The Doctor's Runaway Fiancée (11 page)

Sylvie rolled her eyes and began to read. “‘Presenting new works by acclaimed Montana wildlife artist Kyle Sims.'”

Andrew experienced a flash of recognition. “I know his works. Or rather of them. The artist is well-known for the natural realism of his works. One of my father's friends owns several paintings.”

“Well, then you should enjoy the show. It says these are new studio paintings.”

When they walked into the large gallery, Andrew realized somehow her hand was back in his. He tucked it through his arm, drawing her even closer to him as they began to stroll.

The air seemed to buzz with electricity, or maybe it was that familiar charge that hit him whenever Sylvie was close. Just as it was difficult to tell if the intoxicating floral scent came from her shampoo or from the cylindrical silver urns filled with towering gladioli, hydrangeas and palms placed strategically around the gallery.

A waiter dressed in black tie, holding a tray of champagne flutes, paused to ask if they'd like a glass.

Andrew lifted two glasses from the tray and handed one to Sylvie.

“Trying to get me drunk?” Sylvie teased, raising the glass to her lips.

“I'd prefer you be fully conscious for what I have in mind for later,” he shot back, enjoying the easy repartee.

It had been like this from the beginning, Andrew realized, an easy give-and-take coupled with lighthearted teasing always underscored by a punch of lust.

They moved to inspect a painting that depicted a red fox standing on a rock formation looking over his shoulder.

“I love this.” Sylvie's eyes widened with admiration. “It's so real I feel as if I'm there. It's like he's taunting me, saying, ‘Are you going to follow me or not?'”

Andrew could tell her admiration was sincere. “You really like it?”

She nodded. “Don't you?”

He simply nodded and then put his palm against the small of her back and guided her to the next painting. By the time they'd made it through the gallery, Sylvie had found plenty of paintings she liked but none as much as the red fox.

“Would you mind waiting for me while I check out the restroom?”

Andrew smiled. “I can amuse myself.”

While she was away, he strode over to one of the gallery employees and conducted some business. Once that was concluded, he followed up on several of his clients back in Boston. While he felt confident in the ability of the doctor he'd left in charge, these were his patients and one of them, Mrs. Whitaker, had been struggling with some recent health setbacks.

He'd just pocketed his phone when he saw Sylvie crossing the gallery floor. For tonight's event, she wore a simple skirt and top in a blue that made her eyes look like violets. Though he'd always liked her hair with its riot of curls, this new sleek version was also attractive.

Judging from the admiring glances sent her way, he wasn't the only man who'd noticed.

Mine.

The thought came swift and hard. Though it wouldn't be that way forever, for now, for as long as he remained in Jackson Hole, they were a couple.

Andrew didn't wait for her to come to him. He crossed the room with long strides. When he reached her, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Not the kind of kiss a friend would give a friend, but one a man would give a woman he desired.

“What was that for?” Sylvie's laugh was breathless as the kiss ended and she stepped back.

“Consider it—” he couldn't stop the quick flash of a grin “—an appetizer.”

Chapter Thirteen

A
n appetizer?

Sylvie didn't press Andrew for an explanation. The thought of what might be on the agenda when they got home had her heart doing flip-flops the entire way back to Spring Gulch. She kept the conversation light. It had been a wonderful day and she knew much of the reason had to do with being with Andrew.

Though she knew she'd be heartbroken when he left Jackson Hole, she'd made the decision when she walked out of that gallery tonight that she was going to enjoy these next few weeks. And if he left,
when
he left, she would hold the memories of these days together tight to her heart.

“I'm surprised you weren't asked to do any of the desserts featured at various galleries tonight.” There was more than a hint of righteous indignation in his tone. “Yours are every bit as good as the ones we sampled.”

Sylvie slipped off her shoes and sank into the soft buttery leather of the living room sofa, wiggling her toes.

Andrew turned once flames danced cheerily in the hearth. Though the temperature outside was a balmy forty-five degrees, he'd insisted on starting a fire.

Sylvie hadn't argued. It wasn't her home. Besides, she rather liked having a fire.

Without asking permission, Andrew dropped down beside her, lifting his arm to rest around her shoulders.

What the heck?
Sylvie thought and rested her head comfortably against his shoulder.

“I could get us some wine,” he said, making no move to get up.

“I'm fine.” She breathed in the scent of him that had once been so familiar, so dear, then found herself blinking back unexpected tears.

“Why didn't even one place have your cakes?” Andrew pressed. “If this event is supposed to showcase the best Jackson Hole has in terms of art and wine and fine cuisine, you should have been featured.”

The irritation had returned to his voice. Sylvie had no doubt that if this was his community and he was familiar with the event organizers, he'd have had them on the phone right now.

