The Magnificent M.D. by Carol Grace Page B

out there was not hers, either. A family was not in the cards for her. She’d tried and it didn’t work. She would probably never know the satisfaction of feeding her own baby or of rocking it in this chair. But she had so much else—friends, the house—that she couldn’t complain.
    The baby fell asleep in her arms and she walked upstairs and put her in the crib she’d set up in the master bedroom suite, pressing her lips against its soft baby cheek for just a moment before laying it into the crib. Then she went back to the kitchen and stirred the stew. Dusk was falling on the old house, a fine mist was blowing off the bay. She looked out the window and saw Sam standing in the yard looking at her. It was too dark to see his face, but shecould feel the heat from his gaze all the way in here. Just like that night so long ago.
    She stood for a moment looking out at him, wishing, wondering… Transported back in time. To that night when she’d stood in the window shivering, her heart hammering under her thin nightgown that billowed around her body. He’d threatened to climb the drain pipe and come up. She contemplated sliding down the drainpipe. Just to keep him from coming up.
    Her memories faded as they burst into the kitchen, the wild children and the high-priced doctor who’d spent the last half hour playing with them.
    â€œWe’re hungry,” the small boy with the freckles announced.
    â€œHow about some lamb stew?” she asked brightly.
    â€œYuck,” the boys chorused.
    â€œHave you got any peanut butter?” Sam asked.
    â€œFor you?”
    â€œNo, for them. I’ll have a glass of your sherry. They’re all yours.” He left the kitchen and headed for the living room and the imported sherry while Hayley spread peanut butter on bread, poured two glasses of milk and seated the boys at the breakfast table.
    When they finished, she set them up in the den with a video their parents had thoughtfully provided and which Hayley hoped didn’t contain any violence that would incite them to do further damage to her house. Then she went back to the living room to find Sam.
    He was sitting on the couch in semidarkness with a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand staring out at the lights on the bay. Before she could speak he set his glass down and rubbed his hands together.
    â€œI didn’t mean for you to play baby-sitter,” she said.
    He shrugged. “I’m out of shape. Haven’t played touchfootball in years. Not since college. Of course it wasn’t really fair, two against one,” he said, smiling.
    â€œHow’s your hand?” she asked, sitting on the far end of the couch. Far enough away to remove any temptation. On her part, not his. He wasn’t even looking at her, instead his gaze was fastened somewhere on the horizon.
    â€œIt’s all right. Why? Oh, you heard about my run-in with the door.” He clenched and unclenched his fist, testing it. “That was nothing.”
    â€œThat’s good. I imagine most things you do require two good hands.”
    â€œNot everything,” he said. “I can think of a few things that don’t. A few things I could do with one.” His voice was low and rough and loaded with meaning. He turned to look at her then, a long, slow, intimate look that made her pulse quicken, and she wished she hadn’t started this conversation.
    Sounds of the video came from the study, mingled with muted shouts and laughter. She hoped it was too dark for him to see her face flame, she hoped he couldn’t hear her heart pound as she contemplated the things that could be done with one hand. With his hand. A surgeon’s hand. Touching, exploring, exciting…which was probably just what he wanted her to contemplate. He was no longer a hormone-driven, sexy, dangerous bad boy. No, he was a hormone-driven, sexy, dangerous man.
    No, she was not going to fall for Sam again. She was too