Marci fingered the sample packet of antibiotic, her manner once more wary. “I’m not in the habit of accepting favors.”

“No strings attached, okay?” Christopher held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe that not all men were untrustworthy.

Marci searched his eyes, and after a few seconds he detected an almost imperceptible softening in her features.

He headed toward the door, and she stood to trail behind him. Pausing on the threshold, he withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you feel worse or things don’t improve by tomorrow, call me.”

A few seconds ticked by as she read the card. Blinked. Swallowed. Lifting her chin, she looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The words, delivered in a soft, shy tone, revealed an unexpected…and touching…vulnerability.

IRENE HANNON

Irene Hannon, who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels. Her books have been honored with the coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America (the “Oscar” of romantic fiction), the HOLT Medallion and the Reviewer’s Choice Award from RT Book Reviews.

A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time. In her spare time, she enjoys singing, traveling, long walks, cooking, gardening and spending time with family. She and her husband make their home in Missouri.

For more information about her and her books, Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.

The Doctor’s Perfect Match
Irene Hannon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of his calling.

—Ephesians 1:18

To Jo Ann Case—

My forever-young friend.

Happy 90th birthday!

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

The woman was crying.

Christopher Morgan gave the blonde at the dim corner table a discreet glance over the rim of his coffee cup. He’d noticed her earlier, when the hostess had shown him to his favorite tucked-away table in the Nantucket eatery. With her pinup figure, slightly frizzy chin-length flaxen hair and emerald-colored eyes, she was hard to miss.

Yet the other patrons at the popular restaurant seemed oblivious to her. And to her distress. They were all focused on their companions.

He, on the other hand, was alone.

As was the woman.

His gaze swung back to her as she turned away from her bowl of half-eaten chowder to rummage in her purse, the sheen on her cheeks mute testimony to her misery.

Frowning, Christopher set his cup back on the saucer. He’d always been a sucker for people in need. That was one of the reasons he’d become a doctor. But despite his humanitarian inclinations, it wasn’t wise to offer assistance to strangers these days. Magnanimous gestures like that could arouse resentment or suspicion, or worse.

An image of his former girlfriend, Denise, flashed through his mind, and his gut twisted into a painful knot. He’d followed his compassionate instincts with her, and that traumatic experience had taught him a valuable lesson: crying women were a disaster waiting to happen. The safest course was to steer a wide berth around them.

Besides, after a busy shift in the E.R., he was in no mood to tiptoe through the minefield the blonde in the corner booth no doubt represented.

He watched as she dabbed away the evidence of her tears with a tissue, tucked it back in her purse and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. Laying it on the table, she scooted to the edge of the booth and swiveled on the seat.

Christopher started to glance away, but as the clingy fabric of her black cocktail dress inched up he found himself mesmerized by the best pair of legs he’d ever seen.

He wasn’t certain how long he stared at her, but suddenly the woman rose and yanked her skirt down until the hem brushed the top of her knees.

Looking up at her face, Christopher found her glaring at him, the color high in her cheeks as she tugged at a modest neckline below a single strand of pearls. Heat crept up his neck, fueled by embarrassment and regret. Not only did he feel like a teenage boy, he’d also made her uncomfortable.

And something more, he realized as their gazes locked for a brief moment.

She looked hurt. Defeated. And once again on the verge of tears.

Turning her back on him, she took the long way around the room to the door to avoid passing his table.

After swigging the rest of his coffee, Christopher settled his bill and headed toward the exit, wishing he could replay the last few minutes. He was supposed to be in the business of alleviating suffering, not creating it. But tonight he’d failed miserably.

Stepping out the door, he discovered that dark clouds had replaced the bright, sunny skies on this late May evening. A steady rain had also begun to fall, compelling the strollers and sightseers to seek refuge in the shops and restaurants that lined the streets in the heart of the old town.

All except one.

As Christopher drove up Main Street, he spotted a lone figure trudging through the rain. A blonde in a black cocktail dress.

The woman from the restaurant.

She didn’t have an umbrella. Yet she wasn’t hurrying. It was as if she were completely unaware of the weather.

Slowing the car, Christopher watched in alarm as she stumbled in her high heels on the uneven brick sidewalk. Walking around Nantucket in shoes like that was an accident waiting to happen, as he well knew. He’d treated any number of women who’d chosen fashion over comfort.

But she righted herself and moved on.

As he approached his turnoff to Orange Street, she continued on Main, her shoulders slumped. She paid no attention to the low rumble of thunder that reverberated through the still air, or the flash of lightning that zigzagged across the sky in the distance. She was either oblivious to the storm—or she didn’t care about the danger, Christopher concluded.

Both scenarios disturbed him.

Torn, he watched as she veered left on Fair Street and disappeared from view, the story of the Good Samaritan echoing in his mind. Like the traveler to Jericho who had been beset by thieves, this woman seemed in need of a helping hand.

But so had Denise.

Shoring up his resolve, Christopher turned left onto Orange Street and headed toward ’Sconset, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the troubled blonde.

Yet as the miles slipped by, he discovered it wasn’t quite as easy to distance himself from the image of those defeated green eyes.

Chapter One

“Are you getting a cold, dear?”

Stifling a sneeze, Marci Clay continued to wash the china plates by hand as Edith Shaw, her new sister-in-law’s Lighthouse Lane neighbor, bustled in from The Devon Rose’s dining room with another tray of glasses. It had taken them all afternoon and into the early evening to put the tearoom back in order after yesterday afternoon’s wedding reception.

“I hope not.”

“You’ve been working too hard since you’ve been here.” Edith tut-tutted as she slid the tray onto the stainless-steel food-prep station in the middle of the kitchen. “It was a very generous gesture, offering to manage the tearoom while Heather and J.C. are on their honeymoon. But that’s a lot to take on with very little preparation.”

In hindsight, Marci had to admit Edith was right. Given her meager cash reserves, however, it had been the best wedding gift she’d been able to offer. Volunteering to keep Heather’s tearoom running during their absence had allowed her brother and his bride to take a longer honeymoon—a gift they’d assured her was priceless. And with her just-earned diploma in hand and no job yet lined up, she had the time.

She’d also assumed her years of waitressing experience would be a sufficient background for the duties at The Devon Rose. But during her indoctrination last week under Heather’s tutelage, she’d quickly realized that the world of high tea and Ronnie’s Diner were at opposite ends of the spectrum.

The only thing that had kept her from panicking was Edith’s willingness to help—plus the invaluable support of Heather’s capable assistant, Julie Watson. Knowing she could count on those two women to back her up, Marci had convinced herself she could pull this off.

What she hadn’t counted on was getting a cold.

“Having a few second thoughts?”

At Edith’s question, Marci regarded the older woman. Her short contemporary hairstyle might feature silvery gray locks, but she radiated youthful energy, and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm—and insight.

“Maybe.” Marci shoved a springy curl out of her eye with the back of her wet hand. “I’ve done a lot of waitressing, and I’m a decent cook, but this is a really high-class operation. I feel a little out of my league among all this linen and fine china and sterling silver.”

“Join the club.” Edith chuckled and planted her hands on her ample hips. “I’m more of a chilidog-and-French-fry gal myself. And I’m sure Emily Post or Miss Manners would have a field day critiquing my table etiquette. But if I can get the hang of this tea thing, you can, too.”

“I appreciate the encouragement.” The words came out scratchy as Marci continued to work her way through the pile of plates.

“Goodness!” Edith gave a sympathetic shake of her head. “I hate to say it, but that sounds like the beginning of a cold to me.”

“I think I’m just tired.” She’d been working extra hours at Ronnie’s to build up her anemic savings account, had stayed up late and consumed far too much caffeine studying for finals and finishing term papers, then had rushed off to Nantucket to learn the ropes at The Devon Rose and participate in all the wedding festivities.

The walk home in the rain last night from the restaurant hadn’t helped, either. She should never have indulged in that pity party—nor let regrets about her own bad choices overshadow her joy in J.C.’s well-deserved happiness.