“I'll be involved in Taste of the Tetons on Sunday,” she told him, stroking his arm with her hand, simply because she felt the need to touch. “I didn't move here in time to line up contracts to provide hors d'oeuvres for tonight's festivities.”

Andrew took a moment and appeared to consider her explanation. “Some of those other cakes were nice,” he said finally, “but none were in your league, not in taste or in creativity.”

“You like my designs?” Sylvie couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. For some reason, she'd gotten the impression back in Boston that he found her designs a bit too avant-garde for his tastes.

“Absolutely.” His eyebrows drew together. “Did you think I didn't?”

“I wasn't sure,” she said honestly. “My work isn't exactly mainstream.”

“I'm a very nontraditional guy.”

Sylvie snorted. She couldn't help it. She didn't know anyone
more
mainstream than Andrew Dalton O'Shea.

“I'm not,” he decreed in an imperious manner. “Unlike many of my friends, I'm open to new ideas and new experiences.”

Sylvie raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Seriously? You expect me to believe that?”

“It's the truth.”

“It's not the truth.” Sylvie didn't intend to be mean, but she couldn't let Andrew spout such falsehoods without challenging the assertions. “You live in your own little world, a world composed of symphonies and operas and polo matches.”

“I knew I'd regret showing you my polo mounts.”

“Your polo ponies were very sweet and quite pretty.”

Andrew winced. “I didn't purchase them because they were pretty. I got them because not only did they exhibit speed and stamina, but they showed good balance and an unexcitable temperament.”

“I still think they're pretty.”

Andrew cocked his head as a thought occurred to him. “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

“Me?” Amusement bubbled up inside Sylvie. “The closest I came to riding was being hauled around Central Park in one of those carriages when I was in culinary school.”

“I'll teach you to ride.”

For a second she thought he was joking, but those beautiful gray eyes were serious.

“You're not going to be here that long.”

“We'll fit it in.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep.” Though Sylvie kept her tone light, she meant every word. “It's enough that we've agreed to spend these next three weeks together.”

His chin lifted in that rarely seen stubborn tilt. “I
am
going to teach you to ride.”

“If it works out, that'd be wonderful,” Sylvie conceded, but wasn't holding her breath. She'd learned long ago not to count on promises. Even ones made with the best of intentions.

“You don't trust me.”

She blinked. “Where did that come from?”

“You don't trust that I'll take you riding, even though I said I would.”

“I just know that these next few weeks are going to be very bus—”

“You didn't believe I liked your work, even though I always told you how much I liked and admired what you do.”

She waved an airy hand. “We were sleeping together. What else were you going to say?”

His only reply was a stony stare.

Realizing this was getting awkward, Sylvie sought to defuse the situation. “C'mon, Andrew. Don't make a big deal out of nothing.”

“It's not nothing.” His jaw lifted in a stubborn tilt. “You don't trust that what I say is true, even though I've given you no reason to distrust me.”

“People disappoint,” she blurted out. “People lie. They say what you want to hear. My foster parents were always telling me that my mother loved me. But she didn't. You don't run away from someone you love. You don't leave them alone.”

“You ran away from me,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “Does that mean you didn't love me?”

“You weren't alone. You have your family. They love you and you love them.” She clamped her lips together, realizing she'd only made the situation worse in trying to explain.

“Sometimes, Sylvie, you have to trust. Or you're never going to be close to anybody.”

* * *

After another thirty minutes of civilized conversation, Sylvie went off to bed. Andrew knew he'd never be able to sleep, so he added another log to the fire, poured himself a glass of wine and retrieved his laptop.

The house was quiet when he settled himself on the sofa in front of the fire with his laptop. As he read through his messages, he admitted leaving his patients had been more difficult than he thought. While he knew his associate had been taking good care of them, he was the one who knew them and their medical history inside and out.

Like eighty-nine-year-old Fern Whitaker. He'd been her physician ever since he began his concierge practice. Her husband had died twenty years ago. Her children were all in other states and she now lived alone in the grand home on Beacon Hill where she and her husband had raised those five children.

The children worried she was depressed, but he knew much of what ailed her was loneliness. Especially during the long winter months. She wasn't a complainer. When she told him during one of his weekly visits that she'd been short of breath lately, he'd taken the complaint seriously.

Right before he left Boston, he'd diagnosed her with a pulmonary embolism. The blood clot in her lung had been a large one. Since she'd experienced problems on anticoagulants before, Andrew had hooked her up with a top-notch surgeon who'd removed the clot during a surgery.

His associate, Dr. Seth Carstairs, had been keeping Andrew updated on her recovery, but it wasn't the same as being there.

Andrew frowned at the email from Seth. Fern had been refusing to wear the compression stockings ordered post-surgery. He wondered what was going on. Normally Fern was compliant with medical orders. He shot off a quick email to Seth, asking him to call tomorrow with details.

