The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (20 page)

"My pleasure," he said before he walked away.

"Is it my turn?" Jack demanded, tugging at his father's arm.

"No," Patrick said slowly, eyes steady on Kate's face. "No, I'm thinking it's mine. Is that what you're thinking, Kate?"

"I'm not thinking anything," she snapped. Experience had taught her that much. The less you hoped for, the less likely you were to be disappointed. The less you asked for, the less, in the end, you gave away.

His dark eyebrows
raised
. "So what are you feeling?"

Don't think
, he'd urged her last night.
Feel
.
The memory shivered between them.

Kate looked away, rubbing the spot beneath her ribs where her cheeseburger burned. Feeling was dangerous. Feelings were unreliable. What had feeling ever gotten the women of her family but headaches and heartaches? She'd always prided herself on her rational decisions, her dogged, methodical approach to problems. It was time to step back, to take a long, cool look at what she wanted and what she could reasonably expect from this man.

How did she feel?

Wretched.
Besotted.
Confused.

"Tired," she said.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked.

"But, Daddy," Jack objected, "it's my turn."

"One more frame," Patrick said, his gaze never leaving Kate's face. "And then we're going home."

"Not to your house," she said quickly.

Jack hefted his ball from the conveyor belt and carried it to the bottom of the lane.

"Why not?"
Patrick asked.

"I don't have any clothes."

"What you're wearing looks fine to me."

"I have to feed my cat."

"You don't put out dry cat food for her?"

She did. Of course she did. Blackie would be fine. That wasn't her real objection, and Patrick knew it. She might have responded to his perception—she wanted to accept his invitation—but she was afraid of exposing her feelings to him while he still maintained his careful emotional distance. Not tonight.

"Jack—" she began.

"If Jack thinks anything about it—which he won't—he'll figure you're sleeping down the hall."

She needed to know what he wanted, what he was offering. "But I wouldn't be."

A gleam appeared in his blue eyes. "Sleeping? I don't think so."

She was unbearably tempted to give up, to give in,
to
go home with him. But she was dreadfully afraid last night had been a mistake. She was almost convinced he thought so, too. What had his sergeant called him? The most married man he'd ever known?

She thought of the photograph of Patrick's pretty wife, his remote courtesy that morning, and shook her head. "I can't."

"You won't."

"I shouldn't."

"Was it Roberts seeing us together?" he asked suddenly. "Are you worried about your job?"

"That's part of it." She wasn't sure if her new rapport with Owen Roberts extended to his keeping silent, or what it would mean if he didn't. But she didn't want Patrick to feel hedged by her concerns. Her mother claimed there was no surer way to drive a man off. Ten-year-old Kate, standing in the driveway watching her daddy desert them, had vowed fiercely never to confide her troubles to anyone again.

She shrugged. "Don't worry about it. It's my job.
My choice.
My problem."

Patrick's face shuttered. "I see."

Kate doubted it. But until she decided whether or not she could live within the posted limits of Patrick's life, it was easier to let him think she was covering her ass than to explain she was protecting her heart.

"Are you up to driving?" he asked.

She scowled. Her head pulsed, and there was a hollow in the pit of her stomach that neither the burger he'd fed her or the heartburn that followed had managed to fill. But she was an independent, competent, professional woman. Jack needed to get to bed soon. And Patrick, as always, would put his son's needs first. He ought to. She expected him to. Perhaps that was the part of him she admired the most. There was no way she would interfere with that, or encourage Patrick to see her as a drag on them.

"Of course I can drive."

"We'll take you to pick up your car, then."

The woman was retreating faster than an ambulance under fire, Patrick thought, as they
cruised
the highway back to the hospital. What the hell had happened to last night's responsive, eager lover? The street lamps lay a pattern of flickering black and white over the pale, set face beside him.

He depressed the gas pedal, picking up speed.
Fine.
He didn't need another dependent. It wasn't his place to worry over the shadows bruising those wide brown eyes, the creases dug in between those smooth, straight brows. Kate had made it clear she wouldn't welcome his concern or tolerate his interference. She didn't need him. He should be glad.

He was irritated as hell.

He glanced over at her, at her small, neat hands folded quietly in her lap and her face turned toward the window. Everything about her challenged him. He wanted inside that cool, analytical brain of hers, that hot, tight little body. Her snooty refusal to admit him really pushed his buttons.

Why should he care? He didn't want to divide his attention or divert his focus from his son. He didn't need a complicated and consuming passion. He'd brought Jack along tonight to demonstrate to her—to prove to
himself—
that nothing in his life had changed since he'd opened the door to his room and found Kate Sinclair half-naked on his bed.

