AFTERGLOW (12 page)

"No."

David drew a deep breath and said, "I need to change the bandage on your belly now. Are you going to cooperate?"

She just stared at him, color creeping over her cheeks.

"Chelsea, I'm not going to call the nurse until I have your assurance that you won't throw a fit."

She licked her lower lip. "I don't want you to," she said.

Irritated, he said, "Look, lady, I've already seen you in great detail. I assure you I won't be driven crazy with lust."

She looked at him, her lips a thin line.

"How can you have been raised by a father who's a doctor and be so ridiculous about this? You are a patient, utterly sexless, and that's it."

She was being silly; she knew it. "I'm sorry. Go ahead."

He stared at her suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. He called the nurse.

Chelsea lay rigidly, her eyes tightly closed, as David bared her stomach and gently peeled off the bandage. He spoke to the nurse, a very different voice from the one he used to her, she thought. She winced a bit, and he said, "Sorry about that, Chelsea. Just a moment longer. You look great."

Yeah, I just bet I do, she thought. She felt lousy, her head ached and she didn't think her stomach would ever feel normal again.

She heard David giving instructions to the nurse. "Now," he said, after he'd pulled her nightgown back down, "I don't think you need that IV any longer." He gently pulled the needle out of the vein in her arm and rubbed her skin.

"Ah," he said straightening, "here are your parents. I'll see you later, Chelsea."

"Much later," Chelsea said, but very softly.

"Ma chère!"

While her mother enthusiastically embraced her, Chelsea saw her dad speaking to David. Her dad nodded, smiled and shook David's hand. Ratty men, she thought. They stick together like a herd, or a gaggle, or a crash, or
…
a murder of ravens. Could that possibly be right? It sounded awfully silly.

David heard Dr. Lattimer say in a loud stage whisper to Chelsea, "Obvious hero material, Cookie."

He quickly eased out of the room. He didn't want to hear what Chelsea would say to that.

You miss her, you stupid bastard. David sighed, dropped to the floor of his living room and did twenty-five fast push-ups.

He checked the clock, set up his VCR and inserted a tape. He turned on a talk show, a local San Francisco show, and some ten minutes later Chelsea came on. He stared. He hadn't seen her for nearly a week now. The couple of times he'd called, she'd told him she was busy. It was George who had told him when Chelsea would be on TV.

She was wearing a dark blue silk dress, very nearly the color of her sparkling eyes, very high heels and a big, infectious grin.

She looked sleek, very sophisticated and very beautiful.

Poor starving Chelsea, indeed.

He sat back, at first nervous for her. He shouldn't have bothered, he thought some five minutes later. She was very articulate, fielding impertinent questions with marvelous aplomb. She oozed self-confidence. And, of course, the host and hostess talked about her success.

When the show was over David wandered out onto his deck and stared toward the Bay. Elliot had definitely done a number on him. But why? He had a chilling thought. If they had distorted things about Chelsea, what had they told her about him? He intended to find out—now.

He grabbed his jacket, roared Nancy into life and sped toward the Mallorys' house in Pacific Heights.

Chapter 7

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^
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D
avid pulled into the Mallorys' driveway, grimly relieved to see Elliot's Jaguar beside George's infamous Porsche, Esmerelda. He bounded out of the car and strode to the front door.

He didn't bother with the doorbell, just pounded the wood with his fist. He heard a distant "Just a minute!"

George opened the door. "David!"

He didn't pause, didn't at first notice that George, beautiful George, looked like a frazzled wreck. "Where's Elliot?"

"I'll get him," she said, eyeing him a moment. She waved toward the living room. "Have a seat, David."

He was pacing about when Elliot said from the doorway. "What's up, David?"

George, on his heels, said sharply, "Did you hear from Chelsea? Is she all right?"

"Of course she's all right. I just saw her charming self on TV. That isn't what I wanted. Damn it, you two, why the hell did you tell me that Chelsea was a poor, starving little waif, ignored by her parents? And it
was
'tell.' At least, you did more than intimate. Well?"

George jerked about at the piercing sound of Alex screaming.

"Anna is away with her sick sister," Elliot said, rubbing his forehead with a tired hand. "You stay here, love, and try to calm this infant down and I'll see to the other infant upstairs."

"What did you say you wanted, David?" George asked, obviously distracted by the rising cries.

David saw the weariness on her face and drew up short, feeling guilt mix with his righteous ire.

"Alex is colicky," George said. She swiped her hair away from her face, searched her hair for a bobby pin and, not finding one, looked as if she'd burst into tears. "Oh, rats," she said. "Everything comes in threes. This should all be amusing, I suppose. Now you've come to rant, so get on with it."

"I'm sorry," David said. "This will just take a minute, and then I'll be out of your hair." Poor reference, he thought, but for the moment he held his ground.

"What?"

"Why did you guys lie to me about Chelsea?"

George glared at him.

"Well?"

She turned when Elliot trotted down the stairs, Alex in his arms. The baby was red faced from yelling. Now he was hiccupping, his head on his father's shoulder,

Elliot's large hand moving in gentle circles over his back.

"What's up?" Elliot asked.

"This man," George said to her husband as she waved a hand toward David, "is accusing us of lying to him about Chelsea."