“I’ll tell you what.” Edith surveyed the kitchen. “We’ve got most of the mess cleaned up. The tearoom’s closed tomorrow and Tuesday, so there’s nothing urgent that needs to be done today. Why don’t you turn in and let me finish up? It’s better to throw off a cold early than to run yourself down and end up sicker.”

That was true, Marci conceded. Besides, she was feeling more lethargic by the minute.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind, I think I will.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Edith shooed her away from the dishwasher and pushed up the sleeves of her I Nantucket sweatshirt. “Heather’s been like a daughter to me, and with her married to J.C. now, that makes you family. And families help each other out.”

Not all families, Marci amended in silence as she thanked Edith and headed upstairs. Hers hadn’t been anything like that. Except for J.C, who’d stuck by his brother and sister even through the dark times, despite their efforts to push him away.

Now, thanks to him, she and Nathan had gotten their acts together. But they both had a lot to make up for on the one-for-all, all-for-one front. That’s why she was determined to follow through on her commitment to keep The Devon Rose running during J.C. and Heather’s absence.

Crawling into bed, Marci pulled the covers up to her chin, closed her eyes and hoped that whatever bug was trying to establish a toehold would give up and retreat.

“Thanks for stopping by, Christopher. Sorry to interrupt your holiday weekend.”

Christopher frowned as he followed Edith to the front door of her house. What holiday?

Then it dawned on him. This was Memorial Day, a time of fun—and rest—for most people. For him, it was just another workday.

“No problem, Edith. I needed to come into town anyway to visit a few patients in the hospital. And I’m on duty in the E.R. later.”

“Don’t you ever take a day off?”

He smiled. “Now and then.”

Shaking her head, she stopped at the door, her hand on the knob. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that. Anyway, I hated to call you, but Kate worries so much about Maddie that I get paranoid over even the slightest sniffle when I’m babysitting the girls.”

After his numerous visits to Kate’s small cottage, which was tucked between Edith’s house and The Devon Rose, Christopher was well aware of the charter-fishing captain’s worries about her daughter. “It’s better to err on the side of caution with asthma. I’m glad it was a false alarm.” Shifting his black medical bag from one hand to the other, he checked his watch. “I’d better be off if I want to get to the E.R. on time.”

To his surprise, Edith didn’t budge. “I hate to delay you any further, but I’m a little concerned about Heather’s new sister-in-law.”

“Heather Anderson? From The Devon Rose?” He saw the tearoom owner regularly at church, though they weren’t well acquainted.

“Yes.”

“She got married this weekend, didn’t she?”

“Yes. A small, intimate wedding. Very romantic.”

“What’s the problem with her sister-in-law?”

“I hope nothing. She’s supposed to manage the tearoom while Heather and J.C. are in Europe on their honeymoon, but yesterday she seemed to be getting sick. If she’s still feeling under the weather, would you mind popping in before you head to the hospital? I could rustle up a loaf of pumpkin bread for you to sweeten the deal.”

Christopher grinned. “Sold.”

Her eyes twinkling, Edith waved him to a chair. “Give me one minute while I ring her.”

The minute stretched to five, and when Edith returned with a plastic-wrapped loaf of pumpkin bread in hand, her face was etched with concern.

“She sounds terrible. But she said asking you to stop by is too much of an imposition and not to bother.”

“As you pointed out, I’m here anyway. It’s no bother.” Christopher picked up his bag from the chair in Edith’s foyer.

“I couldn’t convince her of that. But between you and me, I suspect her reluctance is more related to finances than inconvenience. According to J.C., she’s been pinching pennies to put herself through school. Plus, she may not have much, if any, insurance.”

“I’m running a special today. Buy one house call, get one free.” He winked at Edith. “At least that will be my story when I show up at her door. What’s her name?”

“Marci Clay.” Edith twisted the knob and stepped aside to allow him to pass. “She’s a very nice person. Pretty, too. I’m surprised she’s not married.”

An odd nuance in Edith’s inflection put Christopher on alert, but when he paused on the porch and turned, her expression was guileless. Must have been his imagination.

“Call me if you have any more concerns about Maddie.”

“I’ll do that. But at the moment, I’m more worried about Marci.”

“I’ll check her out.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Edith’s mouth as she handed him the pumpkin bread. “Sounds like a plan. Enjoy the treat.”

She closed the door with a soft click—but not before he caught a suspicious gleam in her eyes. And that was not his imagination.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how nice or how pretty Marci Clay was, he wasn’t interested.

Maybe someday he’d test the waters of romance again. Maybe. But during his two years living on Nantucket, he’d steered clear of all eligible women. And he didn’t intend to change course anytime in the near future.

No matter what Edith might be planning.

As the doorbell chimed for the third time, Marci groaned and rolled over.

Go away!

She wanted to shout out that order, but her throat hurt too much to talk, let alone yell. It felt as if someone had taken sandpaper to it. Besides, whoever was at the door probably wouldn’t hear her from her second-floor bedroom even if she could holler at full volume.

She’d fallen back asleep immediately after Edith’s phone call, so she had no clue how much time had elapsed. But based on the angle of the sun slanting through the sheer curtains, it was still early.

Too early for visitors.

Except this one didn’t seem to realize that, she concluded wearily as the bell chimed again. Nor did her persistent caller appear to have any intention of going away.

With a resigned sigh, she swung her legs to the floor and snagged the ratty velour bathrobe that had wrapped her in its fleecy warmth and comforted her through many a cold, lonely Chicago evening. Shrugging into it, she shuffled down the hall on unsteady legs and took the stairs one at a time, clinging to the banister.

Whoever had parked a finger against the doorbell was going to get an earful, she resolved, gritting her teeth.

Flipping the deadbolt, she tugged on the door and opened her mouth, prepared to give her visitor a piece of her mind.

But the words died in her throat as she came face-to-face with a tall, thirtyish man holding a black bag.

It was the preppy guy from the restaurant. The one who’d given her the blatant perusal.

She shut her mouth and stared.

He stared back.

When the silence lengthened, he cleared his throat. “Marci Clay?”

She gave a tiny nod.

“I’m Christopher Morgan. Edith called about me stopping by to…uh…check you out.” His face grew ruddy, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “She said you weren’t feeling well.”

The guy who’d ogled her legs was the doctor Edith had offered to send over? A shiver rippled through Marci, and she edged back.

“I’m okay.” She tightened her grip on the door and started to ease it closed. No way did she want this jerk anywhere near her.

“You don’t look okay.”

Given how she felt, she figured that was the understatement of the century.

“I asked Edith to tell you not to bother.” The words scraped painfully against her raw throat.

“And I told her this was your lucky day. Two house calls for the price of one.” The ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “You can’t pass up a bargain like that.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “No one does house calls anymore. Especially for free.”

“I do. On occasion.” He examined her flushed face. “What’s your temperature?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I haven’t looked for a thermometer yet.”

“I could save you the trouble. I have a disposable one in my bag.”

Marci studied the thin blue stripes on his white dress shirt as she debated her next move. She wasn’t keen about getting up close and personal with this guy, but if she wanted to fulfill her obligations at The Devon Rose she needed medical attention. And in light of her shaky finances and bare-bones health insurance, free sounded awfully good.

“Look…about Saturday night. I’m sorry I stared.”

Surprised he’d broached that subject—and taken aback by the apologetic tone in his baritone voice—she lifted her chin. And noticed several things she’d missed on Saturday. Eyes as blue as the Nantucket sea on a sunny day. Shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the heaviest of loads. A firm chin that conveyed strength and resolve. Light brown hair sprinkled with the merest hint of silver at the temples. And fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes that spoke of caring and compassion.

Her attitude toward him softened a fraction.

“I want you to know I’m not generally that rude.” His gaze held hers, steady and sincere. “My mother raised me to treat women with respect, and I didn’t do that Saturday night. Please forgive me.”

