Irene Hannon - The Doctor's Perfect Match

In other words, Marci Clay was the kind of woman who would catch any man’s eye.

But perhaps not for the right reasons, Christopher acknowledged. And her reaction to his appreciative perusal Saturday night indicated she knew that.

Her eyelids fluttered open, propelling him forward. If she caught him staring again, he suspected she’d hustle him out the door faster than a sand crab could scuttle back to its hole.

That suspicion was confirmed by the wariness in her deep green irises as he approached. While he couldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that sparked in their depths as he pulled up a chair beside her, he did his best to ignore them.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he withdrew a disposable thermometer from his bag and tore off the wrapping. “Open up. We’ll have a reading in sixty seconds.”

He slid it under her tongue, and as they waited he took her wrist to check her pulse. Strong, if a bit fast. No problem there. He was more concerned about the subtle tremors beneath his fingertips. They could be due to weakness. More likely, though, they were fever-related chills. From the heat seeping through his glove, he knew he wasn’t going to like her temperature.

Withdrawing the thermometer, he checked the reading. The number didn’t surprise him. “A hundred and two.”

She grimaced.

After slipping the thermometer into a small waste bag, he gave her his full attention. “Any idea what’s going on?”

She shook her head.

“When did this start?”

“Yesterday.”

“Anything hurt?”

“Throat.”

“Any other symptoms?”

Again she shook her head.

Withdrawing a tongue depressor and penlight from his bag, he scooted closer to her. “Let’s have a look.”

As she opened her mouth, he inserted the tongue depressor and flashed the light to the back of her throat. Swelling and severe inflammation. Depositing the depressor in the waste bag, he reached over to gently feel the lymph nodes in her neck. Puffy.

She winced and tried to pull away. “Hurts.”

“Sorry.” He let her go and leaned back. “I think we may be dealing with a case of strep throat.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, and he watched her lashes grow spiky with moisture.

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world.” To his surprise, the reassurance came out soft and husky. He cleared his throat. “You’ll be back on your feet in a few days with the right care.”

“I don’t have a few days.” She opened her eyes, blinking away the tears as she rasped out the shaky words.

He heard the panic in her voice and knew she was thinking about her duties at The Devon Rose.

“We’ll get you well as fast as we can, okay?”

“Wednesday?”

He’d have liked to say yes, but he couldn’t lie. “I doubt it.”

“When?”

“Why don’t we verify the strep diagnosis first?” Once more he turned to his bag, pulling out a small kit. “This is a rapid strep test. It will give us an answer in a few minutes. I see quite a few pediatric patients in my family practice, so I always have one of these with me. They come in handy, especially for the younger set. Not that you’re over the hill, by any means.” He smiled, trying to put her at ease as he set up the test.

The ploy didn’t work. She eyed his preparations and gestured toward the kit. “How much?”

It took a moment for him to grasp that she was asking the price of the test. As Edith had implied, money must be tight.

“I get free samples all the time. I try to pass that benefit on to my patients.” While that was true, this kit wasn’t a freebie. But she didn’t have to know that.

Without giving her a chance to pursue the subject, he instructed her to open her mouth again and proceeded to swipe her throat with a long cotton swab. When he finished, he dipped the swab in a solution and placed a few drops on a test strip.

“While we wait for the results, let’s assume it’s strep and talk about treatment.” He peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the waste bag. “Do you have any medicine allergies?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Let’s go with penicillin.” He started to pull a prescription pad out of his pocket.

“Won’t this…” She stopped. Swallowed. Winced. “Won’t this go away by itself?”

The money thing again, he realized.

“Yes. Usually in three to seven days.” Leaving the prescription pad in his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky, and it will be gone in three days.” She pulled her robe tighter as a shiver rippled through her.

“Maybe. But antibiotics shorten the time you’re contagious.”

“By how much?”

“Most people stop being contagious twenty-four to forty-eight hours after they begin treatment. Without the pills, you could pass germs for two to three weeks, even if your symptoms go away. Not the best scenario in a restaurant.”

As he checked the test strip, he tried to think of a diplomatic way to offer further assistance. Flipping it toward her, he indicated the test window. “Positive.”

She groaned, and her expression grew bleak.

Dropping the strip into the waste bag, he sealed the top. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a few samples of penicillin that will get you started.” He removed a packet of four pills from his bag and handed them to her. “On my way back from the hospital later, I’ll swing by my office and raid the sample closet. I think I can come up with enough to see you through. That way you won’t have to run out to a pharmacy to get a prescription filled and spread germs all over town. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for creating a public-health menace.” He tried another grin.

It didn’t work.

Marci fingered the sample packet, her manner once more wary. “I’m not in the habit of accepting favors.”

At her suspicious look, he concluded that other men who’d done favors for her had expected a payback.

The thought sickened him.

“No strings attached, okay?” He held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe that not all men were crass or untrustworthy.

She searched his eyes, and after a few seconds he detected an almost imperceptible softening in her features.

“Do you have any over-the-counter medicine in the house that will help with the fever? Aspirin, ibuprofen?” Picking up his bag, he rose.

She looked up at him from beneath those impossibly long lashes and nodded.

“Take them on a regular basis. Drink lots of water. Rest. I’ll leave the samples hanging on your doorknob after my shift in the E.R. That way I won’t disturb you if you’re resting.”

He headed toward the door, and she trailed behind him. Pausing on the threshold, he withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you feel worse, or things don’t improve by tomorrow, call me.”

A few seconds ticked by as she read the card. Blinked. Swallowed. Lifting her chin, she looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”

The expression of gratitude was delivered in a soft, shy tone that revealed an unexpected—and touching—vulnerability.

On Saturday night, he’d been drawn to her physical appearance. But right now he found her appealing in a different way. Although she was a little thing—a good eight or nine inches shorter than his six-foot frame, he estimated—she radiated a quiet strength and dignity that he sensed had been hard-earned. Marci Clay, he suspected was a survivor.

Yet that didn’t jibe with the air of defeat and distress he’d picked up from her on Saturday.

So perhaps he was misjudging her character—as he’d misjudged Denise’s.

That was a sobering thought.

Easing back a step, he gave her a brief, professional smile. “No problem. This is what being a doctor is supposed to be about. Now get some rest and take your medicine. You should feel much better by tomorrow. And if all goes well, I expect you can be back on the job by Thursday.”