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Had already fallen.
Oh, damn.
Until now she hadn’t dared picture a future with Connor, but now her imagination drifted there. Morning after morning, awakening in his arms…the small rituals of eating breakfast, going to work, reading to the children as a couple…
Was she a complete fool? That kind of security didn’t come to women like her. Not in a world full of Harmon Hardisons and Luther Allens—righteous, judgmental people who mattered to Connor.
There wasn’t going to be a happy ending. No Just Married sign on the back of his cool red sedan. No baby with Connor’s thick hair and her violet eyes.
Abruptly Yvonne sat up.
What had she done?
Dear Reader,
When I first met Yvonne while telling the story of Jenni and Ethan, I knew that someday she’d insist on taking center stage. But I had no idea she was going to do so with such spirit.
As for Connor, I didn’t realize that the seemingly staid physician guarded a secret, and had a big surprise in store, as well. Writing this book was as much a voyage of discovery for me as for him.
Even after more than seventy novels, I still don’t know how characters spring to life. I’m just grateful that they do. Take Biker Mike. Until I met the little guy in a motel room, I was clueless about the strength of his personality.
Characters change, too. If you’ve read the previous DOWNHOME DOCTORS books, you’ll recall Beau as a real pain in the neck. When it came to dealing with his own family, however, he revealed unexpected facets.
If this is your first visit to Downhome, the book stands by itself, so don’t worry. And I hope you’re intrigued enough to want to find out what happens to Sonja Vega, the ob-gyn who’s going to arrive next. In fact, she’s already had a prickly encounter with the man who’s going to be her hero, but she doesn’t know it yet.
I’d better get back to work. I can hear my characters demanding attention.
Happy reading!
P.S. Please e-mail me at jdiamondfriends@aol.com and visit my Web site at www.jacquelinediamond.com.
Dad by Default
Jacqueline Diamond
www.millsandboon.co.uk
For my cousin Suzanne, who shares my memories of Granny
Books by Jacqueline Diamond
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
913—THE IMPROPERLY PREGNANT PRINCESS
962—DIAGNOSIS: EXPECTING BOSS’S BABY
971—PRESCRIPTION: MARRY HER IMMEDIATELY
978—PROGNOSIS: A BABY? MAYBE
1046—THE BABY’S BODYGUARD
1075—THE BABY SCHEME
1094—THE POLICE CHIEF’S LADY *
1101—NINE-MONTH SURPRISE *
1109—A FAMILY AT LAST *
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Yvonne Johnson hated Connor Hardison, M.D., on sight. No, she hated him before she saw him, before she met him, before the Monday morning in August when he walked into the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic, stretching his broad shoulders and flashing his precision-cut dimple.
Glowing reports from his earlier visit merely intensified Yvonne’s wrath. She hated him all the more when her fellow nurse, Winifred Waters, an outspoken black woman who practically worshipped the clinic’s obstetrician, declared the newcomer “Ninety-nine percent as handsome as Dr. Rankin.”
She hated him when Dr. Jenni Forrest, the family practitioner whom Yvonne assisted and who was about to go on a year’s maternity leave, remarked, “If I weren’t eight months pregnant and didn’t have the most fabulous husband in the world, I’d be tempted.”
Yvonne had good reason to hate Connor Hardison. According to what she’d heard, he probably didn’t hold a high opinion of her, either. However, he’d had no choice about which nurse he inherited when he accepted the position in Downhome, Tennessee, and neither did she.
On the morning of his arrival, Yvonne lingered in the nurses’ lounge, listening to the cheerful voices of her fellow workers greeting him in the hallway. They all sounded thrilled that their community, which struggled to find enough doctors for its growing population, had snagged a respected family practitioner to fill in for Jenni and possibly stay on after she returned.
There was no point in trying to switch assignments with Winifred. When Yvonne suggested doing so, Estelle Fellows, the clinic’s nurse practitioner and business manager, had insisted that Dr. Hardison required someone familiar with Jenni’s patients.