Was this guy for real? Marci scrutinized him for any sign of deceit, any indication that this was a standard line. And she’d heard plenty of those in her life. But unless this guy was a world-class actor, he meant what he’d said. He truly was sorry. And he hadn’t been too proud or arrogant or conceited to admit his mistake.

In other words, he was a gentleman.

Not a species she’d often run across in her world.

The question was, how did one deal with a man like this? She was far more used to tossing sassy comebacks at guys who flirted with her at Ronnie’s, where she often spent as much of her shift deflecting advances as she did taking orders and delivering food, than she was to accepting apologies from gentlemen.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. So why not let me make amends? I can check out your temperature, get a little history, maybe figure out what’s wrong. Edith tells me you’re planning to manage The Devon Rose for the next couple of weeks, and it’s obvious you’re in no shape to do that right now. Helping get you back on your feet is the least I can do after my faux pas on Saturday.”

Interesting how he’d positioned his assistance as a favor to him, Marci mused, leaning against the edge of the door as a sudden weariness swept over her. His offer sounded good, but there had to be a catch. There always was.

The man’s eyes narrowed, and instead of waiting for her to respond, he stepped in. Literally. Taking her arm in a firm but gentle grip, he edged her back into the spacious foyer, shut the door with his shoulder and led her to a straight chair beside the steps.

“Where can I wash my hands?”

She motioned toward the restroom in what had once been the butler’s pantry, unwilling to irritate her throat by speaking.

As he strode across the hardwood floor and disappeared through the dining room archway, she let her head drop back against the wall beneath the stairs that wound to the second floor. In general, high-handed men riled her. Yet despite his take-charge manner, Christopher Morgan came across as caring and competent rather than autocratic. Besides, she couldn’t afford to take offense. She needed to get well, and it would be foolish to pass up free medical help.

But if he pulled out a stethoscope and aimed for her chest, she intended to smack him.

Talk about weird coincidences.

As Christopher washed his hands, drying them on one of the disposable guest towels beside the sink in the rest room, he wondered what the odds were of crossing paths again with the woman in the restaurant.

They had to be minuscule.

Unless more than chance was involved.

So often in the past, occurrences he’d written off as coincidence had turned out, in retrospect, to be part of God’s plan for him. This could be one of them. Perhaps it was best to put the situation in the Lord’s hands.

As he approached the foyer, his shoes silent on the large Chinese area rug in the dining room, he saw that Marci’s head was resting against the wall, exposing the slender, delicate column of her throat. Her eyes were closed, the curve of her long lashes sweeping her cheeks in a graceful arc.

His step faltered. On Saturday, he’d been distracted by her great figure and fabulous legs, but today they were camouflaged by a worn, faded pink robe that covered her neck to toes—and directed his attention to her face. Her halo of blond hair softened a chin that was a tad too sharp, while well-defined cheekbones gave her features a slight angular appearance, adding a dash of character that kept her from being just another Kewpie-doll blonde. Full, appealing lips completed the picture.

In other words, Marci Clay was the kind of woman who would catch any man’s eye.

But perhaps not for the right reasons, Christopher acknowledged. And her reaction to his appreciative perusal Saturday night indicated she knew that.

Her eyelids fluttered open, propelling him forward. If she caught him staring again, he suspected she’d hustle him out the door faster than a sand crab could scuttle back to its hole.

That suspicion was confirmed by the wariness in her deep green irises as he approached. While he couldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that sparked in their depths as he pulled up a chair beside her, he did his best to ignore them.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he withdrew a disposable thermometer from his bag and tore off the wrapping. “Open up. We’ll have a reading in sixty seconds.”

He slid it under her tongue, and as they waited he took her wrist to check her pulse. Strong, if a bit fast. No problem there. He was more concerned about the subtle tremors beneath his fingertips. They could be due to weakness. More likely, though, they were fever-related chills. From the heat seeping through his glove, he knew he wasn’t going to like her temperature.

Withdrawing the thermometer, he checked the reading. The number didn’t surprise him. “A hundred and two.”

She grimaced.

After slipping the thermometer into a small waste bag, he gave her his full attention. “Any idea what’s going on?”

She shook her head.

“When did this start?”

“Yesterday.”

“Anything hurt?”

“Throat.”

“Any other symptoms?”

Again she shook her head.

Withdrawing a tongue depressor and penlight from his bag, he scooted closer to her. “Let’s have a look.”

As she opened her mouth, he inserted the tongue depressor and flashed the light to the back of her throat. Swelling and severe inflammation. Depositing the depressor in the waste bag, he reached over to gently feel the lymph nodes in her neck. Puffy.

She winced and tried to pull away. “Hurts.”

“Sorry.” He let her go and leaned back. “I think we may be dealing with a case of strep throat.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, and he watched her lashes grow spiky with moisture.

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world.” To his surprise, the reassurance came out soft and husky. He cleared his throat. “You’ll be back on your feet in a few days with the right care.”

“I don’t have a few days.” She opened her eyes, blinking away the tears as she rasped out the shaky words.

He heard the panic in her voice and knew she was thinking about her duties at The Devon Rose.

“We’ll get you well as fast as we can, okay?”

“Wednesday?”

He’d have liked to say yes, but he couldn’t lie. “I doubt it.”

“When?”

“Why don’t we verify the strep diagnosis first?” Once more he turned to his bag, pulling out a small kit. “This is a rapid strep test. It will give us an answer in a few minutes. I see quite a few pediatric patients in my family practice, so I always have one of these with me. They come in handy, especially for the younger set. Not that you’re over the hill, by any means.” He smiled, trying to put her at ease as he set up the test.

The ploy didn’t work. She eyed his preparations and gestured toward the kit. “How much?”

It took a moment for him to grasp that she was asking the price of the test. As Edith had implied, money must be tight.

“I get free samples all the time. I try to pass that benefit on to my patients.” While that was true, this kit wasn’t a freebie. But she didn’t have to know that.

Without giving her a chance to pursue the subject, he instructed her to open her mouth again and proceeded to swipe her throat with a long cotton swab. When he finished, he dipped the swab in a solution and placed a few drops on a test strip.

“While we wait for the results, let’s assume it’s strep and talk about treatment.” He peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the waste bag. “Do you have any medicine allergies?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Let’s go with penicillin.” He started to pull a prescription pad out of his pocket.

“Won’t this…” She stopped. Swallowed. Winced. “Won’t this go away by itself?”

The money thing again, he realized.

“Yes. Usually in three to seven days.” Leaving the prescription pad in his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky, and it will be gone in three days.” She pulled her robe tighter as a shiver rippled through her.

“Maybe. But antibiotics shorten the time you’re contagious.”

“By how much?”

“Most people stop being contagious twenty-four to forty-eight hours after they begin treatment. Without the pills, you could pass germs for two to three weeks, even if your symptoms go away. Not the best scenario in a restaurant.”

As he checked the test strip, he tried to think of a diplomatic way to offer further assistance. Flipping it toward her, he indicated the test window. “Positive.”

She groaned, and her expression grew bleak.

Dropping the strip into the waste bag, he sealed the top. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a few samples of penicillin that will get you started.” He removed a packet of four pills from his bag and handed them to her. “On my way back from the hospital later, I’ll swing by my office and raid the sample closet. I think I can come up with enough to see you through. That way you won’t have to run out to a pharmacy to get a prescription filled and spread germs all over town. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for creating a public-health menace.” He tried another grin.

It didn’t work.

Marci fingered the sample packet, her manner once more wary. “I’m not in the habit of accepting favors.”

At her suspicious look, he concluded that other men who’d done favors for her had expected a payback.

The thought sickened him.

“No strings attached, okay?” He held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe that not all men were crass or untrustworthy.

She searched his eyes, and after a few seconds he detected an almost imperceptible softening in her features.

“Do you have any over-the-counter medicine in the house that will help with the fever? Aspirin, ibuprofen?” Picking up his bag, he rose.

She looked up at him from beneath those impossibly long lashes and nodded.

