“Do you usually flirt with women you think are pregnant?”

“There’s no guy to stop me from moving in on you.”

This time she had to chuckle—in spite of herself. “I was just thinking … you might be a card-carrying good guy. If I were ever going to trust a doctor again—which I’m not—it might have been you.”

“I’d ask you out … but I’m afraid if we had a good time, you’d quit disliking me, and then where would we be?”

She lifted her head and kissed him.

Her lips. His lips. Like a meeting of whipped cream and chocolate. Not like any kisses, but the “damn it, what the hell is happening here?” kind.

She pulled back and looked at him.

When he got his breath back, he said, “Do we have any idea why you did that?”

“I’ve been known to do some very bad, impulsive things sometimes.”

“So that was just a bad impulse.” He shook his head. “Sure came across like a great impulse to me.”

Dear Reader,

I had enormous fun writing this story!

For one thing, I rarely take on a heroine with a temper—a real temper—and Ginger gave me a run for my money when she let loose.

And then there’s Ike, who’s determined to believe he’s a laid-back, easygoing kind of guy … when he so isn’t.

En route, I had to visit a tea farm for research—this was really tough, sampling all those wonderful teas, seeing the eagles close up and having the chance to meet the owners of this extraordinarily special place.

There’s also a character named Pansy in the book … I have no idea where she came from, but once she showed up on the page, she refused to be ignored.

This is Ike’s story—the second book about the MacKinnon family—and I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it. Don’t hesitate to write me through my website, www.jennifergreene.com, anytime you want to pop in!

All my best,

Jennifer Greene

About the Author

JENNIFER GREENE lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and an assorted menagerie of pets. Michigan State University has honored her as an outstanding woman graduate for her work with women on campus. Jennifer has written more than seventy love stories, for which she has won numerous awards, including four RITA® Awards from the Romance Writers of America and their Hall of Fame and Lifetime Achievement Awards.

You’re welcome to contact Jennifer through her website at www.jennifergreene.com.

The Baby Bump
Jennifer Greene

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To “my” librarians at the Benton Harbor and St. Joseph libraries. From the start, you encouraged me to write and nourished my writing dreams. You’ve always gone out of your way to help everyone in the community enrich their worlds through books. You’re the best!

Chapter One

Back when Ginger Gautier was a block-headed, reckless twenty-one-year-old, she’d have taken the mountain curves at ninety miles an hour and not thought twice.

Now that she was twenty-eight … well, she couldn’t swear to have better judgment.

Unfortunately she was eight weeks pregnant—by a doctor who’d claimed he deeply loved her just a day before he bought an engagement ring for someone else. So. Her judgment in men clearly sucked.

She’d lost a job she loved over the jerk. That said even more about her lack of good judgment.

Some said she had a temper to match her red hair. Friends and coworkers tended to run for cover when she had a good fume on. So possibly her temper might be considered another character flaw.

But she loved.

No one ever said that Ginger Gautier didn’t give two hundred percent for anyone she loved.

When she passed the welcome sign for South Carolina, she pushed the gas pedal a wee bit harder. Just to eighty miles an hour.

Gramps was in trouble. And she was almost home.

The eastern sky turned glossy gray, then hemmed the horizon in pink. By the time the sun was full up, Ginger had shed her sweater and hurled it in the backseat on top of her down jacket. When she left Chicago, it had been cold enough to snow. In South Carolina, the air was sweeter, cleaner, warmer … and so familiar that her eyes stung with embarrassingly sentimental tears.

She should have gone home more often—way more often—after her grandmother died four years ago. But it never seemed that simple, not once she’d gotten the job in hospital administration. Her boss had been a crabby old tyrant, but she’d loved the work, and never minded the unpredictable extra hours. They’d just added up. She’d come for holidays, called Gramps every week, sometimes more often.

Not enough. The guilt in her stomach churned like acid. Calling was fine, but if she’d visited more in person, she’d have known that Gramps needed her.

The miles kept zipping by. Another hour passed, then two. Maybe if she liked driving, the trip would have been easier, but nine hundred miles in her packed-to-the-gills Civic had been tough. She’d stopped a zillion times, for food and gas and naps and to stretch her legs, but this last stretch was downright grueling.

When she spotted the swinging sign for Gautier Tea Plantation, though, her exhaustion disappeared. She couldn’t grow a weed, was never engrossed in the agricultural side of the tea business—but she’d worked in the shop as a teenager, knew all the smells and tastes of their teas, could bake a great scone in her sleep, could give lessons on the seeping and steeping of tea. No place on the planet was remotely like this one, especially the scents.

Past the eastern fields was a curve in the road, then a private drive shaded by giant old oaks and then finally, finally … the house. The Gautiers—being of French-Scottish origin—inherited more ornery stubbornness than they usually knew what to do with. The word “plantation” implied a graceful old mansion with gardens and pillars and maybe an ostentatious fountain or two. Not for Ginger’s family.

The house was a massive sprawler, white, with no claim to fanciness. A generous veranda wrapped around the main floor, shading practical rockers and porch swings with fat cushions. Ginger opened the door to her Civic and sprang out, leaving everything inside, just wanting to see Gramps.

She’d vaulted two steps up before she spotted the body draped in front of the double-screen doors. It was a dog’s body. A huge bloodhound’s body.

She took another cautious step. Its fur was red-gray, his ears longer than her face, and he had enough wrinkles to star in a commercial for aging cream. He certainly didn’t appear vicious … but she wasn’t positive he was alive, either.

She said, “Hey, boy” in her gentlest voice. He didn’t budge. She cleared her throat and tried, “Hey, girl.” One eye opened, for all of three seconds. The dog let out an asthmatic snort and immediately returned to her coma.

For years, her grandparents had dogs—always Yorkie mixes—Gramps invariably carried her and Grandma usually had her groomed and fitted up with a pink bow. The possibility that Gramps had taken on this hound was as likely as his voting Republican. Still, the dog certainly looked content.

“Okay,” Ginger said briskly, “I can’t open the door until you move. I can see you’re tired. But it doesn’t take that much energy to just move about a foot, does it? Come on. Just budge a little for me.”

No response. Nothing. Nada. If the dog didn’t make occasionally snuffling noises, Ginger might have worried it was dead. As it was, she figured the big hound for a solid hundred pounds … which meant she had only a twenty-pound advantage. It took some tussling, but eventually she got a wedge of screen door open, stepped over the hound and turned herself into a pretzel. She made it inside with just a skinned elbow and an extra strip off her already frayed temper.

“Gramps! Cornelius! It’s me!”

No one answered. Cornelius was … well, Ginger had never known exactly what Cornelius was. He worked for Gramps, but she’d never known his job title. He was the guy she’d gone to when a doll’s shoe went down to the toilet, when she needed a ride to a party and Grandma couldn’t take her. He got plumbers and painters in the house, supervised the lawn people, got prescriptions and picked up people from the airport. Cornelius didn’t answer her, though, any more than her grandfather did.

She charged through, only taking seconds to glance around. The house had been built years ago, back when the first room was called a parlor. It faced east, caught all the morning sun, and was bowling alley size, stuffed to the gills with stuff. Gram’s piano, the maze of furniture and paintings and rugs, were all the same, yet Ginger felt her anxiety antenna raised high. The room was dusty. Nothing new there, but she saw crumbs on tables, half-filled glasses from heaven knows when, enough dust to write her name on surfaces.

A little dirt never hurt anyone, her grandmother had always said. Gram felt a woman who had a perfect house should have been doing things that mattered. Still.

A little disarray was normal. Beyond dusty was another.

