The MacGregor Brides (13 page)

Children tend to become surly at what they mistakenly see as meddling. Tending is what it is, and make no mistake.

And on that perfect spring day, I stood and watched Caine grin, chuckled to myself as he exchanged manly backslaps with his new son-in-law, even dashed a stray tear from my own eye when Ian, as brother of the bride, made a toast to the new bride and groom.

Oh, a happy day it was for the Clan MacGregor.

My work there is done. Laura and Royce will be happy, and they’d best be seeing about giving their grandmother new babies to bounce on her knee. Anna is already fretting for a great-grandchild.

Now I can turn my attention to my sweet Gwen. Pretty as a princess is my Gwen, with a strong spine, a serious nature and a romantic heart. And a brain? God love her, the child is bright as the sun. Still, she’s like her grandmother and doesn’t see that she needs a man beside her, children to bring her joy.

So it’s up to me to see that she has the right man, a man of substance. I’ve already picked him out for her. Good solid stock. He has a good mind, a fine heart. I’d settle for nothing less for Gwen—and be damned if I’d let her settle for any man who didn’t measure up.

This will take a bit of time, but I’ve time yet. A man who’s lived as long as I knows all about choosing his moments. I can be patient. I’ll take a few months to lay the groundwork. I’m a man who appreciates the importance of a good, strong foundation when you intend to build something that will last.

I’ll wager my Gwen will be planning her own wedding by Christmastime. And I won’t ask for any thanks there, either. No, no thanks will be necessary. I look after my own.

But I wouldn’t have to if they’d look after themselves.

Part Two
Gwendolyn

“On three. One, two, three.” Gwen and the emergency room team lifted the two-hundred-pound man from gurney to table. Well trained, they moved in sync, almost a blur of motion as she called out orders.

“Intubate him, Miss Clipper.” Gwen knew the fourth-year medical student was eager and had good hands. But she watched those hands in training as they worked, while the head trauma nurse cut away the bloody, tattered jeans of the unconscious man.

She watched, and assessed the patient, storing his vital signs in her mind, relaying orders to the others, while her own hands worked swiftly. “Motorcycles,” she muttered. “Hello, death.”

“At least he was wearing a helmet.” Audrey Clipper let out a short breath as the tube slid in. “Intubated.”

“He should have been wearing body armor. Let’s get blood gases, toxicology. Smells like he’d been partying.” Gwen adjusted her protective goggles and went to work on the leg.

She had to work fast, but her hands and her mind were cold and steady. The gash on the left leg ran from ankle to knee, exposing bone. And the bone had snapped clean. It was her job to piece the patient back together and get him up to surgery. Quickly, efficiently. And alive.

From the next room, a woman continued to scream and sob, calling out for Johnny over and over in a voice pitched to shatter eardrums.

“This Johnny?” Gwen asked, flicking a glance through the glass that separated the two treatment rooms.

“John Petreski, age twenty-two,” one of the orderlies informed her.

“Okay, we’ll make sure he can dance at his next birthday. Lynn, call up to the O.R., tell them what we’ve got coming up. Fyne, take over here while I check on the screamer in room two.”

She swung out through the connecting doors, stripping off gown and gloves. “Status,” she snapped out while she yanked on fresh protective gear.

“Contusions, lacerations. We’re waiting for pictures. Dislocated shoulder.” The resident had to pitch his voice over the woman’s hysterical screams.

“What’s her name?”

“Tina Bell.”

“Tina.” Gwen leaned over until her face dominated the hysterical woman’s vision. “Tina, you have to calm down. You have to let us help you.”

“Johnny. Johnny’s dead.”

“No, he’s not.” She didn’t wince when the young woman grabbed her hand and squeezed, bone against bone. But she wanted to. “He’s going up to surgery. We’re taking care of him.”

“He’s hurt, he’s hurt real bad.”

“He’s hurt, and we’re going to take care of him. You have to help me out here, Tina. How much had he been drinking?”

“Just a couple beers.” Tears leaked out of Tina’s eyes, to mix with street grime and sweat. “Johnny!”

“Just a couple? We need to know so we can treat him properly.”

“Maybe six or seven, I don’t know. Who was counting?”

Gwen didn’t bother to sigh. “Drugs? Come on, Tina.”

“We shared a couple of joints. Just a couple. Johnny!”