“Take them on a regular basis. Drink lots of water. Rest. I’ll leave the samples hanging on your doorknob after my shift in the E.R. That way I won’t disturb you if you’re resting.”

He headed toward the door, and she trailed behind him. Pausing on the threshold, he withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you feel worse, or things don’t improve by tomorrow, call me.”

A few seconds ticked by as she read the card. Blinked. Swallowed. Lifting her chin, she looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”

The expression of gratitude was delivered in a soft, shy tone that revealed an unexpected—and touching—vulnerability.

On Saturday night, he’d been drawn to her physical appearance. But right now he found her appealing in a different way. Although she was a little thing—a good eight or nine inches shorter than his six-foot frame, he estimated—she radiated a quiet strength and dignity that he sensed had been hard-earned. Marci Clay, he suspected was a survivor.

Yet that didn’t jibe with the air of defeat and distress he’d picked up from her on Saturday.

So perhaps he was misjudging her character—as he’d misjudged Denise’s.

That was a sobering thought.

Easing back a step, he gave her a brief, professional smile. “No problem. This is what being a doctor is supposed to be about. Now get some rest and take your medicine. You should feel much better by tomorrow. And if all goes well, I expect you can be back on the job by Thursday.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he descended the porch steps and strode toward Edith’s house, where he’d left his car.

As he set his bag on the backseat, he glanced toward The Devon Rose. The door was closed, but he detected a movement behind the lace curtain that screened the drawing room from the scrutiny of passersby. Had Marci been watching him?

The possibility pleased him—for reasons he didn’t care to examine.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he sent a quick look toward Edith’s house. And noticed the same phenomenon: a movement behind the sheer curtains at her living-room window. Had the older woman been observing him, too?

Considering the gleam he’d noticed earlier in her eyes, that notion didn’t please him. On the contrary, it made him uncomfortable.

Edith Shaw was gaining a reputation as a matchmaker, thanks to her part in pairing two couples in the past two years. And he did not want to be her next victim.

Even if she had her sights set on a match as lovely as Marci Clay.

Chapter Two

“The Devon Rose.”

“Marci? It’s J.C.”

“J.C.!” Setting aside a measuring cup, Marci tucked the phone closer to her ear and gave her brother her full attention. “How’s Paris?”

“Romantic.”

She grinned. “I’ll bet. And how’s Heather?”

“Happy. Gorgeous. Irresistible.”

A female giggle sounded in the background, followed by a chuckle from J.C. Marci smiled. It was good to hear her big brother sounding lighthearted. He’d had more than enough worry to last a lifetime.

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Will do. How’s everything going?”

“Good. I’m whipping up a batch of scones from her recipe as we speak.”

No way did Marci intend to tell them she’d been sick. They deserved a carefree honeymoon. Besides, the penicillin had vanquished the strep throat in less than forty-eight hours. While she hadn’t yet regained full strength, Christopher Morgan’s prediction that she’d be back on the job by Thursday appeared to be coming true. She’d let Edith and Julie handle the tearoom today, but now that the last of their Wednesday guests had departed, she felt well enough to do a little baking.

“I told Heather you’d breeze through. But you know how to reach us if you need us.”

“Your itinerary and contact numbers are taped to the fridge. I check them every morning so I can live your European tour vicariously. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to the real thing.” She tried for a teasing tone, but couldn’t quite pull it off. The truth of the statement was too depressing.

“Hey, your turn will come.”

She tried again to lighten her tone. “Anything is possible, right?”

“With God.”

At his quiet response, she stopped pretending. Looking out the window, she watched a bird take flight and aim for the sky. “He and I aren’t well-acquainted.”

“You could be.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“No. And look how my persistence paid off with Nathan.”

“That was different. Trust me. I’m a lost cause.” The swinging door from the dining room opened as Edith bustled through with a tray, and Marci used that as an excuse to change the subject. “Look, we’re in cleanup mode here, so I need to get back to work. Besides, I’m sure you have better things to do on your honeymoon than talk to your sister.”

Is that J.C.? Edith mouthed, her eyes lighting up.

Heather nodded.

“Tell him I said hi,” she whispered. “Heather, too.”

“Edith says hi to you both.”

J.C. chuckled. “I’ll pass that on. Call us if you need us.”

“I will. Don’t worry about anything here. You just have fun.”

“We intend to. Talk to you soon.”

As the line went dead, Marci set the portable phone back in its holder on the counter and picked up the measuring cup.

Edith planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I get a report?”

“I didn’t ask for details.” Marci filled the cup with flour and leveled it off. “But I got the impression they’re enjoying themselves. And J.C. sounds happy.”

The older woman’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Excellent. I knew those two were meant for each other from day one. But getting them to see that took a bit of work.”

From Heather, Marci had heard all about Edith’s penchant for matchmaking. Although The Devon Rose proprietress claimed her neighbor’s efforts hadn’t had that much impact on her relationship with J.C., it was obvious Edith felt otherwise. Why disillusion her?

“All I know is I’m grateful their paths crossed. I’d given up on J.C. ever finding a wife.”

“It was just a matter of meeting the right woman. Or, in Heather’s case, the right man.” Edith began empting the tray. “And speaking of men…is there some handsome man pining away for you back in Chicago?”

Only if you counted Ronnie at the diner, Marci thought as she dumped the flour into a mixing bowl. And by no stretch of the imagination could the fifty-something cook with the receding hairline and prominent paunch be called handsome.

“No. Men are more trouble than they’re worth.”

Edith shot her a startled glance. “Goodness. That’s exactly what Heather used to say. Until J.C. came along, that is.” The older woman picked up the empty tray and headed back toward the dining room, pausing on the threshold. “By the way, I saw Christopher Morgan at a meeting at church last night. He asked how you were doing. He’s single, you know.”

With a wink, Edith pushed through the swinging door and disappeared.

Flummoxed by both the comment and the unexpected little tingle that raced up her spine, Marci stared after her. Was Edith hinting that the doctor was interested in her? That the two of them…

No. She cut off that line of thought. It was preposterous. They knew nothing about each other. Meaning that if the man was interested in her, it was for the wrong reasons. And hormones were no basis for a relationship. She’d been there, done that. Repeating the experience held no appeal.

Yet…she did owe him a thank-you for his visit on Monday. Without his intervention, she’d probably still be out of commission. Somehow a note didn’t seem sufficient. Perhaps she could offer a small token of appreciation?

As she stirred the dough, she mulled over the problem. What was an appropriate gift for a man? Most men didn’t appreciate flowers. A CD would be okay, except she didn’t know his taste in music.

Gathering the dough together with a few quick kneads, she dropped it onto the floured counter. And as she began rolling and cutting out the scones, the ideal solution came to her: food. What man didn’t like home-cooked food? Bachelors, in particular. She had a killer recipe for chocolate-chip-pecan cookies.

Or better yet, why not send him a gift certificate for the tea room? He could even bring a date if he wanted to. Perfect.

Placing the scones on a baking sheet, she slid them into the oven as Edith returned to the kitchen.

“Julie’s almost finished refilling the sugar bowls.” The older woman set another tray of plates on the counter and moved toward the refrigerator. “I’ll work on the jam and clotted cream for tomorrow. Another full house, according to the reservation book.”

Casting a speculative look at Edith, Marci considered asking her if she knew Christopher Morgan’s home address. According to Heather, the older woman was well-connected on the island. Even though she and Chester weren’t natives, they’d embraced island life after their move to Nantucket a dozen years ago following Chester’s retirement.

But she quickly nixed that notion. In light of Edith’s implication that the man was interested in her, she didn’t want to encourage any romantic plans her neighbor might be concocting. Especially since the Lighthouse Lane matriarch would have plenty of time and opportunity to implement them. Marci did not want to be dodging matchmaking attempts while living in the cottage behind Edith’s house during her month-long vacation—J.C.’s graduation present to her.

It would be far safer to find the good doctor’s address on her own.

