AFTERGLOW (11 page)

She gasped, and Elliot said quickly, shooting a quelling glance toward David, "Well, Chelsea, George and I brought you some obscenely fattening chocolates. George thought flowers would be a waste. She said you'd prefer stuffing your face."

"What I would prefer," Chelsea said, tight-lipped, "is to stuff them in David's face."

"No gratitude in this life," David said with a mock sigh.

"You operated on me!" Chelsea struggled to sit up, felt a terrible tugging pain in her stomach and flopped back down. "I know the law, Dr. Winter. You can't operate on anyone unless they sign consent forms!"

"You did," David said.

"I wouldn't! I didn't!"

"Would you care to see them?"

"Now, Chels," George began.

But Chelsea was now remembering signing something. "You tricked me," she said, lowering her eyebrows and indulging him with her most menacing stare. "It was something about my will—"

"No, that's what you said. I explained that it was a consent to do a laparotomy."

"Lapawhatamy? What the dickens is that? You didn't explain that, David. I am going to sue your socks off. I'm going to—"

"Just a moment, Chelsea," David said. "You have some visitors who gave me all the permission in the world to do whatever I wanted to."

"Cookie!"

"Comment ca va, mon petit chou?"

"Dad! Mother!" Chelsea gasped. "You were in Paris, Mother, you were
…
oh, I'm fine and I am not a little cabbage!"

Mrs. Mimi Lattimer, a very pretty woman in her early fifties with hair as black as her daughter's, leaned over Chelsea and pecked her lightly on her cheek. "I just flew back from Paris last evening,
ma chère.
Then we get this call from Elliot.
Et voila! Ton père
got us on the first flight to San Francisco this morning."

Dr. Harold Lattimer, tanned, fit and with his daughter's vivid blue eyes, kissed her other cheek. "We'll be hearing fractured French for a while, Chels. You were plotting in the middle of the street, weren't you?"

"No, Daddy, really." She interrupted herself, saying abruptly, "Daddy, this
man
operated on me without telling me! I want you to smack him, sue him, send him back to Boston!"

"Now, Cookie," Dr. Lattimer said, "this man took very good care of you. He told me all about your injury and what was done. I approve. You were a bit of a pain in the butt, weren't you, in the emergency room? Caused a bit of commotion?"

Chelsea stared at her father. "There is no more loyalty toward offspring in this world," she said.

Dr. Lattimer laughed, revealing teeth as straight and white as his daughter's. "Cookie, don't be an idiot. Tell you what, all these folk are going to be getting you up soon. How about if I walk you around?"

Chelsea moaned, wrapping her arms about herself. "I don't want to move, not even for you, Daddy."

David, who had been watching this interplay, began to frown. He looked sharply at Elliot, and Elliot, understanding that look, just grinned and shrugged. If he was seeing an example of parents not caring about their only child, David thought, he would jump off the Golden Gate.

"Elliot," he said, his voice sharp, "I want to speak to you."

Saved by the dentist, Elliot thought, for before he could respond Dr. Lattimer said, "Tell us, Dr. Winter, when is this girl going to be released into her parents' custody?"

"Another three days. We'll want to build her strength back up before she goes home. Are you and Mrs. Lattimer staying?"

"Bien sur!"
said Mimi Lattimer, beaming at this very acceptable man. "Our little
chou
needs tender loving care." She paused a moment, her busy fingers twisting the beautiful pearls around her neck. "I wonder how the dear French would say that."

Chelsea moaned. Any port in a storm became a madhouse when her parents arrived. She didn't open her eyes when she felt David take her wrist. His fingers were long, she knew, the nails blunt.

"Why don't you go talk to your lawyer?" she asked when he released her hand.

He laughed softly, and without thinking, without realizing her parents were standing on one side of the bed, George and Elliot on the other, he gently rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. "Keep thinking nasty thoughts. It'll take your mind off your belly."

Harold Lattimer shot an interested look toward his wife.

"L'amour,"
Mimi announced.

David straightened like a shot. To Elliot's amusement a dull flush spread over his face.

Chelsea, who hadn't caught what her mother had said, muttered, "Daddy, would you please remove this lecherous maniac? I will decide what to do and tell you later."

"L'amour sans…"
Mimi searched frantically, shrugged, smiled charmingly and added,
"Sans le
or
la
recognition."

Chelsea stared up at her mother. "Mother, have you slipped a cog? Do you have jet lag?"

"Why do you call this nice man a lecher, Cookie?" Mimi asked. "A maniac I can understand, but a lecher?"

George said, "Chelsea is very modest, Mimi. As I well know, in the emergency room nothing is sacred."

"You're right, of course, George," Mimi said. "That wouldn't be at all romantic, now would it?"

"Mother!" Chelsea wailed.

David said firmly, "I think it's time for Chelsea to rest a bit. Why don't you all come back this afternoon?"

"George and I will drop you off at the Fairmont," Elliot said to Dr. and Mrs. Lattimer. "That's where you're staying, right?"

