CLUB TIMES

For Members’ Eyes Only

Onstage Collapse Leads to Heart-stopping Romance

After her devastating onstage collapse last month, sources tell us that world-renowned ballerina—and heiress to the Wainwright fortune—Susan Wainwright has been getting special treatment from top-notch surgeon Michael O’Day as she waits for a new heart. Ever since Susan was admitted to Houston General, Michael’s notoriously ailing bedside manner has made a miraculous recovery. It seems the normally cocky, self-assured doctor is smitten with Susan and refuses to leave her side should she need any extra TLC. Even Susan’s famous LSCC founding family cannot argue with the care she’s been receiving and claim Michael’s been an angel in disguise. I don’t know about an angel, but he sure looks like heaven!

And, get this, members. Thanks to DNA and modern science, Tyler Murdoch, that mighty handsome military man, has been ruled out as daddy of the abandoned baby. Now that begs the question of just who is the father of this little girl and why has no one come forth to claim her? The Lone Star Country Club is no stranger to scandal, but this is certainly something to keep an eye on….

As always, members, make your best stop of the day right here at the Lone Star Country Club!

About the Author

LAURIE PAIGE

never knew what “wide-open spaces” meant until she moved to Texas. On a scenic drive from Austin to the Rio Grande with her husband, she realized theirs was the only car in sight on the road, which stretched from horizon to horizon in undulating hills. Wide-open, indeed! She loved living in the Hill Country and always took visitors to the Pedernales Falls for picnics in the summer, challenging them to a stone-jumping expedition across the river. Of course she knew the easiest route and reports she only fell in once. Okay, maybe twice. Returning to Texas for the LONE STAR COUNTRY CLUB series was a joy!

Heartbreaker
Laurie Paige

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Welcome to the

Where Texas society reigns supreme—and appearances are everything.

Time is running out for a beloved Wainwright heiress….

Michael O’Day: This arrogant top-notch heart surgeon is impossible to ignore—especially with his piercing blue eyes. But he’s about to learn a lesson in humility when he falls under the spell of his courageous patient and is faced with the moral dilemma of a lifetime….

Susan Wainwright: She refuses to let her medical crisis stop her from continuing to dazzle crowds as a star-studded ballerina. But when her pompous—potently sexy—doctor becomes personally invested in her case, she knows there is something more than ire smoldering between them. Will she place her fragile heart in his capable hands?

The Desperate Crime Lord: Dying Mob boss Carmine Mercado is hell-bent on getting his hands on a donor heart and enlisting the skills of Michael O’Day to perform the risky procedure. And he won’t think twice about resorting to menace, coercion and blackmail to further his agenda….

This book is dedicated to Steve and Jolene Thurman: thanks for sharing information, experience and expertise!

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

One

The twin engines of Michael O’Day’s new plane purred steadily as he buzzed the field in preparation for landing at Mission Ridge, a “fly in, fly out” community on the outskirts of Mission Creek, Texas. A private shuttle was off to one side, passengers filing down the plane’s steps. No aircraft were on the runway, and none was heading in for a landing, other than his.

From the air, he could pick out the home he’d purchased last year. It was a big house for a bachelor, not yet completely furnished, but he was pleased with it.

With the private airstrip practically at his door and the Lone Star Country Club golf links nearby, he could indulge his two favorite pastimes: golfing and flying. He planned to retire here.

But not anytime soon. At thirty-four, he had a ways to go before riding off into the sunset. However, with the new, faster plane, it would be a piece of cake to fly the two hundred fifty miles back and forth to Houston where he had a penthouse and an office. As a heart surgeon, he kept a busy schedule.

He set the nimble four-passenger plane down on the tarmac and taxied off the runway, heading for his hangar at the back of his two-acre lot. Instead of pushing the plane inside when he arrived, he left it on the apron. He was running late for lunch with his friend and golfing buddy, Flynt Carson. He’d take care of the aircraft later.

He dashed across the back lawn, activating the remote to open the door of the garage attached to the house. Inside, he swung his legs over the car door and into the seat of the low-slung convertible he kept at Mission Ridge.