Leaning his bike against the wall of his tiny ’Sconset cottage, Christopher shuffled through his mail as he walked to the back door, feet crunching on the oyster-shell path. Bill, bill, ad, postcard from Bermuda—he flipped it over and read the message from his brother, grinning at his seven-year-old nephew’s scrawled signature that took up half the writing area.

“Hey, there, Christopher.”

Looking up, he smiled at his elderly landlord on the other side of the picket fence that separated the yards of their adjoining cottages, which backed to the sea.

“Hi, Henry. What’s up?” He strolled over, giving his neighbor a swift assessment.

“Now, you put away those doctor eyes of yours.” The man shook a finger at him. “Don’t be sizing me up every time we talk just because I had a bout of pneumonia last winter. I hope you’re as resilient as I am at eighty-four.”

A chuckle rumbled in Christopher’s chest. “I do, too.” In the past two years, since Christopher had rented Henry’s second, tiny cottage, the older man had bounced back from the few ailments he’d experienced.

“Any good mail?”

At Henry’s question, Christopher began riffling through the letters again. “Mostly bills and ads. But I did get a postcard from my brother.” He handed it over.

Pulling a pair of wire-rimmed glasses out of his shirt pocket, Henry examined the photo of the expansive beach. “Pretty, isn’t it? Always wanted to see that pink sand.” He handed it back.

“Would you still like to go?”

“Nope. Did plenty of gallivanting in my army days. I’m happy to be an armchair traveler now. Don’t have to worry about terrorists on airplanes or fighting crowds or losing luggage. You can’t beat the Travel Channel.” He leaned closer to Christopher and peered at one of the envelopes in his hand. “That looks interesting.”

Christopher checked out the return address. The Devon Rose. That was interesting.

Slitting the envelope, he pulled out a single sheet of paper folded in half. Inside he found a gift certificate and a short note written in a scrawling hand.

Dr. Morgan:

Thank you for your assistance on Monday. The penicillin took care of the problem. Please enjoy tea for two as a token of my appreciation.

It was signed by Marci Clay.

It would be difficult to imagine a more impersonal message. Yet Christopher’s heart warmed as he ran a finger over the words inked by Marci’s hand.

“Maybe interesting wasn’t the right word.”

As Henry’s eyes narrowed in speculation, heat crept up Christopher’s neck. “It’s a gift certificate. I did an impromptu house call a few days ago, and the patient was grateful. You ever been here?” He waved the envelope at Henry, hoping to distract him.

It didn’t work.

“Female patient?”

The man might be old, but he was still sharp, Christopher conceded. And if he tried to dodge the question, Henry would get more suspicious. “Yes. Her brother just married the owner, and she’s running the place while they’re on their honeymoon. Hence the invitation.” Christopher paused as an idea took shape. “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?”

“I stopped counting those long ago.”

“June eighth.” Christopher had jotted the occasion on his calendar. Henry might pretend not to care about his birthday, but he’d been thrilled last year when his tenant had treated him to an upscale dinner at The Chanticleer. “How about you and I give this a try on your big day?” He held up the gift certificate.

Sliding his palms into the back pockets of his slacks, Henry bowed forward like a reed, his knobby elbows akimbo, his expression dubious. “Kind of fancy-schmancy, isn’t it?”

“You deserve fancy on your birthday.”

“You ought to take some pretty little lady to a place like that.”

An image of Marci flashed through his mind, but Christopher pushed it aside. “Pretty little ladies seem to be in short supply these days.”

“You’re not looking in the right places, then.”

“I’m not looking, period.”

“I know.” Henry sighed. “But you’ve got to move on, Christopher. You can’t let one bad experience ruin your life. I learned that after Korea. Lots of the guys in my outfit couldn’t get past the bad stuff once they came home. Haunted them for the rest of their lives. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. You’re thirty-six years old. You should have a wife and a bunch of kids by now.”

“I’ll get around to that one of these days.”

“You said that last year.”

Christopher laid a hand on the older man’s bony shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, Henry. But this is best for now.” He lifted the certificate again. “In the meantime, do we have a date?”

The man grinned. “I expect we do. Shall I break out my tie?”

“I will if you will.”

“It’s a deal.”

As Marci returned from showing two guests to their table, a tall man with deep blue eyes, dressed in khaki slacks and a navy blue blazer, stepped into the foyer of The Devon Rose.

Christopher Morgan.

He smiled when he saw her, the fine fan of lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re looking a lot better.”

A disconcerting ripple of warmth spread through her as he drew close, and she wiped her palms down her slim black skirt. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

“That’s good news.” He held up a familiar piece of paper. “I’m here to redeem my gift certificate.”

Julie must have taken the reservation, Marci concluded, skimming the names on the day’s seating chart. There it was. Morgan. Table six. For two.

He’d brought a date.

Her warm feeling evaporated.

Steeling herself, she looked up again, expecting to see some gorgeous female lurking behind him.

Instead, a wiry, wizened old man with thin, neatly combed gray hair popped out and grinned at her. But he directed his question to Christopher.

“Is this the lady who sent you the certificate?”

“She’s the one.”

Henry’s grin broadened as he inspected Marci. “It’s my birthday. Eighty-five years and counting.”

“Wow! That does deserve a celebration.” Marci smiled back.

“At my age, every day I wake up is worth celebrating.” His eyes twinkled as he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Henry Calhoun. I’m Christopher’s neighbor. Nice to meet you.”

She returned his firm shake. “Marci Clay.”

“Nice place you have here.” He perused the foyer and grand staircase. “My wife came here once, years ago. Had a great time, as I recall.”

“We’ll do our best to see that you do, too.”

The front door opened again, admitting more patrons, and Christopher turned to his companion. “We’d better let Ms. Clay show us to our table, Henry.”

“Maybe she can stop by and chat with us again later.” The older man gave her a hopeful look.

“I’d be happy to.”

She led the way to their corner table in one of the twin parlors, offering them a tea menu. “Julie will be back in a few minutes to answer any questions and take your tea order. Enjoy the experience.”

“We will,” Henry assured her. “I even wore a tie for the occasion.” He flapped the out-of-date accessory at her.

Marci did her best to stifle a grin. Based on width alone, the tie had to be at least twenty years old. “You look very spiffy.”

“Spiffy?” Christopher’s mouth tipped up in amusement, distracting her. He had nice lips, she noted.

Jolted by that observation, she summoned up a frown to counter it. “What’s wrong with spiffy?”

“Nothing. It’s just a rather old-fashioned term.”

“Maybe she’s an old-fashioned girl,” Henry chimed in. “And if you ask me, no one’s ever come up with a better compliment than spiffy. Thank you, my dear.”

“You’re very welcome. I’ll be back a little later to see how you enjoyed the tea.”

Returning to the foyer, Marci continued to seat the guests, mindful of the pair of men at the corner table every time she entered the sitting room. Once the tea got underway, however, she worked a wedding shower in the dining room while Julie handled the twin sitting rooms on the other side of the foyer.

But—much to her annoyance—her thoughts kept straying to the blue-eyed doctor. And each time they did, her fingers grew clumsy. She dropped a silver server on the floor. Sloshed some hot water on the white linen as she set down a fresh teapot. Knocked over the sugar bowl, sending cubes tumbling across the starched tablecloth.

She tried to blame her fumblings on a simple physical awareness of the man’s striking good looks, but she knew it went deeper than that. Since his faux pas in the restaurant, he’d been a total gentleman. It didn’t seem fair to hold a brief lapse against him. He wasn’t the first man to notice her legs. Or her body. Nor would he be the last. But he was the first to apologize for his rude behavior.

And that made him special.

Who was he, really? Marci wondered, peeking over her shoulder as she lifted the lid on the tea chest so the bride-to-be could make her selection. She could just catch a glimpse of his strong profile as he spoke with Henry, the fragile bone china teacup looking child-size in his long, lean fingers. Had he been born on Nantucket? Where did he live? What did he do in his free time?

Did he have a girlfriend?