She hustled past the wild cherrywood staircase, past the dining room—one glass cabinet there had a museum-quality collection of teapots. A second glass cabinet held the whole historic history of Gautier tea tins, some older than a century. Past the dining “salon,” which was what Gramps called the sun room—meaning that he’d puttered in there as long as she’d known him, trying samples of tea plants, mixing and mating and seeing what new offspring he could come up with.

The house had always been fragrant with the smell of tea, comforting with the familiar whir of big ceiling fans, a little dust, open books, blue—her grandma had had some shade of blue in every room in the house; it was her favorite color and always had been. Longing for Gram almost made her eyes well with tears again. She’d even loved Gram’s flaws. Even when they had a little feud—invariably over Ginger getting into some kind of impulsive trouble—their fights invariably led to some tears, some cookies and a big hug before long—because no one in the Gautier family believed in going to bed mad.

The good memories were all there. The things she remembered were all there. But the whole downstairs had never had a look of neglect before. She called her grandfather’s name again, moving down the hall, past the dining room and the butler’s keep. Just outside the kitchen she heard—finally!—voices.

The kitchen was warehouse size, with windows facing north and west—which meant in the heat of a summer afternoon sun poured in, hotter than lava, on the old tile table. A kettle sat directly on the table, infusing the room with the scents of Darjeeling and peppermint. A fat, orange cat snoozed on the windowsill. Dishes and glasses and what all crowded the tile counter. The sink faucet was dripping. Dust and crumbs and various spills had long dried on the fancy parquet floor.

Ginger noticed it all in a blink. She took in the stranger, as well—but for that first second, all her attention focused on her grandfather.

He spotted her, pushed away from the table. A smile wreathed his face, bigger than sunshine. “What a sight for sore eyes, you. You’re so late. I was getting worried. But you look beautiful, you do. The drive must have done you wonders. Come here and get your hug.”

The comment about being late startled her—she’d made amazing time, he couldn’t possibly have expected her earlier. But whatever. What mattered was swooping her arms around him, feeling the love, seeing the shine in his eyes that matched her own.

“What is this? Aren’t you eating? You’re skinny!” she accused him.

“Am not. Eating all the time. Broke the scales this morning, I’m getting so fat.”

“Well, if that isn’t the biggest whopper I’ve heard since I left home.”

“You’re accusing your grandfather of fibbing?”

“I am.” The bantering was precious, how they’d always talked, teasing and laughing until they’d inevitably catch a scold from her grandmother. But something was wrong. Gramps had never been heavy, never tall, but she could feel his bones under his shirt, and his pants were hanging. His eyes, a gorgeous blue, seemed oddly vague. His smile was real. The hug wonderfully real. But his face seemed wizened, wrinkled and cracked like an old walnut shell, white whiskers on his chin as if he hadn’t shaved—when Cashner Gautier took pride in shaving every day of his life before the sun came up.

She cast another glance at the stranger … and felt her nerves bristle sharper than a porcupine’s. The man was certainly no crony of her gramps, couldn’t be more than a few years older than she was.

The guy was sprawled at the head of the old tile table, had scruffy dirty-blond hair, wore sandals and chinos with frayed cuffs and a clay-colored shirt-shirt. Either he was too lazy to shave or was growing a halfhearted beard. And yeah, there was more to the picture. The intruder had tough, wide shoulders—as if he could lift a couple of tree logs in his spare time. The tan was stunning, especially for a guy with eyes that certain blue—wicked blue, light blue, blue like you couldn’t forget, not if you were a woman. The height, the breadth, the way he stood up slow, showing off his quiet, lanky frame—oh, yeah, he was a looker.

Men that cute were destined to break a woman’s heart.

That wasn’t a problem for her, of course. Her heart was already in Humpty Dumpty shape. There wasn’t a man in the universe who could wrestle a pinch of sexual interest from her. She was just judiciously assessing and recognizing trouble.

“You have to be Ginger,” he said in a voice that made her think of dark sugar and bourbon.

“Aw, darlin’, I should have said right off … this is Ike. Come to see me this afternoon. He’s—”

“I saw right off who he was, Gramps.” He had to be the man her grandfather told her about on the phone. The one who was trying to get Gramps to “sign papers.” The one who was trying to “take the land away from him.” Gramps had implied that his doctor had started it all, was behind the whole conspiracy, to take away “everything that ever mattered to him.”

Ginger drew herself up to her full five-four. “You’re the man who’s been advising my grandfather, aren’t you, bless your heart. And that has to be your dog on the front porch, isn’t it?”

“Pansy. Yes.”

“Pansy.” For a moment she almost laughed, the name was so darned silly for that huge lummox of a dog. But she was in no laughing mood. She was in more of a killing mood. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d get your dog and yourself and take off, preferably in the next thirty seconds.”

“Honey!” Her grandfather pulled out of her arms and shot her a shocked expression.

She squeezed his hand, but she was still facing down the intruder. “It’s all right, Gramps. I’m here. And I’m going to be here from now on.” Her voice was as cordial as Southern sweet tea, but that was only because she was raised with Southern manners. “I’ll be taking care of my grandfather from now on, and we won’t need any interference from anyone. Bless your heart, I’m sure you know your way to the front door.”

“Honey, this is Ike—”

“Yes, I heard you say the name.” She wasn’t through glaring daggers at the son of a sea dog who’d try to cheat a vulnerable old man. “I really don’t care if your name is Judas or Sam or Godfrey or whatever else. But thanks so much for stopping by.”

He could have had the decency to look ashamed. Or afraid. Or something besides amused. There was no full-fledged grin, nothing that offensive, but the corners of his slim mouth couldn’t seem to help turning up at the edges. “You know, I have the oddest feeling that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“You can bet your sweet bippy we have,” she said sweetly.

“I strongly suspect that you’ll change your mind before we see each other again. I promise I won’t hold it against you. In fact, I’m really happy you’re here. Your grandfather thinks the world rises and sets with you.”

“Uh-huh.” He could take that bunch of polite nonsense and start a fire with it. She wasn’t impressed. She made a little flutter motion with her hands—a traditional bye-bye—but she definitely planned to see him out the door. First, so she could lock the screen doors after him, and second, to make darned sure he took the dog.

He was halfway down the hall when he called out, “Pansy, going home now.” And the lazy, comatose, surely half-dead dog suddenly sprang to her feet and let out a joyful howl. Her tail should have been licensed as a weapon. It started wagging, knocking into a porch rocker, slapping against the door. Pansy seemed to think her owner was a god.

“Goodbye now,” Ginger said, just as she snapped the door closed on both of them and flipped the lock. Obviously, locking a screen door was symbolic at best. Anyone could break through a screen door. But she still wanted the good-looking son of a shyster to hear the sound.

She whirled around to see her grandfather walking toward her with a rickety, fragile gait.

“Sweetheart. I don’t understand what got into you. You know that was Ike.”

“I know, I know. You told me his name already.”

“Ike. Ike MacKinnon. My doctor. I mean that Ike.”

For the second time, she had an odd shivery sensation, that something in her grandfather’s eyes wasn’t … right. Still, she answered him swiftly. “You know what Grandma would say—that he can’t be a very good doctor if he can’t afford a pair of shoes and a haircut.”

When her grandfather didn’t laugh, only continued to look at her with a bewildered expression, she hesitated. She shouldn’t have made a small joke.

The situation wasn’t remotely funny—for him or her. Maybe she hadn’t immediately recognized that Ike was Gramps’s doctor—how could she? But she’d have been even ruder to him if she had known. Gramps had said precisely on the phone that the “doctor” was behind it all. Behind the conspiracy to take the land away from him and force him to move.