There were several emails from his father, updating him on recent activities of the company. While Andrew had worked for O'Shea Sports during college, the business world had never held much interest. Still, he forced himself through the attached reports and graphs before shifting to an email from his sister.

Hers contained business news, too, as well as family updates. If only their father could see that Corinne was the perfect person to take the company to new heights in the twenty-first century.

The rest of the emails he skimmed, then set aside the laptop, leaned back against the plush leather and sipped his wine.

The evening, prior to the return home, had gone better than he'd anticipated. In fact, he'd had high hopes that the night would end with her sharing his bed. Instead all the talking they'd been doing had yielded an unexpected result.

She didn't trust him. In fact, had never trusted him.

The realization was like a knife to the heart. He'd never given her any reason to distrust his word or his feelings for her, yet there was no denying the fact.

He was almost positive that the distrust was part of the reason she left. Despite the ring on her finger, the promises they'd made to each other, she hadn't trusted he loved her. Likely she thought he'd get tired of her and move on. Just as her mother and father had done all those years ago.

There was probably more to her leaving than that, although this lack of trust seemed more than enough reason. When he found himself attempting to figure out a way to build that trust, he reined in the impulse by reminding himself that he'd come to Jackson Hole to get to know Sylvie. The purpose in getting to know her was so he could accept he hadn't known the woman he thought he loved.

That fact had been shoved in his face tonight. He should be able to go home knowing she'd never trusted him.

But knowing wasn't enough to give him peace. He needed more. And he would get more. From where he sat, there was still a lot for him to know about Sylvie Thorne.

* * *

Though sorely tempted to tell Sylvie he was going to sleep in, Andrew dragged himself up and went with her to the bakery, then rode with her while they delivered baked goods to all of her clients.

“Instead of hanging around here, I'm going to the health clinic and see how the grand opening is going. If they're swamped I may stick around and lend a hand.” Andrew kept his tone polite.

They'd been very polite all morning.

“That's fine.” Sylvie pulled the van into its parking spot. “I have a lot of prep work to do before tomorrow.”

He must have looked blank, because she smiled. “The Taste of the Tetons.”

“That's right.” For some reason he'd forgotten all about the open-air tasting fair on Sunday. “Text when you get done and we can find a time to meet.”

The smile she flashed him didn't quite reach her eyes. “Sounds like a plan.”

Andrew got in his car, but instead of heading to the clinic, he stopped by the gallery and picked up his purchase. Only after safely storing it in the spare bedroom at home did he turn the car in the direction of the clinic.

As the parking lot was full, he was forced to find a space down the road. He discovered part of the reason for the congested lot was Cole's coffee cart and a bouncy house for kids.

If the purpose of the grand opening was to draw out the citizens of Jackson Hole, it appeared the efforts had been a success. Even as Andrew strolled to the beverage cart, the physician in him wondered how things were progressing on the inside.

Before he got close to the cart, Keenan appeared out of the crowd. “Mitzi will be happy to see you.”

Immediately Andrew went on alert. “What's the problem?”

“Too many patients.” Keenan flashed a grin. “Too few doctors. Did you mean what you said about wanting to help?”

“Absolutely.” Even as he spoke, Andrew turned toward the front door.

“Not that way.” Keenan steered him around back to an unmarked door. He unlocked it and motioned Andrew inside.

The entrance opened into the back office area.

Andrew stepped into a beehive, a well-organized beehive to be sure, but one alive with activity. Doctors in lab coats and nurses in brightly colored uniforms wove in and out of exam and treatment rooms with quick steps.

“Dr. McGregor,” Keenan called out to his wife when she stepped from a room. “Look what I brought you. Fresh meat and he's ready and willing to help.”

“I owe you.” Her gaze locked with her husband's.

“I'll figure out a way you can repay me.” The suggestive edge to his voice wasn't lost on any of them.

“Looking forward to it.” She turned to Andrew. “I really appreciate this. We knew it would be busy and thought we were staffed for it, but we've been slammed ever since the doors opened.”

“Put me where you need me.” Andrew experienced a surge of excitement. He hadn't even been gone from medicine a week and he was already champing at the bit.

“Room five.” Mitzi gestured to a pretty redheaded nurse. “Leila will be the RN assisting you. You'll find a clean lab coat in the closet in the room.”

With Leila at his side, Andrew was off to the races. The afternoon flew by. Each time an exam room emptied out, the competent RN retrieved another patient from the overcrowded waiting room. He found himself enjoying the variety of ages and conditions.

He treated everyone from a four-year-old with foot and mouth disease to an octogenarian with a sprained ankle. Though there wasn't much time for conversation, Andrew gave each patient his full attention.

By the time the doors were closed, he was tired but surprisingly energized.

Mitzi placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you again. We couldn't have done it without you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Her gaze searched his face. “I believe you mean it.”