get it out of our systems.”

His words stung. Was it possible that making love, which would turn her life upside down, would cure Quent of any feelings for her whatsoever?

Although he didn’t seem like the cruel type, Amy knew that men sometimes behaved coldheartedly toward the women they’d “conquered.” The prospect was too painful to contemplate.

Struggling to keep her tone light, she said, “I don’t know when I’ve received such a romantic offer. Who needs flowers, wine and trips to Tahiti when a man whispers in your ear—what was that again?— ‘Let’s get it out of our systems.”’

Quent had the grace to look ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I don’t mean to be pushy,” he went on, “but it’s hard on a guy, knowing how great you must be, imagining all the things you can teach me.”

What on earth was he talking about? Amy supposed she should order an advanced sex manual on the Internet and find out. Even if she did, however, she still wouldn’t know how to put it into practice.

If only she dared level with him. But she’d grown up with guys and knew how he would react. Men didn’t sympathize about stuff like being a virgin. Quent would tease her mercilessly, and Amy, for all her apparent self-confidence, was sensitive on the subject.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.