“Gramps, where is Cornelius?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. Chores. The bank or something.” Her grandfather reached out a hand, steadied himself against the wall, still frowning at her. “Ike is a nice man, Rachel. And you’ve always liked him. I can’t imagine what put you in such a fuss. I can’t remember you ever being rude to a soul.”

She stopped, suddenly still as a statue.

Rachel was her grandmother’s name.

“Gramps,” she said softly. “It’s me. Ginger.”

“O’ course,” he said. “I know that, you silly one. Next time, don’t take so long at the hairdresser’s, okay?”

She smiled at him. Said “I sure won’t,” as if his comment and her reply made sense.

It didn’t, but since she was reeling from confusion, she decided to change gears. Gramps was easily coaxed to settle in a rocker on the veranda, and he nodded off almost before he’d had a chance to put his feet up. She was free then to stare at her car, which unquestionably was stuffed within an inch of its life.

The boxes and bags weren’t heavy. She refused to think about the pregnancy until she was ready to make serious life decisions—and Gramps’s problems came first. Still, some instinct had motivated her to pack in lighter boxes and bags. Of course, that meant she had to make a million trips up the stairs, and down the long hall to the bedroom where she’d slept as a girl.

The whole upstairs brought on another niggling worry. Nothing was wrong, exactly. She’d been here last Christmas, and the Christmas before, and for quick summer weekends. But her visits had all been rushed. She’d had no reason or time to take an objective look at anything.

Now … she couldn’t help but notice that the whole second floor smelled stale and musty. Each of the five bedrooms upstairs had a made-up bed, just as when her grandmother was alive. The three bathrooms had perfectly hung-up towels that matched their floor tile color. But her grandparents’ bedroom had the smell of a room that had been shut up and abandoned for months or more. Dust coated the varnished floor, and the curtains were heavy with it.

There was nothing interesting about dust, of course. As soon as you cleaned, the dust bunnies under the bed reproduced—sometimes doubled—by morning. Ginger had never met a housekeeping chore she couldn’t postpone. It was just … a little dust was a different species than downright dirt.

The whole place looked neglected.

Gramps looked neglected.

When the last bag had been hauled from the car, her childhood bedroom looked like a rummage sale, but enough was enough. She opened the windows, breathed in the fresh air then crashed on the peach bedspread. She was so tired she couldn’t think.

She was so anxious she was afraid of thinking.

In the past month, her entire life had fallen apart … which she had the bad, bad feeling she was entirely responsible for. She’d been bamboozled by a guy she’d lost her heart to, lost her job, shredded everything she owned to sublet her Chicago apartment, had a completely unexpected pregnancy that she had no way to afford or deal with … and then came the call for help from Gramps.

She’d fix it all.

She had to.

And Gramps came first because … well, because she loved him. There was no question about her priorities. It was just that she was getting the terrorizing feeling that her grandfather’s problems weren’t coming from without, but from within.

And if anyone was going to be able to give her a better picture of her grandfather’s situation, it was unfortunately—very, very, very unfortunately—his doctor.

Chapter Two

Still yawning, Ike lumbered downstairs barefoot with the dog at his heels. Pansy had woken him, wanted to be let out. He opened the back door, waited. Pansy stepped a foot outside, stopped dead, let out a howl and barreled back in the house.

Ike peered out. There happened to be a snake in the driveway. A big one. A rat snake, nothing interesting.

“You live in South Carolina,” he reminded Pansy. “You know about snakes. You just leave them alone. They don’t want to hurt you. Just don’t get in their way.”

Pansy had heard this horseradish before. It hadn’t worked then, either. She continued to dog his footsteps, closer than glue, all the way into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, peered in and had to shake his head.

He must have left the door unlocked again last night. The proof was in the white casserole on the top refrigerator shelf, tagged with a note from Maybelle Charles. The casserole was her mama’s famous Chicken Surprise recipe. On the counter there seemed to be a fancy pie—pecan—anchored on hot pads that he’d have to return. The pie would definitely be from the widow five doors down, Ms. Joelle Simmons. The basket on the front porch held a peck of late South Carolina peaches. Babs, he suspected.

This was possibly the best place for a single man to live in the entire known universe. The whole town seemed to think he was too thin and incapable of feeding himself. The unmarried female population all seemed convinced that he needed a woman to shape him up. The more bedraggled he looked, the more they chased him. No one seemed to worry that he was a natural slob. They’d all decided, independently, that the right woman could fix minor male problems like that.

The food thing had started a day after he’d moved to Sweet Valley—which was more than three years ago. It was the same day he’d taken over old Doc Brady’s country practice, the same day he’d found this fabulous ramshackle place just a couple blocks from the center of town. Come to think of it—it was even the same day his parents had expressed stunned horror that he’d failed to take a cardiac surgery option at Johns Hopkins, the way they had, the way any self-respecting MacKinnon was supposed to do. His two siblings had already failed their parents by choosing their own paths, but Ike had been the worst disappointment, because he’d actually decided to follow the family heritage of doctoring. Only he was never supposed to take a job here, in this bitsy town that could barely afford a doctor in the first place.

Everything about Sweet Water was perfect for him … except for the minor issue with all the food. The single ladies expected their plates returned. They cooked and baked and made everything on pretty little girly-type plates that invariably had their names on the bottom. Only when he returned them, he usually had to fight to leave.

He was bushwhacked into a chair, fed something else, made to drink something else, was expected to shell out some flirtation and interest.

Ike couldn’t summon the energy to be rude, but he lucked out when Pansy showed up at his door. She refused to leave him, insisted on being adopted and went with him everywhere. She really helped with shortening the visits from all the single ladies.

Upstairs was home. Downstairs was his office—as in open to any and everyone.

Old Doc Brady hadn’t run it that way, but Ike did. He’d inherited some help with the place. Bartholomew had some personality issues, but he cleaned the whole first floor at night and loved the part-time work. A retired nurse named Stephie still lived in the area, and always came in if he needed extra help. And the mainstay of the office was sixty-year-old Ruby, who was a wee bit bossy—but she could run a small country without breaking a sweat.

Right now, though, was his favorite time of day. He fetched a mug of coffee and the paper and ambled out to the screened-in back deck. Tuesday he had no scheduled patients until ten. Ruby would shout to let him know when she got there.

Pansy refused to come out. She was still worried about the snake.

Ike was worried about nothing. The morning was cool; he’d had to pull on a sweatshirt. Occasionally he heard the regular sounds of school buses going by, cars starting to congregate behind lights, stores opening and the occasional conversation as people headed for work or breakfast.

He’d finished the paper and started his second mug of coffee when he heard Ruby’s voice from the front desk—and then the brisk snap of her footsteps coming down the hall to the back door. Par for the course, her portly shape was draped in a wild flower print, accessorized—her word, not his—by bright pink earrings, shoes and lipstick.

“Lady here to see you, Doc. Ginger Gautier. Cashner Gautier’s granddaughter. You’ve got a ten o’clock—”

He glanced at his watch. It was only 9:10. “If you wouldn’t mind, ask her to come on back.”

“You mean in your office? Or in an examining room?” More than once, Ruby felt obligated to explain appropriate behavior to him, always tactfully and framed as a question. Still, her tone made it clear that patients shouldn’t be seen on the back porch.

But Ginger wasn’t a patient. And he knew what she’d come to talk about.

It was always a touchy situation when someone embarrassed themselves. It wasn’t tough on the person who’d been the victim—him. But it was usually difficult for the person who’d done the embarrassing thing. Her.

