Countering His Claim. Rachel Bailey

      After she tied off the third one, she rose and removed her gloves, saying over her shoulder, “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”

      “About a year ago.”

      “That will be fine. You shouldn’t need antibiotics—the cut was clean, and there was no foreign material.” She washed her hands then turned back to him. “You’ll need the stitches out in about seven days. If you’re still here, come to the clinic and either Cal or I will do it. If you’ve left by then, see your local doctor.”

      A twinge of regret surprised him. “I’m only here for a couple of nights.” He’d come for the reading of Patrick’s will and to spend a few days assessing the ship’s operations. He’d disembark when they reached Sydney.

      “You’re not staying for a full run?” A fine line appeared between her eyebrows. “To experience the Cora Mae out in the Pacific?”

      “That won’t be necessary.” His plans for the ship didn’t include her cruising the Pacific or anywhere.

      “Then you’ll need to see your own doctor in a week, Mr. Marlow,” she said with her courteous, professional smile. “Ring him earlier if you have any concerns or your hand shows signs of unusual pain, redness or swelling.”

      With a start, he realized the appointment was over. He was seconds away from walking out the door and in all probability wouldn’t see her one-on-one again. Which was probably for the best—that impulse he’d had to invite her for a drink might reemerge, and he wouldn’t start anything with a future employee who never spent more than one night in any given city.

      He nodded, and rested a hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for the medical care, Dr. Walsh. I appreciate it.”

      “You’re welcome, Mr. Marlow,” she said, her voice even, unaffected.

      Something about this woman intrigued him, and that was rare. What if, despite the obstacles—

      Walk away now, the sane part of his brain said. This is not a woman for you. Which was true. He shook his head ruefully and stepped through the door, only just reining in the impulse to turn back for one final look over his shoulder at Dr. Della Walsh.

Two

      Less than an hour later, Della rushed along a carpeted corridor to the boardroom where Patrick Marlow’s will was probably already being read. She hated being late. Hated it. Being late meant drawing attention to herself and that made her uncomfortable anytime. And this was such an important occasion.

      The life of a shipboard doctor wasn’t frantic like a medical career based in a hospital, but occasionally there would be a run of patients. Just after Luke had left the clinic, they’d had a minor influx of passengers returning early from shore—a child with a bee sting, another with a twisted wrist after a fall, a young woman with a migraine and a man with a bad case of sunburn. She couldn’t have left them all to Cal.

      She flicked a glance at her watch. Only three minutes past two—hopefully people were still taking their seats. Arriving late to Patrick’s will reading seemed disrespectful, and the thought made her skin prickle.

      Gently pushing open the door, she let out a breath—although people were seated, there was still murmuring as the short, gray-haired man at the front table shuffled papers on his desk. Most chairs were taken, but she was relieved to see a vacant aisle seat in the back row. She slipped in and greeted the woman beside her.

      “Have I missed anything?” Della whispered.

      “No,” Jackie said. “He just asked everyone to take their seats. It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it? I still can’t believe Patrick’s gone, let alone that we’re all sitting around to talk about his money.” Jackie ran the housekeeping department and had been friends with the ship’s owner, as had many of the senior staff.

      Tears stung the back of her eyes but Della blinked them away. “Even knowing how sick he was at the end, part of me kept believing he’d pull through.”

      “Well, he thought he’d pull through,” Jackie said, shaking her head, her smile a bittersweet mix of admiration and sadness. “He was still making plans the last time I saw him.”

      Breath tight in her lungs, Della had to pause before her voice would work. “Determination and optimism were probably what kept him going longer than his specialists expected.”

      “You were a big part of that, too, Della.” Jackie took her hand and squeezed, and Della appreciated the warmth, the solidarity. “We all know the long hours you put in with him, going above and beyond. The way you devoted yourself to making sure he was as comfortable as he could be. And Patrick knew it, too. He sang your praises whenever he could, told us he was indebted to you.”

      Della managed something of a crooked smile, but this time her constricted chest wouldn’t let her reply. Thankfully, the man at the front of the room cleared his throat and introduced himself as Patrick Marlow’s lawyer and executor of his will.

      As he spoke, Della’s gaze drifted to Luke Marlow, also in an aisle seat, but in the front row beside the captain. His back was tall and straight in the chair and, just as when she’d first seen him when she was boarding a few hours ago, she found it difficult to drag her attention away. There was something magnetic about that man.

      Then he slowly turned and searched the crowd before his gaze landed on her. A shiver of tingles ran down her spine. His head dipped in acknowledgment, and she nodded back, before he turned to the front again. Della tucked a curl behind her ear and tried to put Luke Marlow from her mind as best she could. She was here for Patrick.

      The executor had finished his preamble and come to the division of assets. He’d left a collection of rare and first edition books to his sister-in-law, Luke’s mother, who, the executor noted, hadn’t been able to attend; he left some personal effects such as cuff links and a tie clip to various members of staff.

      “Regarding the ownership of the cruise ship, the Cora Mae...” The executor paused for a muffled cough and darted a quick glance around. “I leave a one-half share to my nephew, Luke Marlow.”

      The room was silent for the longest beat as though everyone was too shocked to move. Then a wave of murmuring washed over the small crowd.

      Luke had inherited one half? As Della struggled to make sense of the phrase, her gaze flew to Luke. He sat very straight, very still.

      One half meant...there was someone else. She could feel the sudden wariness of every crew member present—if their future had seemed uncertain five minutes ago, it was now even more unpredictable. She ran through Patrick’s stories of his family in her mind for possibilities, scanned the rigid bodies sitting in the front row. Although their tension was nothing compared to that emanating from Luke as he sat motionless, waiting, focused.

      “The other one-half share,” the executor continued, “I leave to Dr. Della Walsh.”

      What? Her heart skidded to a halt then leaped to life again, thumping hard in her chest, each beat a painful hammer in her ears. Oh, God.

      Surely there was a mistake. She replayed the words in her head, looking for where she’d misunderstood, but found nothing. What had Patrick done?

      People turned in their seats to face her, some with mouths open, others with confused frowns, a few whispering her name in incredulous voices.

      Even through the bewilderment, the irony struck her—despite rushing and managing to arrive before the proceedings had begun, every pair of eyes in the room was on her, after all. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose up, then died again when Luke pinned her with fierce gray eyes.

      She leaned back against the chair, away from the force of his unspoken accusation. Abruptly, he stood and the crowd’s attention switched to him. Her skin went cold as he stalked down the aisle then stopped to loom over her.

      “Dr. Walsh,” he said through a tight