Authors: Catherine Coulter
AFTERGLOW (9 page)
"You work such long hours. Elliot said something about eighteen hours a day."
Elliot had said that? Why, for God's sake? He did, sometimes, but all of them did. But Chelsea was regarding him with such sweet concern that he hesitated to tell her the truth. He temporized. "Well, occasionally, but not all that often, really. Just sometimes."
"Ah, very clear, Doctor. I, on the other hand, lead such a lazy life that I many times feel guilty."
"But your writing—"
"I write about five hours a day, usually. I find that my creative brain cells give out at about one in the afternoon. Then I'm as free as the proverbial bird."
"Aren't you ever lonely, Chelsea?"
"Sometimes," she agreed, forking down some quite well-prepared green beans. "But you see, I have a small group of friends, and I have all my characters, and Lord knows my poor brain is working all the time on their problems."
"Friends' and characters' problems?"
"Primarily just my characters' problems. My friends do very well without my advice. I do have to watch myself with the plotting. It puts me in something of a fog. I nearly bit the bullet the other day crossing the street without my brain being there with my body."
He looked alarmed. "You must be careful about that."
"I was just joking, David. Not to worry."
"More wine?"
"Certainly," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Sometimes I think I'm a wino in the making."
"How much do you drink?"
He'd asked in his professional doctor's voice, and Chelsea began to laugh. "Now, David, enough of that. Next thing I know, you'll be sending me a bill for professional care."
"Oh, no, I promise."
He was treating her with kid gloves, she realized suddenly. Most odd, was her first thought. And on their last date he'd asked so many questions about her parents and her income. As if she were a mental patient or something. Disconcerting.
She shoved her plate back. "No more, not another bite, you've stuffed me royally."
He started to urge her to eat more, then bit his tongue. He said easily, "I'll make you up a doggie bag, just like a restaurant."
Warmed over steak? Surely he must be kidding.
But she only smiled. "Why don't you show me some photos of your kids? I'd love to see them. Do they look like you?"
"Okay, and yes, Taylor does."
How, David wondered some fifteen minutes later, could he have ever believed her obnoxious or fluff headed? She was warm, caring and showed such interest in his children that he was a bit dazed. In fact, his thinking continued as he rifled through snapshots of a vacation in the Bahamas three years before, she was treating him almost too warmly, as if he were a shell-shocked soldier sent home from the battlefield. A bit bizarre.
As for Chelsea, she was gazing with avid interest at several photos of David in a swimsuit, sprawled on the white sand in Nassau. And the one of him standing, looking every bit as gorgeous as any of her heroes
She particularly liked the sprinkling of hair on his chest, and the traditional thinner line of hair to his belly.
"Very nice," she managed, her voice a bit thin.
"What? Oh, the pictures? The Bahamas, as I said."
"No, you. Your photos are very nice. You're an athlete, I suppose."
"I jog and swim," David said. "And I try not to pig out too often."
"It shows. One thing that drives me crazy is novels where the hero is a businessman who probably sits on his derriere ten hours a day and has the most perfect body imaginable. I simply can't imagine how he could get such a bod, much less keep it." She added, beaming at him, "At least yours is justified."
He groaned. "Not back to Mark I and Mark II, are we?"
"No," Chelsea said firmly. "I don't want you to think I'm frivolous again."
"Look," David said, sliding his long fingers through his hair, "I really am sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."
You remembered your wife laughing at you for being impotent.
"And I have something of a snap temper, I suppose. Are we both forgiven?"
He nodded.
"Behold a very serious woman."
"Please, Chelsea, I didn't mean, that
is …
do whatever you want to."
"Well, I can't drink any more wine because I've got to drive home in a little while." She paused, seeing his eyes cloud at her words. Poor David, he was so lonely. "Do you like to dance?" she asked abruptly.
"As a matter of fact I do. I'm really quite good."
"Are you now?" She slanted him a challenging look.
"Yes, ma'am. Let's go to Union Street. There's a great place there, but noisy."
"You're on!"
They had a great time until David got beeped. "Damn," he said. Chelsea, fearing the worst, followed him as he immediately went to a phone and made a call.
"Damn," she heard him say again, and then he listened. "I'll be right there. Call Dr. Braidson and tell her what's happened. Ask her to come in right away." He set the phone down, looking at it for a moment as if it were an alien instrument. Why tonight? he was thinking.
He gave her a rueful look. "I'm sorry, but there's an emergency, and my coverage just collapsed under a heap of bodies."
"No problem. I can take a taxi back to my car."
He looked indecisive for a moment. "I'm afraid I've got to let you, but I don't want to, Chelsea. Look, can I see you this weekend? Maybe Saturday? We could go sailing if the weather's nice."
"Fine," Chelsea said, and looked at his mouth.
He quickly leaned down and kissed her lightly. He stroked his long fingers over her jaw, kissed the tip of her nose and left.
"You're not a bad dancer," she called after him. He turned briefly and smiled.