Another indulgence, he admitted, but he didn’t regret the cost. The time here in the heart of Texas ranching country gave him the necessary rest and relaxation to perform his surgeries with confidence. During his internship, a wise use of one’s time had been stressed, over and over by his mentor, one of the foremost cardiac surgeons in the country.

Usually Michael flew in on Friday afternoon, but he’d been delayed by emergency surgery yesterday, then had overslept this morning, making him late taking off.

Checking his watch, he grimaced and turned the ignition key. He drove out of the garage, hit the button to lower the door behind him, glanced to his left and, seeing no traffic, gunned the engine.

And immediately threw on the brakes.

The car came to a screeching halt about six inches from a tall, lithe beauty who was standing in the middle of the street. She turned flashing green eyes on him.

“You baboon!” she said in an angry, albeit melodious voice. “You shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel, driving like a maniac down a residential street.”

“Well, honey,” he drawled, amused and irritated by her lofty manner, “I didn’t expect some female”—translation: some ditz—“to be sashaying down the middle of the street.”

“I am not ‘sashaying’ down the middle of the street. I happen to be crossing it.”

He studied her, then glanced across the street and back to her. “You might not know it,” he mentioned in a helpful, philosophical tone, “but the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Going straight across the street gets you to the other side faster than ambling across at an oblique angle. It could also save you from getting run over.”

“And watching where you’re going could save you from killing someone and getting thrown in jail.”

“A point well taken,” he agreed, unable to kill the grin. In blue slacks and a knit top that outlined her to perfection, she was very easy on the eye. Besides which, he’d always been attracted to women with fire.

He watched her march on across the street, her head high, her light brown hair swinging about her shoulders. He’d never seen anyone move the way she did, with the grace and dignity of a fairy princess. And the righteous anger of a tent evangelist.

A name came to him. Susan Wainwright.

He’d never met her, but he’d seen her a few times onstage. She was a lead ballerina with the Houston Ballet.

Her sister had recently wed Matt Carson. A surprising affair, considering the Carsons and Wainwrights had been feuding for nearly as long as the Hatfields and McCoys, or so he understood. But Michael recalled hearing a rumor of a truce for the wedding.

Watching the delectable sway of her hips, he formed a new appreciation for a dancer’s grace of movement. To his surprise, a vision came to mind—him and her in a wide bed, long legs wrapped around him—

Whoa!

Shaking his head, he forced those thoughts aside. “Hey,” he called, “you need a ride somewhere?”

Susan gave him a drop-dead glance. “No, thanks. Someone is picking me up.”

A fleeting notion indicated he’d like the “someone” to be him. Forget it, he advised. That little gal was a heartbreaker from the get-go. Besides, he wasn’t looking for any lengthy entanglement. His life was fine just as it was.

Grinning at himself, he eased down on the pedal and left the enticing and oh-so-haughty beauty behind.

At the Lone Star Country Club, located deep in the heart of Lone Star county, he tossed the keys to the valet and dashed inside. The Yellow Rose Café was dark compared to the bright mid-September sunshine. He paused to let his eyes adjust.

“Michael, over here,” Flynt Carson called.

Michael had performed bypass surgery on Flynt’s dad five years ago. He’d visited their family ranch many times since then. He and the two Carson brothers, Flynt and Matt, had become good friends.

“Hey, man, what’s been happening?” Michael asked, taking a chair. A waiter hurried over with the menu and took his order for a tall glass of iced tea. “Not Texas style,” he added.

Texas tea could set a man on his rump after one glass of the potent blend of liquors with a smidgen of tea and fruit flavors to round it out.

Flynt grimaced when they were alone. “I guess you heard the news about Carl Bridges?”

“Yeah, I saw it on TV. Any more info on it?”

Flynt nodded. “Spence is keeping his cards close to his chest, but they have arrested someone.”

Spence Harrison was also a golfing buddy and the local district attorney handling the case.

“Anyone we know?”

“No. A member of the mob, I understand, but don’t quote me on that. It’s all rumor and conjecture at present.”

