Countering His Claim. Rachel Bailey

thought back to several conversations she’d had with Patrick where she’d suggested he tell his family how serious his cancer was—or closer to the end, that he let her call them. But he’d been adamant. He didn’t want them to see him frail and wasted, and he didn’t want to endure their reactions to seeing him in that state. He said he wanted them to remember him as he’d been, but she’d wondered if it was denial—if a distraught family had arrived, he would have had to face his own mortality head-on.

      She tightened her crossed arms a little. “Patrick was a proud man and he thought it would be for the best this way.”

      “How long was he unwell?” Luke asked quietly.

      “He’d had cancer for almost a year, and he’d been ashore for two rounds of chemotherapy, but it became more serious about four months ago. Even then, he was still mobile and involved with the running of the ship until about three weeks before he died.”

      “Was he in any—” he frowned and seemed to think better of the word “—much pain?”

      “I administered morphine and other medications as required, so his discomfort was minimal.” On occasions she’d even had to convince him to take the pain relief. Patrick had been of the soldier-on mold.

      “Was there...” Luke hesitated and ran his good hand through his hair. “I honestly mean no disrespect, but was he seeing any other doctors, as well?”

      He needn’t have worried; she understood. If their situations had been reversed, she’d ask the same question, want to know that her uncle had been given the best possible treatment.

      “He was under the care of a specialist at the Royal Sydney Hospital, and I had regular contact with her. I can give you her details if you’d like to talk to her yourself.” Luke gave a single shake of his head so she continued. “For the last two months of his life, Patrick personally paid for an extra doctor to take over my regular duties so I could focus solely on him. We also brought a specialist nurse on board so there was someone with him twenty-four hours a day.”

      Though, even when the nurse had been on duty, Della had found it difficult to leave him, and had checked in often.

      Luke nodded his acceptance of the information as he let out a long breath. “Will you be at the will reading?”

      “Yes.” Patrick had made her promise to attend, saying he’d left her a little something. Telling him he didn’t need to had made no difference. “Quite a few of the crew have been invited.”

      “I hope Patrick left you something for what you did for him, but if he didn’t have time to change his will, I’ll make sure you receive something of meaning.”

      With a twinge of grief in her chest, she realized that the generosity in his expression reminded her of Patrick, and of the stories he’d told about the man before her. She’d often wondered if Patrick had exaggerated his stories about his nephew or if Luke really was a prince among men.

      “That’s sweet of you,” she said. “But there’s no need. I was doing my job and as I said, I had a lot of respect for Patrick. I counted him as a friend. I wouldn’t have had things any other way.”

      “Either way, I’m grateful you were able to be there for him.”

      “I appreciate you saying that,” she said and meant it. She’d often wondered if Patrick’s family would blame her for their not knowing about his illness. “And if you’re going to make that will reading, we need to take a look at your cut now.”

      He glanced down at his watch. “You’re right.”

      She washed her hands, sat down across a table from him and set out the sterile cloth. “Lay your hand over here,” she said as she slipped on a pair of gloves.

      * * *

      Luke looked into Dr. Della Walsh’s eyes and laid his hand, palm up, on the table. She was an intriguing woman. It couldn’t have been easy caring for his stubborn uncle out at sea, yet the information from the ship’s captain when he’d rung the family twelve days ago was that Patrick’s care had been second to none. But it was something else that had compelled him to insist she handle his stitches—something that radiated from within her. She wore no makeup yet her toffee-brown gaze captivated him more than any preening society woman. Her eyes held depth, intelligence and the promise of something more.

      Breaking the eye contact, he frowned. It didn’t seem right to think this way about the doctor who’d cared for Patrick until his death, especially when that had been so recent that he could still feel the permanent punch to the gut the loss had created.

      Della looked down and gently unwrapped the blue handkerchief he’d tied around his hand. It wasn’t much of a cut, more a good-size nick at the base of his thumb, but she was treating it seriously. That made him feel even better about Patrick’s care in the past few months.

      “I’ll just give you some local anesthetic,” she said as she drew up a needle. The two jabs into the fleshy part of his palm stung, but Della’s hand, soft and warm through the gloves, stabilized his as she administered the drug. Then she swiped the area with an antiseptic and gave it a quick wash with clear fluid from a bottle marked sterile saline.

      She bent her head and scanned his palm closely. “How did you do it?”

      “Car accident.”

      Her eyes flew to his, then roved down his neck, across his shoulders, assessing everywhere she could see. “Are you hurt anywhere else? And the others in the car with you?”

      “We’re all fine,” he said with a casual shrug. “To be fair, you could hardly class it as an accident. I was pouring some sparkling water from the minibar into a glass—”

      She blinked. “I thought this was in a car?”

      “Stretch limo.” He’d needed to meet with several of his staff, and hated wasting time traveling, so the price of a larger vehicle to accommodate the meeting was easily worth it. “The driver had to swerve hard in traffic, just hitting the bumper of another car. The glass in my hand caught the corner of the fridge as I swung forward, and it shattered.”

      “You were lucky,” she said, returning her attention to his palm.

      The cut was minor, but it had led him here, so perhaps he had been lucky. His gaze was drawn back to the doctor’s silky brown hair as she bent her head forward.

      “Can you move your thumb for me? And the index finger?”

      Obediently, he bent his thumb and finger in turn.

      “Okay, good. Tell me if you can feel this.”

      The featherlight touch of her gloved fingertip ran across the planes of his fingers and thumb. “Yes.”

      She nodded, satisfied, and picked up a pair of tweezers. “I’m just checking for glass fragments while the anesthetic takes effect. This shouldn’t hurt,” she murmured.

      Her dark lashes swept down over creamy pale cheeks as she worked. Under normal circumstances, he’d have asked her out for a drink, maybe dinner, but that would cross a line now that she would soon be an employee.

      Besides, he doubted Della would take him up on the offer. The signals she’d been sending had been limited to professional concern, both for his hand and because he was Patrick’s nephew.

      She skimmed a finger over a long, straight scar along the length of his thumb pad. “This looks like it would have been a nasty cut.”

      A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Childhood accident.” Though, it had been far from an accident—it had been with conscious, purposeful intent that, at thirteen, he’d sliced his thumb with a pocketknife and pressed the injury against similar ones on three friends’ thumbs. They’d become blood brothers that night in a darkened boarding school dorm room. He looked at the scar, remembering how his youthful enthusiasm had made him slash long and deep—as though more blood would deepen the bond. Maybe it had, because