Yvonne was weighing her remaining options—which amounted to none, since she was a single mom with a two-year-old daughter—when Winifred found her. “You going to hide till the cows come home, girl?”
“I hate crowds,” Yvonne muttered. “I’ll wait till the fuss dies down.”
“Well, you better get your tail out there, because he’s about to hang a picture of the two doctors Allen in the hall opposite the lunchroom,” Winifred reported. “I figure that’ll wreck your appetite permanently, and you’re skinny enough as it is.”
“He’s doing what?” Yvonne didn’t stick around for a reply.
A photo of Dorothy and Luther Allen used to occupy that very spot. The sixtyish husband-wife physician team had staffed the clinic until two years ago, when they’d suddenly announced their retirement. During the six months following their departure, until Jenni’s arrival, Estelle and Yvonne had handled routine cases and referred other patients to the nearest large town, Mill Valley.
During that period, Yvonne had removed the picture and shredded it.
She held no grudge against Dorothy Allen. In fact, she felt bad about what the older woman must have endured.
Almost as bad as she felt about what she herself had gone through. For the past two years, Yvonne had suffered the scorn of numerous residents and relatives for having a baby out of wedlock and refusing to identify the father.
His name was Dr. Luther Allen.
To herself, Yvonne didn’t try to excuse her conduct. Coming from a family that created an emotional void in her didn’t justify seeking a father figure in a coworker. Nor did being a naive small-town girl in her early twenties justify sleeping with another woman’s husband.
She understood why Dorothy Allen, when she’d learned the facts, had insisted the couple move away. The indefensible part was Luther’s conduct.
He’d threatened to sue Yvonne for custody if she sought child support, even though he clearly cared nothing for his daughter. Furthermore, if she breathed a word in public about his paternity, he’d vowed to portray her as a conniving tramp. They both knew people would take his word over hers.
All his loving declarations, along with the attention that she’d craved, were revealed as manipulations. He’d left her feeling used and cheap. Also remorseful and angry.
What hurt worse was that Yvonne could never trust a man again. Much as she might long for an intimate bond, the cost of betrayal had proved too high.
The one shining compensation was Bethany. Her bright, eager daughter had no idea that life involved anything other than love and acceptance, and Yvonne meant to keep it that way.
She had shared the truth about the affair with only a handful of people: Winifred, Jenni and, eventually, the two newer doctors at the clinic, Will Rankin and pediatrician Chris McRay, as she came to trust them. Estelle had undoubtedly figured it out, although her twenty-year-old daughter, Patsy, the receptionist, apparently hadn’t. Beyond that, Yvonne had entrusted the story solely to her cousin and best friend Lindsay, who babysat Bethany.
Now she had to deal with Connor Hardison.
Luther used to refer to the young doctor, whom he’d mentored, as the son he’d never had. Moreover, Hardison was known for his rigid moral standards. Heaven help her when he discovered the secret of the father’s identity, which seemed inevitable.
That didn’t mean she intended to let him make her existence any more miserable than necessary. No one had ever accused Yvonne of timidity.
When she barreled out of the lounge, a couple of quick steps carried her to the small knot of people in the hall. The other doctors had departed, leaving behind Estelle, Patsy and Dr. Hardison. He was positioning a painting against the wall, looking so determined she half expected him to pull out a hammer and install the darn thing himself.
“Hold on!” Yvonne ordered.
Wearing a puzzled expression, her new boss turned in response.
Although she’d previously glimpsed the man from a distance, she wasn’t prepared for his sheer physical impact. It didn’t emanate from his gray eyes, despite the tantalizing hint of darkness in their depths, nor from his quietly assured stance.
It was the tension that radiated, the sense that he barely held in check a restless sexual energy. Hurriedly, Yvonne dismissed the notion. She couldn’t possibly be sensing what ran through Hardison’s subconscious, nor did she want to.