As quickly as Ruby disappeared, he heard Ginger’s lighter footstep, charging fast—Ike suspected she’d really, really like to get this meeting over with. From the open door, he could see her climb over the exhausted Pansy and step out onto the quiet back porch. She looked …

Delectable.

The hair was wild. Calling it red didn’t explain anything. The color wasn’t remotely ginger, like her name; it didn’t have any of that cinnamon or orange. It was more like dark auburn, with a mix of sun and chestnut, with some streaks of red shivering in the long, thick strands. She’d strapped it up with some kind of hair leash. In the meantime, she had silver shining in her ears, on her wrist. Today she was wearing greens. A dark green shirt, pale green pants.

There was a lot of blue in those eyes. The same blue as a lake in a storm, deep and rich.

Her face was an oval. The eyes took up a whole lot of space, dominated everything about her face. She had thin, arched brows, gloss on her lips, but otherwise he couldn’t tell if she wore any makeup. She had that redhead kind of skin, though … translucent, clear, clean … give or take the smattering of freckles.

As far as the body … well. She looked more like the kind of girl you brought home to meet Mom rather than the kind a man imagined under the sheets. But Ike was nonstop imagining that body under the sheets right now. There was a lot of music, a lot of passion, in the way she moved, the way she did everything he’d seen so far. Of course, he’d been celibate for too long a stretch, so maybe he was dreaming up the sizzle he sensed in her.

That celibacy had probably been dumb. Abstinence had never worked well for him, and he could have slept with any number of ladies in town. Somehow he never had.

Maybe that was because no woman had really enticed him before. Not like Ginger seemed to. Heaven knew he could analyze her body for three, four hours and still want to analyze more. For one thing, she had significantly perky breasts. The breasts themselves weren’t all that significant, but the perky was. They were round, firm, pressed just right against the shirt. She had no waist to speak of. But the pants—well, the pants begged to be taken off. They were just cotton, or some other lightweight fabric, but he could see the outline of her fanny, her thighs, her calves. She might be on the skimpy side, weight wise, but she looked strong and healthy, making it extremely easy to imagine her legs wrapped around him, without those pants. Without that blouse.

Damn, but she was refreshing. Challengingly refreshing. Even the resentment in her flash of a smile was disarming. He was getting mighty sick of women smiling at him as if he were slab of meat. Being disliked was a lot more interesting.

“I was hoping you’d come by to talk. Want some coffee?”

She nodded. “Black.” She motioned to Pansy. “Does that dog ever move?”

“Rarely. About ninety percent of the day she’s in a coma. But don’t say the word d-i-n-n-e-r or there’ll be hell to pay. And I’m talking relentless.” He motioned her to a white Adirondack rocker while he stepped into the kitchen/lab, came back with a mug for her, and a fresh one for him. “How’s Cashner doing today?”

“Happy as a clam.” She locked her palms around the mug. “But I’m not. Being with him has made me scared to death.”

He nodded. “I’m glad you came home.”

“I had no idea. I talked to him on the phone—”

“All the time. I know. He told me. He thinks the sun rises and sets with you. And he holds it together in some conversations, especially in the early part of the day. He’s always in good humor. Never a complainer. He can talk a blue streak, telling jokes, spinning yarns, talking about the tea farm. It’s not always apparent to other people what’s been going on.”

“He told me …” She hesitated, and he guessed the apology was coming. Or the closest he was going to get to an apology. “He told me his doctor was trying to take the land away from him. Force him to move. That his doctor was behind the conspiracy.”

“Yeah. That would be me. The evil doctor. Not about forcing him. That’s not my place. But especially in the last couple months, I’ve been pushing him to believe he could live a lot easier in a place with more help.”

“He doesn’t want help.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t believe he needs help.”

“I know.”

“Last night I found him sitting in the wet grass. Wearing a suit. Around one in the morning.”

Ike winced in sympathy.

“He calls me Ginger. And a minute later, he’ll call me Rachel. My grandmother’s name. And sometimes I’m Loretta. Do you have a clue who Loretta is?”

Ike shook his head.

“And then there’s Cornelius. Cornelius was old before I was born. Half the afternoon yesterday, they played cards. Rummy. And canasta. Cornelius was as balmy-headed as my gramps. Nothing’s getting cleaned. Cornelius seems to make food sometimes. And forget other times …” At the sudden sound of voices coming from inside the house, she said immediately, “Do you have a patient? I know I should have called first, before stopping by.”

“First patient’s at ten. Ruby’ll let me know when he gets here.”

“Okay.” She took a breath. “Listen, Doc—”

“Ike,” he corrected her gently. “I’m your grandfather’s doctor, not yours.”

She immediately launched into an emotional sputter. “He was perfectly fine at Christmas and Easter both! He’s been fine every darned time I call! I was here in June for Pete’s sake. I don’t understand how he could have changed so much, so fast!”

“Because that’s how it hits people sometimes.”

She launched into the next rocket round of nonstop sputter. “Well, what exactly is wrong with him—and don’t tell me Alzheimer’s. Or that there’s nothing you can do. I want to know what tests you’ve run. If you’ve sent him to specialists. I may not have a heap of money, but my grandfather can afford the best of any kind of treatment. And I can stay here. I mean … I don’t know how on earth I could find a job here. But for however long it takes, I can stay here, live with him. I could make sure he gets everything he needs, nutrition and medicine and exercise or whatever else you think he needs—”

“Ginger.” He said her name to calm her. He was watching her face. She was so upset. Naturally. Who wouldn’t be, to suddenly find out someone you loved had a fragile health issue? But there was something more going on. He’d seen her take a sip of coffee, and then immediately put the mug down. She’d had peach-healthy color in her cheeks when she came in, but that color was fading, her face turning pale.

Still, he answered her questions. “Yes, Cashner’s been prescribed some medications that help a lot of people. There’s no perfect medicine for this. I sent him to Greenville for tests, put him in the hands of two physicians I know personally. He’s been tested and evaluated and retested.”

“Don’t you say it,” she warned him.

He got it. She wasn’t ready to hear the words Alzheimer’s or dementia. “I’ll give you the other answer,” he said patiently. “Old age.”

“He’s not that old!”

Ike nodded. “I think it’s possible he had some mini strokes a while back. He’s been on high blood pressure meds from long before I came here. But he’s at a point where I’m not certain if he remembers to take them. I set up a schedule for him, to help him remember, conveyed the same information to Cornelius. But sometimes—”

Ruby showed up in the doorway. “Doc. Mr. Robards is here. It’ll take me a few minutes to get him weighed in and BP done and then into a gown, but then he’s ready.”

Ike started to say, “I’ll be there in a minute,” then noticed Ginger jump to her feet faster than a firecracker. Ruby’s interruption had given her the perfect excuse to take off. She either wanted to get away from him, a depressing thought, or she needed to absorb what he’d told her about her grandfather. Alone.

Whatever her reasons, she stood up damned fast. The last pinch of color bleached from her face, and down she went. He barely had time to jerk forward, protect her head and help ease her to the ground. The porch only had matting for a rug.

Ruby rushed through the door, muttering, “Well, I’ll be” and “What the sam hill is this about?” and then Pansy pushed through the door. Pansy invariably liked commotion. She jutted her jowly head under Ike’s arm, trailing a small amount of drool on Ginger’s hair. Ruby hunkered down just as intrusively.

“Ruby. Pansy. She needs air. And I need space.”

Ruby took several creaking moments to get back to her feet. “I’ll get a damp washcloth. And a BP unit.”

