The Doctor's Perfect Match. Arlene JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
instead saying with admirable coolness, “I won’t dignify that with a reply. Just tell me why you won’t go back to the hospital.”
She folded her arms. “I have my reasons. That’s all you need to know.”
He closed his eyes. God, why would You do this to me? But that didn’t really matter. He’d dealt with brain tumors before, quite a few of them. Besides, she was not his wife, and just because she was refusing treatment didn’t mean that her case was anything like Brigitte’s. He really had no choice about what to do with her, though.
“I’ll take you somewhere else.”
The thought had been hovering in the back of his mind since he’d realized her van was gone, but he knew that it would mean prolonged interaction with her, and he really didn’t want that. Yet, he was a doctor. He would do what he had to do to take care of her until she left his realm of influence.
“Where?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
He had to make himself say it. “I know some older ladies who routinely open their home to those in need of a place to stay. It’s a large, antebellum mansion called Chatam House, so there’s plenty of room.”
“Antebellum,” she echoed. “That means pre–Civil War.”
“Yes.”
Interest kindled in her mottled-green eyes. “Cool. But what makes you so sure I can crash there?”
“They’re very generous. I’ve never known them to turn away anyone. Besides, they’re family friends.”
She tilted her head. “You’d do that for me? Ask family friends to take me in?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve asked the Chatam sisters to take in a pa—er—person.”
“No? What other patients have you asked these sisters to take in?” she asked, grinning at him.
Brooks looked her straight in the eye. “You know I cannot tell you that.” Though the Chatam sisters probably would. One of the patients had married their niece Kaylie. Morgan’s wife, Lyla Simone—whom he should have been sitting with at the dinner table just then—had been another.
Eva grinned and swayed toward him, scarves wafting, long pale hair glimmering. Even knowing about her medical and financial troubles, he had to admit that he’d never seen a more exotic, graceful, breathtaking sight. He prayed that she would refuse so he could wash his hands of her.
She did not.
“Okay. I guess I can stand a little antebellum mansion. Just until I can figure out what to do next.”
He gulped, disappointed and strangely, horrifyingly pleased. “Let’s say at least until your stitches come out, shall we?” he suggested, catching her by the arm as she made to walk past him.
After a moment more of consideration, she agreed. “That ought to do it.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
At least she didn’t give her word lightly; she actually thought it over before nodding. “You have my word.”
“Let’s go, then.” He walked her to the car, without releasing her arm, and handed her down into it.
“What about my things? My van is stuffed with my things.”
“We’ll have to get them tomorrow.”
She sat back with a huff, her plastic bag in her lap. He closed the door and walked around the rear of the car. On the way, he took out his phone and called Chatam House. He was bringing his best friend’s aunties another foundling, and he hoped that she wasn’t going to break all their hearts.
* * *
Homeless. She had gotten used to the idea of having no permanent address, no brick-and-mortar residence, but Eva couldn’t shake the feeling that she had truly hit bottom now that the van was gone. She’d felt strangely connected to home, if not particularly comfortable or safe—whatever that meant now—sleeping in the van. One of the reasons she’d decided to hit the road after her diagnosis was the ease with which she could customize the interior of the old minivan. She’d simply pulled out the rear seats and installed a cot, along with her art supplies and the little clothing that she owned. It didn’t take much wardrobe to work from home transcribing recorded medical notes, and when money was tight, why bother buying clothes no one would see?
For some reason, her homelessness felt particularly acute when she caught sight of Chatam House. The large, Greek Revival–style, white-painted brick house sat atop a slight rise at the apex of a long, looping drive. With a deep front porch, a fancy kind of carport on its western side, rose arbor and one of the tallest magnolia trees that Eva had ever seen, the place presented a kind of elegance and gentility that belonged to a past era. From the instant the sedan turned through the fat brick columns and drove past the ornate wrought iron gate at the bottom of the hill, Eva felt a sense of peace and serenity, something that had been in short supply in her life even before she’d received her diagnosis. She also felt out of place, disconnected.
“About my things. How can I be sure the bank won’t take the van before I can get my clothes and all my other stuff out of there?”
Sighing, Leland brought the car to a halt and pulled out his cell phone to make a phone call. She listened to his end of the conversation with some satisfaction and no little envy.
“Nothing like cl-out,” she quipped, giving the last word two syllables.
“The van will be there when we go to pick up your things tomorrow,” Leland assured her dryly.
“Thank you,” she returned crisply, turning her gaze to the side. “And you’re sure this is a private home? I mean, how many houses have names?”
He chuckled. “It’s a private home, occupied by four older people in their seventies. One of the triplets is married. They have a live-in staff of three as well, but they have quarters out back in the carriage house.”
“Triplets?” Eva echoed, laughing.
“Didn’t I say? The three sisters are triplets.”
“They aren’t identical, are they?”
He grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll have no problem telling them apart.”
The car moved on up the hill and came to a stop in front of a red brick walkway. Leland killed the engine and got out, hurrying around the front of the car. The headlamps had not shut off yet, and Eva was struck again by the strength of the doctor’s physical attraction. Instinctively, she understood that he expected to get the door for her, and suddenly she dared not allow it. Yanking on the door handle, she literally bailed out—and nearly planted her face in his collar.
“Hang on,” he yelped as she slipped and slid in the deep gravel of the drive.
She found herself seized by the upper arms and steadied against the solid wall of his chest. The headlamps shut off abruptly, leaving them frozen, nose-to-nose, in the silent dark.
After a moment, his grip loosened, then he calmly asked, “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she muttered. “Stupid shoes.” Nodding, he stepped away. “I have some smart ones in the van,” she quipped lightly.
He just turned toward the house, one hand fastened to her upper arm as if she couldn’t be trusted to find her own way. After escorting her up a trio of steps, he ushered her across the gray-painted floor of the porch to the bright yellow door. A fanlight of bubbly glass over the door offered a cheery glow. Leland knocked, and the door opened only moments later. A balding, roundish, middle-aged fellow wearing black slacks and a white shirt buttoned to the chin smiled in welcome.
“Doctor Brooks.”
“Chester. This is Ms. Russell. I believe the aunties are expecting us.”
“Yes,