Instead, she focused on his height. Despite the chunky heels adding an inch to her five-foot-eight frame, she had to look up to meet his gaze. They’d be cheek to cheek if they ever danced—an event about as likely as space aliens landing in Downhome and ordering crêpe suzettes at the Café Montreal.
“You don’t like the painting?” he asked.
When Yvonne forced herself to look directly at the images, faces popped out in heightened realism. The artist had captured Dorothy’s air of motherly calm, while Luther’s smarmy smile had morphed into fatherly benevolence.
Her stomach clenched. She couldn’t bear to face this thing whenever she passed by. Still, Hardison himself must have commissioned the large work and probably paid a high price.
“I think it’s perfect.” Patsy eased closer to the doctor.
Estelle frowned at the possessive gesture. “We have patients waiting.”
Patsy gave her chin-length brown hair a defiant shake.
“Now!” added her mother.
“Well, all right.” Making no secret of her irritation, Patsy stalked past the records room toward the front counter.
Hardison stood balancing the picture against the wall, watching curiously. Realizing her outburst required an explanation, Yvonne improvised. “Hanging a picture in the middle of the hall seems odd. Why not put it in your office?”
“There used to be a photo of them in this spot,” he replied doggedly. “As a matter of fact, Luther asked me to send it to him. Any idea where it went?”
Estelle saved Yvonne the trouble of manufacturing an excuse. “It disappeared a few years ago while we were having the office painted. The workmen must have mislaid it.”
“Well, the Allens deserve more recognition than hiding their portrait in my office,” Hardison responded. “Any other suggestions?”
Since “dump it” wasn’t likely to go over well, Yvonne compromised. “How about the waiting room?” She rarely went out there.
“The patients would like that,” the nurse practitioner agreed. “The older folks mention the Luthers quite often.”
He mulled the suggestion. A stubborn man, Yvonne thought. Or perhaps simply devoted to his mentors.
“Good idea. We can find an appropriate spot later.” To her relief, Hardison lowered the frame to the carpet. “After hours. I appreciate your input, both of you. Don’t mean to make a federal case of this.”
When Estelle went about her duties, Yvonne seized the chance to make herself scarce, as well. “I’ll get the charts ready. Actually, I’m running late.” Although Hardison’s patients wouldn’t begin arriving for a short while, she and Winifred also took turns assisting Dr. McRay.
“One more thing.” His low voice held her.
She gazed somewhere to the left of his face. His regard was simply too disconcerting. “Something I can do for you?”
“I noticed you cut your hair.” His smile revealed the devastating dimple Winifred had described. “I like it.”
A month ago, she’d chopped her silver-blond locks to collar-length with spiky bangs angling from the crown. But what did that have to do with him? “I didn’t realize you knew who I was, let alone kept track of my hairstyle.”
“You’re hard to miss, despite your best efforts,” he assured her dryly. “I saw you dodging out of sight when I visited last spring.”
Well, that was embarrassing. “I don’t have much time to exercise. Dodging keeps me in shape.”
He ignored the weak attempt at a joke. “Out of curiosity, why the trim? Your old style was striking.”
Too striking for comfort. The discovery that she’d drawn Dr. Hardison’s attention merely emphasized the point.
At least he showed more discretion than the influx of workmen building a shopping center and housing development on Downhome’s outskirts. Whenever they’d spotted her on the street, her long silver-blond tresses had brought wolf whistles, providing yet more fuel for the town’s gossips.
If there was anything Yvonne loathed, it was wagging tongues. But she didn’t care to discuss the matter with this man.
“They were having a special at the Snip ’N’ Curl,” Yvonne quipped. “Half price for fallen women.”
The quirk of an eyebrow acknowledged the challenge behind her remark. She hadn’t meant to lob the ball into his court. On the other hand, they might as well get the subject out in the open, especially since it was number two on her why-I-hate-Connor list.
“I wondered if…what you’d heard,” he responded thoughtfully. “My comments weren’t meant personally.”