But none of those questions mattered, she reminded herself, turning back to the bride-to-be. Least of all the last one. She wasn’t going to be on Nantucket long enough to get to know anyone. She was here to rest and relax after seven grueling years of school and work. Then she’d begin her job search and build a future for herself that didn’t include slinging hash at Ronnie’s. Or relying on others to validate her.

She’d done that once, and it had been a huge mistake. One she didn’t intend to repeat. Going forward, only the two men she trusted to love her for the right reasons would be granted access to her heart: her brothers, J.C. and Nathan.

Yet as she closed the tea chest and took one more wistful glance across the room toward the tall, handsome man juggling a teacup, she found herself wishing there could be an exception to that rule.

Even though she knew such romantic fancies were only the stuff of fairy tales.

“Now that was a mighty tasty birthday feast.” Henry wiped his mouth on the linen napkin and leaned back in his chair, nursing a final cup of tea.

“I second that.” Christopher slathered his last miniscone with generous layers of wild strawberry jam and imported clotted cream. “Not so good for the cholesterol, though.”

“I’m eighty-five. If cholesterol hasn’t gotten me yet, I doubt it will. And if it does—” he gestured to his empty plate “—what a way to go.”

Christopher consumed the scone in one bite and chuckled. “It’s hard to argue with that.”

Scanning the room, Henry folded his napkin and set it beside his plate. “I hope Marci remembers to stop by. She’s a nice girl.”

“Seems to be.”

“She’s not wearing a ring.”

Uh-oh. Christopher knew where this was heading.

“She’s also only here for a short time, Henry.”

“Doesn’t take long.”

“For what?”

“To know if someone’s a good match.” A soft smile tugged at the older man’s lips. “When I met Marjorie at that USO dance, things clicked right away. I won’t say it was love at first sight, but I knew the potential was there. We were married for fifty-four years, so I guess my instincts weren’t too shabby.”

Christopher swallowed. “Not everyone is blessed with sound instincts.”

“You were. Otherwise you wouldn’t be such a good doctor.”

He gave a slight shrug. “Then I guess they don’t translate to my personal life.”

“What happened with Denise wasn’t your fault, Christopher. The problem was her, not you.”

Brushing a few crumbs into a neat pile on the snowy linen, Christopher picked them up and deposited them on his plate. When he’d come to Nantucket, he’d had no intention of sharing the story of his ill-fated romance with anyone. But he’d changed his mind one stormy night a few weeks into his stay after he’d discovered his landlord trying to batten down the gazebo his late wife had cherished.

Though Christopher had pitched in, they’d been unable to stop the brutal wind from ripping it apart and hurling pieces of it down the beach. Christopher had wrapped a protective arm around the older man’s shoulders and guided him inside, to safety. But he hadn’t been able to pry Henry away from the window. As the older man had watched the storm destroy the gazebo, tears streaking down his cheeks, he’d told Christopher he’d built it for his beloved wife years ago. That it had become her favorite place. And that it was the only spot where he could still feel her presence.

Now it was gone.

Christopher had stayed to console Henry. But later, over strong cups of coffee and a stubby candle—the electricity had also been a victim of the storm—he’d found their roles reversed when Henry asked him about his own life and what had brought him to Nantucket. As the wind howled and the world was reduced to the diameter of a candle flame, he’d opened his heart—and sealed their friendship.

In the ensuing months, Christopher had come to value the man’s insights and advice. About everything except Denise.

“I’m not sure the problem was all hers, Henry. Besides, you didn’t know her.”

“I know you. That’s enough.”

Though he was gratified by his friend’s loyalty, Christopher was far less certain where the blame lay.

“Well, gentlemen, how was your tea?”

They both looked up. Marci stood beside their table, a small white box in hand.

“Best tea I ever went to,” Henry declared, beaming up at her.

Christopher quirked an eyebrow at him. As far as he knew, this was the only tea Henry had ever gone to.

The older man ignored his skeptical reaction. “What did you think, Christopher?”

“Very nice.” He smiled at Marci, appreciating how the simple but elegant white silk blouse showed off her figure. “Thank you again for the invitation.”

“It was the least I could do. I was in desperate straits the day you stopped by. The antibiotics worked magic.” Transferring her attention to Henry, she set the small white box on the table. “Julie told me you were partial to the chocolate tarts, Mr. Calhoun. Here are a few more to take home so you can extend your birthday celebration.”

He laid a gnarled hand on the box and gave her a pleased smile. “That’s mighty sweet of you. And it’s Henry, please. Now tell me, how are you enjoying Nantucket?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen much yet. But I intend to make up for that as soon as my brother and sister-in-law get back.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“I have five weeks left. One more to work, and four to play. I plan to take a month of vacation before I get serious about looking for a job. I just finished my master’s.”

“In what?”

“Social work.”

“My, that’s impressive.”

“Hardly.” She gave him a wry grin. “Most people my age are already well-established in their careers. I was a late bloomer.”

Henry cocked his head. “Couldn’t have been that late. You don’t look more than twenty-four, twenty-five.”

She chuckled. “Try thirty-one.”

“Thirty-one.” Henry shot his host a speculative look. “That’s a perfect age.”

The sudden gleam in Henry’s eyes reminded Christopher of the one he’d seen in Edith’s the day he’d made the house call. It was time to steer the conversation to a safer topic. Like sightseeing.

“It’s nice that you’ll have a chance to enjoy the island at leisure,” he offered, keeping his tone conversational. “A lot of people only stay for a weekend, or make it a day trip. You’ll be able to explore all the beaches. And be sure to visit the lighthouses.”

“Especially Sankaty,” Henry said, jumping back in. “That’s real close to where I live, in ’Sconset.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Tell you what. Why don’t you ring me if you’re out my way, and I can ride along and give you some history? I could take you on a tour of the Lifesaving Museum, too. I’m a trustee there. Then you could come back to my place and have some of my homemade banana-nut bread. It can’t compare to these—” he tapped the box in front of him “—and I don’t make it as well as my wife did, but I like to keep it on hand. I think of her whenever I have a slice.” His voice choked, and he cleared his throat.

Marci’s features softened, effecting a subtle, appealing transformation in her face that tugged at Christopher’s heart. “I’d like that, Henry. And banana-nut bread is one of my favorites, too.”

“It’s a date, then.” He extracted a pen and small scrap of paper from his jacket, speaking as he wrote. “Here’s my phone number. You give me a call anytime.”

“I’ll do that.” Marci slipped the piece of paper into the pocket of her skirt.

“Maybe I can convince Christopher to join us, if he’s not working. He’s partial to my banana-nut bread, too.”

That suggestion seemed to fluster her, Christopher noted, still focused on her face. She took a small step back and clasped her hands in front of her. “Dr. Morgan is probably very busy, Henry. I’m on vacation. He’s not.”

“He works too hard. A little R & R would do him good. And you can call him Christopher. We don’t stand on formality around here.”

When Marci shot Christopher an uncertain glance, he cleared his throat and spoke up.

“Please do.” He smiled, and as they stared at each other, his pulse tripped into double time.

It was Henry who finally broke the charged silence. “I think we’re overstaying our welcome, Christopher.” He gestured to the deserted tearoom, where Julie was beginning to clear tables. “These lovely ladies have work to do.”

Dragging his gaze away from Marci, Christopher pushed back his chair—and willed the warmth creeping up his neck to stay below his collar. “Thanks again.”

Marci gave him a stiff nod. “It was a pleasure. I’ll call you, Henry.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

In silence, Christopher followed the older man to the front door, taking his arm as they descended the steps.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Henry offered.

“Yes, she is.”

“Great legs, too.”

A smile tugged at Christopher’s lips. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Henry grinned up at him. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a month of Sundays.”

Christopher’s smile faded, and he sent his landlord a stern look. “Don’t get any ideas, Henry.”

“I wasn’t the one with ideas back there.” His eyes twinkled. “I may be old, but I’m not blind. I saw the way you looked at her.”

“She’s a very pretty woman. But appreciating beauty isn’t the same as pursuing it.”

