AFTERGLOW (5 page)

"They'll have a blast, you'll see. Speaking of laid back, did you get Chelsea home all right last night? Rather, at dawn?"

"No, she had her own car. I assume she got home all right." David fiddled with his Styrofoam cup, shredding the rim. After all the interminable waiting during the previous night, they'd come to a truce, of sorts. She'd been almost mellow, and stone sober. He added, "She invited me over this Friday for her monthly poker game."

If Elliot hadn't been so tired and preoccupied, he would have said something to that, probably issued a red alert, but he didn't. He said only, "You'll have an interesting time, I'm sure."

"You look like hell, Elliot. Go home and get some sleep."

The PA system came alive suddenly. "Dr. Winter to ER, stat."

David rose immediately. "Give my love to George, and my blessing to the perfect baby."

Elsa Perkins was efficient, cute and coming on to him. She was a very young nurse, just out of training, but she had the fortitude and stomach of a seasoned trooper, which were necessary to serve in an emergency room. Their patient was a boy with second-degree burns, who, with his friends, had wanted to try some black magic in the family garage. The kids had hung black towels over the windows, lit candles around a crate cum altar—and promptly set the place on fire. The parents were having a fit in the waiting room.

"Okay, champ," David said, gently patting the boy's shoulder. "You're gonna be just fine, but you're not going to feel like slaying any dragons for a while, or burning any more candles. You just lie still while I talk to your folks. Do you hurt anymore?"

The boy had wide brown eyes that were beginning to glaze over from the painkiller. He shook his head.

"Good job, Elsa," David said. "Stay with him until he's out, all right?"

"Certainly, doctor," she replied.

He spoke soothingly to the parents, then talked briefly with the doctor from the burn unit upstairs. The boy was stable, thank the Lord, and with a couple of skin grafts on his legs, he'd be just fine.

Ten minutes later David went into the operating room for three hours, suturing up the belly of a man who'd had his riding lawn mower roll over on him.

Then there was a woman carried in by her white-faced husband, bleeding profusely from what turned out to be a miscarriage. David, an intern and a nurse were covered with her blood before they got her stabilized.

It was nearly ten o'clock in the evening when he finally stopped, drew a deep breath and realized that he was starving.

"I brought you a corned beef sandwich, doctor," said Elsa, giving him her special smile.

"You read my mind," he said, grinning. "Thank you."

"You work so hard." He recognized her tone as "just out of nursing school" doctor worship.

"So do you," he said in a crisp voice. "Sandwich is great. Thanks again."

Her look said clearly that she'd get him anything he wanted, and he carefully gave all his attention to his sandwich. When he was finished, she smiled again.

"Well," he said, standing up and stretching. "At least we didn't lose anyone today."

Elsa's smile fell away. "I'm sorry, Dr. Winter. The older woman who came in earlier with chest pains
…
she died."

"Damn," David said.

By the time Friday night arrived David didn't care whether or not Chelsea Lattimer's poker party was a group of gossiping women or a troupe of singing parrots. He realized as he drove over the Golden Gate Bridge toward Sausalito that he'd missed her, crazy woman that she doubtless was. He'd called her once, but had gotten her answering machine. He hated answering machines and hadn't left a message.

Chelsea showered, dressed and exchanged her small diamond stud earrings for some gold loops, all within fifteen minutes. The earrings took the longest. She'd just had the nerve to get her ears pierced three months before, and she was still chicken about changing earrings. She stared a moment at the small gold loops. Gives me a certain pizzazz, she decided, and shook her head to make them jingle a bit, which they didn't.

Another fifteen minutes and she was walking out of her small kitchen carrying two trays of goodies—guacamole, tortilla chips and onion dip. The onion dip was for Maurice, her gay interior decorator friend from the city who wouldn't touch anything that was
green.
Sarah, her housekeeper, made it especially for him each time he came over. His real name was Elvin, he'd told her once when he was more than eight sheets to the wind.

He's late, Chelsea thought forty-five minutes later. He probably won't be coming. She, Maurice, Delbert—an over-the-hill jockey who used to race at Golden Gate Fields—and Angelo—an exporter of Chinese oddities who had a shop on Union Street—had already settled down for serious play.

When the doorbell rang she jumped and dropped her cards. Maurice yelped. "Good God, Chels! A full house! Lord, guys, talk about being saved by the bell!"

"Stick it, Maurice. It's David Winter. Please, please be reasonable and not too crazy, all right?"

Why am I so nervous? she wondered, unconsciously pulling down her pink wool sweater. "Hi" was all she could think of to say when she opened her front door. Lord, he looked gorgeous. He was wearing casual corduroy jeans and a ribbed navy sweater.

"Sorry I'm late," David said, shoving a paper bag toward her, "but I stopped to buy some cookies and a bottle of white wine."

She smiled up at him, pleased. "That's all right," she said, dimpling at him. "My friends would kill for a cookie and I'd kill for the white wine."

If at first David thought he'd walked into bedlam, an hour later he was being fleeced by the inmates. Unmercifully, and with great good humor.

Between hands Maurice said to Chelsea, "My God, sweetie, the green stuff is turning black! Please cremate it."