Elliot cocked a black brow. "Yeah? So?"

Alex gave a particularly loud hiccup.

George, tired, at the end of her tether, snapped, "I'll tell you why, you ridiculous eastern idiot! You're so confounded uptight, unreasonable and just plain stupid
…
you don't deserve anybody as lively and intelligent and successful as Chelsea! Oh, yes, she earns rings around you, Doctor! I thought maybe you two would be good for each other, but obviously I was wrong! She doesn't deserve a man as opposite as you are!"

David was suddenly squirming. He'd never before heard George raise her voice, much less rake anyone down as she'd just done him. "Oh, hell, look, George, Elliot, I didn't mean—"

"I know," Elliot said. "We did do a number on both you and Chelsea. I guess people shouldn't try to matchmake." He added ruefully, "You two are so bloody different. George is right. Forgive us for interfering. It would never work between you, in any case."

"What did you tell Chelsea about me?"

George gave him a nasty look. "I told her you'd been impotent with your wife, and that she had laughed at you, and that's why you turned weird on her that night and insulted her about never being serious."

David was momentarily speechless. "You
what!"

Elliot handed Alex to his mother. "Let me show you out, David," he said. "I think that about covers it. Excuse us now."

"Oh, no," David muttered. "George didn't. She wouldn't!" He looked hopefully at Elliot, praying George had made up that awful bit of horror.

"She did," Elliot said, trying to control the grin that was fighting to appear. "What I found amazing was the fact that Chelsea would buy such a story. After all, what man would go around telling people how he couldn't perform and his wife had laughed at him? But Chelsea didn't question it. She just wanted to take care of you, get you over your hurt and all that. Now, David, why don't you go away? Both George and I are ready to drop. I swear to you that we'll leave you alone—you and your love life, that is—from now on."

David left and drove around for an hour. He ran out of gas near St. Francis Wood. He looked stupidly at his gas gauge, then began to laugh.

Chelsea loved New York. Her publishing house had not only paid for her appearance at the yearly conference, but also, in a spate of good will, offered her a limo to the airport. To all her business meals she wore her favorite gray fedora and her gray alpaca cloak. They made her feel confident and jaunty, sharpened her step, in short, made her feel like the neatest thing to hit the city. She saw old friends, made new ones, was feted until she was ready to drop. Writing was a lonely business, just you and your computer. That was why, she knew, that writers, when they were released into the world, danced and laughed and talked until they were dizzy. And it felt so good to hear the people who came to the autograph session tell her how much they enjoyed her novels.

But she tired so easily and quickly. The wretched surgery, she thought, angry at her body's betrayal.

She dropped into bed each night feeling like a wrung-out sponge. Then she thought of David and squirmed with embarrassment.

You lecher, go away and leave me alone! But he didn't, and despite her attempts to control her wayward memories, she found herself playing and replaying their last meeting.

"Ah," he'd said, grinning as he came into her hospital room, "you're wearing lipstick. Ready to rejoin the world? I told you, didn't I, that I really like that peachy shade? Looks good with your flushed face."

"Shouldn't you be somewhere saving lives and stomping out disease?" she'd asked in a bitchy voice.

The jerk had the gall to grin at her. "Bear your belly for me and I'll start stomping."

"You are incredibly thick-skinned," Chelsea had said, wishing she could smack that grin off his face. "Doesn't anything get through to you?"

"And you look incredibly sexy," David responded, seemingly oblivious of her snit.

She sucked in her breath. "You're a doctor and I'm a sexless patient. Remember your sermon, Dr. Winter?"

"As of this afternoon you're no longer a sexless patient, Chelsea. Your parents are at this very moment downstairs clearing away all the details with administration. You'll shortly be a free woman."

She said nothing, and he added, his voice suddenly very serious, "Your folks are going to stay with you for a couple of days, aren't they?"

"Yes, I couldn't get rid of them even if I threatened to move back in with them."

David felt immense relief to hear that. "Good," he said. "Get as much exercise as you can, but don't go overboard. And force yourself to straighten up. The stitches won't pull out. One last thing, Chelsea, come in next Tuesday to get the stitches out."

"Who's going to have the pleasure of doing the snipping?"

"You want me to?" he asked, moving closer and taking her unwilling hand.

She tried to jerk it away, but he wouldn't let her go. "No! As a matter of fact, if I never again see the backs of your ears I'll be eternally grateful!"

"All this drama because I took care of you?" His voice was teasing, and she readily jumped to the bait.

"You treated me like a slab of meat, you lecher, and you
looked
at me!"

"Yes, all of you, as a matter of fact. Very nice."

She growled and hissed, and he continued to smile. She remembered all too clearly that he'd examined every inch of her. It was too much. She closed her eyes tightly, willing away that very clear image.

"But you know," he continued thoughtfully after a moment, "as I recall, you do have a major flaw—a corn on the second toe of your left foot."

Her eyes flew open. "Get out!" She managed this time to jerk her hand out of his grasp.

"You know something, Chelsea?" he said in a mild, nearly disinterested voice. "You irritate me more than any woman I've ever known. You are silly and ignorant, and I hope to heaven that the next time you get smacked by a moped it will be near another hospital. Oh, yeah, you write trash."