Read the book: «A Doctor in His House»

Say it, Scarlett. “We messed it up before. And it wasn’t fun. The contrast between the—between what we had in bed, and the rest—”

He answered slowly, “We were different people, then. In a different situation.”

“Different enough, compared with the people we are now?”

“That weekend …” He leaned closer, looked down at their joined hands, rubbed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles in slow strokes.

“Yes, can we talk about that weekend?” she said.

“We need to.”

How? She sensed it wasn’t going to be easy. The noise level in the beer garden was rising. Hard to tell if the other conversations going on would be a protection or would force them to talk uncomfortably loud.

She stretched forward, almost knocking down her beer, so that their heads were close. Listening distance. Debating distance. Kissing distance, almost.

Almost, but not quite.

Dear Reader,

Several times a year, I drive a particular Australian road which takes me past a massive sprawl of old cars, many of which have been there for more than fifty years. They are now valuable for their rare spare parts, and have become a local tourist attraction. You can see this place and read about it for yourself if you search the internet for “Flynn’s Wreckers Cooma.” When I started writing Scarlett and Daniel’s story, I had no idea that a car yard similar to this one—smaller, though—was going to be important in the story, but it soon emerged as a significant part of Daniel’s past. With Scarlett’s help, he will need to work through his history and deal with the legacy of those cars before they have a hope of building a future together.

This is one of the things I love about writing. Something that starts off as a small detail can take on a major and meaningful role, and you have to wonder if my subconscious knew better than I did, and had been storing up my impressions of Flynn’s wrecking yard all these years.

Scarlett and Daniel had a sizzling encounter several years before this story starts, but it was a classic case of meeting at the wrong time. Now that they’ve found each other again, they soon discover that the same things that broke them apart before could shatter everything a second time. I hope you enjoy their journey.

Lilian Darcy

About the Author

LILAN DARCY has written nearly eighty books. Happily married, with four active children and a very patient cat, she enjoys keeping busy and could probably fill several more lifetimes with the things she likes to do—including cooking, gardening, quilting, drawing and traveling. She currently lives in Australia but travels to the United States as often as possible to visit family. Lilian loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at PO Box 532, Jamison PO, Macquarie ACT 2614, Australia, or e-mail her at lilian@liliandarcy.com.

A Doctor
in His House
Lilian Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Chapter One

It began with a familiar headache, which grew steadily worse as Scarlett drove north to Vermont. She pulled over, swallowed painkillers and kept driving, but ten miles from her brother’s house, before the painkillers could kick in, her vision began to blur as if her eyes were windowpanes and there was water running down the glass.

She almost stopped driving at that point, but by the time she’d found a place to pull over, the water seemed to have stopped running and she could see clearly again. Things didn’t feel quite right. On top of the pain, her brain felt foggy and disconnected. But she was less than ten minutes from Andy’s, so it seemed best to keep on going. After all, she’d had these spells before.

The symptoms had been milder those other times, though. Self-diagnosis followed by several tests to rule out more serious options had settled on migraine. The spells always passed before they cost her any significant time at work.

And before they forced her to question the way she was living her life.

Today, the real trouble hit two miles from her destination, and this time there was no warning. The whole world just keeled over like a ship run aground, except she knew the problem wasn’t with the world, it was inside her head. Even though she was wearing chunky sunglasses with dark lenses, the daylight felt so bright that it blinded her, and her senses were scrambled and out of her control.

No question about waiting for a safe place to pull over now.

The safe place had to be right here, because another five seconds at the wheel and she would crash. She couldn’t see, could barely move … She just managed to brake hard, bring the car to a halt and kill the engine, a couple of hundred yards from the Radford town boundary, and she could only hope she was on the shoulder not the road.

Then she rolled the window down and sat.

Fought the dizziness and pain.

Waited, with her hands gripping the top of the steering wheel and her forehead pressed hard against it, for the moment when she would feel well enough to leave the car, or find the phone that lay in her purse.

But the moment didn’t happen. If she tried to open her eyes, all she saw was painful, blinding brightness. If she moved an inch, the world tilted and rolled. She groped for her purse, but it was out of reach on the floor of the passenger seat where it must have slid when she’d braked so suddenly.