"Always, dear boy," Mimi said. "When Chelsea visits us there, her plotting brain goes haywire. It's that grand, ornate lobby, you know, all that—"

"Mother!"

"Oui, oui, ma chère."
Mimi patted her daughter's cheek. "You do what Dr. Winter tells you, all right? Your papa and I will come back later. And don't excite yourself."

Harold Lattimer said thoughtfully, "I believe that in French it would translate much differently, my love."

"Daddy!"

There was dead silence in the room. David couldn't think of a thing to say, and Chelsea looked as though she were ready to spit nails.

"All right, Cookie, we're off now. Do as you're told, all right?"

"Ha!"

The door closed behind the Lattimers and the Mallorys. David shook himself. "All right, Chelsea, time for you to walk at least to the bathroom."

She did have to go, Chelsea thought, and a bedpan was the most humiliating idea imaginable. She tried to sit up, felt a tugging pain and gasped. "My stitches!"

"It's okay. Let me help you." David eased her upright, then swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"I don't think this is such a good idea."

"Yes, it is," he said firmly. "Come on now."

Chelsea became aware that her nightgown was open in the back and muttered, "This is disgusting."

David, whose attention was entirely on helping her negotiate her way across the room, didn't respond. She was bent over like a very old person, and the top of her head came to his shoulder. He tightened his arm around her. "You're doing great, Chelsea. Can you manage in the bathroom by yourself?"

Chelsea drew a deep breath, turned to face him and said in the meanest voice she could manufacture. "If you think you're going to hold my hand in there you're not only a lecher, you're weird!"

"I wish," David said, now thoroughly irritated, "that you would stop behaving like an idiot. I am a doctor,
your
doctor, and you're a patient. Can't you get that through your silly head?"

Chelsea tried to pull away from him, felt a searing pain twist in her belly and gasped. She lowered her head, trying not to cry.

To David's combined chagrin and relief Dr. Dennis Madson opened the door at that moment. He stood quietly, his eyes widening at the sight of Dr. Winter holding his patient very closely in the open bathroom doorway.

"I'll be back in about five minutes," he said, and backed out of the room.

"Are you all right, Chelsea?" David asked.

She nodded. "I want to go to the bathroom."

He helped her inside the door, then closed it. He leaned against the wood for a moment, his eyes closed. What a bizarre mess, he thought, his jaw tightening. All that manufactured foolery Elliot had let slip was just that: foolery. From the short time he'd been with Chelsea's parents he could see—any idiot could see—that they were nuts, but loved her to distraction. And Chelsea loved them. Then what about poor Chelsea starving? He remembered his worry about her surviving on leftover salad from the Alta Mira and ground his teeth. He couldn't wait to get his hands on Elliot Mallory.

David eyed the bathroom door, aware that his entire body was tense with worry. Come on out, Chelsea. I want you back in bed where I can keep an eye on you. I don't want you falling in there.

The door opened just an instant before he was prepared to go in and bring her out.

"You okay?"

She nodded, not looking at him.

"Let's walk back to the bed." He didn't support her this time, merely walked beside her, his arms ready if she faltered.

He tucked her in, then straightened. "You're awfully quiet all of a sudden," he said.

"Yes," she said. "David, I've got a TV show in a week and a half, then a trip for a promotion back to New York. Will I
 
be all right by then?"

TV? A promotion in New York? For sure she was starving!

"You should be." He couldn't help himself, and added, "Who's paying for all this?"

"My publishing house. Why?"

"I just wondered, that's all." He planned to kill Elliot Mallory. He glanced down at his watch. "Time for a pill and a nap. I'll see you later."

David quietly opened her door and peered in. He heard her say to George, "You should have seen Mother when she got back from Germany. I had to goose-step for her to get her to stop with her
danke's,
darling."

"Hi, George, Chelsea," he said. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," Chelsea said. "I want out of here, David."

"In a couple of days," he said. "Not before."

"She's feeling much better," George said, smiling fondly at Chelsea. "She's already been arguing with me."

"She argued with me, screamed at me and said she was feeling like the proverbial something the cat dragged in. I don't think that's a particularly significant sign, George."

George smiled her dazzling, beautiful smile and rose. "I'll let you talk to your doctor a bit, love. I'll go to the third floor and bug Elliot."

"She is so exquisite," Chelsea said, sighing.

"Who? George? Yes, I suppose so."

Chelsea frowned at him, but he was looking at her chart. "You were polite to Dr. Madson, weren't you?" he asked, looking up.

"No, I threw my water bottle at him."

"Chels!"

"He didn't make me take my clothes off. Of course I was polite."

"He didn't have to," David said. "He already saw everything he needed to see. Besides, your clothes are already off."

Chelsea growled, then winced.

David very carefully moved any possible weapon and said, "Now be just as polite to me, if you please." He took her pulse, then placed the stethoscope against her heart. Chelsea found herself staring at his thick chestnut hair and the small curls at his nape. She quickly looked away, furious with herself.

"Sounds good," David said.

"You really do look silly in that white coat," Chelsea said.

"Would you trust me more as a doctor if I were wearing jeans and a sweatshirt?"