A Doctor in His House. Lilian Darcy

so he said.” Andy hadn’t met Daniel, six years ago, even though, indirectly, he’d moved to Vermont because of Daniel’s influence. He had no idea that Daniel and Scarlett had briefly been involved. Almost no one knew that. Their whole relationship had vanished into the past without trace.

      “He’ll call an ambulance for you. He’ll wait with you till it comes.”

      “I don’t need an ambulance. It’s just a migraine. I’ve had these spells before.”

      “Like you’re having now?”

      “Never this bad.”

      “So the hospital—”

      “Don’t make me go to the hospital.” She was so overdosed on hospitals. She’d been working ninety hours a week in one for years. She was the smartest one in the family, Dad always said, but somehow that didn’t seem like the best end of the deal when her skin always smelled like chemicals and she only ever saw the sky through tinted glass. “I just want to be lying flat in a dark room.”

      “Put Daniel back on and I’ll ask him if he can drive you to my place.”

      “My car …”

      “He’ll drive your car off the road, park it somewhere safe. One of our office staff can drive it home for you later.”

      “Home to your place.”

      “Home to my place, it’s no problem, it’s not far. Put Daniel on.”

      Blindly she held out the phone, gripping the wheel with her free hand to minimize the movement. “My brother wants to talk.”

      A hand took the phone. “Sure,” said the gravelly voice. Daniel had been twenty-four years old when she’d known him, to her twenty-six. He must be thirty, now. His voice had deepened, matured, but he was as measured and careful with his words as he’d always been.

      “Yes, I can do that,” he said to Andy after a moment. “Give me the address.” He listened. “Yeah, no problem. I had court, this morning, in White River Junction. Was on my way back, done for the day. It’s no trouble.”

      “Thank you,” she said weakly, after she heard him put away the phone.

      “No problem,” he repeated. “We’ll get you home, Charlotte.”

      Charlotte … Andy must have said her name, only Daniel had heard it wrong. He didn’t know who she was. The thought came with a wash of relief. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember.

      No, he had to remember. He’d brought her up here, six years ago, had given her a passionate, romantic weekend in a gorgeous bed-and-breakfast, and then she’d dumped him two weeks later—or they’d dumped each other, she wasn’t even sure—because …

      Well, just because.

      Too many reasons to count, and maybe she was ashamed of some of them, or maybe they weren’t all her fault. They’d both had issues that ran deep. They’d both had reason to be angry … and full of regret. She hadn’t been involved with another man since. She’d been burned, and it had been all too easy to retreat into her demanding work and conclude that the thing with Daniel—its intensity and its failure—was a warning sign.

      He had to remember.

      But right now, he wanted her to move, to climb out of the vehicle. He had one hand on her elbow and one on her shoulder, trying to ease her out from behind the wheel, trying to help her, but it was going to be impossible. She felt incapable of walking, and she couldn’t have corrected him about her name even if she’d wanted to.

      And she didn’t want to, because …

      Well, just because.

      Because it was easier not to have him know who she was.

      Not yet. Not until she’d reached a safer, better place than the verge of a county road.

      Five and a half years ago, she’d sent Andy to the same bed-and-breakfast that Daniel had brought her to, at a time when Andy had been going off the rails due to stress and ambition. Her brother had found Vermont so good for his soul that he’d moved here, but that little leapfrogging connection wasn’t relevant now.

      She doubted that Daniel had looked at her face yet, and might not recognize her even if he did, she must look so wretched, white-skinned against the contrast of the dark frames of her sunglasses. Oh, and she’d been in her blonde phase six years ago, too, the style of it perky and tousled and a lot shorter than it was now.

      “Can you help me to your car?” she asked him. “I’m so dizzy.”

      “Of course,” was all he said.

      She waited for him to hold her shoulders or reach for her hand, hating this feeling of disorientation. Where was he? Which part of her body would he touch first?

      Okay, here was his arm coming around her shoulder … and his other arm sliding across the backs of her knees. He was planning to carry her. He lifted her into his arms before she could protest, settled her closer against his body, and then she had to concentrate so hard just on breathing that she couldn’t say a word.

      He didn’t speak, either.

      She was pretty light, but she was still a grown woman, and this had to be hard for him, but he gave no sign of it, just held her and paced toward his patrol car, his stride as smooth as he could make it. He was trying not to bounce her and she was grateful for that.

      Grateful for his shoulder, too. She couldn’t hold her head up without dizziness and wild color strobing behind her closed lids, and his shoulder was the only place to rest her cheek. There, she could smell the summer-heated cotton of his shirt and something nutty and fresh and masculine that was probably shampoo or aftershave.

      It was good, the male fragrance. It was familiar, heaven help her. It brought a tangle of powerful, seductive memories, yet still somehow steadied her senses so she kept breathing it, drawing it in through her nostrils in slow pulls of air, while her hair fell across her face and tickled her mouth. She wanted to ask Daniel if he could brush the hair away, but still didn’t trust herself to speak—let alone to make such an intimate request.

       Touch my hair. Touch my face. You’ve done it before …

      No.

      Daniel Porter was carrying her in his arms like a knight rescuing a maiden and his strength and his movement felt so nourishing and good, yet he had no idea who she was.

      By the time she was seated inside the patrol car, she felt weak with the aftermath of the short journey. She would have to see if Andy could find something stronger for the migraine pain. These over-the-counter pills were barely taking the edge off. She had to lean against the dash to anchor herself so that the whirling universe would slow down. Once more, her hair hung around her face, hiding skin that must be paper-white by this point. She couldn’t even speak enough right now to say, “I’m sorry.”

      Daniel didn’t seem to need the apology. “It’s okay,” he said, just as if she had managed the words. “It’s fine. You’re not heavy.” The tone was friendly, professionally reassuring, with the same measured carefulness she still remembered so well.

      As if words were too powerful, sometimes, and might detonate an emotional bomb blast if you spoke too many of them, or if you said the wrong ones.

      “Just sit for a bit,” he continued. “I’ll open the windows so you have some air.” She heard the humming sound of the glass lowering in its frame. “Your keys are still in the ignition, right? Just nod.”

      But with her throbbing head, speaking was easier than nodding. “Yes.”

      “I’ll pull your car over, farther from the road.” He made a momentary pause, then added, “That’s why I thought I should stop and check on you, before, on my way through. Your car isn’t pulled off to a safe distance.”

      “I couldn’t.”