Man, was he ever wrong.

The blue and white lights of the hospital glowed up ahead. They were almost to her car, and he hadn't said a word to break that self-sufficient silence of hers.
Couldn't say a thing, with his son sitting up and listening in.

Patrick slowed at the entrance to the staff garage.
"Which way?"

She delivered brisk directions to her parking spot. At
nine o'clock
, there was no activity in the shadowed garage and plenty of empty spaces. He hated the thought that she must regularly walk to her car alone. At least she had the sense to park under a light near the elevator. He found an empty slot three spaces down and pulled in.

Kate undid her seat belt. "Jack, thank you for letting me go bowling with you," she said warmly. Opening her door, she glanced back over her shoulder at Patrick. "Thanks for the ride."

The lady was brushing him off.

Patrick clenched his jaw. "Stay put," he instructed Jack, and got out of the car. "What's your hurry?"

Her head bent over her car keys. "You have to get home. So do
I
."

"So come home with us." Now where the hell had that come from? Panic nearly made him light-headed, like a pilot trainee at high altitudes. But that's what he wanted.
Kate in his house.
Kate in his bed.
He forced a smile at her surprised expression, trying to soften the rawness of his need. "I'll buy you a toothbrush."

Just for an instant, he thought he saw an answering flame leap in her eyes. And then she shook her head, her soft hair falling to veil her face. "Not tonight."

He laid a hand on the car door, preventing her from opening it.
"When?
Tomorrow?"

"I'll sleep on it," she said coolly.

Frustration boiled through him. She was slipping away. Dammit. Damn her, and damn the need that raked his gut.

"Sleep on this," he growled, and reached for her.

The kiss was hot and hungry and rough.
Way too much for persuasion, and not nearly enough.
When he raised his head, she was shaking, and he was breathing hard. Releasing her shoulders, he waited for Kate to slice him into ribbons with her razor mind and scalpel tongue. She pressed her lips together. Oh, God. Was that hurt shimmering in her eyes?

Guilt flayed him. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

She fumbled behind her for the door handle. "What would you like me to say?"

He was furious with her for failing to lose her temper.
With himself for his failure of control.
"You're pretty good at playing therapist. Why don't you spout that grief recovery bull you're so fond of?"

She lifted her chin a notch. "I'm a surgeon, not a psychiatrist. And I'm not your therapist."

"So what about your little theories this morning?
How I can't handle intimacy with you because I'm still getting over my dead wife?"

"Is that what you think you're doing?"

"Hell, no."
He dragged his hand through his hair. "I don't know."

Her eyes were bright as surgical steel. "Actually, I do have something to say."

Relief cracked his chest.
"Fine.
Say it."

Finally, she succeeded in opening her car door. She got in. "I don't need this. I don't need you. Go to hell, MacNeill."

The door slammed behind her. He stood there like a sorry ass and watched her red taillights as she drove away.

Chapter 13

«
^
»

"
D
addy, do you like Dr. Kate?"

Patrick, pouring pancake batter, froze. He'd figured he owed his son their traditional Saturday morning breakfast after being away all weekend. Now a single drop fell and sizzled on the hot griddle.

He cleared his throat. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I saw you kissing her. Last night."

Damn. Jack hadn't said anything when he got into the car. Patrick had assumed his son hadn't seen. Or maybe he'd hoped Jack wouldn't care. Or maybe, in the heat of the moment, he just hadn't thought at all

Jack, standing on a chair beside him, reached forward to catch another drip on his finger.

"Watch it," Patrick said automatically. "You'll burn yourself."

Obediently, Jack slid his elbows back across the counter. "So, do you?"

Patrick wasn't sure he could explain the dynamics of his relationship with Kate in a way that an almost-five-year-old could understand. Hell, he didn't understand them himself. But he'd always tried to be honest with his son.

"Yeah, I do."

Jack nodded with satisfaction. "Good. I do, too."

Patrick hesitated. He didn't want the kid getting the wrong idea. Kate had been kind to Jack, but that was as far as it went. He and his son were doing great on their own. And the lady doctor had made it clear that she didn't want anything further to do with Jack's daddy. "She's a very nice doctor."

Jack gave his father a look, surprisingly adult in its scorn. "I like her better than any old doctor. I like her living in our house. I wish she could stay."

Uh-oh.
Here was trouble. What had Kate said, that first night he'd kissed her?
Patients frequently develop crushes on their doctors.
Jack had fallen hard for Kate. But Kate was devoted to her career. The up-and-coming surgeon had no place in her sterile, well-ordered life for the MacNeill men. No patience with messy passions. No need for him. Resentment flashed through Patrick, overriding the nagging recollection that he'd been the one initially to set limits on their relationship.