“You mean your comments to the school board? Why would I take them personally?” She heard the bite in her tone.
The previous year, the board of the Mill Valley-Downhome Consolidated School District had considered integrating its programs for teen mothers into regular classes. Debate had surged about a proposal for an on-campus nursery.
At a trustee’s request, Connor had spoken during the public hearing. For some reason, his status as a physician seemed to give his opinions extra weight. According to the weekly Gazette, he’d supported encouraging the young women to pursue academic courses but had opposed bringing babies onto campus. He’d contended their presence made unwed motherhood appear desirable.
When the board had rejected the nursery proposal, Downhome busybodies had made sure to mention the matter to Yvonne. She’d been steaming ever since.
“I’m sorry if I gave offense, but I had to tell the truth, as I saw it,” he said. “We’re both professionals. I hope we can get along.”
“Fine.” Yvonne consulted her watch. “May I get those charts ready now, Doctor?”
“Of course.”
Turning, she nearly tripped over the painting. Only a quick sidestep and Hardison’s hand on her arm prevented a stumble. Nevertheless, she came so close she registered the sophisticated scent of his cologne.
“Sorry,” Yvonne muttered. “I guess I ought to practice more dodging.”
When he released her, his touch left a trace of warmth. “I don’t want to delay you, but I just remembered something else I meant to ask.”
“Shoot.” She tried to sound friendly. As he’d pointed out, they did have to work together.
“I need to rent a place around here. Any suggestions?”
“I wouldn’t recommend my area on Garden Street. The roosters across the street crow at dawn, seven days a week. They’re worse than car alarms.” Plus she had an obnoxious landlady and a pain-in-the-neck upstairs neighbor. “And the area smells like farm animals, probably because there’s a barnyard across the street.”
“That can’t be healthy for your daughter.” Catching her frown, Connor amended, “However, I suppose it’s none of my business.”
She declined comment. “Dr. McRay used to rent the unit over Pepe’s Italian Diner. You might try there.”
“I paid a visit. It’s too small. Everyone suggests a house, but I’m not keen on yardwork.” He shrugged. “For the present, I’ll keep commuting, although a twenty-four-mile round-trip isn’t my idea of fun.”
“This is a tough town for rentals.” Besides, if he found living here too inconvenient, maybe he’d leave. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Yvonne whisked past him. With their first encounter out of the way, things ought to proceed smoothly, she reflected.
At least until he learned about Bethany’s parentage. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen for quite a while.
CONNOR WASN’T SURE why he’d mentioned his quest for an apartment. His nurse’s job didn’t include serving as a leasing agent. Also, judging by her attitude, she’d prefer that he rent a place on the far side of the moon.
He’d heard rumors before accepting the job. Her man-hating was legendary, according to the nurses at Mill Valley Doctors Circle, where he’d worked the previous four years.
The fact that some jerk left her pregnant hardly explained her resentment toward all members of the male gender. Also, his former colleagues hadn’t understood why she protected the lowlife by keeping his identity secret. They’d talked about Yvonne a lot. With her violet eyes, white-blonde hair and fashion-model figure, she fascinated people.
Count him out, Connor mused as he lugged the portrait down the hall. He planned to leave Nurse Johnson strictly in the business segment of his brain.
Around the corner, he passed a row of examining rooms. From within came the familiar murmur of voices. Except for the layout, he might as well be back at Doctors Circle, at least physically.
However, he’d loathed the new management team, who pressured staff to cut corners and hurry the patients. The last straw had been when the administrator began urging doctors to make referrals to other facilities owned by the same investment group regardless of client convenience, cost or—Connor suspected—quality.
By comparison, putting up with a nurse whose tongue could inflict septic wounds didn’t seem so bad.
At the end of the row, he reached his office. As Estelle had explained earlier, they’d converted the space—formerly designated for in-service training—to accommodate a fourth physician.
Although Estelle had offered the option of taking over Jenni’s office during her leave, he suspected he’d feel like a trespasser. Also, due to the strong possibility that he’d remain after Dr. Forrest’s return, better to settle in now.
