No More Mr. Nice Guy by Jennifer Greene Page A

in believing he couldn’t handle a crowd was beyond her—Carroll found the punch bowl and wandered at a lingering pace from one conversational group to another. Coping with strangers had never bothered her; she liked meeting people. A few doctors were wearing smiles as starched as their shirts, but most of them were friendly, caring people. Wives drew together to air their complaints about being married to doctors, and the doctors’ talk was primarily about medicine, with a little golf thrown in.
    The type of gathering was familiar; Carroll had attended medical conferences with Alan before. Most of the people were strangers, but strangers never stayed that way for long when coaxed to talk about themselves.
    This dinner was a fundraiser—not Alan’s cup of tea, but its purpose was to bring together medical personnel from Indiana and three of the surrounding states to share resources and ideas for a new children’s facility. Alan cared about the subject; so did Carroll. The roast beef was almost tasteless, but generally she enjoyed herself.
    Just before his speech, the thinnest bead of nervous perspiration formed on Alan’s brow. When his name was announced, Carroll was left alone to watch him make his way to the dais. She knew he was nervous; it didn’t show. He stood tall, for a man who wasn’t overly tall. His beard was beginning to look less scruffy; his suit fit his broad shoulders perfectly; and his voice resonated with the passionate commitment he had made to children… Really, she was hopelessly proud of him.
    The applause afterward demonstrated the respect he’d earned from his colleagues. Carroll could see he was oblivious to it; he hurried back to her side and seated himself, murmuring an irritable, “Thank God that’s over. We should be able to escape here in another hour.”
    Carroll wasn’t in a hurry to leave. All week long, she’d lapped up the attentions Alan had showered on her, like a hedonist basking in the sun on an island paradise. At core, though, she wasn’t such a hedonist, just a woman who needed to know she was more than a convenient fixture for the man in her life.
    She was more than a fixture, and she had no permanent craving for caviar. Outings like this gave Alan a chance to share professional problems and interests, and she didn’t want him rushing away because of her. She saw proof of his commitment in the way Alan reacted when a tall, white-haired man paused at their table.
    “Dr. Whinaker!” Alan said with pleasure.
    The men exchanged handshakes, and then Carroll found her palm enclosed in the older man’s warm grasp. She gathered quickly that Alan knew the man from his medical school days in Chicago, and that the doctor’s regard was important to him. Her spine straightened imperceptibly.
    “…was hoping to catch you and mention that staff position to you again, Alan. A few years back, you were sure you’d be happy with a small private practice…”
    “Not so small anymore, actually.”
    Though Dr. Whinaker used the conversation to sneak in hints of an available staff position for Alan, the dialogue that flew back and forth was more than that. Carroll thought with amusement that most old friends meeting again would want to do some catching up on their personal lives, but these two men appeared eager to share details of every difficult case they’d had in the intervening years. A welter of medical terms zipped back and forth. Alan tested the older man’s judgment just as thoroughly as the older doctor probed Alan’s.
    Smiling and content, Carroll finished her coffee and enjoyed watching them. That they liked and respected each other was obvious—which made it all the more startling when Alan’s hand suddenly locked on her wrist.
    He stood up, drawing Carroll with him, ignoring her startled look. “I wish I had more time to talk with you, Dr. Whinaker. Maybe we can get together soon?”
    Alan couldn’t escape without a few more words, and then there were