“Mob” referred to the infamous Texas Mafia that comedians loved to make jokes about, such as: Did ya hear about the Texas mafia bank robbery? When they stood back to back, their spurs got stuck. They would have gotten away, but they couldn’t decide who got to ride face forward on the getaway horse. Ha-ha-ha.

Murder was never a laughing matter, Michael mused, but this case had been particularly poignant. Only days before Carl Bridges’s murder, his estranged son, Dylan, had come home; days later, he’d been a suspect in the crime. Thankfully, he was cleared.

A waitress appeared—Daisy, it said on her name tag—a Texas blonde with big hair and a twang so thick it made Michael smile each time he heard her speak. He and Flynt gave their orders for the chef’s Saturday luncheon special.

Movement caught Michael’s attention. A lithe woman in a blue summer outfit walked into his field of vision. She was with an older woman. Her mother, he assumed, because of the similarities in their facial structure.

A ping of interest coursed through him, a tiny hum of electricity that warmed him in spite of the fan circling over their table. The two women were seated on the patio overlooking the famous golf course.

“Susan Wainwright,” Flynt murmured, looking at the women, then back at Michael. “Her mother, Kate Wainwright.”

“Hmm,” Michael said noncommittally. The Wainwright name reminded him of another event. “How’re the newlyweds?”

“Who knows? They haven’t come out of their house yet,” Flynt said with a straight face, then laughed.

Michael chuckled with his friend. “I was sorry to miss the wedding. I heard it was exciting.”

“Yeah, but the real action was in New York, at Rose’s aunt’s place. It was a standoff, you might say. Justin Wainwright was threatening to shoot Matt after finding Rose had been…compromised. And I was determined to save Matt from himself. Rose’s Aunt Beth distracted the warring parties while Matt and Rose slipped out and got hitched. Justin and I packed up our six-shooters and slunk home.”

Michael laughed, but he knew the Carsons and Wainwrights had once been great friends. Flynt’s great-grandfather had even started this very country club with his best friend and fellow rancher, J.P. Wainwright, but a falling-out over a family scandal and water rights had started a feud that had lasted three-quarters of a century.

The things people fought over, Michael reflected in disgust. If people could see the life and death struggles he saw, they’d view things differently.

No thinking about that, he chided himself. This was his fun time. However, there was one more problem to be discussed that had nothing to do with cardiac surgery in Houston. “Any word on Lena?” he asked.

The shock of his life had occurred while playing golf back in May. Right here at the posh country club, on the ninth green, in fact, the golfing foursome had found an abandoned baby. The shock had come when all four men had been suspected of being the father. Worse, they’d all admitted it was a possibility. They’d each been involved in a more or less brief liaison the previous year.

DNA testing had already proved neither Flynt, Spence nor Michael could be the sire. That left the last man of the foursome, Tyler Murdoch, to be tested.

Since Michael had been filling in for Luke Callaghan, Luke was also a possibility. The note left with the baby had gotten wet, blotting out any name of the father. The only legible part had been, “I’m your baby girl. My name is Lena.”

Someone, the police had concluded, had been observing them play and had chosen the isolated ninth hole, where bushes screened a maintenance shed. Footprints indicated that someone had hidden there while watching them find the baby.

Flynt felt he needed to be the one to take care of the baby. The four of them had chipped in and hired a private investigator to find the mother or father or somebody to claim the foundling.

“I do have some other news,” Flynt said, moving his hand when the waitress brought their food. “You recall we had to have Lena’s DNA tested when we took her in for a thorough checkup so it could be matched to the father’s?”

Michael nodded.

“They discovered she has some kind of anemia, thal—”

Daisy plopped Michael’s plate down with a hard thunk. “Thalassemia,” she said in a low voice.

Michael caught distress vibes from her. Reaching back to his medical school days, he came up with a stray fact. “It’s a type common to those of Mediterranean descent,” he explained to his friend. “Hereditary factors are definitely indicated.”

“Yeah, that’s what the doctor told us,” Flynt said. He looked at Daisy curiously. “How did you know about the disease?”

“I got this friend,” Daisy said in her brash Texas hill country accent. “She has it.”

“Josie and I have been concerned about the effects on Lena’s growth. Did your friend mention any particular difficulties with that?”