“Good thinking. Thanks.” He nudged Pansy out of the way, thinking that he’d been hoping to get his hands on Ginger—but not in this context. She was already coming to. Her eyes opened, dazed, closed again. She frowned in confusion—another sign that she was regaining full consciousness—and then she raised a hand, as if her first instinct was to sit up.

“You’re fine, Ginger. Just stay where you are for a minute. It’s just me. Ike.”

No temp. He didn’t need a thermometer to be certain. Normal color was flushing back into her face. He brushed his hands through her hair, feeling for bumps or lumps, any injury that might have caused the faint. He pressed two fingers on her carotid artery.

Accidentally, he noticed the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. The softness of her. The scent on her skin—not flowers, not for this one. Some sassy, citrusy perfume. It suited her.

Ruby hustled back with the BP unit. He took it, finding what he expected, that it was slightly on the low side. Again, he took her pulse as he studied her face. Her pulse rate was coming back to normal. And then, when her eyes suddenly met his, that pulse rate zoomed way out of the stratosphere.

Yeah. That was how he felt around her, too.

“If you need me …” Ruby said from the doorway.

“No. She’s fine. Or she will be in a minute. Just give Mr. Robards a magazine and tell him I’ll just be a few minutes, not long.” He never turned his head. Focused his gaze only on her, tight as glue.

He knew a ton of women … but few with the fire of this one. Loyal. Passionate.

Interesting.

Her forehead crinkled in one last confused frown, and then she seemed to recover herself altogether. She muttered something akin to “Good grief” and pushed off the porch matting—or tried to.

He didn’t forcibly hold her down, just put one hand on her shoulder. “I know you’re getting up, but let’s keep it slow.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” It was the doctor asking the question, but the man listening for the answer. Most of the time Ike didn’t have to separate the two, but for this question, for this woman, he definitely did.

“Say what?” Wow. Those soft, sensual blue eyes abruptly turned glacier blue. Color slammed into her face. “What on earth made you ask that!”

He’d like her to think he was naturally brilliant, but the truth was it had just been a gut call, a wild guess. It was her response that gave away the truth of it. He answered slowly, “Just a short list of clues. Everything about you looks healthy and fit. You asked for coffee, but your hand shot to your stomach when you took a sip. Then you fainted out of the blue.”

This time she pushed free and fast, got her legs under her, stood up. He watched for any other symptoms of lightheadedness, but saw nothing. “If you’re diabetic, better tell me now. And are you on prenatal vitamins? Have anything prescribed for nausea?”

Okay. He’d pressed too far, judging from the sputter. The smoke coming from her ears. Her hands fisted on her hips. “Let’s get something straight right now, Doc.”

“Go for it.” He eased to his feet.

“You’re my grandfather’s doctor. Not mine.”

“Got it.”

“My private life has nothing to do with you.”

“Got it,” he repeated. “But if you haven’t been on prenatal vitamins—”

“What is it about small towns? People leap to conclusions over a breath of wind. No one said I was pregnant. No one has any reason in the universe to think that.”

“So there’s no guy.” He just wanted to slip that question in there, while she was still talking to him.

“Exactly. There’s no guy.”

“I wondered,” he admitted.

Ouch. She was shaking mad now. “For the record—” She punctuated her comments with a royal finger shake. “—I wouldn’t fall for a doctor if he were the last man in the country. On the continent. On the entire planet….”

“Got it,” he said again. “I’m sure glad we had this conversation.”

That was it. She spun around, stepped over the dog, yanked open the back porch screen door and charged down the hall. Ruby peeked her head out of exam room one—then snapped her head back, clearly alarmed at getting in Ginger’s way.

Ike followed her exit—mostly by following the swing of her fanny and bounce of her hair—all the way to the slamming of his front door.

Ruby popped her head out again. She didn’t speak. Just raised her eyebrows.

Ike shook his head. “Don’t ask me what that was.”

But Ginger lingered in his mind. He was so used to being treated like a catch.

So many single women in the area fawned over him. Played up to him. They’d been spoiling him rotten, with food and attention and God knows all kinds of subtle and less-than-subtle offers.

It was a nice change of pace to meet a shrew. She was such a breath of fresh air.

He blew out a sigh, headed inside to wash his hands and start his doctor day.

He told himself she was in trouble. That she was trouble. That she had troubles.

His head got it.

But there was still hot blood zooming up and down his veins. And a stupid smile on his face when he ambled in to greet Rupert Robards.

Rupert had prostate problems. The next patient was an older lady with a lump on her rump, followed by a young mom with a yeast infection and, last for the morning, a sixteen-year-old kid with hot tears in his eyes and a fishing hook stuck deep in his wrist.

There was no room in the entire morning for a single romantic or sexy thought to surface.

Still. She lingered in his mind.

Ginger had parked the Civic right on Magnolia, but once she stormed out of Ike’s office, she ignored the car and kept on walking. She needed the exercise. The fresh air. The chance to think.

He’d made her lose her temper twice now.

Usually she could keep her worst flaws under wraps until she’d known a person awhile. Invariably her temper—and other character flaws, such as impulsiveness—couldn’t be kept in the closet forever. But somehow Ike had brought out the worst in her right up front.

It would help if he wasn’t a doctor. A damn good-looking, sexually appealing doctor. Scruffy. But still adorable.

Steve hadn’t been half that adorable, and she’d still been blindsided. Any inkling of attraction for Ike just seemed to work like a trigger for her. Her stay-away button started blinking red and setting off alarm instincts.

She ambled down Magnolia, crossed Oak, aimed down Cypress. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the town like the back of her hand. The big stores like Walmart and Target were located in the new section of town, but Sweet Valley’s downtown was still vibrant, filled with shop after shop, restaurant after restaurant.

She’d shut down her life in Chicago and zoomed home so fast that she needed some things. Shampoo. Her favorite brand of toothpaste.

En route to the pharmacy, she accidentally spotted a shoe sale.

By the time she’d tried on and bought a pair of sandals, she’d put her mind off handsome, interfering doctors and had her head back where it belonged. On Gramps.

Nothing Ike told her had been reassuring. He’d only opened up more worries, more concerns. She needed to know the truth. She just didn’t know what to do about the situation.

Perhaps by instinct, she found herself standing in front of the Butter Bakery. She’d forgotten—or just hadn’t had a reason to remember before—that Gramps had an attorney. Ginger knew the name. Louella Meachams. Ginger must have met her sometime—Sweet Valley was such a small town that everyone about met everyone else at some time or another. But Ginger couldn’t recall anything about her, until she spotted the sign for Louella Meachams, Esq., just above the stairwell from the bakery.

She couldn’t imagine the attorney would be able to see her without an appointment, but she could at least stop by while she was right there in town, set up something.

The old-fashioned stairwell was airless and dark, with steep steps leading to the upstairs offices. Her stomach churned in protest, partly because she’d always been claustrophobic, and partly because she needed to eat something, and soon. She’d planned to have breakfast right after seeing Ike, but that stupid fainting business had stolen her appetite. Still, she’d immediately started to feel better once she’d gotten out in the fresh air. As soon as she made contact with the attorney, she’d stop and get some serious food before heading home.

Upstairs, she found an old-fashioned oak door with the attorney’s name on a brass sign. She turned the knob without knocking, assuming she’d be entering a receptionist and lobby area, not the lawyer’s specific office.

“Oh. Excuse me. I was hoping to make an appointment with Mrs. Meachams—”

“I’m Louella Meachams. And just Louella would do. Come in. Sit yourself.”

