Irene Hannon - The Doctor's Perfect Match

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

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

He headed toward the door, and she stood to trail 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, Doctor.”

The words, delivered in a soft, shy tone, revealed an unexpected…and touching…vulnerability.

Irene Hannon, who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels. Her books have been honored with the coveted RITA ®Award from Romance Writers of America (the “Oscar” of romantic fiction), the HOLT Medallion and the Reviewer’s Choice Award from RT Book Reviews.

A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time. In her spare time, she enjoys singing, traveling, long walks, cooking, gardening and spending time with family. She and her husband make their home in Missouri.

For more information about her and her books, Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of his calling.

—Ephesians 1:18

To Jo Ann Case—

My forever-young friend.

Happy 90th birthday!

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

The woman was crying.

Christopher Morgan gave the blonde at the dim corner table a discreet glance over the rim of his coffee cup. He’d noticed her earlier, when the hostess had shown him to his favorite tucked-away table in the Nantucket eatery. With her pinup figure, slightly frizzy chin-length flaxen hair and emerald-colored eyes, she was hard to miss.

Yet the other patrons at the popular restaurant seemed oblivious to her. And to her distress. They were all focused on their companions.

He, on the other hand, was alone.

As was the woman.

His gaze swung back to her as she turned away from her bowl of half-eaten chowder to rummage in her purse, the sheen on her cheeks mute testimony to her misery.

Frowning, Christopher set his cup back on the saucer. He’d always been a sucker for people in need. That was one of the reasons he’d become a doctor. But despite his humanitarian inclinations, it wasn’t wise to offer assistance to strangers these days. Magnanimous gestures like that could arouse resentment or suspicion, or worse.

An image of his former girlfriend, Denise, flashed through his mind, and his gut twisted into a painful knot. He’d followed his compassionate instincts with her, and that traumatic experience had taught him a valuable lesson: crying women were a disaster waiting to happen. The safest course was to steer a wide berth around them.

Besides, after a busy shift in the E.R., he was in no mood to tiptoe through the minefield the blonde in the corner booth no doubt represented.

He watched as she dabbed away the evidence of her tears with a tissue, tucked it back in her purse and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. Laying it on the table, she scooted to the edge of the booth and swiveled on the seat.

Christopher started to glance away, but as the clingy fabric of her black cocktail dress inched up he found himself mesmerized by the best pair of legs he’d ever seen.

He wasn’t certain how long he stared at her, but suddenly the woman rose and yanked her skirt down until the hem brushed the top of her knees.

Looking up at her face, Christopher found her glaring at him, the color high in her cheeks as she tugged at a modest neckline below a single strand of pearls. Heat crept up his neck, fueled by embarrassment and regret. Not only did he feel like a teenage boy, he’d also made her uncomfortable.

And something more, he realized as their gazes locked for a brief moment.

She looked hurt. Defeated. And once again on the verge of tears.

Turning her back on him, she took the long way around the room to the door to avoid passing his table.

After swigging the rest of his coffee, Christopher settled his bill and headed toward the exit, wishing he could replay the last few minutes. He was supposed to be in the business of alleviating suffering, not creating it. But tonight he’d failed miserably.

Stepping out the door, he discovered that dark clouds had replaced the bright, sunny skies on this late May evening. A steady rain had also begun to fall, compelling the strollers and sightseers to seek refuge in the shops and restaurants that lined the streets in the heart of the old town.

All except one.

As Christopher drove up Main Street, he spotted a lone figure trudging through the rain. A blonde in a black cocktail dress.

The woman from the restaurant.

She didn’t have an umbrella. Yet she wasn’t hurrying. It was as if she were completely unaware of the weather.

Slowing the car, Christopher watched in alarm as she stumbled in her high heels on the uneven brick sidewalk. Walking around Nantucket in shoes like that was an accident waiting to happen, as he well knew. He’d treated any number of women who’d chosen fashion over comfort.

But she righted herself and moved on.

As he approached his turnoff to Orange Street, she continued on Main, her shoulders slumped. She paid no attention to the low rumble of thunder that reverberated through the still air, or the flash of lightning that zigzagged across the sky in the distance. She was either oblivious to the storm—or she didn’t care about the danger, Christopher concluded.

Both scenarios disturbed him.

Torn, he watched as she veered left on Fair Street and disappeared from view, the story of the Good Samaritan echoing in his mind. Like the traveler to Jericho who had been beset by thieves, this woman seemed in need of a helping hand.

But so had Denise.

Shoring up his resolve, Christopher turned left onto Orange Street and headed toward ’Sconset, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the troubled blonde.

Yet as the miles slipped by, he discovered it wasn’t quite as easy to distance himself from the image of those defeated green eyes.

“Are you getting a cold, dear?”

Stifling a sneeze, Marci Clay continued to wash the china plates by hand as Edith Shaw, her new sister-in-law’s Lighthouse Lane neighbor, bustled in from The Devon Rose’s dining room with another tray of glasses. It had taken them all afternoon and into the early evening to put the tearoom back in order after yesterday afternoon’s wedding reception.

“I hope not.”

“You’ve been working too hard since you’ve been here.” Edith tut-tutted as she slid the tray onto the stainless-steel food-prep station in the middle of the kitchen. “It was a very generous gesture, offering to manage the tearoom while Heather and J.C. are on their honeymoon. But that’s a lot to take on with very little preparation.”