Midnight, Moonlight & Miracles

Chapter Three

Megan stared at the man with a death grip on his crutches and struggled to keep the shock from her expression. He looked terrible. Black, blue, and a rip-roaring case of the tired crankies. No, even more than that—tired clear to the bone. More than anything, she wanted to put her arms around him. The urge came suddenly and with such force it shocked her socks off. If she’d ever seen a soul in need of comfort, it was Simon Reynolds.

Hours had passed since she’d seen him through last night’s emergency, but she still felt that somewhere, somehow, his soul had taken an even bigger hit. And she wanted to hold him and try to make it better. But she didn’t. Gut instinct told her he was proud, stubborn and macho. He wouldn’t take kindly to any comfort offered. Besides, she wouldn’t treat him any differently than her other patients. She didn’t make hugging a habit—unless they were children.

And he was definitely not a child. His wide, bare chest with the masculine sprinkling of hair testified to that. Last night in the ER it had been safe to acknowledge her attraction. She’d never expected to see him again. But here she was. Still attracted. Maybe more so. Her strong reaction to this particular patient convinced her that she needed to proceed with caution.

She retreated behind her trademark sassiness. “Hi, Simon.”

“Megan. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Pat’s my friend. If I can save her the hassle of a nuisance malpractice suit—” She shrugged.

“I wouldn’t have sued.”

“We’ll never know. I’m surprised you answered the door.”

“Because you predicted I’d be flat on my back—if I made it home at all?”

“I thought you’d be out practicing for a world record in the walking-wounded Olympics.”

“You just caught me. Another second or two and I’d have been out the door for a training hobble.” His mouth turned up at the corners.

Unfortunately, it didn’t make him look any less battered. Even more unfortunately, his words picked up where he’d left off last night—charming her.

Coming here was a really bad idea.

But the first nurse Pat had sent hadn’t worked out and Megan had heard about his ultimatum. Her boss had coaxed and cajoled, then when all else failed, she’d brought out the big guns and called in a personal favor. Pat had given Megan a job when she’d desperately needed one. Megan had gratefully told her—if you ever need anything… So here she was, but with great personal misgivings.

She looked up at him—way up. “You’re a tall one,” she commented, the first words that came to mind.

“I’m the same height I was last night.”

“But you were flat on your back then.”

“Until I jumped off the gurney and you propped me up,” he reminded her.

“So I did. Although ‘jump’ is a pretty ambitious description.”

She’d tried to put the encounter out of her mind and couldn’t, which meant she’d probably lost her mind. What she needed to do was look at this as an opportunity to sort out and put to bed the feelings he’d evoked.

Looking past him, she noticed the entryway floor was distressed wood. That suited Simon Reynolds, she thought wryly. She could see a stairway going up and one going down. The town house had three levels. And she knew it was a block from the Pacific Ocean. An expensive piece of real estate. His paperwork from previous admits had said he was an engineer. Apparently, it was a lucrative line of work.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Sorry. I guess last night’s little spill has put me off my manners.” To let her pass in front of him, he started to back up on crutches he was quite obviously unaccustomed to navigating.

“Don’t move,” she cautioned, fearing he would topple backward. “You get points for good intentions, but let’s save the backing up and parallel parking for another lesson. Until you get the hang of it, I suggest you move in a forward direction only.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

“Like I believe that.”

Megan smiled. She couldn’t help it. One minute, she was secure in the knowledge that her defenses were squarely in place; the next, he said something cute. The further she got into this opportunity, the worse it looked.

But she didn’t have a choice so she simply moved past him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body. If she hadn’t been wearing a sweater against the cool November weather, her arm would have touched his—bare skin to bare skin. She was suddenly jittery. The close contact, his disarming grin—so attractive and so unexpected, the sheer masculinity of his unshaven jaw all combined to mobilize her hormones. If there was an antidote to his powerful appeal now was the time to take it. But she couldn’t think of a single course of treatment to slow her reaction.

God help her—she was smack-dab in the devil’s domain.

“Go sit down before you fall down,” she ordered. “If that happens, no way can I scrape you off the floor by myself.”

He winced at the words. “Falling’s not high on my to-do list, either.”

“What are you really doing up?”

She watched him hobble into the living room and slowly, carefully and painfully—if the tight, tension-filled look on his face was anything to go by—lower himself into the corner of his green-and-blue-plaid couch. He rested the crutches beside him, against the coordinating wing chair.

After letting out a long breath, he met her gaze. “I was thirsty.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “This is exactly what the doctor was afraid of.”

“Specifically?”

“Neglect.”

