NYC Angels Flirting with Danger

chapter ELEVEN



YOU’D WHAT?

She repeated the question silently as she finished up Melanie Roberts’s discharge instructions, glad that the woman—and her unborn baby—had recovered well from the surgery to repair the neural tube defect. Sending up a quick prayer that Cade’s fingers had worked their magic, she stood up and made her way over to the patient’s room.

More problematic had been the way her heart had leapt into her throat yesterday as she’d asked Brad what he meant. She could have sworn he’d been about to say something else entirely. Instead, he’d muttered something about kicking someone’s ass, and then he’d gotten up from his seat, saying he needed to get back to work.

And that had been that. They’d both gone their separate ways and then had ridden back to the apartment on his bike. Only instead of his low, rich voice filling her head and her senses through the helmet speaker, she’d been met by silence.

She’d finally spoken directly with Jason, though, and had let him know that she was filing for divorce. She gave him the name of the attorney, and Jason had said their father would give the office a call and make sure all Chloe’s bases were covered.

Entering the hospital room with her clipboard, she smiled at Melanie. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

“Absolutely.” She laughed. “No offense to the chef.”

“Believe me, we all feel the same way about that particular chef. He does make an excellent strawberry gelatin, though. Have you tried it?”

Melanie smiled. “Only for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“It never gets old, does it?” Chloe said, her hands going to her chest as she swayed back and forth as if in love. She smiled again and handed the clipboard to the other woman, showing her where to sign and going over some care instructions with her.

“I really have to stay in bed for that long?”

“Really. Your little one has to heal, and so do you.” She squeezed Melanie’s shoulder. “It’ll all be worth it. You’ll see.”

“I know.” Melanie scribbled her name just as a wheelchair manned by a cheerful hospital volunteer rolled through the door.

Taking the paperwork, Chloe helped her patient get into the wheelchair. “I think your husband is bringing the car round.”

“He is. Thanks again for everything.”

On impulse, Chloe bent down and gave the woman’s shoulders a quick hug. “I want to see pictures when he’s born, okay?” As she said it, she realized she might not even be here in three months’ time. A pang went through her. After only a week she was already getting attached to the hospital and its patients.

And maybe a little too attached to her boss?

As long as he didn’t notice, and she took care not to let things get too cozy, her secret should be safe. Although when they had been in that observation room, she could have sworn he’d been about to say something about men and women, and how he wanted to …

The huge expanse of mirrors over his bed came to mind just as the elevator doors opened, allowing Melanie and the volunteer to get in. As the wheelchair turned to face the front, her patient gave a happy wave. Chloe waved back, mortified to even be thinking about things like mirrors and Brad’s naked muscular back.

Her eyes strayed longingly to the patient’s abdomen just as the doors swished closed, cutting it off from view. Maybe someday she would be that pregnant lady. When she found someone who would love her as she was.

Even if she wasn’t a firecracker in the bedroom.

Brad’s words about her being desirable had given her a jolt of hope that maybe all was not lost. If she could find someone patient enough to show her the way, she’d make sure she held onto that person and never let go.

Or, if for ever was too much to ask, maybe he could at least teach her what love—real love—was.

Something smelled delicious.

Brad closed the front door to the apartment, trying to erase the image of a desperate father on his knees in the hospital chapel, begging God to spare his wife. God had. But the couple had lost their unborn baby—and with it the possibility of ever having another one. When the man’s red eyes had met his in the doorway, he’d known without Brad saying a word.

“My wife?”

“She’s in Recovery. She sent me to find you. I promised I would.”

Brad had taken that promise to heart and had gone searching for the man in person. He’d known instinctively where he’d find him.

He’d lost patients before, wasn’t sure why this was so different. Maybe because of the way that husband had looked at his wife, as if no love had ever been greater. He hadn’t left her side until she’d been wheeled away for the surgery that would change both their lives.

“Chloe?” he called, shaking free of the memories.

The scent of cooking grew stronger as he tossed his keys and wallet onto the table in the foyer of the apartment and headed for the kitchen. Relief and irritation warred for first place. Relief that she was here, and irritation that she hadn’t waited for him before hopping on the subway and heading home. He’d gone looking for her once his patient had been stabilized, and had been told she’d already left for the day.

Without saying a word to him.

He needed to get over this nagging worry that Travis would come looking for her. She was an adult, she didn’t need him to be a babysitter. Besides, he’d already seen what could happen between them if he got too close. Chloe needed someone who would handle her with kid gloves. That someone was not him. Maybe he’d make a visit to Katrina’s to get whatever was going on with him out of his system.

The idea filled him with distaste, which in turn made his frustration grow.

“Chloe.” He allowed his irritation to come to the fore as he called her again.

She popped her head around the arched doorway that led to the kitchen. “In here. I’m making us something to eat.”

“Why?” The last thing he wanted was to have her cooking for him. When it was time for her to go, he wanted it to be a quick, clean break.

Her brow puckered. “I know you’ve had a hard day. I thought it was the least I could do, especially as you’re letting me stay in your apartment. Consider it part of my rent.”

“I already told you, you’re helping me out of a jam at the hospital.”