Through the glass panel of the door, Branson Maguire watched what he thought of as a ballet. Motion, teamwork, costumes and lights. And the strongest light, he decided, was on the delicate blonde in the incredibly ugly pea green scrubs and clear plastic gown.

He couldn’t see her eyes. The wide protective goggles covered them, and half her face, as well. Still, he knew what she looked like, Dr. Gwendolyn Blade, heiress, prodigy, daughter of a part-Comanche gambler and another prodigy heiress. A MacGregor.

He’d seen Gwen’s picture in newspapers, in tabloids, on television, during her uncle’s years of campaigning and the eight years he’d lived in the most important house in the country. He’d seen her photograph, crammed with other faces on the massive desk of her grandfather, Daniel MacGregor, builder of empires.

Though Branson considered himself to be a keen observer, he hadn’t expected her to be so … slight, he decided. She looked as though she should be wearing gossamer and granting wishes, not encased in a blood-smeared tent and fighting to save lives.

She moved like a dancer, he mused. Her gestures filled with personal grace, effort and efficiency. Her hair, somewhere between red and gold under the bright lights, was gamine-short, with spiky bangs across the forehead. For style, he wondered, or practicality?

It would be interesting to find out.

He stood where he was, hands comfortably in the pockets of stone-gray chinos, and watched her, watched everything. It was one of his finest skills, this watching. And he didn’t mind waiting for whatever happened next.

Gwen noticed him—the face behind the glass. Dark blond hair that fell to the collar of a navy crewneck sweater. Cool gray eyes that rarely seemed to blink, an unsmiling mouth.

He made a statement just by existing, but she didn’t have time to wonder, or to give him more than a passing thought.

But when she had both her patients stabilized, through the door and on their way to treatment, he was still there. She had to pull up short when he blocked her way.

“Dr. Blade? Gwendolyn Blade.”

He smiled now, just a quick, crooked lift of lips. And she saw she’d been wrong. The eyes weren’t cool, but smoky-warm, like his voice.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“That’s the idea. I’m Branson Maguire.”

She took the hand he offered automatically, had hers squeezed and held. “Yes?”

“Ouch.” His grin was both charming and self-deprecating. “There goes my ego. I guess you don’t have a lot of time to read.”

She was tired, and wanted five minutes to sit down and fuel up with coffee. And she wanted her hand back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Maguire, I don’t—” Even as she tugged her hand free, she placed the name. “Oh, yes, Detective Matt Scully, Boston P.D. I have read your books. You’ve created an interesting character.”

“Scully’s doing a good job for me.”

“I’m sure he is. I don’t have time to discuss popular fiction just now. So if you’ll—”

“They’re lavender.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your eyes.” His stayed steady and focused in what would have been a rude stare in another man. In him it merely appeared a natural state. “I’d wondered if it was just a trick of the light. But they’re not blue, they’re lavender.”

Prickles of irritation scraped at the back of her neck. “It says blue on my driver’s license. Now, as I said, I’m a little pressed for time.”

“Isn’t your shift over at two? It’s nearly three.”

The temperature dropped as she drew back—an automatic defense for a woman who, due to family, had lived most of her life in the spotlight. “Why would you know my schedule?”

Not just ice, he thought, impressed. Sharp, jagged ice. This pixie could grow fangs. “Ah, I take it you weren’t expecting me?”

“No, should I have been?” She glanced back as Tina was wheeled out.

“Doctor. Doctor. I want to see Johnny. I have to see Johnny.”

“Excuse me.” She turned her back on Branson and walked over.

All he heard was the tone, the way that frosty voice immediately warmed and soothed. The young woman on the gurney subsided into muffled sobs and nodded.

“Nice bedside manner, Doc,” Branson commented when she approached him again.

“You were saying I should have been expecting you this morning?”

“Your grandfather told me he’d set it up.”

“Set it up?” And because she was tired, she closed her eyes. “I need coffee,” she muttered. “Come with me.”

With a swing of her lab coat, she turned and marched down the hallway. She bore left, shoved through a door and into the lounge. Branson looked everywhere, noting, filing in his mind the dull colors, the cheap chairs, the stingy lockers, the noisily humming refrigerator, the smell of stale coffee that didn’t quite mask the underlying stench of hospital.

“Cozy.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“Sure. Black.”