She lost track of time, although it must have been fifteen minutes or more. It felt like forever, a terrifying, featureless landscape of unraveling minutes in which all she could do was to stay motionless, keep breathing and think about what had brought her to this point. Andy had been right in his older-brother concern about her stress levels and working hours, and his insistence that she listened to Dad too much. This trip to Vermont was meant to signal a shift in her priorities, but her body was telling her that it had come too late.

Cars went past. She heard the whoosh of the air and the hum of their engines. No one slowed or stopped. Maybe they thought she was taking a phone call or checking an address. The painkillers she’d taken earlier began to work and the dizziness eased a little. She thought again about trying to reach for the purse.

But before she could make the move, she heard the sound of tires popping on gravel, the rumble and surge of an automatic transmission shifting gears and the slam of a car door.

Even her hearing had gone haywire, because she couldn’t tell which direction any of it was coming from. Behind her? Far side of the road? She didn’t know whether to call out or stay silent.

She heard footsteps crunching on the gravel shoulder. They stopped beside her open car window. A man cleared his throat. “Everything okay here, ma’am?” The voice was gravelly and slow and faintly threatening. Again, she didn’t know what to do. Wish it would go away, or ask it for help?

“Um, yes, just resting my eyes,” she lied, to buy a little time. Maybe in a few seconds she could summon the ability to open her eyes and move enough to look at him, see what kind of a man he was, whether he looked as if she could trust him.

She tried it, letting a slit of vision appear between her lids, but the light and blurring hit with merciless speed and she couldn’t see a thing.

There was a pause. The voice stayed silent, but the feet didn’t move. Then the man spoke again, deliberate and slow. “I’m a Vermont state trooper, ma’am. You’re going to need to look at me, and show me your driver’s license.”

The woman with her head and arms on the steering wheel didn’t move, in response to Daniel’s request.

He couldn’t see her face at all, couldn’t tell how old or young she was, or what she looked like. Dark hair with gleaming golden lights fell around her head and onto the wheel, as effective as a deliberate disguise. He could see the frame of her dark glasses, but on a summer afternoon those were hardly a sinister attempt at concealing her identity.

She seemed a little on the thin side, the knobs of her backbone visible through a stretchy cream-colored top, as well as the faintest outline of a light blue bra. Below that, she wore a filmy patterned skirt.

She was in her twenties or thirties, he decided. The skin on her hands was smooth and soft. Her nails were neat and clean and bare of polish. The clothing looked clean and summery and of good quality, suited to the late-model car she was driving and the warm July afternoon. A chunky purse lay on the floor in front of the passenger seat, and a bottle of water had rolled against the seat back.

Nothing out of place, except for the fact that she didn’t move.

He assessed the situation. She could be on the point of passing out from drink or drugs. She could be mentally ill. She could be working some kind of a scam, luring passing motorists to stop and offer help, at which point her accomplices would appear out of the undergrowth for a gunpoint robbery. Daniel had been a hospital security guard in New York City for three years, then a police officer in New York and a state trooper here in Vermont for a total of five. He’d seen all of these scenarios and worse.

“Are you ill, ma’am?” he asked, after weighing the wording of the question in his mind.

“Yes, a migraine. A bad one.”

“I’d like to show you my ID.”

“My vision is blurred, and I’m having a dizzy spell. I can’t see.”

“In that case, I’m going to have you feel the insignia on my shirtsleeve. It’s a double chevron. I want you to know that I’m an officer of the law.” Leaning down to the open car window, he kept his eyes on the screen of shrubby trees beyond the shoulder of the road, waited for the sound of slurring—either real or faked—in her voice.

She reached up, found his shirtsleeve and felt the raised weave of the insignia, rubbing neat fingers across the fabric, brushing his bare upper arm with the heel of her hand just below the hem of the short sleeve. The touch was accidental, yet oddly personal. “Okay. Thanks,” she said. “I do believe you.”

“Do you need medical attention, ma’am?”