The lady had to be around fifty, had a wash-and-wear hairstyle and a general bucket build. She wore men’s pants, a starched shirt, no makeup. Hunting dog pictures graced the walls. The sturdy oak chairs facing the desk had no cushions. Windows overlooking the street below had blinds, but no curtains. The whole office looked like a male lawyer’s lair, rather than a woman’s. And Louella looked a little—maybe even a lot—like a man herself. She peered at her over half-rim glasses.

“I believe you’re my grandfather’s attorney. Cashner Gautier,” Ginger started. “I’m Ginger, his granddaughter. I just got into town a few days ago. And I was hoping you could help me clarify his situation.”

“I know who you are, just from all that red hair. You were one fiery little girl. And I’m more than willing to talk with you, but you need to understand that your grandfather’s my client. I not only can’t, but never would, break confidentiality with him.”

“I understand that. And I’d never ask you to.” Haltingly she started to explain the situation she’d found at home, how her grandfather wasn’t himself, that he seemed to have both memory and health issues, that the place looked in serious disarray compared to the last time she’d been home. Louella leaned back, stuck a leather shoe on a wastebasket for a footrest and listened until she came through with a question.

“As long as I’ve been Cashner’s attorney, I’ve never been completely clear about his family situation. I know your grandparents only had one child, a daughter—your mother. And that even when your mother married, she kept the Gautier name, which is pretty unusual in these parts. If I have it right, you’re now the only close blood kin of Cashner’s, because your mama died quite a while ago.”

“Yes. Mom was in a terrible car accident. I was barely ten. And that was when I came to live with my grandparents.”

“But are there other blood kin? Brothers, cousins? Any relatives at all on your grandfather’s side of the fence?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. The Gautiers came originally from France … there may be some distant relatives still there, but none I know of. My grandmother had some family in California, but I never met any of them. They were like second cousins or that distance.”

“What about your father?” Louella leaned over, opened a drawer, lifted a sterling silver flask. “Need a little toot?”

“Uh, no. Thank you.” She added, “My father has nothing to do with this situation. He’s not a Gautier—”

“Yes. But he’s family for you, so he could help you, couldn’t he? Advise you on options you might consider for your grandfather.”

Ginger frowned. So far she’d given more information than she’d gotten. Not that she minded telling her grandfather’s attorney the situation. Gramps trusted Louella. So Ginger did. “My dad,” she said carefully, “is about as lovable as you can get. He’s huggable, always laughing, lots of fun. I adored him when I was little. He brought me a puppy one birthday, rented a Ferris wheel for another birthday party, took me out of school—played hooky—to fly me to Disney World one year. You’d love him. Everyone does.”

“I’m sure there’s some reason you’re telling me this,” Louella said stridently.

“I’m just trying to say, as tactfully as I can, that my dad can’t be in this picture. I love him. Not loving him would be like … well, like not loving a puppy. Puppies piddle. It isn’t fun to clean up after them, but you can’t expect a puppy to behave like a grown-up. Which is to say … I don’t even know where my dad is right now. Whatever problems my grandfather has—I’m his person. His problems are mine. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

“All right. I always heard the gossip that your father was your basic good-looking reprobate, but I never met him, didn’t know for sure. I’m glad you clarified the situation. I’m sorry that he’s out of the picture for you. That makes Cashner’s circumstances all the more awkward. But I still can’t tell you about his will—”

“I don’t give a hoot about his will. I need to know if he’s paying his bills. If he’s solvent. Can you tell me who has power of attorney? If someone has medical powers? I need to know if I have the right to look into his bank accounts, make sure that bills are being paid, what shape the business is in, whether he’s okay financially or if I need to do something.”

Louella harrumphed, looked out the window as if she were thinking about how to phrase an answer. Ginger was more than willing to wait.

At least she thought she was. A glance at an old wall clock revealed it was well past noon. Apparently they’d been talking—and she’d been running around town—a lot longer than she’d expected. Technically time didn’t matter; it wasn’t as if she was on a schedule. But the queasiness that plagued her earlier in the morning was suddenly back. So was exhaustion. Not exhaustion from doing anything; she just had a sudden, consuming urge to curl up in a ball like a cat and close her eyes, just nap for a few minutes.

She’d never been a napper. Until eight weeks ago. Now she could suddenly get so tired she could barely stumble around. It was crazy. She felt crazy. And in a blink of a minute, she just wanted to go home.

“Well, Ginger. I don’t know how to say this but bluntly. Your grandfather needs to move out of that big old place. But he won’t. He needs to hire someone to take over the tea plantation before it’s in complete ruin. But he won’t do that, either. And the best advice I can give you is to just leave him alone. Go on about your life. It’s what I’d want, if I were in Cashner’s situation. He doesn’t need or want someone telling him what to do, where he needs to be, what rules he should be following. It won’t help. If you want to help, be a good granddaughter and love him. But then just go on with your own life.”

Ginger heard her. Alarm shot sparks straight to her bloodstream. Gramps was in trouble, in ways the attorney knew about, separate from the problems Ike knew as Gramps’s doctor. Urgency made her heart slam. She rushed to her feet—or she tried to.

For the second time that morning, the world turned green and everything in sight started spinning.

“Well, my word!”

She heard Louella’s husky voice. Heard it as if it was coming from a hundred yards away. After that, everything went smoky black.

Chapter Three

When the last patient of the morning canceled, Ruby let him know with a fervent “Hallelujah!”

Ike was still smiling when he heard the front door slam—Ruby did like a long lunch when she could get it. But his mind was really on Ginger, and had been all morning.

There was no question that he’d see her again. She’d seek him out because she had to; he was the best source of information on her grandfather. Ike needed that connection just as much, because he happened to love the old man, and something had to be decided about Cashner before the situation turned into a real crisis.

Still, when the office phone rang, he never guessed it would be Ginger contacting him again this soon. Nor would he have thought he’d hear from Louella Meachams—one of his most reluctant patients. She told him she “had no truck with doctors” every single time he took her blood pressure. Louella was at least part guy. Not gay. Just an exuberantly male kind of female. People trusted her in town. He did, too. She just had a lot of coarse sandpaper in her character.

“Don’t waste your time telling me you’re busy with a patient, Ike MacKinnon. I don’t care if you have fifty patients. I have a woman in my office on the floor. Fainted dead away. Now you get right over here and do something about her.”

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll be there right away. But in the meantime … do you know who she is, why she fainted, what happened?”

“I don’t care what happened. I want her off my floor. When she went down, it scared the bejesus out of me. I thought she was dead!”

“I understand—”

“I don’t care if you understand or not. You get her out of here somehow, someway, and I’m talking pronto.”

“Yes, ma’am. But again …” Hell. Ike just wanted a clue what the problem could be. “Do you know her?”

“Her name is Ginger Gautier. Cashner’s granddaughter. What difference does it make? The problem is I thought she’d stopped breathing. Almost gave me a heart attack. I don’t do first aid. I had a sister who fainted all the time, but that was to get our mother’s attention. It was fake every time. This is not fake. I’m telling you, she went down. Right in front of my desk.”

“Okay, got it, see you in five, max six.”

“You make that three minutes, Doc. And I’m not whistling Dixie.”

If Louella really believed there was an emergency, she’d have called 911—but Louella, being stingy, would never risk an ambulance charge unless she was absolutely positive there was no other choice. So Ike took the time to shove on street shoes, grab a jacket and scribble a note to Ruby before heading out.

He could jog the distance faster than driving it—the lawyer’s office was only three blocks over, faster yet if he zigzagged through buildings. Pansy let out an unholy howl of abandonment when he left without her, but sometimes, darn it, he just couldn’t take his favorite girl.

