Chapter 12

Chapter

Twelve

Dr. Sumner Delano

Once we're walking home, I take my courage in my hands.

"You never married." I say hesitantly. "Why?"

Lucas glances at me, and then he looks straight ahead. The street is deserted, all dark buildings with deeper shadows between. There's nothing but the night, and the stars, and our footsteps. I can barely make out his face.

"I never made the effort."

"Because of work?" I need him to say the words.

"Not just that. Work was my sole focus for years, but I never met anyone who felt like...my person."

"Your person. That sounds—" His choice of words stops me. "Are you using the past tense on purpose?"

"I think I might be. Yes." He stops walking and turns to me. "Sophie changed the way I look at things."

I hope my disappointment doesn't show. "How?"

He leans against the wall, one foot braced behind him. "I told you about my father. There was never a question that I would study medicine, become the best surgeon, work in the best hospitals, make a name for myself. Like father, like son."

I know the heavy weight of class, education, and status.

"People like my father take and take and give nothing back to the people who love them. He had to have the perfect life, the perfect wife, the perfect children. We had to earn his approval every day. The alternative was being iced out completely."

"Oh, Luke." I can't help the pity in my voice. He'd probably despise me for it, but despite my privilege, my parents adore me. They never once made me feel unworthy of that love.

"Don't misunderstand." He quickly backtracks. "I'm a very driven man. I wanted to be exactly like my father. In fact, I wanted to be more successful. But I knew better than to try to have a family too. Father cared about being the best in his field, which left him with nothing to offer beyond that. I reasoned I wouldn't have anything left either."

He laughs quietly and starts walking again.

"Sophie changed that?" I fall into step beside him.

"I would have gone on forever that way, except for Sophie, yes."

"What a shock she must have been."

"Father tells me to send her to one of those boarding schools for troubled teens. Apparently, she needs discipline to be a Hamilton. It's a privilege, not a right, blah, blah, blah."

"That's a common enough story in high society. Better to crush a child than suffer the indignity of imperfection."

"My daughter is perfect." He's so ferocious, it makes me want to laugh. "Some value of perfect, anyway."

"She sounds delightful to me." I am some value of perfect in my father's eyes, and I know it. But he has never let me believe that's a bad thing. "You're a good man, Luke."

Luke lets his gaze drop. "Not really."

I laugh at that. "You don't get to tell me my opinion."

"But I'm not good. I'm just like my father—unemotional and thoughtless and self-centered. I'm a workaholic. A control freak. But I have this amazing daughter, and I'm not good enough for her. My father's priorities aren't good enough."

This man. My heart bursts with tenderness for him. "For what it's worth, I've never met a parent who believes they're up to the job."

We fall silent as we approach the clinic.

"What about you, Dr. Delano?" he asks as I unlock the door. "I know marriage isn't your goal, but did—do you have someone?"

I have a choice. I can answer honestly, deflect, or lie. It's painful and private but I must open my heart to Luke if I want him to be truthful with me.

"Once. A long time ago."

He's quiet, as if he expects me to go on. I don't. I can't.

After a while, he asks, "The war?"

"Influenza." I meet his gaze and find compassion there. "We survived the goddamn war only to be separated by a virus."

"I'm so sorry."

I don't want to talk about the past, and he doesn't press further.

For a while, we stand in reception, gazing at each other. I feel my heartbeat in my throat. Hear each breath I take. He doesn't say anything, so I guess that's my answer, not that I asked a question. How do people do this without war to speed up the timeline and blow inhibition to smithereens?

"I guess we'd better get some sleep." I turn toward the stairs.

He doesn't argue. I feel his eyes on me as I make my way up.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

There's a chance he was asking if I have someone now for a reason. A chance he's as attracted to me as I am to him. Once I'm in my room, I sit at my desk and stare out the window. I think about all the things I could have said. Should have said, like you're winning my heart, but I'm vulnerable. We've been thrown together every minute for three days now. I find him fun and funny. Talented and a bit lost, which might be my Achilles heel. Men who need me.