“Yes.” If she was faking, then she was good at it. If she was impaired by substance abuse, it didn’t show.

“I’ll call the ambulance,” he said.

“No, that’s … not necessary. Not an ambulance.”

First indication of something not quite right. He went on high alert. If the “dizzy spell” was bad enough that she really couldn’t move, then why didn’t she want an ambulance?

But she was speaking again. “Call my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“He’s a doctor. Andy McKinley. He lives just a couple of miles from here. He’ll come get me.”

Daniel knew Andy quite well. Doctors and law enforcement officers tended to know each other in a rural community like Radford. There was a connection between hospital emergency rooms and crime, and he and Dr. McKinley had been involved in various incidents together. Andy was a good guy. Understood the police angle. Went the extra mile. Didn’t let any ego get in his way. Daniel would almost call him a friend.

He didn’t let on to this woman right away that the name was familiar, however. In his experience, personal information was best handled on a need-to-know basis, and he considered that most people needed to know very little about him.

Some people—work colleagues, and his sister, Paula, for example—said that this showed in the way he talked, and the way he often paused before he talked, but he didn’t care and he wasn’t prompted to change.

Andy’s sister would learn of his connection with her brother soon enough. No sense wasting time or words over it now. “Andy McKinley,” he echoed, giving nothing away. “Can you give me his number?”

Obediently Scarlett reeled off the digits of Andy’s cell phone, then heard a moment later, “Andy? It’s Daniel Porter, here.”

What?

The name ambushed Scarlett from out of the past. She couldn’t take it in, couldn’t react. Daniel—that other Daniel—had grown up in Vermont, somewhere near here. Indirectly, two steps removed, that Daniel Porter was the reason she was here, now, although he wouldn’t know it, and she hadn’t thought of the Vermont connection herself in years. Hadn’t thought about Daniel at all, except for the maddening fact that he wouldn’t stay out of her dreams.

But now he was here.

Because it had to be the same man.

She couldn’t know for sure, since the blurred vision meant she couldn’t look at him and his voice wasn’t enough to go on, but it had to be him. This man had said he was an officer of the law, she’d felt the insignia on his shirt and she knew that a law enforcement career had always been Daniel’s goal.

It had to be him.

She waited for a whole slew of possible emotions to wash over her—anger, regret, embarrassment, self-doubt and loss—but none of them came. She was simply too shocked.

“I have your sister here,” he said into the phone, “pulled over on Route 47, just coming in to town.” He listened for a moment, then said carefully, “No, nothing like that. She’s been taken ill, and she’s hoping you’ll be able to come get her.” He listened again. “A dizzy spell, she says.”

“Put him on,” Scarlett managed, on a croak.

She felt the hard, cool shape of a cell phone pressed against her cheek, and the softer touch of a masculine hand. Daniel Porter’s hand. She scrabbled for the phone, managed to take hold of it and the hand went away. She made another attempt to open her eyes but the bright light whirled in a sickening way and twelve steering wheels danced like dervishes right in front of her.

Don’t try it, Scarlett, just breathe. “Andy?” she got out, after a moment.

“Scarlett, you sound terrible. What’s the problem?”

“Migraine. Vision problems and dizziness. I had to pull over. I need you to come.”

“I can’t,” Andy said blankly. “Not right now.”

Before she could stop herself, she let out a stricken sound.

“I have a patient under local anesthesia, and four moles to take off her back. I practically had the scalpel in my hand when you called. After that, okay? Immediately after.”

This time, she couldn’t keep back a moan. His voice had made her feel as if help was at hand, and now it had been snatched away.

“I’m sorry,” her brother said. “I can’t blow off a patient.”

“I know.” Scarlett wouldn’t have done it, either. She rounded her lips and blew out a careful breath, gaining enough control to tell him, “You’re right.”

“Listen, Daniel is a good guy. Straight down the line. A state trooper.”

“Yes, so he said.” Andy hadn’t met Daniel, six years ago, even though, indirectly, he’d moved to Vermont because of Daniel’s influence. He had no idea that Daniel and Scarlett had briefly been involved. Almost no one knew that. Their whole relationship had vanished into the past without trace.