“True.” Henry’s grin widened. “But it’s a start.”

Shaking his head, Christopher opened the car door for his neighbor. Henry could be as tenacious as a Nantucket deer tick when he got a notion into his head. And he doubted there was anything he could say to dissuade the older man from his fanciful conclusions. The best he could do was avoid talking about Marci in Henry’s presence.

Except he had a sneaking feeling Henry wasn’t going to cooperate with that plan.

Chapter Three

“I feel bad about putting you to this expense, J.C.”

Pushing through the gate in the tall privet hedge surrounding Edith’s backyard, J.C. shot Marci a disgruntled look over his shoulder as she trailed along behind him. “We’ve been over this a dozen times. After seven years of nonstop work and school, you deserve a vacation to celebrate your graduation. Since you won’t stay with Heather and me, this is a good alternative.”

“I can’t stay with you. You’re newlyweds. But this doesn’t feel right, either.” Marci followed her brother down a flagstone path through the well-tended yard. Considering the high prices on the island, her big brother was probably spending a fortune on the month’s rent for the little outbuilding that Chester had turned into a guest cottage.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, J.C. stopped, set Marci’s bags on a wooden bench and took her shoulders in a firm grasp. She had to tip her head back to look up into his dark eyes. “It’s a gift, okay? All those years you worked long hours at the diner to support yourself while going to school, you wouldn’t take a dime of help. None of the checks I sent you were ever cashed. I want to do this.”

“I appreciate the gesture, J.C. And I’m grateful.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I don’t need my own cottage. The youth hostel would be fine. This is too expensive.”

His intent gaze locked on hers. “You’re worth every penny.”

That was the real problem, and they both knew it. While Marci’s self-image had improved over the years, deep inside she still felt unworthy of such generosity and kindness.

When she didn’t respond, J.C. shook his head. “I’ve never understood why you have such a hard time valuing yourself.”

And he never would, not if she had anything to say about it, Marci vowed. With his law-enforcement background, he could have discovered the truth long ago. But when she’d dropped out of school at nineteen and hit the road, promising to stay in touch if he gave her space, he’d kept his word.

Five years later, when she told him she’d come home if he’d leave her past alone, he’d agreed. And he’d never reneged on that promise. Never used his resources as a police detective to invade her privacy. That’s why she loved him—for his honor and integrity and unconditional love. He was the only person in her whole life she’d been able to count on, no matter what. The only person who had believed in her, who trusted in her basic goodness. She could never jeopardize his opinion of her by telling him the truth.

It wasn’t worth the risk.

Hugging herself tighter, she shrugged. “I just think you have better uses for your money.”

He continued to study her for a few moments, then released her shoulders and picked up her bags again. “If it makes you feel any better, Edith gave me a great deal. A bonus for my long tenure, as she put it. Most people only take island cottages for a week or two. I rented for a whole year—even during the quiet season, when she’s normally closed. According to her, I was a bonanza.” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that was a new one.”

As they approached the tiny clapboard cottage surrounded by budding hydrangea bushes, Marci stopped protesting. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. J.C. was determined to give her a month of fun, and obsessing over the cost would ruin the gift for both of them. For once in her life, she needed go with the flow.

Besides, J.C. had probably already paid the bill.

Setting the bags by the door, J.C. turned the knob, grinned and motioned her inside. “You’re going to love this.”

Easing past him, Marci stepped over the threshold—and froze. “Wow!”

J.C.’s grin broadened as he nudged her farther in with his shoulder and snagged her bags. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”

He edged around her as she took in the space she would call home for the next month. Though the structure was small, the vaulted ceiling and white walls gave it an unexpected feeling of spaciousness, and the blue-and-yellow color scheme created a cheery mood.

The compact unit was well-equipped, too, Marci noted. A queen-size bed stood in the far corner, while closer to the door a small couch upholstered in hydrangea-print fabric and an old chest that served as a coffee table formed a sitting area. To the right of the front door a wooden café-sized table for two was tucked beside a window in a tiny kitchenette.

The whole place looked like a display in a designer showroom.

In other words, it was a far cry from her tiny, decrepit apartment in Chicago, with its chipped avocado fixtures, burn-damaged Formica countertops and stained linoleum. The same apartment she’d be returning to in a month, when this magical sojourn was over.

“Did you notice the pumpkin bread?”

J.C.’s question distracted her from that depressing thought.

Looking in the direction he indicated, she noted the plastic-wrap-covered plate on the café table.

“Edith left some for me, too, my first day here. And trust me, there will be more. She’ll take good care of you.”

Marci shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I can take care of myself.”

Shaking his head, J.C. pulled her into a bear hug. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Love me.” The words came out muffled against his shirt as she hugged him back.

“Always.”

Giving her one more squeeze, he stepped back. “Don’t forget that Heather and I are taking you to dinner tomorrow.” He held up his hand as she started to protest. “No arguments. You’ve been outvoted.” A yawn caught him off guard, and he grinned. “The jet lag is catching up with me.”

“Go home. You guys must be dead on your feet after flying all day. I need to settle in anyway.”

“Okay. Want to join us for church tomorrow?”

She folded her arms across her chest and arched an eyebrow.

“Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying. We’ll see you later, then. Sleep well.”

As he exited and shut the door, Marci once more surveyed her new digs. Though she still felt guilty about the expense, she couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. Maybe all this would disappear in a month, as Cinderella’s coach had vanished at the stroke of midnight. But in the meantime, she felt like a princess. The only thing missing was the handsome prince.

An image of Christopher Morgan suddenly flashed through her mind. He certainly fit that description, she conceded. Tall. Handsome. Confident. Charming.

Looks and manners could be deceiving though. A practiced rake could hide a callous, selfish heart until he got what he wanted. And princes could turn out to be scoundrels—leaving broken hearts, shattered dreams and wrenching regrets in their wake.

Her instincts told her Christopher wasn’t like that. But those same instincts had led her astray once.

And no way did she intend to trust them a second time.

Three days after the honeymooners returned—and two days into her vacation—Marci kept the promise she’d made to Henry two weeks before. After a morning spent soaking up rays on the beach, she’d headed for ’Sconset. True to his word, the older man had given her a tour of the area and invited her back to his home for refreshments.

“That was great banana-nut bread, Henry.”

He topped off Marci’s coffee mug as they sat on his back porch. “Glad you liked it.”

“The tour was fabulous, too. I can’t believe they actually moved Sankaty Light.”

“Yep. It was quite a feat. Made the national news, even. Cost a bundle of money, but that was the only way to save it from tumbling into the sea, what with all the erosion over there. Moved it inch by inch. Slow and steady.”

“Slow and steady is a good thing. With lighthouses—and life.” Marci took a sip of her coffee as she gazed at the sea, separated from Henry’s backyard by only a white picket fence and a stretch of beach.

“I expect that’s true, most of the time. I know my Marjorie felt that way about her garden. She had the patience of Job with all these plants.” Henry gestured toward the curving, overgrown flower beds that hugged much of the picket fence and porch, leaving only a small bit of lush green grass in the center and back of the yard.

“She tucked them into the ground, nurtured them, gave them time to flourish. Started most everything from seeds and cuttings. I often told her it would be a whole lot faster to buy established plants, but she claimed things grew better if they had a stable home from the beginning.”

A sudden film of moisture clouded her vision, and Marci blinked to clear it away. “Your wife was a wise woman.” Sensing Henry’s scrutiny, she shifted in her seat. She’d already learned that the older man was an astute observer; she didn’t want him delving into her life. “Did she spend a lot of time in her garden?”

“Practically lived out here in the summer. Not that you’d know it now.” He inspected the weed-choked beds and sighed. “I tried to keep up with things for the first few years after she died, not that I was ever much of a gardener. But arthritis finally did me in. Bending isn’t as easy as it used to be. Makes me sad, how much it’s deteriorated.”

“How long has your wife been gone?”