Entering, Connor regarded his new home. Patsy, as she’d made a point of telling him, had stowed the files and reference materials he’d sent ahead. That left considerable empty space, which the metal file cabinet and computer didn’t exactly soften.
He lacked so much as a personal photo for the desk. His ex-wife, Margo, had split five years ago, which meant they’d been divorced longer than they’d been married. The only further entanglement had been a brief and ill-considered affair on the rebound, and a handful of dates that had gone nowhere.
Maybe Yvonne was right. He ought to hang the painting in here.
He regarded the Allens’ wise, slightly wrinkled faces with affection. Old family friends who’d mentored him through medical school, the couple had encouraged Connor to locate in this region after his divorce. For the two years during which they’d worked a dozen miles apart, Luther Allen had sponsored him into a service club and taught him to play golf. Connor held a special place in his heart for Dorothy, who had helped fill the void left by the loss of his own mother. Her compassion and quiet dignity served as a model of the qualities he sought in a woman.
The Allens had moved back to North Carolina to be near their grown daughter and grandchildren. Last year, while visiting his father and stepmother nearby, he’d been shocked when Dorothy had confided that her husband’s infidelity had nearly destroyed their marriage.
During a midlife crisis, Luther had slept with a predatory woman in Downhome, she’d explained. The discovery of his betrayal had led to their abrupt decision to retire.
Time and reconciliation were healing the wounds. However, Connor knew Dorothy still bore the scars and probably always would.
He preferred to remain in the dark about the woman’s identity in case he ran into her as a patient. He didn’t want bias affecting his professional response.
Of course, Luther shouldn’t have yielded to temptation. Still, since he was a pediatrician, his mistress obviously hadn’t been anyone he was treating. And Dorothy had taken some of the blame on herself, referring to a marital relationship that wasn’t what it used to be.
Counseling was helping to bring the two of them closer, she’d said. Thank goodness for that.
Through the window, a ray of August light slid between the blinds and gleamed on a nail protruding from the wall. A perfect place to hang the portrait, he decided.
After a bit of a struggle to position the frame, Connor stood back. The picture brought depth to the room, and as a benefit, no one was likely to inquire about who’d painted it.
Some oddball, of course. One of those unstable artistic types. A guy who’d spent far too many afternoons taking art classes when he ought to have been devoting every moment to his medical studies.
The problem, Margo had told Connor, was that anyone viewing his paintings recognized instantly that art wasn’t merely a sideline. Painting not only excited him, it brought out an entirely different personality—a reckless, sensual side that would have horrified his father.
Connor loved medicine and cared about his patients. Yet sometimes his longing to be alone with canvas and paints became an almost physical torment.
Which brought him back to Yvonne. That tantalizing mixture of the ethereal and the earthly made him long to paint her.
In the nude.
He didn’t realize he’d groaned aloud until the noise rang in his ears. Hoping no one had overheard, he straightened the nametag on his white coat and squared his shoulders.
So much for the whacko who spent his free hours so immersed in composition and brushes and color that he sometimes forgot to eat. With a feat of mental control familiar from long use, he transformed back into the sturdy, capable and always reliable Dr. Connor Hardison.
Speaking of which, it was time to get this show on the road. The first patient should be prepped by now.
Connor went out the door. His alter ego stayed behind.
After hours, it would be waiting.
Chapter Two
The twelve-mile stretch of highway between Mill Valley and Downhome traversed thick stands of pine trees and stretches of aromatic dairy farms. In summer, a motorist could enjoy the soothing sight of cattle grazing in the fields and, in the woods, glimpse the occasional deer or flash of a blue jay.
Except in the rain. Then thick sheets of gray obscured the landscape and fallen branches transformed the road into an obstacle course.
Day after day, it rained. On Wednesday, Connor destroyed a tire in a sinkhole and arrived so late he threw the entire day’s schedule off.