“I know.” She hesitated, looking into his eyes. “I heard about your patient, Brad. I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”

His jaws clamped shut as he fought to stem the unwanted tide of emotion that rose inside him. He fought hard to give his unborn patients the best possible start in life. Something he hadn’t had when he’d been a kid. And when things went wrong with any of his cases, it ate away at him.

He could rail at fate as much as he liked. But just like with the padlocks on the doors of his childhood home, he’d learned that begging and screaming didn’t change a thing. Those locks had taught him at least one important survival skill, however. He was an expert at bolting the doors of his heart and keeping any unwanted emotion locked out of sight, and it got the job done. He’d learned to make choices based on what he knew about the world. Just like Chloe would have to do.

She disappeared again. He stood there wondering if he should just go to his room and try to shut out the day. It’s what he wanted to do, but knew he’d end up feeling like a jerk if he did, because Chloe had gone to all the trouble of fixing him something to eat.

So he followed her.

“I’m making shrimp garlic alfredo. Hope that’s okay. I remember you liked Mom’s version of it.”

He did, although he hadn’t had it in years. Mrs. Jenkins had always remembered he liked it, too. Actually, though, he liked just about anything she cooked. And she made sure he knew he had an open invitation to their dinner table.

He’d taken her up on it time and time again when the front door at his parents’ house had been locked tight, or when they’d left him to fend for himself while they had gone on various business trips.

“What can I do to help?” His body relaxed. He was damned glad Chloe wasn’t like Katrina or another of his dates—who’d be going on and on about her newest shoe purchase or eying his apartment with a speculative gleam. Little did any of them know he didn’t intend to marry. Ever.

He may have grown up in a household that seemed like every kid’s dream home—no fighting, no chiding about childhood tantrums or, later, about broken curfews and less than stellar grades. There had been no harsh emotions at all. But beneath the surface things had not been how they’d appeared. The snick of a lock had preceded hours of unbroken silence. A silence that had been more menacing than anything he’d ever known.

The Jenkinses, on the other hand, had been open with their emotions and vocal as hell when someone had done something wrong. Ben Jenkins had chewed his butt up one side and down the other after his motorcycle accident. Threatened to take his bike to the junkyard if he ever pulled another stunt like that.

Wonder what the man would think about him taking his daughter for a ride on the back of that very same bike?

Chloe broke into his thoughts. “I think I’ve got it covered if you want to take a shower. Besides, this is the only apron I could find in the house.” It took him a second to realize what she was talking about.

The apron had been in his house? A couple of women had cooked for him over the years, but it was normally breakfast. One of them had evidently expected to stick around.

A pang went through him. Had he hurt someone the way Chloe’s ex had hurt her?

No, because he never made any promises. If anything, he cut relationships shorter for just that reason. Before that claustrophobic sensation of being trapped had time to set in. He didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

He took a step back, wondering what was with all his melancholy thoughts tonight. It had to be because of his patient. Something about the look on her husband’s face when he’d realized his wife was still alive … was going to survive her ruptured uterus. He’d seemed to take on a glow that had transcended the sorrow of losing his unborn child. The man had taken one last look at the stained-glass cross then had closed his eyes as if sending up a quick thank-you prayer before he hurried from the room, leaving Brad alone.

He’d wandered over to one of the chairs and sat down, hands draped over the pew in front of him, realizing he’d never really visited the chapel before. But there was something peaceful about it, whether it was because of the décor or because of some spiritual presence, he didn’t know. What he did know was that it had made him want to find Chloe.

Only she hadn’t been there.

Instead, she was here, fixing him dinner.

He relaxed a little bit more. “I’ll get changed.”

“Good. I’ll uncork the wine.” She motioned to the bottle on the counter. One of his better bottles from the look of it, but what the hell?

He smiled for the first time that day. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, then. Don’t start without me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Evidently ten minutes was all the man needed to look and smell heavenly, because when she turned to check the cabinets for a tureen or something to put the pasta sauce in he was propped against the door frame, watching her. She let out a little squeak before she could stop it. “How long have you been standing there?”

“About a minute and a half.”

Heat rushed up her face when she realized her gaze was trailing down his chest and had landed just below his belt buckle. “I, um … was just looking for a couple of bowls for the pasta and sauce.”

His lips quirked as if he realized exactly what she’d been doing. “Well, by all means, let me help.”

Without saying anything else, he opened cabinet doors until he found a couple of good-sized bowls.

His scent filled her head, making her feel slightly dizzy. She shook it in an effort to clear it. “I like your china pattern. I wouldn’t have thought you were much for flowers, though.”

The delicate gold rimming the plates and the pink roses were definitely not what she would have thought he’d pick out for himself. When he frowned, her thoughts froze. Had some past or present lover bought him dishes?

She swallowed. Not that it was any of her business but she’d already set the table with them as she hadn’t been able to find any other plates in his cupboards.

He tilted one of the bowls as if seeing it for the first time. “My mother sent them as a house-warming gift.”

“That was nice.”

He gave a hard laugh. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? My mom always knows just the right thing to say or do. She’s a master at managing and meeting expectations—and instilling that trait in others. It’s all about doing what’s expected of you.”