Philip is my past. No amount of yearning will bring him back, and nobody gives out prizes for self-denial. Who is Luke Hamilton? Do I want him? Can I trust him? Does it make any difference, when he's here, and he wants me, and he's making my heart beat faster every time he enters a room?

My hope of finding another man seemed lost, but maybe hope isn't all that easy to shake. I push away from the desk and open the door. I'm standing at the top of the stairs when he bursts from the infirmary. He's taking the first step up when he notices me.

He freezes.

"I was—" I break off when speaks.

"I think—" His expression shutters. "You first."

I take a step down. "I was thinking maybe you'd like a nightcap?"

"That sounds nice." Luke takes a step up. "In the kitchen?"

"I thought maybe up here. There doesn't seem to be any dust raining into the room right now."

He takes another step and another, and another. "I have been meaning to ask if I can borrow a book."

I like looking down at Luke. I like the way he looks up at me. His uncertainty. His curiosity. "My books are at your disposal."

We're close enough to touch. To kiss. I don't know who starts it. I think we both just lean in, but before our mouths meet, I feel his breath whisper across my lips.

"Do I have permission to kiss you?" So polite. So boyish, almost. The man slays me. I give the barest nod because I'm too awkward at this, too rusty, too used for this. He tilts his head, and our mouths meet. We shock each other viciously and jerk back. Damn static electricity.

"Shit." He puts his fingers to his lips and grins. "Worth it."

"So worth it." We kiss again. Our lips are dryer than I'd like them to be, and the kiss is chaste. One of us has to make something happen, or we'll go down in history as the worst lovers ever, and I have my pride. Easing myself down another stair, I cup his cheeks with my hands and map all the bruised places on his face. I need to be gentle when I tip his head back. It's not a real kiss until my tongue breaches the seam of his lips. His arms wrap around my waist. I sigh with relief as lust quickens both our bodies. He runs his hands up my sides. Over my chest. Oh God, I need his touch like earth needs water. It has been so long. Under his fingertips, my skin comes to life.

"Luke."

Those startling hazel eyes hold something like wonder. He smiles and rests his forehead against my shoulder. I cup the back of his neck and hold him to me while I card my fingers through his silky hair. It brings the scent of soap and whisky and smoke and man to my nose.

His laughter warms my chest. "Did you know that was going to happen?"

"Didn't you want it to?" I ask, suddenly hesitant. "Was it all right?"

"Oh my God, of course it was all right." He tightens his arms around me. "Wasn't that what you had planned?"

I press my lips to his forehead. "I wasn't sure it was a good idea."

"I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

"What about now?"

A fine blush rides the crest of his cheeks. "I might need a few more kisses. As a scientist, I'm sure you know a large sample size is best when?—"

"Come with me, and I'll show you a large sample size." Laughing, I take Luke's hand and lead him up the stairs with more energy than I possessed at any point earlier that night. The bedroom door is open. I motion him inside. "What did you have in mind, Doctor?"

He widens his eyes. "Are you asking me what we should do?"

"To read." I go back to his pretext. "What do you have in mind to read."

"Oh, yes. Books." He waits while I pour us a couple of drinks. "What's good?"

"What do you like?" I'm glad I hit the brakes. I wasn't ready to brazen things out on the stairs. I'm fine at flirtation but I lack the skill for seduction. I always followed where Philip led.

He takes his cue from me and studies the shelves. "I see you have Agatha Christie. Oh, and Dorothy L. Sayers. Here's Rex Stout's Fer-de-Lance. I read that one. You're a mystery buff?"

I hold out his drink. "Among other things."

"The poetry of Yeats. Lovecraft. Wodehouse. Robert Graves. This is an eclectic collection." He takes a sip of his drink. Gaze fixed on the bookshelf as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

It's uncomfortably awkward. "There's a wildebeest in the room, isn't there?"

"There's some kind of beast in here." His cheeks darken. "I didn't only come up here to get busy. That means?—"

"I believe I know what it means," I hide a smile. "If you didn't come here for that, I might be terribly disappointed."

Luke brings his drink and my copy of Thank You, Jeeves to join me on the divan.

"You like Wodehouse?" I lean over to watch him flip the pages.

"God, yes. I never get tired of Bertie and Jeeves."