Flynt had hired Josie as a nanny for Lena, then ended up marrying her. Turned out, they were now expecting a little bundle of joy of their own. Fate was a funny thing, Michael thought with a silent chuckle at his friend’s expense.

His gaze was drawn to the Wainwright princess while Flynt and Daisy discussed the necessary testing that should be done regularly to watch for recurrences of the anemia in baby Lena.

Susan was listening to some male friend who had stopped by her table. From what Michael could discern, the man was posturing and showing off, bragging about his hole-in-one win over some friends. She was full of congratulations, smiling as if bestowing the gold cup on the guy. Michael suppressed a jab of irritation.

What did he care whom she talked to and flirted with?

He didn’t, he told himself firmly. Ah, but she was easy to look at…

“Who is that man you keep looking at?” Kate Wainwright asked. “The one sitting with Flynt Carson.”

Susan jerked as if caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “No one.”

“An interesting nonentity,” her mother murmured. “He looks familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen him before.”

“I don’t know his name,” Susan admitted, “but he nearly ran me over on the street near the airstrip. I was on my way to the phone to give you a call and let you know I was in. We had words.”

Susan wished her mother wouldn’t study the man quite so openly. She didn’t want him to think they were interested in him in the least.

“Words?” her mother inquired.

“I called him a baboon and told him he shouldn’t be driving, or something like that,” she reluctantly admitted.

Her mother looked from the man back to Susan, amusement in her eyes as if she laughed at something only she could see. Susan tried not to be irritated.

“He and his friend are leaving,” Kate reported.

Susan deliberately turned her chair toward the golf green beyond the patio so she wouldn’t have to look his way. “Mmm,” she said.

“Oh, he’s coming over.”

Susan jerked around. Sure enough, the impolite stranger was approaching their table.

“My, he’s certainly good-looking,” Kate whispered. “Tall. And the bluest eyes. I’ve always liked blue eyes with dark hair. Such a handsome contrast.”

“Mother!” Susan whispered, reminding the other woman that the man was almost upon them.

“Hello,” he said, stopping by their table.

She nonchalantly glanced up at him. “The baboon.”

He laughed as if she’d said something witty, which made the heat rush to her face for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Nor did he take the hostile hint to leave.

“I came over to apologize for my lack of manners when we, uh, first met,” he continued. “My only excuse is that I was running late.”

“Is that your usual mode of operation?” she asked coolly, ignoring the increased beat of a pulse through her temple. She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear.

“Susan, introduce me to your friend,” her mother requested, all smiles for the obnoxious man.

“We haven’t formally met,” he said, and held out his hand. “Michael O’Day.”

Kate shook his hand. “Won’t you join us?”

To Susan’s further chagrin, the big ape—he was easily a couple of inches over six feet tall—pulled out a chair and sat down. “Iced tea,” he said to the waiter who hurried over.

“I’m Kate Wainwright. This is my daughter, Susan.”

“Flynt mentioned your names,” he said in an affable manner, as if they were all the very best of friends.

His voice was deep, almost a bass, and it rushed along her nerves like one long, drawn-out note from a cello, quiet yet vibrant, as if nature itself whispered through his rich cadences.

An unexpected shudder washed over her. A faint but persistent pain pinged in her chest with each heartbeat. She pressed a hand there to still it.

“I know where I’ve seen you,” her mother suddenly exclaimed. “I mean, besides here. There was a write-up in the Sunday paper a few weeks ago. You performed miracle surgery on the head of state from some foreign country. You’re the heart specialist from Houston.”

Michael bowed his head briefly in acknowledgment.

So, he wasn’t falsely modest about his skill, Susan noted. He was one of the top five heart surgeons in the U.S., per her own doctor. “Bold, innovative and determined” had been said of him in the article her mother referred to.

“Susan,” Kate said, a plea in the word.

Susan shook her head, warning her mother not to say anything to the arrogant heart doctor. Her own physician wanted her to go to Dr. O’Day for a consultation. So far, she’d steadfastly refused.

“Susan,” her mother said, more sternly this time.

“I’ll see someone,” she promised.