Less than five minutes later, he reached the bakery and zipped up the steps to the second floor. When he turned the knob of Louella’s office, though, something heavy seemed to be blocking it. “Louella, it’s me, Doc,” he said as he knocked.

Louella opened it. Apparently she’d been the something heavy blocking the entrance. “She keeps trying to leave. Doesn’t have a brain cell in her head. I told her she wasn’t going anywhere until you checked her out, and that’s that.”

“I must have said a dozen times that I’m feeling better—and that I was going straight home from here.” Ginger’s voice was coming from the floor—but it certainly sounded healthy and strong.

“Yeah, I heard you. And I told you a dozen times that there could be liability issues if you left here in shape to cause yourself or others harm.”

“You’re the only person I’ve met in a blue moon who’s more bullheaded than I am, bless your heart. But keeping a person against their will is called kidnapping. Or is there another legal term?”

While the two women continued this pleasant conversation, Ike hunkered down—apparently Louella had threatened Ginger with death if she tried to get up before the doctor got there. He went through the routine. Pulse. Temp. Whether she could focus, whether she had swollen lymph glands.

Wherever he touched her, she jumped.

He liked that. If he was stuck feeling walloped this close to her, he at least wanted her to suffer the same way.

He got some extra personal contact—judicious, but lucky for sure—when he helped her to her feet. She didn’t wobble. Of course, with his arm around her, she couldn’t have wobbled—or fallen—even if she’d wanted to. But she shot him one of those ice-blue looks to indicate he could remove his hands. Now. Right now.

“Okay, Louella, I’m taking her from your office.”

“And don’t let her come back here until she’s fit as a fiddle.”

“My. I had no idea that fiddles had health issues. Like whether they could be fit or sick. I had no idea they were alive at all—”

Ike saw the look on Louella’s face, could see she was in a rolling up the sleeves to get into another squabble, so he shuffled Ginger quickly into the hall.

He saw her sudden choke when they reached the top of her stairs, so he suspected she was still a little on the dizzy side. He hooked an arm around her, making sure she was steady.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said irritably.

“Can’t have you falling on my watch.”

“I’m not on your watch.”

“Uh-huh. You know … you could have been nice to Louella.”

“She wasn’t nice to me first!”

“You seriously scared her when you fainted.”

“That’s an excuse for holding me hostage and not letting me leave? For insulting me? For calling you?”

“Yup. At least, that’s how I see it. But then, I don’t have your temper.”

At the bottom of the stairs, he’d barely pushed open the door before she shot through. She took a step west before he kidnapped her wrist.

“Hey. My car is that way—”

“And you’ll be in your car in about a half hour. But first, you need an immediate medical intervention.”

“Intervention? What are you talking about?”

The New York Deli was at the corner of Magnolia. Whether anything served had anything to do with New York, no one knew or cared. The place was always packed at lunch, but Feinstein—the owner—always saved a table for Ike. It was bribery, pure and simple. Feinstein was worried about the performance of his boy parts. He’d never had any marital problems with his wife before, but “everybody” knew guys eventually needed a little chemical boost. Which was to say, Feinstein had motivation for taking good care of the town doctor.

Ike never came for the bribe. He came for the food. And Ginger continued to make minor protestations about being herded like a sheep, but that was only until she saw the menu.

Mrs. Feinstein—possibly the homeliest woman Ike had ever seen—advised Ginger on the best choices, and who could have guessed? Ginger agreed without arguing.

Right off, she devoured three pickles. Then a masterful corned beef on rye. Chips. Cole slaw. Since she picked at the crumbs after that, he figured she was still hungry, so he ordered dessert. Apple cake with whipped cream.

Then more pickles.

He leveled a sandwich, too, which took all of a minute and a half. So while her mouth was full, he took the opportunity to start a conversation. “I’m guessing that before the evening news, the whole town will know that you fainted twice this morning, that we’re having lunch together … and they’ll likely be speculating on whether we’re sleeping together.”

She dropped her fork, which he took as encouraging. So he went on, “My theory is … we might as well sleep together, since we’ve already been branded with the tag.”

She dropped her fork—again—but then she just squinted her eyes at him. He didn’t see temper this time, just reluctant humor. “Hey. Do you usually flirt with women you think are pregnant by someone else?”

“Not usually, no. In fact, never.” He retrieved a couple fresh forks from the table next to them, then went back for another couple. Who knew how many she would need before this meal was over. “But I keep finding your situation, well, unique. You came home because you were really worked up about your grandfather. But there’s no guy here. If you had a guy, he’d have to be a class-A jerk not to be with you when he knows you need help.”

“Wow. That analysis and conclusion is just stunning.”

“Yeah, my mama always said I was a bright boy,” he agreed with his best deadpan expression. “So my theory is … there’s no guy to stop me from moving in on you.”

This time she had to chuckle—clearly in spite of herself. “I’ve been doing a lot of hurling and fainting. Most guys would run in the opposite direction.”

“Most guys haven’t been through medical school.”

“That’s an answer?”

“What can I say? A first-year resident loses any chance of being embarrassed ever again in his life. Some things just come with life. Now what’s that expression about?”

She lifted a hand. “I was just thinking. I had this sudden instinct … that you just might be a hardcore, card-carrying good guy.” She put a stop sign into another hand gesture. “I’m not accusing you of anything terrible. I just didn’t expect to even let a positive thought anywhere near you. So I’m just saying. If I was ever going to trust a doctor again as long as I live—which I’m not—it might have been you.”

“Ah. It’s the doctor thing that’s a problem. You’re such a relief.”

“Relief?”

“Practically every single woman in this town has been feeding me, taking care of me, fluttering her eyelashes at me. All their mamas think of doctors as being a terrific catch. You know, dumb as a fish that just needs the right bait to sucker in. You’re so much more fun. I’d ask you out … but I’m afraid if we had a good time, you’d quit disliking me, and then where would we be? Not having fun together anymore. It’s not worth the risk. Still, I don’t see why we shouldn’t sleep together. That doesn’t have to interfere with your giving me a constant hard time. We could just redirect all that passionate energy a little differently when the lights go off.”

She cupped her chin. “Did anything you just said make a lick of sense?”

He didn’t care if he was making sense. She’d had a rotten morning—a stressful visit with him, then a stressful visit with the lawyer, no easy answers about her grandfather. And he hadn’t known until he’d sneaked the information that the father of her baby was both a doctor and a louse.

She was flying solo. Flying solo with a pregnancy and no help in sight.

But he’d gotten her fed. And teased. And almost laughing. She’d forgotten it all for a while.

Sometimes that was the best a doctor could do. Offer some stress relief. There was no way any doctor could cure all ills … much less all wrongs.

When she glanced at a wall clock, he did, too. He was startled at how much time had passed. Ruby was going to kill him. He was ten minutes late for his first afternoon patient.

“Yeah, I didn’t realize how late it was, either. I need to get back to my grandfather.”

He put some money down, knowing the Feinsteins wouldn’t give him a check, and eventually steered her to the door. There was the usual gauntlet of “Hi, Doc!” and “Ginger, so glad to hear you’re back in town” and other ferocious attempts to stall them. He kept moving them as fast as he could.

Outside, the sky was pumping out clouds now. A whiskery wind tossed paper and litter in the air, lifted collars. The temperature was still warmish, somewhere in the sixties, but there was rain in the wind, and the bright sun kept hiding from sight.

“I see your car,” he said.

