Irene Hannon - The Doctor's Perfect Match

She closed the door with a soft click—but not before he caught a suspicious gleam in her eyes. And that was not his imagination.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how nice or how pretty Marci Clay was, he wasn’t interested.

Maybe someday he’d test the waters of romance again. Maybe. But during his two years living on Nantucket, he’d steered clear of all eligible women. And he didn’t intend to change course anytime in the near future.

No matter what Edith might be planning.

As the doorbell chimed for the third time, Marci groaned and rolled over.

Go away!

She wanted to shout out that order, but her throat hurt too much to talk, let alone yell. It felt as if someone had taken sandpaper to it. Besides, whoever was at the door probably wouldn’t hear her from her second-floor bedroom even if she could holler at full volume.

She’d fallen back asleep immediately after Edith’s phone call, so she had no clue how much time had elapsed. But based on the angle of the sun slanting through the sheer curtains, it was still early.

Too early for visitors.

Except this one didn’t seem to realize that, she concluded wearily as the bell chimed again. Nor did her persistent caller appear to have any intention of going away.

With a resigned sigh, she swung her legs to the floor and snagged the ratty velour bathrobe that had wrapped her in its fleecy warmth and comforted her through many a cold, lonely Chicago evening. Shrugging into it, she shuffled down the hall on unsteady legs and took the stairs one at a time, clinging to the banister.

Whoever had parked a finger against the doorbell was going to get an earful, she resolved, gritting her teeth.

Flipping the deadbolt, she tugged on the door and opened her mouth, prepared to give her visitor a piece of her mind.

But the words died in her throat as she came face-to-face with a tall, thirtyish man holding a black bag.

It was the preppy guy from the restaurant. The one who’d given her the blatant perusal.

She shut her mouth and stared.

He stared back.

When the silence lengthened, he cleared his throat. “Marci Clay?”

She gave a tiny nod.

“I’m Christopher Morgan. Edith called about me stopping by to…uh…check you out.” His face grew ruddy, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “She said you weren’t feeling well.”

The guy who’d ogled her legs was the doctor Edith had offered to send over? A shiver rippled through Marci, and she edged back.

“I’m okay.” She tightened her grip on the door and started to ease it closed. No way did she want this jerk anywhere near her.

“You don’t look okay.”

Given how she felt, she figured that was the understatement of the century.

“I asked Edith to tell you not to bother.” The words scraped painfully against her raw throat.

“And I told her this was your lucky day. Two house calls for the price of one.” The ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “You can’t pass up a bargain like that.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “No one does house calls anymore. Especially for free.”

“I do. On occasion.” He examined her flushed face. “What’s your temperature?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I haven’t looked for a thermometer yet.”

“I could save you the trouble. I have a disposable one in my bag.”

Marci studied the thin blue stripes on his white dress shirt as she debated her next move. She wasn’t keen about getting up close and personal with this guy, but if she wanted to fulfill her obligations at The Devon Rose she needed medical attention. And in light of her shaky finances and bare-bones health insurance, free sounded awfully good.

“Look…about Saturday night. I’m sorry I stared.”

Surprised he’d broached that subject—and taken aback by the apologetic tone in his baritone voice—she lifted her chin. And noticed several things she’d missed on Saturday. Eyes as blue as the Nantucket sea on a sunny day. Shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the heaviest of loads. A firm chin that conveyed strength and resolve. Light brown hair sprinkled with the merest hint of silver at the temples. And fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes that spoke of caring and compassion.

Her attitude toward him softened a fraction.

“I want you to know I’m not generally that rude.” His gaze held hers, steady and sincere. “My mother raised me to treat women with respect, and I didn’t do that Saturday night. Please forgive me.”

Was this guy for real? Marci scrutinized him for any sign of deceit, any indication that this was a standard line. And she’d heard plenty of those in her life. But unless this guy was a world-class actor, he meant what he’d said. He truly was sorry. And he hadn’t been too proud or arrogant or conceited to admit his mistake.

In other words, he was a gentleman.

Not a species she’d often run across in her world.

The question was, how did one deal with a man like this? She was far more used to tossing sassy comebacks at guys who flirted with her at Ronnie’s, where she often spent as much of her shift deflecting advances as she did taking orders and delivering food, than she was to accepting apologies from gentlemen.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. So why not let me make amends? I can check out your temperature, get a little history, maybe figure out what’s wrong. Edith tells me you’re planning to manage The Devon Rose for the next couple of weeks, and it’s obvious you’re in no shape to do that right now. Helping get you back on your feet is the least I can do after my faux pas on Saturday.”

Interesting how he’d positioned his assistance as a favor to him, Marci mused, leaning against the edge of the door as a sudden weariness swept over her. His offer sounded good, but there had to be a catch. There always was.

The man’s eyes narrowed, and instead of waiting for her to respond, he stepped in. Literally. Taking her arm in a firm but gentle grip, he edged her back into the spacious foyer, shut the door with his shoulder and led her to a straight chair beside the steps.

“Where can I wash my hands?”

She motioned toward the restroom in what had once been the butler’s pantry, unwilling to irritate her throat by speaking.

As he strode across the hardwood floor and disappeared through the dining room archway, she let her head drop back against the wall beneath the stairs that wound to the second floor. In general, high-handed men riled her. Yet despite his take-charge manner, Christopher Morgan came across as caring and competent rather than autocratic. Besides, she couldn’t afford to take offense. She needed to get well, and it would be foolish to pass up free medical help.

But if he pulled out a stethoscope and aimed for her chest, she intended to smack him.

Talk about weird coincidences.

As Christopher washed his hands, drying them on one of the disposable guest towels beside the sink in the rest room, he wondered what the odds were of crossing paths again with the woman in the restaurant.

They had to be minuscule.

Unless more than chance was involved.

So often in the past, occurrences he’d written off as coincidence had turned out, in retrospect, to be part of God’s plan for him. This could be one of them. Perhaps it was best to put the situation in the Lord’s hands.

As he approached the foyer, his shoes silent on the large Chinese area rug in the dining room, he saw that Marci’s head was resting against the wall, exposing the slender, delicate column of her throat. Her eyes were closed, the curve of her long lashes sweeping her cheeks in a graceful arc.

His step faltered. On Saturday, he’d been distracted by her great figure and fabulous legs, but today they were camouflaged by a worn, faded pink robe that covered her neck to toes—and directed his attention to her face. Her halo of blond hair softened a chin that was a tad too sharp, while well-defined cheekbones gave her features a slight angular appearance, adding a dash of character that kept her from being just another Kewpie-doll blonde. Full, appealing lips completed the picture.