Megan put her bag of medical supplies on the oak coffee table and left him sitting up on the couch. She walked through the town house dining room, past an ornately carved oak table and eight chairs, past the matching hutch and into the sunny kitchen. To her right was a circular dinette with four chairs. Behind it, in the corner, a bottled-water dispenser.

To her left was a long expanse of room with a refrigerator on the left, countertops and cupboards on the right. At the end was the stove and a built-in microwave. After pacing the distance of the room, she looked down the hall that led back to the living room. She noted the pantry and the powder room across from it, then retraced her steps. Taking a glass from the top cupboard closest to the water dispenser, she filled it and walked back to him.

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

He drank greedily, and she watched his Adam’s apple move up and down. When he was finished, she couldn’t help noticing the way drops of water clung to his firm, well-shaped lips. What would they feel like against her own?

Holy cow! Why should the perfectly ordinary sight of a man drinking water make her think about that, then go weak in the knees and steal the breath straight out of her lungs? There was a perfectly reasonable explanation. She was a ninny, of course. If researchers came up with an anti-ninny inoculation, she’d be first in line for human testing.

He held the glass out to her and she took it, mortified to see that her hand was shaking.

“I’ll get you some more,” she said, turning on her heel.

“That’s okay. It was enough. I’ll just have to—”

“Yes, I know. But your body needs hydration. If you were in the hospital, they’d slap an IV on you faster than you could say intravenous saline solution.” She tossed the words over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen.

When she came back, she handed him the glass. “You’d also have a bedpan.”

His intense, blue-eyed gaze captured her own. “Then my decision to leave was definitely the right one.”

“Even though you’d have been more comfortable and better taken care of in the hospital?”

“Comfortable is a relative term. I’d have crawled to the facilities on my hands and knees before using a metal contraption you guys no doubt keep in the freezer.”

“They’re plastic. We haven’t used metal bedpans or kept them in the freezer for years.”

“Uh-huh. A likely story, but one I don’t have to test since you’re on my turf now. And I think my care quotient just went up.”

The look he gave her heated her blood and sent it bubbling through her body. Unfortunately, she felt it in her cheeks, as well as other, more sensitive places. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“Speaking of care, I need to take a look at you.”

“You’re looking at me.”

She shook her head. “I mean I have to check your abrasions for infection. Examine the stitches. Etcetera.”

“I don’t like the sound of etcetera. Will it hurt?”

“No more than and-so-on-and-so-forth.”

His blue eyes narrowed as he fixed her with a skeptical look. “You’re lying. It’s going to hurt. And me without a stick to bite on.”

“I never lie. But I also didn’t define how much discomfort is associated with and-so-on-and-so-forth.”

“Okay. Lay it on me.”

“I need to change the bandages. That will probably hurt some if there was oozing and they stuck. I’ll have to clean the wounds again and put on ointment—as gently as I possibly can. Look on the bright side. I don’t have to dig out the gravel.”

“Lucky me. Do you always look on the bright side?”

“There’s a reason my last name is Brightwell.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re too perky?”

His twitching lips said he was teasing and took the sting from his words as surely as topical anesthetic. She was amused and charmed in equal parts. And there it was again. Heat. It started in her cheeks and gained intensity, turning into a fireball that shot straight to her toes.

She cleared her throat and turned to her bag. “After wound inspection, I need to take your vitals. A veteran like yourself probably already knows that means temperature, pulse and blood pressure.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“If everything checks out, I plan to do some range-of-motion exercises on that injured leg.”

“Whoa. Motion equals pain. No one said anything about intentional infliction of bodily harm. I called for a nurse because it’s hard to flip a burger and stay upright on crutches at the same time.”

She put her hands on her hips. “If you wanted a butler, you should have called Servants R Us. I’m a health-care professional. On my watch, you’ll get expert health care. That includes making sure your nutritional intake is sufficient to support life for a man your size.”

“Does that mean you’ll do double duty as a cook?”

“Yes. But smile when you call me that.” She allowed herself a quick, appreciative study of him and his impressive size. “It’ll take a lot of food to keep you alive. But I will cheerfully provide it since my primary function is to restore your health to pre-trauma status as quickly as possible. No pain, no gain.”

“I’ll take the gain part and pass on the pain.”

“Unfortunately, they sometimes go hand in hand. Don’t be a wimp,” she challenged.

“It’s not the pain I’m worried about.”

“Then what is it?” she asked, unable to keep up the stern tone when his face took on a haggard look. She had a feeling he was no stranger to pain, and she wasn’t thinking the physical kind. What was his story? No, she thought. Don’t go there. Bonding wasn’t her job. Nursing was—his body, not his soul.

But he was quiet for so long, she thought he might just tell her whatever it was that was bothering him. Instead, he looked at her and asked, “How did your daughter’s appointment go?”