“An eternity.” He drew in a slow breath, then let it out. “Feels that long, anyway, after more than half a century of marriage. But to be exact, ten years and two months.”

It was nice to know some relationships lasted, Marci reflected with a pang as she studied the garden in which Marjorie Calhoun had invested so much labor and love. Despite the neglect, hints of its former beauty remained. Here and there, hardy flowers poked through the rampant weeds. Although out-of-control ivy was attempting to choke a circle of hydrangeas in one corner, the bushes were sporting buds. And a climbing rose in desperate need of pruning competed for fence space with a tangle of morning-glory vines behind an oversized birdbath.

“What was over there, Henry?” Marci indicated the hydrangeas, which rimmed a spot bare except for some low-growing foliage she assumed was weeds.

“Used to be a gazebo. I built it for Marjorie years ago. She loved to sit out there with a glass of lemonade after she worked in the garden and enjoy the fruits of her labors. Lost it in a storm winter before last.”

Marci rubbed a finger over the peeling white paint on the arm of her wicker rocker and mulled over all Henry had told her during their sightseeing outing. About Nantucket—and his life. He hadn’t dwelt on his problems, focusing instead on all the good things he’d experienced in his eighty-five years.

But she’d learned about the bad, too, through offhand comments or in response to questions she’d asked. Henry had watched friends die in battle. Nursed his wife through a cancer scare. And now he struggled to maintain the life he loved as his vigor and strength ebbed and the cost of living on the island soared.

Long life, she supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.

As if he’d read her mind, Henry looked over at her, the afternoon sunlight highlighting the crevices on his face. “I’ll tell you something, Marci. Growing old isn’t for sissies.”

Her throat constricted, and she leaned over to place a hand on his gnarled fingers. “Your body may be old, but your spirit is young. And I suspect it always will be.”

He patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

Looking the garden over again, she set her empty mug aside and rose as an idea began to take shape in her mind. “Can you distinguish between the weeds and flowers, Henry?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t we clean this place up? You can point out the weeds until I learn which is which, and I can pull them up.”

“But I didn’t invite you here today to work.”

She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve worked my whole life. I can’t just lie around on a beach every day for the next month. I’ll go stir-crazy. I need to do something productive, too. This would be a challenge. And it would be fun.” She scanned the garden again. “I bet we could whip this place into shape in no time.”

“You might not think it’s so much fun after you start getting blisters on your hands.” He gave her a skeptical look. “Besides, gardening is hard work. It takes a lot of strength. Lifting, digging, pulling. You’re just a little thing.”

A wry smile lifted her lips. “Henry, I’ve spent half my life juggling heavy trays of dishes and glasses. I’ve moved tables, hauled and stacked chairs, and run up and down stairs balancing plates of food. At Ronnie’s Diner, I’m known as the Bionic Blonde. Trust me, being a waitress is a tough job. I’m a whole lot stronger than I look.”

“Well, I sure would like to see this place the way it used to be. And I know Marjorie would be pleased.”

“Then it’s decided. Heather and J.C. said I could use their car every afternoon, so I can bike to a beach and play in the sand in the morning, then head out here and play in the dirt after lunch. Are you game to show me the ropes?”

A slow grin creased his face, and he hauled himself out of his chair to stand beside her. “Let’s do it.”

Christopher wheeled his bike behind his cottage, glanced toward Henry’s backyard—and came to an abrupt halt. He had only a partial view of the woman on her hands and knees between two hydrangea bushes, but he’d recognize that blond hair anywhere.

What in the world was Marci Clay doing in Henry’s garden?

As she began to tug on something out of his line of sight, Henry’s voice rang across the yards. “Hey, Christopher! Look what we’re doing!”

Marci lost her grip and fell back with a plop. A second later she twisted toward him with a startled expression.

“Hi, Henry. Hello, Marci.”

Scrambling to her feet, she wiped her hands on her jeans.

“We’re cleaning out the garden,” Henry told him, brandishing a shovel as he gestured toward a large pile of wilting weeds and ivy.

Setting his mail on the railing around his tiny back porch, Christopher strolled over to the picket fence that separated the yards and surveyed Henry’s garden. In the far corner, plants had emerged from the cacophony of weeds. He’d never been much of a gardener, but his mother had enjoyed the hobby and he’d learned a few things from her. Enough to recognize the peony buds and coral bells. The other plants Marci had unearthed were a mystery to him.

“Looks like you’ve made a good start.” He turned his attention to Marci, who’d kept her distance. Her jeans were grimy, her fingernails caked with mud. Sweat had wiped her face clean of makeup. One of her cheeks sported a long streak of dirt.

She looked adorable.

Ignoring the quickening of his pulse, Christopher summoned up what he hoped passed for a casual smile. “I see Henry put you to work.”

“I volunteered.”

“She’s a hard worker, too.” Henry rested the shovel against the fence. “Why are you home so early?”

Christopher checked his watch. “It’s almost six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty!” Shock rippled across Marci’s face. “Henry, I’ve got to go. I told Edith and Chester I’d have dinner with them tonight. At seven.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans again and dashed for the porch. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Are you still sure about doing this, Marci?”

“Yes.” She grabbed her purse and rummaged through it. “I never leave a job unfinished.” Snagging her keys, she sent Christopher a quick glance, tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away.

Why was she nervous around him? He didn’t think it had anything to do with their rough start. Her present behavior bore no resemblance to her cold, aloof response when he’d insulted her in the restaurant. Today she reminded him of the island deer that bolted when anyone got too close.

For more than two years, he’d gone out of his way to discourage any woman who tried to cozy up to him. And a lot of them had. But Marci was at the opposite end of the spectrum. She was sending clear no-trespassing signals.

He should be grateful, Christopher told himself. This way he wouldn’t have to worry about fending off unwanted attention.

Except he wasn’t.

When the silence lengthened, Henry shot Christopher a pointed look. “Maybe you could walk Marci to her car.”

“Oh, no, that’s all right, Henry.” Marci dropped her keys. Bent to pick them up. When she rose, her cheeks were flushed. “I’m right in front. He doesn’t need to bother.” Before either man could respond, she jogged toward the gate. “See you tomorrow, Henry.”

Less than thirty seconds later, an engine started. Christopher heard the crunch of car tires on the oyster-shell lane and listened as the sound gradually receded into the distance.

When silence descended, he regarded Henry, gesturing toward the garden. “How did all this start?”

His neighbor scratched his head. “Beats me. One minute we were talking about Marjorie, and the next thing I knew Marci was pulling weeds. She’s strong, too, just like she told me. Claims it comes from all those years of waitressing.”

“Marci was a waitress?”

“Yep. That’s how she put herself through school. You’ve got to admire her spunk.”

“What else did she tell you?” Though Christopher did his best to keep his question nonchalant, a twinkle appeared in Henry’s eyes.

“Mostly we talked about flowers. But I expect we’ll get into a lot of other things as we work on the garden. Maybe you could stop by one afternoon and join us for lemonade.”

Not a good idea, Christopher decided. Contact could lead to connection, and he wasn’t in the market for a romantic relationship—even if the woman was willing. And Marci obviously wasn’t.

Besides, he couldn’t erase the image of her tears that first night in the restaurant. Or the defeated look in her eyes. Or the dejected slump of her shoulders as she’d walked home. All of which told him she had issues.

He needed to keep his distance.

“She makes you nervous, doesn’t she?”

At Henry’s comment, Christopher frowned. The last thing he needed right now was an armchair psychologist analyzing him in his backyard.

Ignoring Henry’s remark, Christopher scanned the sky as a gust of wind whipped past. “Looks like a storm might be brewing.”

His neighbor stacked his hands on top of the handle of his shovel and squinted at Christopher appraisingly. “Yep. I’d say there could be some unsettled weather ahead.”

Disregarding the double meaning, Christopher motioned toward his porch. “I think I’ll rescue my mail and head inside.”

Henry grinned. “Dashing for cover, hmm? Good luck.” With a wave, he ambled back to his hydrangeas.

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