“He’ll call an ambulance for you. He’ll wait with you till it comes.”

“I don’t need an ambulance. It’s just a migraine. I’ve had these spells before.”

“Like you’re having now?”

“Never this bad.”

“So the hospital—”

“Don’t make me go to the hospital.” She was so overdosed on hospitals. She’d been working ninety hours a week in one for years. She was the smartest one in the family, Dad always said, but somehow that didn’t seem like the best end of the deal when her skin always smelled like chemicals and she only ever saw the sky through tinted glass. “I just want to be lying flat in a dark room.”

“Put Daniel back on and I’ll ask him if he can drive you to my place.”

“My car …”

“He’ll drive your car off the road, park it somewhere safe. One of our office staff can drive it home for you later.”

“Home to your place.”

“Home to my place, it’s no problem, it’s not far. Put Daniel on.”

Blindly she held out the phone, gripping the wheel with her free hand to minimize the movement. “My brother wants to talk.”

A hand took the phone. “Sure,” said the gravelly voice. Daniel had been twenty-four years old when she’d known him, to her twenty-six. He must be thirty, now. His voice had deepened, matured, but he was as measured and careful with his words as he’d always been.

“Yes, I can do that,” he said to Andy after a moment. “Give me the address.” He listened. “Yeah, no problem. I had court, this morning, in White River Junction. Was on my way back, done for the day. It’s no trouble.”

“Thank you,” she said weakly, after she heard him put away the phone.

“No problem,” he repeated. “We’ll get you home, Charlotte.”

Charlotte … Andy must have said her name, only Daniel had heard it wrong. He didn’t know who she was. The thought came with a wash of relief. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember.

No, he had to remember. He’d brought her up here, six years ago, had given her a passionate, romantic weekend in a gorgeous bed-and-breakfast, and then she’d dumped him two weeks later—or they’d dumped each other, she wasn’t even sure—because …

Well, just because.

Too many reasons to count, and maybe she was ashamed of some of them, or maybe they weren’t all her fault. They’d both had issues that ran deep. They’d both had reason to be angry … and full of regret. She hadn’t been involved with another man since. She’d been burned, and it had been all too easy to retreat into her demanding work and conclude that the thing with Daniel—its intensity and its failure—was a warning sign.

He had to remember.

But right now, he wanted her to move, to climb out of the vehicle. He had one hand on her elbow and one on her shoulder, trying to ease her out from behind the wheel, trying to help her, but it was going to be impossible. She felt incapable of walking, and she couldn’t have corrected him about her name even if she’d wanted to.

And she didn’t want to, because …

Well, just because.

Because it was easier not to have him know who she was.

Not yet. Not until she’d reached a safer, better place than the verge of a county road.

Five and a half years ago, she’d sent Andy to the same bed-and-breakfast that Daniel had brought her to, at a time when Andy had been going off the rails due to stress and ambition. Her brother had found Vermont so good for his soul that he’d moved here, but that little leapfrogging connection wasn’t relevant now.

She doubted that Daniel had looked at her face yet, and might not recognize her even if he did, she must look so wretched, white-skinned against the contrast of the dark frames of her sunglasses. Oh, and she’d been in her blonde phase six years ago, too, the style of it perky and tousled and a lot shorter than it was now.

“Can you help me to your car?” she asked him. “I’m so dizzy.”

“Of course,” was all he said.

She waited for him to hold her shoulders or reach for her hand, hating this feeling of disorientation. Where was he? Which part of her body would he touch first?

Okay, here was his arm coming around her shoulder … and his other arm sliding across the backs of her knees. He was planning to carry her. He lifted her into his arms before she could protest, settled her closer against his body, and then she had to concentrate so hard just on breathing that she couldn’t say a word.

He didn’t speak, either.

She was pretty light, but she was still a grown woman, and this had to be hard for him, but he gave no sign of it, just held her and paced toward his patrol car, his stride as smooth as he could make it. He was trying not to bounce her and she was grateful for that.