Her mother wasn’t at all deterred by her tone. “This is like…like a nudge from God. You can’t ignore it.”

Susan could and was determined to do so. “Don’t be sil—” She broke off, unable to be rude to her mother. “I’ll see a doctor soon.” But not this one.

“This is a golden opportunity.”

“Is there something I should know about?” the irritating doctor wanted to know.

“Susan has a heart condition,” Kate answered before Susan could reply.

“Ah, I see.”

Susan felt his gaze on her, as incisive as a laser beam. “It’s nothing,” she said, and heard the stubborn denial in her tone. “I’m fine.”

“You collapsed on the stage at your last performance,” her mother reminded her sternly.

“I—I was tired.”

“Collapsed?” he questioned. “I’ve seen you perform. You were magnificent.”

Amazed, she stared at him. He looked sincere. Maybe he wasn’t such a baboon, after all, she conceded, since he obviously recognized her talent. She silently laughed at her own cockiness. She was as sure of her skills as the famous doctor seemed to be of his. “Thank you.”

“Did you have any symptoms before you fainted?” he asked, lifting the glass of iced tea the waiter had placed before him, his attention focused and sharp. “Chest pain? Shortness of breath? Tingling in the left arm?”

“I didn’t have a heart attack,” she informed him. “I checked out fine in that department.”

“She was born with a congenital heart condition,” her mother supplied. “In a nutshell, her heart is too small for her body. It was little to begin with and stopped growing before she reached adolescence.”

His gaze lasered into her again. “A child’s heart in a woman’s body. How old are you?” he demanded, a frown furrowing a deep groove between his eyes.

“Twenty-seven,” she replied, then was annoyed with herself. His forceful manner caused her to answer before she had time to consider that her age was none of his business.

“Hmm.” He spoke to her mother. “It’s a wonder she’s lasted this long.”

“I beg your pardon,” Susan spoke up. “My health is none of your concern. I have a competent doctor of my own.”

“Who?”

She was alert to his probing ways now. She paused as if considering, then told him the man’s name, a very prominent internist in Houston.

“He’s good,” the surgeon admitted. “Did he refer you to anyone for a checkup?”

This was a question she didn’t want to answer. She tried to think how to do that without lying.

“Susan?” her mother probed, her worry obvious.

“He referred me to you, if you must know.” She raised her eyebrows loftily. “I haven’t had time to make an appointment.”

“Why are you determined to stay in denial about this?” he asked softly. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I know that. Other than that one little dizzy spell, I’ve been fine. I just overdid it that week.”

“Could you make time to see her?” Kate asked.

“Mother, I’m sure Dr. O’Day doesn’t carry around an appointment book with him. His office would handle that.”

“Michael,” he told her almost sternly. “My name is Michael.”

“To your patients?” she challenged.

Her mocking tone didn’t seem to bother him at all. He simply nodded, his eyes studying her again. He made her uncomfortable, as if he could see all her doubts, her weaknesses, her furious questioning of God that she should have to give up the only thing in her life.

No. She wouldn’t give up dancing. Never! She would, quite literally, rather be dead.

“I’m heading back to Houston Monday morning. I could see you that afternoon, get an idea of how serious a problem you have.” He leaned close and looked her in the eye. “Isn’t it better to know the truth? Then you could deal with a certainty rather than an unfounded fear.”

She glanced at her mother, not wanting to upset her. “I’m not afraid. I’ve never been afraid of anything.”

He leaned back in the chair. She noticed his hands when he lifted his glass. They were incredible, the fingers long and very slender, like a world-renowned pianist’s hands, dexterous, capable of performing minute movements very fast and accurately.

She thought of those hands on her—and not in a medical context. Her heart suddenly pumped hard, and for a second, she was frightened. For a second, she thought of accepting his offer to see her.

But only for a second, then reason reasserted itself. She’d lived for twenty-seven years with her heart doing everything she demanded of it. She was fine, just fine.

“If you want a ride back to Houston, be at the airport Monday at nine.”

“Oh, how nice,” her mother cooed, fawning over the man. “Isn’t that convenient?”

“Very,” Susan agreed, with absolutely no intention of accepting either the ride or the examination.