He poured four uniform pancakes onto the griddle, buying time to let his boy down easy. "Just because we like a person doesn't mean they have to like us back in the same way.
Or the same amount.
Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"You mean she's mad at you?"

Patrick muffled a laugh that could have easily been a curse.
"That, too.
I just meant… Don't get your hopes up, buddy."

Jack held out his plate for the finished pancakes. "
It's
okay, Dad. She loves me back. She told me so."

"She loves you." That was a kicker.

 
"Yeah."

"She told you so," Patrick repeated. It took some getting used to.

"Yeah.
When she was staying here."
Jack waved his plate impatiently. "Can I have some pancakes, please?"

Wordlessly, Patrick slid four perfect circles onto his son's plate. All this time he'd been struggling to keep Kate out of his life with Jack, the lady doctor had already made a place for herself in his boy's heart.

"Besides, she wasn't mad when she said 'good night' to
me
." Climbing down from his chair, Jack pulled his plate toward the edge of the counter. He grinned, obviously enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of being one up on old dad. "But if she's mad at you, I think you should '
pologize
."

It wasn't such a bad idea. Patrick was uneasily aware he was out of line last night. He figured his defensive reaction was at least partly Kate's fault. The woman got under his skin. She saw into his brain. And she was dangerously close to his heart.

He still owed her an apology.

He didn't know Kate's schedule. So while Jack poured syrup on his pancakes, Patrick called the hospital. The receptionist was evasive. Nurse Williams was blunt.

"We've got twenty-one beds and twenty-three patients," she reported. "Dr. Sinclair's got three surgeries scheduled this morning, and an abuse case just came in. I'll give her a message, Mr. MacNeill, that's the best I can do."

Patrick, already uncomfortable at the prospect of apologizing, declined to leave a message. Kate wouldn't thank him for broadcasting their association, he rationalized. Besides, what he had to say wouldn't sound right through a third party. It wouldn't come easy in front of an audience, either.

Hanging up, he studied his boy's dark head, bent over the plate of pancakes, and came to a decision.

"Hey, buddy. You want to have dinner tonight with Ray and Shelby?"

"Has she had her baby?"

Meeting Billy had whetted Jack's appetite for friends. Even a new baby was better than nothing. Patrick made a mental note to call Kate's sister and arrange a play date with the nephew. Better yet, Kate could make the call. "Not yet."

Jack shrugged. "‘Kay."

So Patrick called Ray to confirm that his partner didn't have any flights scheduled for that afternoon. A few hours later, he dropped his son off at their house.

Shelby
, swollen with child and bursting with impatience, welcomed them at her door with a hug. "I need the distraction about now," she admitted frankly. "And Ray can use Jack's help putting the changing table together. Don't you worry about a
thing.
"

Patrick wasn't worried. He had it all figured out. Obviously, he'd screwed up. He'd never dreamed the restrictions placed on their relationship would hurt self-sufficient, self-possessed Dr. Kate Sinclair. He'd made no promises. She had no expectations. Correction, Patrick thought ruefully. She'd
said
she had no expectations. He should have known better.

Backing the Volvo out cautiously to avoid the garbage cans at the end of Ray's drive, Patrick considered Kate's confessed lack of experience. She'd confided her crazy insecurities about that sweet, curvy body of hers. He reminded himself a woman didn't do without sex for nine years and then go to bed and have it mean nothing. He'd done without for four, and it had meant plenty to him. Hell, he'd been immersed in her, lost in her, in her scent and her cries and the soft, wet clasp of her body. For a while there, he'd forgotten everything but the need to touch her, to take her, to have her.

Even now, negotiating rush-hour traffic on his way to her apartment, he wanted her. More than her body in his bed, he wanted the cool challenge of those intelligent eyes and the warm compassion of her smile.

Maybe that had scared him at first, he acknowledged. A man didn't change the emotional habits of a lifetime in one night. He was used to sleeping with his wife. Maybe Kate had had a point about his ambivalence. Maybe he hadn't been ready for another relationship.

But he was willing to risk it now. After all, Kate wasn't asking him to change his life or priorities. It was only reasonable that with her soft heart and hard experience, she needed more from him than occasional sex. Well, Patrick thought righteously, he could accommodate that. She could move in with them.

He waited for panic to hit with the scattering impact of shrapnel, and felt only a quiet, solid sense of rightness. His son would still be at the center of his life, but Kate would fill the corners very nicely. He wanted her. And Jack liked her. It would mean a longer commute for Kate, of course. She would need a new car.
Maybe a
Landrover
ATV?
Something safe and reliable for transporting her and Jack, but sporty enough to look at home in the doctors' parking lot.