She took a pot from the warmer, filled two insulated cups. And, because she knew just what the filth disguised as coffee tasted like, added a heap of sugar to her own.

Branson sampled the cup she gave him and shuddered. “Good thing I’m in a hospital. You pump stomachs, right?”

“It’s one of my greatest joys. I need to sit down.” She did so, crossed her legs and tried to wiggle her toes inside her flat, practical shoes. “Look, Mr. Maguire.”

“Bran.”

“Look,” she repeated, “I’m sorry you were misled. My grandfather is … well, he is what he is.”

“He’s the most incredible man I’ve ever met.”

She had to smile at that, and it warmed her eyes as he sat on the threadbare sofa beside her. “Yes, he’s an incredible man. He is also set in his ways, in his methods and in his goals. I’m sure you’re very nice, and as I said, I enjoy your work. But I’m just not interested.”

“Uh-huh.” He risked another swallow of coffee. “In what, exactly?”

“In being set up.” She skimmed long, slender and unpainted fingertips through her hair. “Grandpa doesn’t think I give enough attention to my social life, but I give it the attention I believe it warrants.
Dating just isn’t very high on my list right now.”

“Oh?” Intrigued, Branson lifted a brow and settled back comfortably in the corner of the couch. The shadows under her eyes nearly matched the fascinating color of the irises, and made her seem as delicate and appealing as spun glass. “Why?”

“Because I’m a second-year surgical resident and I have other priorities. And because,” she added with a snap, “I don’t choose to date men my grandfather has hand-selected for me. And you don’t look like the type who needs a ninety-one-year-old man to set you up with women.”

“Maybe that was a compliment,” Branson said after a moment. “I think that was a compliment, so thanks.” Then he grinned, a lightning flash of humor that had a dimple winking at the corner of his mouth. “I wasn’t planning to ask you out, but now I’m going to have to. Just to soothe my ego.”

“You weren’t—” She drew in a breath, struggled to adjust. Her brain was starting to shut down, she realized. The double shift was catching up with her. “What are you doing here?”

“Research.” He smiled again, charmingly. “At least that’s the plan. I’m starting a book—I need some hospital and medical data, some background, some atmosphere. Color and buzzwords and rhythm, that kind of thing. Daniel said you’d help me out, let me hang around for a couple weeks, play things off you, annoy you with questions.”

“I see.” She let her head rest against the back of the couch, let her eyes close. “Well, this is embarrassing.”

“I think it’s great. So, how about it? You want to go out with me, get some decent coffee, have sex, get married, have three kids, buy a big house and an ugly dog?”

She opened one eye and nearly smiled again. “No, thanks.”

“Okay, you don’t want the coffee. I’m flexible. But I still want sex before we get married. I’m firm on that.”

She did smile, let out a weary sigh. “Are you trying to make me feel better, or more ridiculous?”

“Either way.” He set the coffee down. The caffeine kick just wasn’t worth the loss of stomach lining. “You’re beautiful, Gwendolyn. I’m telling you that so if I end up hitting on you, you won’t think it’s because I’m trying to score points with the old man.”

Her smile remained in place, but sharpened like a scalpel. “Men who try to hit on me often end up requiring medical treatment. I’m telling you that in case you need to renew your insurance.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “Okay. How about the research assistance? I observe in the E.R. a few weeks, keep out of everybody’s hair. I ask questions when it’s convenient for you and the staff. I run certain angles I hope to use for the story by you. You’re free to shoot them down, to suggest how they can be adjusted to ring true.”

She wanted a pillow, a blanket and a nice, dark room. “You’re free to observe. Even if I objected, you could go over my head—which you already, in essence, have. My grandparents have a lot of influence with the administration of the hospital.”

“If you don’t want to cooperate, I can go to another hospital. There are plenty of them in Boston.”

“I’m being rude. I’m tired.” She lifted her hands to rub at her temples and struggled to adjust her mood. It wasn’t his fault he’d caught her at the end of a particularly hideous day. “I don’t have a problem giving you a hand with your research—as long as you don’t get in my way or anyone else’s in the E.R. I’ll answer your questions when I have time, and instruct the staff on my shifts to cooperate with you—when they have the time.”

“I appreciate it. And if, after we’re done, I ask you out to dinner or buy you a small, tasteful gift to show that appreciation, are you going to hurt me?”