“What?”

“You told me last night you weren’t available this morning because she had an ophthalmology appointment.”

The man might have scrambled his brains less than twenty-four hours ago, but his powers of recall were annoyingly impressive.

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. You’re not fooling me, mister. You’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

“What do you think?” She half turned and reached into her medical bag for the blood pressure cuff and her stethoscope.

“I think I’m on a roll.”

“Since when are you a glass-is-half-full kind of guy?”

“Since I’m interested in what the doctor had to say about Bayleigh’s eyes.”

“He said they’re progressing normally.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

A slip of the tongue. She hadn’t meant to phrase it like that. Because she had no intention of telling him her daughter was a walking, talking, seeing medical miracle. That she’d had a cornea transplant and her progress was more than anyone had hoped for. That there was always the chance of rejection and every successful checkup was a blessed gift and a result of another family’s devastating loss and incredibly generous, courageous sacrifice.

Simon Reynolds had his own demons to wrestle. He didn’t need, or really want, she suspected, to know the latent anxiety Megan and Bayleigh lived with on a daily basis.

“The doctor said that everything is fine.”

“Isn’t she a little young for eye doctor exams?”

Megan shook her head. “She started kindergarten this year. It’s for my peace of mind. I wear contacts and struggled with seeing the board in school and too shy to say anything.”

“You? Shy?” The corners of his mouth curved up.

“What can I say? I’ve blossomed. Anyway, I wanted her to have a baseline guide so that if she begins to have problems in school, we can eliminate vision as the culprit.”

“What a dedicated mom.”

“And how would you know that she’s on the young side for an eye exam?”

“I know a little something about kids.”

Which was all Simon intended to say on the subject. Anything more would open up a painful wound that all her cleaning and ointment and taking vitals wouldn’t help.

How he envied her. He also knew there was more to her story. Her phrasing, quick backpedaling and the shadows in her blue eyes told him so. He guessed something about her daughter’s health had sent her bonehead boyfriend running for cover. The idiot didn’t know what he’d given up.

Simon would trade his own life if it would bring Marcus back. He would face health challenges or anything else for another chance to look into his son’s smiling face, his sparkling, intelligent blue eyes.

But at the moment, another pair of big, beautiful blue eyes regarded him seriously. Megan. She was wearing shapeless pink cotton pants and a matching top that he knew were called scrubs. They looked more like pajamas. The idea gave him thoughts an injured man shouldn’t be entertaining. How could she make the shapeless, sexless outfit look so damn sexy?

Megan cleared her throat. He’d noticed that was a habit of hers to get his attention. And a good thing for him that she did it. His train of thought was not only counterproductive, it was dangerous. He didn’t want to care about anyone again. Caring and loss hurt more than anything he’d endured at the business end of Megan’s healing hands.

“I’m going to take your temperature.”

She sat down beside him and he could smell the sweet perfume of flowers, the innocence of a blooming meadow. Her hair was up, twisted into some sort of complicated braid. That left her long graceful neck bare. It was a beautiful neck.

“Open wide.” She stuck the thermometer into his mouth. “Keep it under your tongue. It has to stay there for about a minute.” She gave him a wry look. “In the hospital, they’ve got fancy gizmos that can do this in the blink of an eye.”

He wasn’t worried about time or inconvenience as much as he was that the darned thing would shoot off the scale. Because his temperature was definitely on the rise. Along with other parts of him. How could he be walking wounded one minute and hyperaware of a beautiful woman the next?

The answer was a simple five-letter word. Megan. Suddenly, he wanted to see another side of her, something besides the sensible, sarcastic smart aleck.

She pulled the thing out and read it. “Ninety-eight point six. What do you know? Right on the button. Completely normal.”

“Don’t I get points for that?”

“Let’s do the blood pressure and pulse before we start negotiating for pats on the back, hotshot.”

She wrapped the black cuff around his upper arm and pressed the Velcro together to hold it in place. Pumping on the bulb, she inflated the contraption, then put the stethoscope in her ears with the flat, circular part on the inside of his elbow. The feel of her small, delicate fingers burned into his arm. He heard the slow whoosh of air as she released the pressure, and he watched her study the gauge.

When it was completely deflated, she ripped off the cuff and met his gaze. “Hmm.”

“What is it?”

“One-twenty over eighty.”

“I’ve watched enough medical dramas to know that’s right on the money.”

And he was relieved that it hadn’t gone off the scale. The warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume, the sight of her soft skin combined to make him feel that the reading might blow the hell out of the indicator gauge. Insanity was the only explanation for his sudden, powerful urge to pull her into his arms.