His lazy smile said he knew every idea that flitted through her head. She understood him, too. He thought she was a silly, stubborn female refusing to face facts.

It would be a cold day in you-know-where before she’d get within a mile of him, his plane or his office.

“Excuse me,” her mother said. “I see a friend.”

Susan shifted warily at being left alone with him.

“Don’t worry. I’m not the big-bad-wolf type,” he murmured, again reading her accurately.

She forced herself to relax. She’d played these games before. It meant nothing. “What type are you?”

“Honest. Sincere. Basically harmless.”

To her surprise, she laughed. “No conceit in your family, right?”

His smile disclosed white teeth, even on top, but with one slightly out of line on the bottom. It made him more real, she observed, not quite so movie-star perfect.

She gasped when he laid a hand on her wrist.

“Easy.” He proceeded to take her pulse, then looked at her gravely. “Almost a hundred beats per minute.”

Jerking away from the incredibly gentle touch that spread fire through her skin, she informed him, “It’s none of your business. You aren’t my doctor. I’m not going with you Monday—don’t expect me to be at the airport.”

“So, you like causing your family concern. Because it keeps you the center of attention?”

“Oh,” she muttered. “You…you…”

“Baboon?” he supplied, lightly tossing the word out, his ego obviously not dented in the least.

Refusing to dignify the situation with an answer, she stared out at the eighteenth green where two couples completed their game.

A mist blurred her vision for a second. She swallowed hard as agony, which she could usually hold at bay, rushed over her.

“There are other things in life besides dancing,” he said softly, his fingers gliding along her forearm as if to soothe the troubling emotion.

She recoiled from any possible pity he might feel toward her. “Not for me,” she stated, staring him straight in the eye.

He shrugged and rose. “It’s your life. But my offer still stands.” He walked off.

Two

Sunday morning, Michael arrived at the country club with fifteen minutes to spare before tee time. He grabbed his golf bag and joined Flynt Carson and Tyler Murdoch in front of the pro shop.

“Spence can’t make it,” Flynt informed the other two. “He’s tied up on a case.”

“The Carl Bridges case, I assume,” Tyler muttered.

Michael didn’t know Tyler all that well, but he liked and respected what he’d seen of him. The man was an engineer of some kind for the military. There was a darkness about him, a fierceness that could be intimidating in his hawklike glance. He played one hell of a game of golf and had the lowest handicap of any of them.

“I would guess so. Matt is going to join us,” Flynt continued. “If he can tear himself away.”

Michael grinned along with the other two men. He wondered what it was about newlywed bliss that mellowed out men. Both Flynt and Matt showed signs of going soft in the head since their marriages. It wasn’t something he and Tyler were apt to experience. They were dedicated career men.

“I heard Michael here isn’t a possible father to Lena,” Tyler continued. “I finally grabbed a minute and went over to the clinic for the test. We’ll know in a few days if I’m a match.” He snorted in obvious disbelief.

Flynt checked his watch, then peered down the road with a frown. Matt was late. Michael glanced at the clock behind the desk where the golf pro looked over some papers. They had two minutes until they were supposed to tee off.

Tyler yawned and stretched. “I’ll give you ten to one that the unknown daddy is ol’ Luke.”

“You think?” Flynt questioned affably.

“Damn right,” Tyler affirmed. “He’s probably off with some gal at a tropical island getaway right this moment. The P.I. we hired will have a time following Luke’s path among women the world over.”

“I admit Luke disappears pretty regularly. The only thing predictable about his comings and goings is that they are totally unpredictable,” Flynt explained to Michael.

Michael knew of Luke’s reputation as an international playboy. The multimillionaire could afford the lifestyle.

“Anybody going to take my bet?” Tyler demanded. “A hundred dollars on Luke is my offer.”

“Not me,” Flynt said.

“Nor me,” Michael echoed. “It’s time to go. Do we give up our slot and wait, or head out?”

“We’ll start,” Flynt decided. “Matt can catch up.”

The three claimed their golf cart and headed for the first tee. Running footsteps warned them of Matt’s arrival a few seconds later. “Sorry,” he puffed, tossing his bag into the back of the cart. “Rose was sick this morning.”