“You don’t have to walk me there. You have to be in a hurry to get back to your office.”

“It all comes with the service. A lady faints, she gets walked to her car.”

“What if she isn’t a lady?”

“If a wicked woman faints, she still gets walked to her car. It’s in the rule book.”

“What rule book is that?”

“The South Carolina Rules for Gentlemen rule book. My mom made me memorize whole passages before I was four. She called it getting ready for kindergarten.” Walking next to her felt like foreplay. It was kind of a test of rhythms.

Whether they could walk together, move together in a natural way. How his height worked with hers. Whether she could keep up with his stride. Whether she wanted to. Whether she galloped on ahead when he wanted to amble.

Fast, too damned fast, they reached her rust bucket of a Civic. She dipped in her shoulder bag for her car key, found it, lifted her head and suddenly frowned at him.

“What?” He had no idea what her expression meant. Even less of an idea what she planned to do.

She popped up on tiptoe, framed his face between her soft palms and kissed him. On a guy’s scale of kisses, it was only a two. No tongue. No pressure. No invitation.

More … just a short, evocative melding of textures. Her lips. His lips.

Like a meeting of whipped cream and chocolate.

Or like brandy and a winter fire.

Or like the snug of gloves on a freezing morning.

Or like that click, that electric high-charge surge, not like the million kisses you’ve had since middle school, not like the any-girl-would-do kisses, but the click kind. The wonder kind. The damn it, what the hell is happening here kind.

She pulled back, sank back, cocked her head and looked at him. Her purse fell.

He picked it up. Her keys fell. He picked those up, too.

When he got his breath back, he said carefully, “Do we have any idea why you did that?”

“I’ve been known to do some very bad, impulsive things sometimes. Even if I regret it. Even if I know I’m going to regret it later.”

“So that was just a bad impulse.” He shook his head. “Sure came across like a great impulse to me.” Before she could try selling him any more malarkey, he said, “I stop to see your grandfather at least twice a week. Always short visits. He pretends it’s not about his health. So do I. Which is to say … I’ll see you soon. Very soon. And that’s a promise.”

But not soon enough. His heart slammed.

Of course, that was the man talking, and not the doctor. Sometimes it was okay to be both roles … but not with her, he sensed. Never with her.

Ginger had barely pulled in the drive when the rain started. It was just a spatter when she stepped out, but the sky cracked with a streak of lightning by the time she reached the porch.

Thunder growled. Clouds started swirling as if a child had finger-painted the whole sky with grays. Pretty, but ominous. Inside, she called, “Gramps? I’m home!” The dark had infiltrated the downstairs with gloom, somehow accenting the dust and neglect that seemed everywhere. Still, she heard voices—and laughter—coming from the kitchen.

At the kitchen doorway, she folded her arms, having to smile at the two cronies at the kitchen table. The game looked to be cutthroat canasta. Money was on the table. Cards all over the place. From the time she’d left that morning, a set of dirty china seemed to have accumulated on the sink counter, but the two old codgers were having a blast.

She bent down to kiss her grandfather. Got a huge hug back. And for now, his eyes were lucid and dancing-clear. “You’ve been gone all day, you little hussy. Hope you spent a lot of money shopping and had a great old time.”

“I did.” The two rounds of fainting and encounters with Ike were locked up in her mind’s closet. Her grandfather recognized her. Had a happy, loving smile for her. “Cornelius, you’re getting a hug from me, too, so don’t try running.”

Cornelius pretended he was trying to duck under the table, but that was all tease. He took his hug like a man. Cornelius was smaller than she was, and possibly had some Asian and black and maybe Native American blood. For certain no one else looked quite like him. Ginger had never known whether her family had adopted him or the other way around, but he and Gramps were of an age. Neither could manage to put a glass in the dishwasher. Neither obeyed an order from anyone. And both of them could while away a dark afternoon playing cards and having a great time.

“All right, you two. I’m going upstairs for a short nap.”

“Go. Go.” She was promptly shooed away, as Cornelius chortled over some card played and both men issued raucous, enthusiastically gruesome death threats to each other.

Apparently the morning had been tough on her system, because once her head hit the pillow upstairs, she crashed harder than a whipped puppy. She woke up to a washed-clean world and the hour was past four. After a fast shower, she flew downstairs to find her boys on the front veranda now, rocking and sipping sweet tea and arguing about a ball game.

When Cornelius saw her, he pushed out of the rocker. “We was thinking you might not wake up until tomorrow, you were looking so tired.”

“I was a little tired, but I’m feeling great now.”

Cornelius nodded. “I’m headed to the kitchen. Got some supper cooking. Can’t remember what all I started right now, but should be ready in an hour or so.”

“That’d be great, you.” She planned to head into the kitchen and help him—but not yet. Her gramps’s eyes were still clear, still bright. She pulled a rocker closer to him, sat down.

“Gramps. All these years, you had Amos Hawthorne managing the land, running the farm. But no one’s mentioned him, and I haven’t seen him around.”

“That’s because he’s not here anymore. I had to fire him. I don’t remember exactly when it happened. But he stopped doing what I told him. He badgered and badgered me, until I said I’d had enough. Let him go.”

Ginger gulped. “So … who’s handling the tea now? The shop? The grounds?”

“Well, I am, honey child. Me and Cornelius. We closed the shop after …” He frowned. “I don’t know exactly when. A little while ago.”

“Okay. So who’s doing the grounds around the house? The mowing. The gardens and trees and all.”

“Cornelius and I had a theory about that. We need some goats.”

“Goats,” Ginger echoed.

“Yup. We have a heap of acreage that’s nothing but lawn. Goats love grass. Wouldn’t cost us a thing. The goats could eat the grass without using a lick of gas or needing a tractor at all.”

Ginger was getting a thump of anxiety in her tummy again. “So … right now we don’t have a lawn service or a farm manager?”

“We both think goats could do the work. They’d be happy. We’d be happy. Don’t you think that sounds like fun, sweetheart?”

“I do. I do.” She’d inherited the ability to lie from her father. “Gramps, do you know who did your taxes last year? I mean, do you have an accountant in town?”

“Why, honey, you know your grandma does all that. I always oversaw the business, the farm. But it was your grandma who did all the work with figures. We never depended on outsiders for that kind of thing. Why are you asking all these questions? We can do something fun. Like play cards. Or put out the backgammon board. After dinner, we could take the golf cart around before the bugs hit.”

He was right, Ginger realized. There was no point in asking any more questions. Every answer she’d heard so far was downright scary. There appeared to be no one running the place. Not the tea plantation. Not the house. Gramps seemed under the impression that Grandma was still alive, still there with him. The whole situation was more overwhelming than she’d ever expected.

Ginger wondered if she could somehow will herself to faint again. It certainly helped her block out things earlier that day…. Except that fainting brought on Ike, as if he had some invisible radar when anything embarrassing or upsetting was happening to her.

She still couldn’t figure out what possessed her to kiss him. He’d been a white knight, sort of. And she’d been starving and hadn’t realized it. And a simple gesture like a hug or a kiss just didn’t seem like that big a deal….

But it was.

It was a big deal because she already knew she was susceptible to doctors.

She also knew that impulsiveness got her into trouble every time. A woman could make a mistake. Everyone did that. No one could avoid it. But the measure of a woman was partly how she handled those mistakes.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. She’d been trying to drill that mantra into her head. A doctor might seem like great husband potential for lots of women—but not her. Doctors invariably put their jobs first, their own needs, and played by their own rule book.

Ike for sure played by his own rule book.

Keeping her heart a long, long way away from him was an easy for-sure.

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