“Let’s not do the dance of joy just yet,” she cautioned. “There’s still your pulse.”

Uh-oh. If she took that, he wouldn’t be able to hide his reaction to her. His heart was pounding, and she’d know it, too, as soon as she put her fingers on his wrist to take the reading. This whole thing was a bad idea. What had he been thinking to ask for her? Answer: he obviously hadn’t been thinking. At least not with his head.

She took his forearm in her small hands and pressed two fingers to his wrist. He pulled back.

Meeting his gaze, she said, “You lose points for that.”

“I’ll chance it. As you can see, everything is in working order.” And then some, he thought ruefully.

Why now? Why did he feel something? He’d trained himself when, where and how to let loose his feelings—when he was on the edge. And she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him, which was fine and dandy, because he didn’t want anything to do with her, either. His mistake had been not settling for another nurse. He had to get rid of her.

And he knew just how to do it.

Simon reached over and took her small, pointed chin in his hand. Leaning forward, he noted the startled look in her eyes, just before he lowered his mouth to hers. He tasted shock and surprise. Then, for several heart-stopping seconds, her full lips softened and he swore he heard the barest hint of a sigh. Obviously, he was wrong, because she broke the contact and jumped up.

She backed away several steps, as if he was fire and she was underbrush that hadn’t seen rain in months.

“What in the world are you doing?” she asked, brushing the back of her hand across her mouth.

“I think that was pretty obvious.”

“Why did you do that?”

“You’re a beautiful woman. I lost my head.”

“Not yet. But it can be arranged,” she said, breathing hard.

“Look, Megan—”

Accusingly she pointed a finger at him. “No, you look. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not playing.”

“It was no big deal.”

“You’re right about that. But it was also completely inappropriate.”

“Nothing personal,” he said.

“Doggone right. And I was right about you, too. Big-time rule-breaker.”

“Don’t get your stethoscope in a twist. I was just trying to shake you up.”

“Is that so?” She glared at him. “It certainly confirms my assessment of you.”

“That I’m the saturated fat in the veins of your life?”

“Right on, buster. But in case I didn’t make myself clear, I don’t play games. I came here to do a job and you just made it impossible for me to do that. I don’t see signs of concussion—there’s an understatement,” she muttered.

“No, I’m pretty alert—”

“And your temp is normal,” she said, ignoring his comment. She gathered up her medical paraphernalia and stuffed it into her leather bag. “I don’t think there’s any infection. At least not in your most recent wounds. And if you’ve got one somewhere else, there’s not a darn thing I can do about it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I hope for your sake the abrasions are clean because I’m outta here. I’ll have the agency send someone else.”

She turned on her heel and walked out the door.

Chapter Four

Megan slammed the door and stomped the length of the town house walkway, hurrying to the sidewalk. Her stride was just shy of a full-on run. The sun was warm, but a fog enveloped her. A fog that had nothing to do with being a block from the beach and everything to do with…anger? Or worse—passion?

No way. She’d deftly and dispassionately fended off advances from male patients before. She’d certainly never worked herself into a fog about any of them. She wanted to believe she’d handled the Simon situation in a professional manner, but she didn’t buy the lie. Plain and simple: she’d lost it with Simon Reynolds. Everything: her temper, her composure, her objectivity, her professionalism—and that was the worst.

She’d gotten a late start in her career because of Bayleigh’s medical problems. She couldn’t afford mistakes now that she was on her way. What was it with Simon?

Oh, she knew he’d kissed her to scare her off. And it had worked. But not for the reason he thought. A come-on she could handle. It was herself she was worried about. She’d liked kissing him—far too much.

She didn’t have to touch a hot stove more than once to know it hurt. After a crash and burn in the romance department, she knew guys like Simon should be avoided. If it was just her, she might be tempted. But Bayleigh came first. Megan wanted to give her a father, but the wrong man could scar her daughter more deeply than the trauma of cornea transplant surgery.

Nothing could compel Megan to take care of Simon. No amount of money, calling in personal favors or fear of a lawsuit could convince her to go back inside. Simon Reynolds was too tempting and too dangerous.

In her peripheral vision, Megan registered a car parallel-parking at the curb.

“Megan? Is that you?”

She turned and instantly recognized the woman getting out of the car. “Janet.”

The older woman smiled, stepped onto the sidewalk then held her arms open for a hug. Megan easily slipped into the embrace and returned it. Janet Ward was the most loving, generous, courageous woman. When her daughter and grandson were mortally injured in a car accident, she’d made the decision to donate their organs for transplant. Thanks to her, Bayleigh had received the little boy’s corneas and the gift of sight. After the operation, Megan had asked to meet the family and thank them. But the boy’s father had refused.