"Oh," Chelsea said; staring at the remains. "I guess Sarah forgot to add lemon. It keeps it from turning, you know."

"Come on, Maurice," Delbert said, "it still tastes good. All you've got to do is close your eyes."

Angelo belched. "More beer, Chels?"

Chelsea got to her feet and headed for the kitchen. David rose to stretch his legs and stare a moment at his dwindled pile of poker chips. He followed Chelsea into her kitchen.

"This place should be raided," he said. "When I saw that gleam in your eyes at the hospital I should have known I'd be out of my league."

"You'll notice who the big winner is, of course," Chelsea said blandly.

"Yeah. You've gotten about twenty dollars off me."

"So far," said Chelsea. She patted his arm and said in a lowered voice, "I wanted to tell you, you're doing great. My friends, well, they're very—"

"California. Laid back. Cutthroats."

"Only three words and you got right to the heart of the matter," she said, grinning. "And you're not even a writer. I am impressed."

He found himself smiling back. She looked cute; that was the only word to describe her at the moment. Her hair was mussed, her lipstick long gone and one earring was hanging precariously off her ear. He touched it.

"I hope they're not too expensive," he said.

"Oh, dear. I haven't quite gotten the knack yet, I don't think. I just got my ears pierced a little while ago."

"Want me to fix it for you?" David didn't wait for an answer. He turned her around and straightened the hoop. "You smell good," he said. His hand strayed to her bare neck.

That feels good, Chelsea realized, and for a moment she closed her eyes and enjoyed his fingers lightly stroking her skin.

"How 'bout we call a halt to the poker game? I don't want to write out any IOUs. I just bet Angelo would send someone to break my legs if I didn't pay up soon enough."

She felt his lips lightly touch her neck. That felt good, too, and she didn't move until his arm came around her and his hand caressed her stomach.

"I thought doctors were rich," she said.

"Probably not nearly so rich as writers," he said, his warm breath against her neck, "and your hours must be a hell of a lot saner than mine."

"So you want me to get rid of Maurice, Delbert and Angelo so we can neck?"

He grinned and ran his fingers through her thick soft hair. "Doesn't sound like a bad idea to me. If you really want to, I suppose I could force myself."

"None of my heroes ever has to force himself," she said, slowly easing and turning to face him. "They're always eager."

"Last time I was eager, I got called a jerk."

"Actually," Chelsea said, smiling at the memory, "I called you a nerd, but maybe that was just to George. Don't look so hurt. After all, you called me a tease."

"Hey, Chels, where's my beer?" Angelo's voice carried extremely well.

"Why don't you give Angelo the rest of the six-pack and send him home happy?"

"Stop making out with that poor man, Chels!" Maurice yelled out.

"Ah, come on, Maurice," Delbert said. "He hasn't lost more than twenty bucks."

"Come on out, Chels," Maurice demanded in a louder voice. "We haven't checked this guy out enough yet."

"Yeah, he could be a mad rapist!" Angelo hooted.

"Hell," David said, "I'm never angry."

"My family," Chelsea said. She picked up Angelo's beer and walked out of the kitchen.

Lord, David thought, his eyes following her, she's got the cutest bottom.

Two hours later, and fifty dollars poorer, David stood beside Chelsea as she bid good-night to the poker gang and listened to each of them tell her what to do if he got fresh.

"You go for the lowest moving parts," Maurice said.

"Naw," said Angelo, "you bite his neck. Go right for the jugular."

When she closed the door she turned to face David and, for a moment, was taken aback at the look in his lovely eyes. Hero's eyes, she thought. Brilliant hazel. Very nice, all of him.

"Are you sorry you came?" she asked, not moving from the door.

"Will you loan me enough money for the toll back across the bridge?"

"You could always sell your body on the streets of Sausalito."

"You think I'd only get a dollar?"

"It's Friday night. The toll's two dollars."

"So that's what you think I'm worth, huh?"

"Your worth, doctor," she said, moving toward the wrecked living room, "is still in doubt."

He helped her clean up, grimacing at the black dregs of the guacamole. "That stuff
does
look disgusting. Next time use lemon," he said.

"Is Elliot teaching you how to cook?" she asked, arching an amused brow at him.

"Nope. I was just agreeing with Maurice."

Chelsea stacked the dishes in the sink, then fidgeted a bit putting leftovers into the refrigerator, aware that David was standing in the kitchen doorway watching her every move.

"I suppose," she said in a challenging voice, turning to face him, "that you want to neck now."

"You've got a cute bottom."

"I said neck, not bottom."

"I expect I'd make my way south, eventually."

She eyed him silently for a moment. "I suppose men think that if they've spent money on a woman the next step is bed. Let me remind you that you didn't
spend
a dime. You
lost
fifty bucks through lack of skill and cunning."

"You won about forty of that fifty dollars. Wouldn't you believe me if I swore I lost that money to you on purpose?"

"And that's the same thing? Do you know something, David? I don't even know if I like you."

"You know something, Chelsea? I don't know if I like you, either."

"Then why do you want to neck?"

"Because I think you're sexy. Don't you think I'm sexy, too?"

"Let me tell you something, Dr. Winter. I'm really very used to having the last word."