Cathy jerked another nod. She sat as though turned to stone. She was barely aware when the oncologist got to his feet or even that he briefly pressed his hand against her tense shoulder before he walked swiftly out of the waiting room.
A fresh tsunami of despair and terror crashed down over her. She started to hyperventilate again. This time she couldn’t catch her breath. Panic battered her. She was drowning, being sucked down into swirling black depths.
Winter’s phone rang.
Chapter Nine
The metallic tones cut through the whirlpool threatening to drown her. Her mind clutched hold of the spar of sound, pulling her free of the maelstrom.
Cathy gasped, sucking in a shuddering lungful of air. Her heart hammered in her ears, her skin was clammy, and she felt nauseous. But she was breathing.
Her hands shaking, she pulled the cell out of her purse and flipped it open. “H–hello? No—no, I’m fine. Just a frog in my throat.”
Cathy bent forward, her head bowed as she pressed the phone tightly to her ear. All of her attention was riveted on Michael’s deep voice, using it as a lifeline. She nodded even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes. Okay. An hour, then.” She closed the cell and slipped it back into her purse. Almost blindly, she got up from the chair. She walked mechanically out of the waiting room.
Michael stepped back from the door to let her into the house. He hadn’t been certain that she would actually show up. At sight of her, he felt the bunched muscles in his shoulders ease. “Thank you for coming, Winter.”
Winter walked in and paused in the entry. She was dressed much as she had been when he first met her, so she had probably just left work. She was wearing a slim suit and pumps. Her hair was confined in the chignon that she favored. She appeared very put together, very professional and untouchable.
She nodded acknowledgement of his greeting, but she did not smile. Her eyes did not lift to meet his gaze.
Michael narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge her attitude. There was a distant expression on her face, coupled with a blank, shuttered look in her eyes and stiffness in her manner. It was obvious to him that she wasn’t sure that she had done the right thing in agreeing to see him. He guessed that she was still set on breaking it off with him. He lifted a hand and rubbed at the tightening across the back of his neck.
He gestured politely toward the living area. “Please come in. Would you like a drink?” She walked past him. He strolled after her, watching the sway of her rounded hips. He grimaced when he felt the blood rushing to his groin. He was going to have to curb himself. Just because she had shown up didn’t mean that he still didn’t have damage control to do.
“Yes. Yes, I would.” For the first time since her arrival, a measure of animation came into her expression. A hint of color tinged her pale cheeks. She went to sit down in one of the overstuffed armchairs. In her lap, she clasped and unclasped her hands. As Michael observed her, he interpreted the unconscious gestures as a sign of nervousness. “I’d like a scotch.”
Michael was taken by surprise. He had never known her to drink anything stronger than a good wine. Frowning slightly, he mixed a watered-down scotch for her before pouring his own drink. He didn’t want her drunk. Picking up the drinks, he went over to offer the glass. She accepted it without as much as a glance upward at him in thanks. That was completely unlike her, he thought. She was always scrupulously polite.