Blue Clouds (9 page)

That was all it took to make her realize she stood in his stylish mansion, in his impressive suite of rooms, wearing nothing but a dripping bathing suit. Unaccustomed to that kind of awareness of herself, Pippa debated turning around. Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away.

Not bloody likely. Grabbing her polyester nightshirt, the one that imitated silk, she jerked it over her head, blessing Meg for making her buy it. Setting her jaw, she swung around.

She could see rage in the way Seth's black brows pulled together in a straight line and his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscle jerked over strong cheekbones. She couldn't imagine why he was here unless he meant to dismember her personally and ship her back to town inside her suitcase. But he clung to the doorknob as if it were a life raft and remained where he was.

“What do you mean,
child abuse
?” he roared.

Pippa blinked. She couldn't remember throwing that particular insult, but she supposed she might have. She'd been too angry to think clearly. As he was now. Warily, she threw open another drawer and removed her new collection of shorts. She'd sent for her old clothes. She wondered what would happen if they showed up on Seth's doorstep long after she was gone.

“People who tie their children to beds and don't let them out of the house are child abusers. They're arrested in any state that I know of,” she informed him coolly.

“That's ridiculous!” His roar should have rattled the windows, but they had obviously been built for men like Wyatt. Not a single pane shivered. “He has a chair. He isn't tied to the bed. I had the house remodeled for the chair. Where in hell else would he go that he can't get there with the chair'.'”

Pippa stopped and stared at him. “Is that really what you think? That he has everything he needs right here in this house? Where did you grow up, Mr. Wyatt? Inside a computer?”

“I grew up here! It's a perfectly normal home. If it was good enough for me...”

She shook her head. “...it's good enough for your son. And here I thought California had progressive thinkers. You make me feel right at home. Go away, Mr. Wyatt. I've got to get dressed if I'm leaving here in half an hour.”

“If Natalie is paying you to spy on me and tell the court that I'm abusing Chad, so help me, I swear I'll see you never work again in any state in this country!”

This was well beyond her patience or ability to understand. Pinching her eyebrows together in an effort to quell the headache that threatened, Pippa said politely, “I have no idea what you're talking about, and right about now, I don't care. I just want out of this madhouse before I make a bigger fool of myself. Leave me alone so I can go in peace.”

“The devil if I let you go so you can take my son away from me! Whatever she's paying you, I'll pay you more. Just tell me what the hell you mean about child abuse. I've given Chad everything I know how to give. What else can I possibly do?”

Somewhere behind the roars of rage Pippa thought she actually detected a note of pain. Surprised, she glanced at the man in the doorway again. He still looked like the Grim Reaper, like an iron man untouched by any human emotion except anger. She must have imagined the plea in his voice because she wanted to hear it. He was just seeking some means of controlling her or his son or the person called Natalie. She knew better than to fall for those tactics. Still, if there were any chance...

“If you won't listen to me, then take your son to doctors familiar with wheelchair-bound patients. They'll tell you he needs interaction with other kids his age, that he needs physical activity suiting his age group. He's a growing boy, and he needs stimulation you cannot provide in this mausoleum. You are doing him no favor by sheltering him from the slings and arrows of real life. Would you like to yell at me some more so you don't have to listen to what I'm saying?”

She could see his tension as he squeezed the door frame. She hadn't been as polite as she could have been. She had thought him impervious to pain, but anguish flickered in his eyes. She turned away so she wouldn't see it again.

“Chad's doctor says he is too frail for crowds. Exposure to a variety of germs would almost certainly make him ill, and he hasn't the strength for fighting it. Are you telling me you know more than his doctor?”

“I'm telling you that doctors come in a variety of capabilities. Doctors are not gods. If you'd like, I can call the physicians I know in Kentucky and ask for recommendations out here. Always get second opinions.”

Still unable to look at him, Pippa straightened the contents of the suitcase. She remembered having this struggle when her mother first became ill. Had her mother gone to a competent physician in the first place, the cancer might not have advanced as far as it had. But her mother insisted on going to the doctor she'd gone to most of her life. Loyalty had its place, but not when it came to a person's health. Pippa would like to scream that at the stubborn man behind her, but it wasn't her business.

“Chad's doctor saved his life. If I can't trust him, I couldn't trust any other.”

“How old was Chad when this doctor saved his life?” she asked wearily. She didn't want this to hurt so much, but that frail boy needed a guardian angel.

“Barely nine months.”

She heard the pain this time, the agony just below the surface, and it ground into her, as it always did. She'd gone into hospital administration for just this reason. Tightening her lips, she searched for a suitable reply.

“An infant of nine months is very different from a child of six. A physician who has the capacity for life-giving surgery is not necessarily a physician who understands a patient's needs outside the operating room.”

She didn't want to lecture, but she figured she only had this one chance to make him see. “Wellness is affected by emotional health as well as physical health. You may be protecting Chad from physical illness but not emotional illness. He shouldn't be getting colds sitting around here where he's scarcely exposed to any germs at all, but he does. This isn't necessarily because his health is delicate but because his mental and emotional health is depressed. Don't rely on my advice. Find a new physician and ask him.”

Seth's silence forced her to look at him. The fury had finally seeped from his face. Briefly, he looked like a heartbroken father, until he saw her glance. Then he stiffened and went cold again. “Get me those recommendations. Then get dressed and down to the office. The blasted phone has been ringing off the hook all day.”

He swung around and walked away.

Pippa stared at the place where Seth had stood not seconds before. Had she imagined that last command? And if she hadn't, did she want to obey it? Who in their right mind would continue working in a madhouse like this?

Someone as insane as the inmates. Giving her suitcase a look of resignation, Pippa opened the nearly empty closet in search of a suitable working dress.