"You ain't, either, kiddo!"
The morning was sunny and warm a week before Thanksgiving, but Chelsea, as a native Californian, expected nothing else. She dropped down to retie the lace on her sneaker, then stood up, stretched a bit and breathed in the wonderful smell of the eucalyptus trees all around her in Golden Gate Park. She wished George could have been with her today, but Georgina, the cover girl, was off making a commercial in Boston, the first since Alex's birth, and wasn't due back until this evening. Okay, lazy buns, she told herself, let's go!
Chelsea enjoyed jogging. She wasn't as disciplined as George, nor did she have as much endurance, but she could go a couple of miles in the park before collapsing in a heap.
A few moments later her feet were working on maintaining a smooth pace and her brain was solidly in
Now, her plotting voice said, our hero Michael—nickname, Saint. Love it. I've got to find a couple of books on what doctors knew and did back then, and oh, yes, I've already established him as a great storyteller, so there's no reason not to use funny tidbits about medical history, if I can find them. And as for Jules, it's neat that she's from Maui, a great place then, with all the whalers and—
Chelsea heard the strangled whoosh of a motor right behind her, pulled herself back to the present and turned quickly. But it was too late. A guy was fighting with a moped, and losing. How weird-looking it was, she thought blankly in that split second, with all those tools and things tied to the bars.
The moped slammed into her, and she felt something sharp and cold against her stomach. The force of it sent her hurtling onto her back into a clump of azaleas. Her head struck a rock, and she gasped, a small, soft sound.
Chelsea came to her senses, aware that she was moving and that there was a loud noise dinning in her ears.
"Take it easy," a soothing voice said, and she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Just lie still."
"Where am I?"
"In an ambulance. We'll be at the hospital in just a moment."
"What happened?" Her voice sounded odd, high and thin, almost like a child's. The siren made her head ache abominably.
"A moped hit you and knocked you down. I think the damned fool is stoned."
"My stomach," she gasped suddenly, trying to hug her arms about her and draw up her legs, but she felt hands holding her, and the soothing voice continued telling her to lie still.
It isn't
your
stomach that's on fire, she wanted to shout to that voice, but she didn't. She hurt too badly.
Her mind latched onto her doctor in 1854, Saint. But at the moment she couldn't find the humor in it. "I was on the side of the road, not in anyone's way," she said. Then her mind fizzled out, the pain damping everything.
"I know," the voice said, "just hang on."
What was that about the moped being stoned?
She moaned again, feeling tears sting her eyes.
Suddenly the movement stopped, and she was aware of being flat on her back on some sort of moving table. There were voices and faces peering down at her.
"In here," a woman's clear voice said.
The table stopped, and there was a man leaning over her. "Do you understand me, Miss?"
She licked her lower lip. "Yes," she said.
"Where does it hurt?"
"My stomach."
The face was gone, and suddenly she felt her clothes being pulled off.
"What the hell! Chelsea!"
It was David's voice, blank with surprise. He was leaning over her now, and the other man was gone. "What happened to you?"
"Stoned," she managed. "Moped."
She heard the first man tell him about her stomach.
Suddenly she felt cool air on her chest. Dear God, they were stripping her in front of David. She yelled, "Stop it! Don't you dare take my clothes!"
"Chelsea—" David's voice was low, soothing, immensely professional, and she hated it "—I've got to examine you, and I can't do it with your clothes on. Now, just hold still and relax. All right?"
"No!" She tried to get up, but strong hands were on her shoulders, pressing her down. "Get away from me!"
"I won't hurt you," David said, holding her as gently as he could. Damn it, he had to get her calmed down. "Please, Chelsea, hold still!"
She was panting, the pain jabbing at her, making her want to yell. "Get out, David! You're not going to see me with no clothes on! Get out!"
There were several moments of pandemonium.
David drew a sharp breath. He leaned over her and took her face between his hands. "Listen to me!" He held her head until her eyes focused on his face. "No more of this damned nonsense, do you hear me? I am a doctor and you are now a patient and you're hurt. If you don't hold still, I'm going to belt you. You got that, Chelsea?"
"I don't want you to," Chelsea said.
"I don't give a damn. Now, will you hold still and try to act like a reasonable adult?"
"I hate you."
"Good, just hold still and try to cooperate." Oh, Lord, David thought, finally releasing her. "Your belly hurts?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to check it out now. Don't move!"
David straightened and took a needle from Elsa, who was standing beside him. "Chelsea, you're going to feel a little prick. I'm just taking some blood."
She didn't really feel anything, just a bit of odd pressure. "My stomach," she whispered. "It feels numb and hot at the same time."
"I know. Just hold still." She heard him say something about crossing and typing, and something else about a crit.
Chelsea felt her shorts and panties being dragged over her hips and down her legs. Her sneakers made a silly thumping noise when they hit the floor. She closed her eyes, feeling more humiliated and embarrassed than she ever had in her entire life. And she hurt.
