The Wilders: Falling for the M.D.. Teresa Southwick

surprised. He hadn’t mentioned that his grandfather had been a doctor.

      When it became clear that he was going to be a stumbling block, she’d made it her mission to learn as much as she could about Peter Wilder. She liked to know what she was dealing with. With the possible exception of when he’d just kissed her, she really didn’t like surprises. “I like being thorough—”

      He was quick to feed her words back to her. “So do I, that’s my point.”

      He was fast when he wanted to be, she’d give him that, Bethany thought. But she was just as sharp, if not sharper. “And my point is that medicine has made an awful lot of wonderful strides and breakthroughs in the last couple of decades, things your grandfather wouldn’t have dreamed of.”

      He broke off a piece of the Danish. Glazed sugar drizzled down from his fingers just before he popped the piece into his mouth. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to see where she was going with this. “And you’re saying these breakthroughs wouldn’t have been possible without the backing of conglomerates like NHC.”

      He noticed that there was a small, triumphant toss of her head accompanying the single enthusiastic word. “Exactly.” Before he could respond, she held up her hand, stopping what she knew was going to be an onslaught of information.

      “I’m not saying that medicine was in the Dark Ages before managed care came along, but you have to admit that progress has definitely sped up since it came on the scene. By operating efficiently, HMOs like NHC can fund research projects, secure the latest equipment for their clinics and hospitals—”

      Peter cut in, feeling that he knew a little more about that situation than she did, no matter what she professed to the contrary. “Equipment that a physician has to plead with the powers that be to use because usage is so expensive,” he reminded her.

      She looked down at the pastry in her fingers, uncomfortable with the fact he’d just tossed at her. She couldn’t, in good conscience, tell him he was wrong. “Sometimes,” she conceded.

      “A lot of times,” Peter countered. Placing his hand on hers, he claimed another small piece of the pastry.

      Bethany drew back her hand self-consciously. “Look, I—”

      He’d had enough of this confounding dance during work hours. Right now, all he wanted was to share a cup of coffee and a few unnecessary calories with a woman who, heaven help him, stirred him in a way he hadn’t been stirred in a very long time.

      “Bethany,” he began quietly, his eyes pinning hers, “why don’t we just call a truce for now and enjoy our coffee?”

      Why did that make her more nervous than discussing the takeover? She tried to bank down the odd flutter in her stomach. “And talk about what? The weather?”

      He laughed in response and looked out the window that faced the parking lot. It had started snowing again. “Beats being out in it.”

      She followed his gaze and groaned. She could feel her feet getting cold already. “Well, we’ll have to be soon enough.”

      But right now, they were warm and dry. “Do you always take the pessimistic view of everything?”

      “It’s not pessimistic,” she informed him, her chin raising defensively. “It’s realistic.”

      She was an overachiever, he thought. An overachiever used to being in charge. But somewhere along the line, the woman had obviously forgotten the reason she was trying so hard. She’d gotten caught up in the race and forgotten the reason.

      He studied her thoughtfully, peering at her over his coffee cup. “I bet you got straight A’s in school.”

      Where had that come from? “Not that it has anything to do with anything, but yes, I did.”

      It had a lot to do with things, Peter thought. It told him the kind of person she was. Determined. Relentless. And probably very hard on herself if she fell short.

      “Your parents must have been really proud.”

      She made a small, disparaging sound. “If they were, they never let on.” She saw the interest that instantly entered his eyes and silently chastised herself. What was she thinking, letting that slip out?

      “They were too busy to notice?” he asked.

      She bristled at the sympathy she heard in his voice. God, but she didn’t want any pity from him. She’d done just fine. Successful people didn’t need pity.

      “They had—have,” she corrected herself, “important positions. There was a lot of demand on their time,” she explained. She was making excuses for her parents, she realized. The words felt awkward in her mouth. “They were trying to give my sister and me a quality life.”

      Peter read between the lines. It wasn’t that uncommon a story. “And they wound up skimping on the quantity, didn’t they?” he guessed.

      He saw her squaring her shoulders and wondered if she was conscious of the action. Was she gearing up for a fight?

      “We had the best education, a beautiful penthouse apartment, everything we could ask for,” she said proudly.

      “Bedtime stories?”

      Her mind came to a skidding halt. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. “What?”

      “Bedtime stories,” he repeated, breaking off yet another piece from the swiftly dwindling pastry. The portion that was left was small. He pushed the plate toward her. “Did your parents read you and your sister bedtime stories?”

      “No.” They were rarely home when she and her sister were young. “I didn’t need bedtime stories,” she informed him, then finished the last of the Danish.

      “Every child needs that,” he said with gentle authority.

      She sighed. He was making her feel as if she had been denied something important. She didn’t like being made to feel that way. “Is that what you want to do, Peter?” she asked sarcastically. “Read your patients bedtime stories?”

      He smiled and shook his head. “No, I can bond without that.” Taking a napkin, he wiped his fingers carefully as he regarded her with interest. “Do you see her often?”

      She needed a map to keep track of this conversation. “Who?”

      “Your sister.”

      “Belinda? No,” she replied, “not often.” Bethany could see that Wilder was going to push this. She nipped it in the bud. “She’s living in London, has been for three years.” She shrugged slightly. “Some fantastic job for an international banking firm.” And their parents were proud of her, she added silently. Belinda had been the older one, the one who did things first. Anything Bethany achieved had to be bigger and better or it wouldn’t be noticed.

      But she’d made her peace with that, she insisted silently. Right?

      “So your sister has an MBA, too.”

      “From Yale,” she told him. That trumped hers from Princeton. The thought always rose in her mind when she told anyone about her sister. Needing to take out her frustrations on someone, she glared at Peter. “You make it sound as if getting an MBA is like coming down with some kind of a disease.”

      That wasn’t his doing—she’d come up with that all on her own, he thought. “Only if the degree robs you of your sense of humanity.”

      She shook her head. “Tell me, do you leave your halo and wings in your office, or do you take them home every night so you can polish them?”

      The woman was working up a full head of steam, he thought. The best defense was a good offense. It was one of the rare sports analogies that he was familiar with.

      The cell phone belonging to the man at the far end of the floor rang as if on cue. Peter smiled. “I think we’re supposed to go back to our corners, now.”