Grateful for his shoulder, too. She couldn’t hold her head up without dizziness and wild color strobing behind her closed lids, and his shoulder was the only place to rest her cheek. There, she could smell the summer-heated cotton of his shirt and something nutty and fresh and masculine that was probably shampoo or aftershave.

It was good, the male fragrance. It was familiar, heaven help her. It brought a tangle of powerful, seductive memories, yet still somehow steadied her senses so she kept breathing it, drawing it in through her nostrils in slow pulls of air, while her hair fell across her face and tickled her mouth. She wanted to ask Daniel if he could brush the hair away, but still didn’t trust herself to speak—let alone to make such an intimate request.

Touch my hair. Touch my face. You’ve done it before …

No.

Daniel Porter was carrying her in his arms like a knight rescuing a maiden and his strength and his movement felt so nourishing and good, yet he had no idea who she was.

By the time she was seated inside the patrol car, she felt weak with the aftermath of the short journey. She would have to see if Andy could find something stronger for the migraine pain. These over-the-counter pills were barely taking the edge off. She had to lean against the dash to anchor herself so that the whirling universe would slow down. Once more, her hair hung around her face, hiding skin that must be paper-white by this point. She couldn’t even speak enough right now to say, “I’m sorry.”

Daniel didn’t seem to need the apology. “It’s okay,” he said, just as if she had managed the words. “It’s fine. You’re not heavy.” The tone was friendly, professionally reassuring, with the same measured carefulness she still remembered so well.

As if words were too powerful, sometimes, and might detonate an emotional bomb blast if you spoke too many of them, or if you said the wrong ones.

“Just sit for a bit,” he continued. “I’ll open the windows so you have some air.” She heard the humming sound of the glass lowering in its frame. “Your keys are still in the ignition, right? Just nod.”

But with her throbbing head, speaking was easier than nodding. “Yes.”

“I’ll pull your car over, farther from the road.” He made a momentary pause, then added, “That’s why I thought I should stop and check on you, before, on my way through. Your car isn’t pulled off to a safe distance.”

“I couldn’t.”

“I understand that. It’s okay. It’s a quiet time of day.”

Daniel Porter left her, and she sat with closed eyes and her forehead against the dash and listened to the sound of her car being moved. He was back in a couple of minutes, putting her purse carefully into her lap through the open passenger window, below the stiff forward angle of her upper body, and guiding her hand to close around the keys he gave her. “Got them?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else you needed?” A pause. “I’m sorry, I should have asked before.”

“My bags are in the trunk.”

“Right, okay.”

“But they can stay there until Andy organizes to get my car to his place. Did you lock it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Thank you.”

Poor woman, Daniel thought, as he pulled onto the road. When he’d carried her, every step and every tiny movement he made had seemed to worsen her dizziness and pain, and she’d felt too light and limp in his arms, with her head pillowed on his shoulder like that.

He really would have preferred to take her direct to Mitchum Medical Center, but her brother was a doctor and hadn’t insisted on the need for urgent medical attention, so he deferred to the expert opinion.

Dr. McKinley’s house was only a mile or two from here, in the oldest part of the town, a street of grand old Victorians dating from when nearby marble quarries gave Radford a vibrant economy. The street had gone through a period of decline at one point, and Daniel vaguely remembered from early in his childhood that some of these places had been pretty run-down, divided into cheap apartments or lived in by families who couldn’t afford to keep them maintained.

They weren’t run-down anymore. He passed a bed-and-breakfast place, an architect’s office, an upscale hair and beauty salon, each with a professionally painted sign swinging on pieces of chain hanging from a wooden stand planted in the lawn.

Dr. McKinley’s wouldn’t have a sign. Which of the elegant houses was it? He had the number, but glanced sideways to see if his passenger might point it out.

She wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

She still had her head pressed onto the dash, with her forearms folded above. As he’d noted before, she looked too thin, as if she hadn’t been eating properly or as if she burned all her calories in stress. Suddenly there seemed something familiar about her. He couldn’t place it, but realized that he easily might have seen her up here before if coming to visit her brother was a regular thing.

No, he thought. It wasn’t that kind of familiarity. It had been triggered by seeing her beside him in the car, as if he’d had her as a passenger in his vehicle before.