How does Luke have so many matching pieces to the puzzle that is my life? "It's hard to remember you come from a different world."

His brows lift. "But you believe me?"

"I don't know." I sip my whisky. It burns all the way down. "That's nasty, isn't it."

"Only if you're used to drinking the good stuff." He sips carefully, and then he makes a face. "God, you're right. That's swill."

"It's the bottle for acquaintances. Lasts night we drank my private stock."

"That explains it." He's watching me. Is he waiting for me to make the next move?

I clear my throat. "I wonder if it tastes better on your lips."

I get a smile and a gentle kiss in return. Luke drops the book on his lap, sets his glass aside, and wraps his hand around the back of my neck. He's just holding it there, warming my skin. Looking into my eyes.

"You're lovely." He smiles. "I really didn't come up here to ravish you."

My cheeks must be on fire. "I'm not some ingenue, you know."

"We can do this on your timeline," he says, gently taking his hand away.

"I'm not sure I have one of those." I prop my elbow on the back of the couch and rest my head on it. "You might be more experienced at this than I am."

He's so sure of himself. He's moving like this is a dance he knows well.

I'm willing, but I can't seem to remember the steps.

"I enjoy spending time with you," he says as he smooths the hair off my forehead. "Anything you want is all right with me."

"I want to kiss you again." My voice is deserting me. The words are a whisper as I move forward. "May I?"

"Yes." When our lips meet, I taste his smile.

This kiss is different. It's effervescent—full of tiny bubbles like good champagne—and it goes on and on. Then there's one kiss after another until he starts tracing my jaw with his lips. I tilt my head back. He finds all the sweet spots on my neck and behind my ear. I feel his eyelashes flutter against my cheek. I try to kiss back, but there doesn't seem to be enough air for me to breathe.

And it's so, so different than anything I've had before.

There's nothing furtive about what we're doing. Nothing rushed. I'm not afraid—not of being discovered, not of being killed by a stray artillery shell. I'm not in a supply room or a dispensary or hiding behind a stand of trees, praying I don't get caught and court-martialed or worse.

When he asks if he can unbutton my vest and pull my shirt from my trousers, I'm so dizzy with desire that I barely register what's happening. I'm drunk on what I'm feeling for a change and rational thought doesn't enter into things.

"Anything," I say when I mean everything .

His hands slide beneath my shirt, his fingers tracing light lines over my back. They graze my spine, vertebra by vertebra. They quest up my ribs and over my chest. I suddenly remember how hairy I am and how grizzled, where he's as sleek as a dolphin.

I shudder. "Stop."

"Okay." He pulls his hands back, eyes searching mine.

Before I can second-guess myself, I say, "Briefly, I would like you to explain manscaping."

"Oh my God." He topples over with laughter. His breath feels hot on my thigh. "You're thinking about that now?"

"You like to be smooth, right?"

He laughs so hard his eyes tear up. "I don't grow a ton of chest hair, and I think I look better without it. I keep the treasure trail and trim the bush."

"Treasure trail? Bush?"

He runs his finger from my navel downward in explanation.

I pick up his hand and put it on my chest, beneath my shirt. "Do you like men with chest hair?"

"I like chest hair." He kisses my cheek. "I promise."

Is this his brand of seduction? If it is, it's deceptive. His fingers roam lazily, like his sweet kisses, but pressure and heat are building between us. There's no hiding what his touch is doing to me. I'm hard as stone. I lower my gaze and find he's equally moved. He's watching me now with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. It's as if he's saying, Your move.

I simply say, "Yes."

He places his hand on the button of my fly. "May I?"

This is a lot. Is it too much, too soon? I don't know, but he's giving me time to decide and evaluate each feeling as it comes. I like Luke. He's wonderful. But what do I want to happen between us? Do I want it to happen now?

Luke arrived in my life three days ago. What if he leaves just as quickly? What if his mind is broken, and he really is some poor deluded drifter who needs care, not seduction?

He's waiting for me to say something.

I can't catch my breath.

"May I?" he asks again.

I nod. "Yes, dearest."

Yes, I want this. Even if it's a mistake, I want this.