Still making notes, Pippa set the receiver back on the hook, underlined a name on the list beneath her hand, and sat back to take a breath. The phone rang again.

She eyed the jangling machine with disfavor. Sleek, black, and sporting half a dozen buttons, it epitomized the efficient monstrosity of Seth Wyatt's operations. One line related to his printing businesses, another to the publishing houses, still another seemed designated for the editors, agents, and whatnot for his writing career. She'd become quite proficient with the hold button while manipulating those three lines. The last two unmarked buttons hadn't blinked once since she'd sat down. One of them was blinking now.

Shoving a strand of hair back, Pippa answered, “Wyatt Enterprises.” She had no instructions for this line, and Wyatt had expressly told her he didn't want to be disturbed for anything short of a spurting jugular.

“Seth? Where is Seth?” a woman's irritable voice demanded. “Is this Miss MacGregor? Let me talk with my son.”

Son
. Uh-oh. Family line, Pippa concluded.

Her next thought was one of amazement. The Grim Reaper had a mother. Unbelievable. Actually, if she thought about it, this one sounded every bit as impossible and annoying as Wyatt. And years of experience had taught her a great deal about voices.

“This is Phillippa Cochran. Mrs. Wyatt?” She ended on a questioning note. In this day and age of multiple divorce and marriage, one could never be certain.

“Where is Miss MacGregor? I want to speak with my son, Miss Cochran. Put him on now.” A hacking cough followed this command.

Double uh-oh
. The maniac gardener's words as he rammed the BMW into the oak were strangely comforting, if not prophetic.
Uh-oh
covered it all. The lady already sounded furious. What did she do now?

Remembering an uncle who had only called when angry, upsetting her mother often during her illness, Pippa chose the tactic that worked best on him. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Wyatt, he isn't available at the moment. Could I have him call you back?”

“I know perfectly well he's sitting right there working on one of his wretched books, Miss Cochran. If you don't put me through to him right now, I'll have you fired. My son always takes my calls.”

Well, the lady wasn't dumb, at least. Pippa was beginning to understand where her employer had garnered some of his bad habits. Double checking her list of callers Wyatt would accept and finding his mother nowhere among the honored, Pippa clucked her tongue against her teeth and grinned. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I've already been fired three times since my arrival, Mrs. Wyatt. I suspect I'll withstand another firing. I'll be happy to pass on your message when he becomes available. Or is there anything I can help you with in the meantime?”

“Miss MacGregor always puts me through.” The imperious voice developed a distinct whine. “What has this world come to if a mother can't talk with her own son?”

Pippa tipped her chair back, stared at the elegantly carved wooden ceiling, and wondered if her job description included counseling lonely mothers. “Well, Mrs. Wyatt, you know,” she drawled, stalling for an effective reply, “my mother never called me at work unless it was an emergency. She respected my need to do the best job possible while I worked, God bless her soul.”

Silence.

Pippa chewed the eraser tip of her pencil and listened to the rapid clacking of computer keys from behind Seth's closed office door. He wrote his manuscripts in longhand. She wondered what he was doing if not writing. As she sat patiently waiting for the next bombshell to explode, she knew better than to think he would appreciate this little conversation she was having with his mother. She ought to get combat pay for working in his household.

“Your mother is dead, Miss Cochran?”

Her smoker's sandpaper voice wasn't much better than her whining one. Sighing, Pippa returned her feet to the floor. “Yes, she died this past year. She taught me a great deal about life, and I try to follow her maxims every day. ‘Smile and keep your chin up, Pippa,' she used to say. ‘Stand on your own two feet and you'll never have to beg,' she told me. My mother was a very wise woman. Is there anything I can help you with, Mrs. Wyatt?”

“Just exactly who are you, Miss Cochran?”

Ha, at least imperiousness had replaced whimpering and whining. Pippa smiled at this progress. “I'm Mr. Wyatt's temporary assistant while Miss MacGregor is on leave of absence.”

The silence following her declaration was shorter than the earlier one. “Have Wyatt send a car for me. I think I'm overdue for a visit.”

Pippa wrinkled her nose in dismay. She had the distinct notion Wyatt would not be pleased with this development. “Of course, Mrs. Wyatt,” she purred, thinking rapidly. “Chad will be delighted to see you, I'm certain. He has a cold and he's quite bored while confined to his room. Mr. Wyatt is on deadline and doesn't have much time…”

“Forget the car.” Abruptly, she changed her tune. “Simply tell my son that Natalie is on the warpath again. That should have him calling me.”

The phone slammed in her ear. Charming family, Pippa observed, hanging up the receiver. From the way her employer had said the name
Natalie
earlier, she could assume his mother was quite correct. The invisible Natalie invoked violent emotion in Pippa's already volatile employer. She wondered if Seth Wyatt ever experienced emotions of a pleasant nature.

Even his sexual innuendoes—if that was what they were—had contained more insult and anger than pleasure or anticipation. She would have slapped any other man silly for his offer of money, but for some reason, Seth's insult had seemed aimed at himself as much as at her. She hadn't encountered that degree of self-loathing before.

Deciding her job didn't include psychoanalysis of her rigid employer, Pippa picked up the list of names and numbers she had compiled before Mrs. Wyatt interfered. She nibbled on the pencil, glanced at the closed door, and decisively picked up the receiver and punched out the first number. For the kind of money Wyatt paid her, she would be the best damned self- directed administrative assistant in the country.

Half an hour later, with the information she needed and a faxed parental consent form in hand, Pippa penciled in the appointment on her calendar, underlined the doctor's name, and smiled with satisfaction at a job well done.