He couldn’t think about it now … 2564 … 2570 … This was Dr. McKinley’s house right here, nicely done up but not too feminine or fancy. Cream and dark green paint, newly stained timber on the front porch.

He turned into the first of two driveways. “Do you have a key to your brother’s house?”

“No, but I know where he keeps one. Could you … get it for me?”

“If you tell me where it is.”

She described the location, somewhat less obvious than under the doormat or sitting on top of the frame. Fourth planter pot to the left of the driveway, under the dark gray rock. She waited in the car while he unlocked the front door—the big Victorian was divided into two apartments, and he guessed that Andy’s was 2572, not 2572A—then he had to come back to help her out. She clung to him and leaned on him as if he was the only fixed point in the whole universe, but at least she was walking on her own, this time.

Suddenly, holding her in his arms once again, recognition came. It elbowed its way past the changed hair color and style, the pale face beneath the large sunglasses, the weight loss, and came fully into focus.

It was Scarlett.

Scarlett Sharpe.

Shoot! Damn! It really was!

Scarlett Sharpe was Andy McKinley’s sister?

Daniel didn’t know if she had recognized him. He thought she was probably in such bad shape that she hadn’t. He must have said his name to Andy, but had she been listening? Had she made the connection? Did she remember? What had he said? Too much?

He felt a wash of anger and embarrassment and regret and yearning and vivid memory, as well as a sense of unfinished business. He fought to keep any of it from showing then realized that she wasn’t going to be picking up on those kinds of emotions, when she was struggling to take one step in front of another.

“I can’t leave you alone here,” he said, trying so hard to keep the reluctance from coloring his voice, so that it ended up sounding completely wooden instead.

“Andy won’t be long.”

“All the same.”

“I’m okay. I just need to drink some water and lie down.”

He was torn by a level of uncertainty and indecision that didn’t happen nearly so often anymore, but which had once been very familiar. How much to give away? How much to trust? What to offer? What to say?

He’d been twenty-four years old when he and Scarlett had known each other before. Six years on, twenty-four seemed like it was just a couple of years beyond boyhood. In so many ways back then he’d been older than his years. In other ways, far out of his depth, with his emotions so powerful and simple that they frightened him.

Lord, he didn’t enjoy some of those memories …

Which was good, because memories weren’t relevant right now.

“I’m going to wait with you until your brother arrives,” he told her, making a decision he didn’t intend to change.

Scarlett didn’t reply.

They made it up the steps and through the door. “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Couch.” Apparently because she didn’t think she could make it any farther, even though he was carrying her again.

He helped her to lie down, finding a red silk pillow for her head. “Could you close the drapes?” she asked weakly. “The light is so bright.”

It wasn’t.

Not to his eyes, anyhow.

But he did as she’d asked, and it seemed to help her. She lay with her eyes closed, still wearing her sunglasses, and less tension stiffening her thin frame. She’d had more weight on her six years ago, for sure. He remembered how her body had felt in his arms, and it hadn’t been scarecrow thin like this, it had been lush and soft, almost plump in places. Recognition might have come sooner if she hadn’t changed so much.

“Can I fetch you the water you wanted?”

“Bottle or tap, I don’t mind. A big glass. It’ll help.”

He went through the adjacent dining room and into the kitchen and ran the faucet into a glass he found upturned in the dish rack, not wanting to check in the refrigerator or open the kitchen cabinets in someone else’s house. When he brought the filled glass back to her, she said in a thready voice, “Is it okay if I don’t try to sit?”

“It’s fine.” He brought the glass awkwardly sideways to her mouth, and it was such a personal action it gave him the jitters. Would she want this from him?

She seemed to prefer the drops spilled down her cheek to the thought of movement. “Thanks. You can go now. Please. Don’t feel you need to stay.”

Did she know who he was?

There was no reason for it to matter, not when she could barely move, and he wasn’t going to ask, or tell her. Not yet. Not unless it seemed truly necessary.

“I’m not leaving.”

She stayed silent for a long moment, as if assessing his determination, and whether to protest. Finally she told him, “Thank you.”