Jessica Matthews - The Baby Doctor's Bride

‘Would you like me to assist?’ he asked, hoping she’d refuse.

Ivy positively beamed, and took a step forward. For a moment she wore such a supreme look of relief that he thought she might kiss him.

He wouldn’t have minded. In fact, just the possibility of feeling her lips against his sent blood rushing through his body. Having such a strong physical reaction on the basis of merely thinking about a kiss plainly indicated he’d been alone for too long.

Jessica Matthews’s interest in medicine began at a young age, and she nourished it with medical stories and hospital-based television programmes. After a stint as a teenage candy-striper, she pursued a career as a clinical laboratory scientist. When not writing or on duty, she fills her day with countless family and school-related activities. Jessica lives in the central United States, with her husband, daughter and son.

Recent titles by the same author:

THE ROYAL DOCTOR’S BRIDE

BY

JESSICA MATTHEWS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my family, whose unwavering support has been my inspiration .

CHAPTER ONE

DESPERATE times called for desperate measures.

Ivy Harris parked her SUV on the circular gravel driveway in front of the hunting lodge commonly known as the old Beckett place. For a moment she clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip as she studied her surroundings.

The rustic house, built to resemble a log cabin, was nestled in a shady grove of cottonwood and oak trees. According to her father, the building sat on the edge of three hundred and twenty acres of private land, teeming with deer, quail and turkeys, and was a popular rental property during the hunting season. But she didn’t care about the house or the land or the wildlife. She was only interested in the lodge’s current resident.

After inhaling a bracing breath for courage, she slid out from the behind the wheel. There was no sign of human life—no vehicles, open windows or tools scattered around the yard—and she wondered if today’s excursion was simply a wasted effort. But she’d come too far to jump to conclusions. If Ethan Locke wasn’t here now he would eventually return, and she would be waiting.

Provided he didn’t take longer than her scheduled lunch break.

Her trainers crunched eerily against the gravel as she tramped up the path toward the front concrete steps, conscious of the birds merrily chirping overhead and two squirrels playing tag in the uppermost branches. For an instant she chided herself for not taking time to spruce herself up a bit, in an effort to give a good first impression, but in the next she was glad she hadn’t. She hadn’t come to make a fashion statement, with her khaki trousers, the yellow tank top with its faint pink stains courtesy of a small patient’s cherry lollipop, and her tennis shoes. Looking like the frazzled physician she was, rather than a woman ready for an afternoon of tea parties and shopping, could only help her cause—or so she hoped.

Determined to be as eloquent and as convincing as possible, she pounded on the weathered screen door.

No one responded.

She tested the screen door and found it unlatched. This time she pounded on the inside door.

Still no answer.

Slowly she closed the screen door and glanced at her watch. She could stay another fifteen minutes, but any longer than that would throw off her schedule. If her afternoon passed like most of them had, she’d be working until well past dinner.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. She sat on the front step and stretched out her legs. Without warning, a tall, chocolate-brown-haired man in his late thirties rounded the corner of the cabin, carrying a fifty-pound bag of birdseed over his shoulder. In spite of his rather disreputable state—ragged denim jeans, stained T-shirt, tousled hair and unshaven face—his lean physique and muscled chest made him worthy of a second glance.

Considering how it had been ages since she’d given any man another look, she was surprised by how easily this one had momentarily made her forget her purpose for being there.

“Hi,” she said brightly, jumping to her feet.

He dropped the bag next to a bird feeder in the front yard with a thump and straightened. His storm-cloud-blue gaze was direct, and his straight nose, square jaw, and well-defined cheekbones formed a breathtakingly handsome face. “Hello,” he said, in a deep, pleasant voice. “I hope you’re not lost and looking for directions, because I haven’t lived here long enough to be helpful.”

“I’m not,” she assured him. “I’m here because I’m looking for Ethan Locke.”

Suspicion instantly replaced his welcoming smile. “What do you want with him?”

“It’s personal. Do you know where he is?”

He hesitated for several seconds, as if unwilling to answer. “I’m Ethan Locke,” he finally said.

Impossible. She’d been told the man was retired, so this had to be his son. “I’m looking for Dr . Ethan Locke,” she stressed as she walked toward his side.

“In the flesh,” he answered gruffly.

“ You’re Dr. Locke?” she asked, startled by his admission because she’d been expecting a much older man.

“Yeah, and who wants to know?”

The congenial man she’d first encountered had become a gruff, taciturn fellow. “Ivy Harris,” she said in her most friendly manner, although from his frown her effort was wasted. “I have to apologize,” she continued. “I’d been told you’d retired so I’d expected someone…”

“Gray-haired and walking with a cane?” he finished dryly.

Her face warmed. “Not quite. In any case,” she pressed on, “rumor says you’re a doctor. A pediatrician, in fact.”

“Not anymore. According to you I’m retired, remember?” He slit one corner of the bag with a utility knife, then began pouring birdseed into the feeder. “Did you want something in particular, or did you just drop by to interrupt my peaceful morning?”

For some reason referring to his profession had pressed one of his hot buttons, but she’d come too far to give up now. While she would have preferred to state her case with his undivided attention, she couldn’t demand he stop what he was doing when she had arrived unexpectedly and without an invitation. “I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” He paused to rake an insolent gaze along her full length. “I’m flattered, but I’d rather not spend my days in jail.”

Her face warmed with embarrassment in spite of the shade-cooled breeze. “Not that sort of proposition,” she said loftily. “A business proposition.”

“Doesn’t matter what sort it is. My answer is no.”

“But you haven’t heard the details. The least you can do is listen. Please?” Trying not to beg, she added, “It’s important.”

“It always is,” he mumbled, before he set the bag of seed on the ground, reattached the lid to the feeder, and strode toward the cabin’s front door. “I suppose you’d better come inside.”