Satisfied with his solution, he pulled in front of her building. He turned off the engine and sat for a minute with his hands resting on the steering wheel. Maybe he was nuts. He was buying her a car, and she wasn't even speaking to him.

He glanced at his wristwatch.
Six o'clock
. Her battered gray excuse for transportation was already taking up space at the curb, so she was home. But when he rang the bell, no one answered.

Fine.
He'd had a mobile installed in the car so that Jack could always reach him on the road. Turning the ignition key, Patrick punched in Kate's number.

Her machine picked up. "This is Dr. Sinclair," it announced in her cool, clipped voice. "I can't come to the phone right now, but if you'll leave a message at the tone…"

Patrick opened the door of the car. With the headset tucked against his ear, he snapped a directive at her front window. "Kate, this is Patrick. I'm out front, and I'm not going away. You want to let me in, or you want to have this discussion at the hospital?"

This time, when he marched up the crumbling sidewalk to her door, it opened. She stood in the doorway with her arms folded and her eyes glittering in her white face.
Tears?
Guilt punched him in the chest. Had he done that? Left her hurt and defenseless?

She tipped her head to one side, considering him. "I'm sure this will come as a shock to you, flyboy, but not every woman is secretly thrilled by the Neanderthal act."

Ouch. Okay, hurt but not defenseless. He tried a smile, stepping forward to enter the apartment. "I'm not interested in every woman."

She didn't budge. "Oh, right.
Just one.
Only she's dead." Her eyes widened at the words that had escaped her.

Anger flicked through him. He fought to contain it. "Not dead, honey.
Just real, real cold."

Her head dropped as she looked down and away. "I'm sorry," she said stiffly. "That was an awful thing to say."

He frowned. Twin grooves carved between her brows, and tiny lines bracketed her mouth. She looked every one of her thirty-six years. And yet, studying her averted face, he still felt the tug of lust, the more irresistible pull of concern.

"Let me in, Kate."

She stepped back, admitting him.

He'd come prepared for dinner and an apology. The wine and bread and cheese were still in the trunk of his car. Pulling the cellophane-wrapped bunch of grocery-store flowers from behind his back, he thrust it at her.

"Here."

She looked, if possible, more miserable than before as she accepted the bouquet. "I… Thank you."

"We need to talk."

She put up her empty hand, as if to hold him off. "Please. Not now."

The vulnerable gesture unsettled him. It wasn't like Kate to plead off a confrontation.
Or to strike out cruelly, as she had a moment ago.
Something had happened to wreck that brisk composure. Something was eating her, gnawing her from the inside out.
Something more than him or them.
Again, he felt that tug, as if she were drawing his heart out of his chest.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

"Is your sister all right?
Your mother?"

"They're fine."

"Your job?" he ventured. He remembered she'd been upset last night when that other doctor had seen them together. "You haven't been fired or anything?"

"No, I almost wish I had."

He heard the tightness in her throat and deliberately kept his own voice easy.
"Another bad day?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

Patrick told himself that suited him fine. In his opinion, open communication was highly overrated. He respected Kate's desire to handle things her own way. All the same, he didn't like her pale, set look. And he wasn't crazy about being shut out like this, either. Maybe she'd feel better after a meal. That had worked the night before, at least until he screwed it up.

"Look, I've got dinner stuff in the car. Why don't I go get it while you put those flowers in some water?"

She nodded. But when he came back through the unlocked door a few minutes later, she was standing where he'd left her, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth pinched tight, hugging his flowers to her chest.

Tenderness shook him.
"Aw, hell, honey."

He set the bags on her desk table. Removing the flowers from her grip, he tossed them beside the groceries. With one finger, he tilted up her chin. "For someone who's always going on about sharing your feelings, you are one stubborn, silent woman, you know that?"

She didn't even glare at him. That as much as anything worried him.

"Come on, Kate. What happened?"

Turning her head from his gentle badgering, she said tonelessly, "We had a kid brought in today.
A little boy, Jack's age."

Apprehension tightened Patrick's gut. The burn center saw kids all the time.
"And?"

"You really want to know?" Finally, she opened her eyes, and the desolation in them startled him. "His stepfather doused him in gasoline and set him on fire."

He sucked in his breath. "That's horrible."

Kate shrugged. He watched her struggle for her usual composure, heard her retreat to her customary objectivity. "It's fairly common, actually. About a third of the pediatric patients we see are abuse cases."