Michael nodded. “It’s common with preg—” He broke off, worried that Matt might not want to discuss his bride’s condition.

“Pregnant women,” Matt finished. “I know, but I’ve never been around one before. It’s alarming.”

While Flynt and Matt discussed pregnancy and its symptoms with great earnestness, Tyler rolled his eyes and winked at Michael, who chuckled as he walked up to the tee and hit his first ball of the day.

All in all, a satisfying game, he thought later, heading for the Yellow Rose Café and lunch after coming in second, right behind Tyler. Sunshine. Golf. Friends. The good life.

Matt called home on his cell phone once they were seated. “Rose is fine,” he reported when he hung up. “She’s having lunch with her mom and sister.”

“I met Susan Wainwright yesterday,” Michael told them. “She called me a baboon after I nearly ran her down in the street. I hope Rose is easier to deal with than her sister.”

He immediately regretted the lapse in good manners, and even a possible doctor-patient relationship, assuming the stubborn ballerina showed up tomorrow for the checkup.

Matt didn’t seem to notice the criticism of his new sister-in-law. “The sisters are diametrically opposite. Rose is gentle and kind…well, not that Susan isn’t,” he hastily amended. “She’s had a lot on her mind of late.”

“The heart condition?” Flynt asked.

“Yes. She’s been taken off the ballet roster until she has a thorough checkup and her doctor’s written okay to return. She’s pretty mad about that. Rose is worried.” Matt looked at Michael. “You know, you might talk to her and see if you can make her listen to reason.”

Michael gave his friend a skeptical smile. “I already offered my services. After our little run-in, I think it would take a major miracle before she would see me.”

Daisy, the same waitress from the previous day, came by to take their orders. The place was rapidly filling up, and she looked a bit harried. Michael wondered if she had a crush on Flynt. She was staring at him in an intense way that sent up a caution flag.

Should he warn his golfing buddy to watch out for her?

“Listen, could you come to dinner tonight at the ranch?” Matt suddenly asked, disrupting Michael’s thoughts. “Maybe you could reassure Rose, answer some questions for her about Susan’s condition. Susan will be there,” he added.

“I really don’t know much about it.”

Flynt added his invitation. “I think you should join us. Josie was asking about you this morning. She read an article in some magazine and was impressed with your credentials. I might be jealous,” he warned.

“Right,” Michael said wryly. He had nothing better to do that evening. The idea of confronting the haughty Wainwright daughter appealed to him. “What time’s dinner?”

“Come at six for cocktails,” Matt immediately said. “I’ll tell Rose to expect you.”

Michael made a mental note of the time and nodded.

“Hey,” Tyler said sotto voce. “There’s Carmine Mercado. The goon who shot Carl Bridges supposedly works for him. I understand he denies all knowledge of the man.”

Michael did a quick once-over of the mob boss as the man left the temporary structure housing the Men’s Grill, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

The doctor in him noted the pasty grayness about the mouth and bags under the Mafia don’s eyes. He knew Mercado was in his sixties. At one time, the older man would have been described as portly. Nowadays he would be termed overweight and out of shape. He certainly ought to lay off the smoking, Michael observed, listening to the hacking cough as the man and his crony headed for the door.

Abruptly Mercado stopped.

Michael had the uncomfortable feeling Mercado was staring at him. He glanced at Flynt. His friend raised his eyebrows as if to say he hadn’t a clue what the older man was looking at.

Mercado entered the café and threaded his way between the tables, garnering irritated glances as he puffed on the stogie. Daisy, the waitress, stopped him.

“No cigars allowed in here, sir,” she said politely but with an edge to her voice.

There was a brief pause in the general conversation, then it resumed as if the diners remembered some fascinating tidbit they had to share at that moment.

“Wow,” Tyler murmured. “The kid’s got brass.”

The mob boss narrowed his eyes at the blond waitress, then he dropped the cigar into a glass of water on the table nearest him. Fortunately the diners had left only moments before, so no one was offended by the action.

“Thank you, sir,” Daisy said in her heavy drawl and went on her way.

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Flynt said, a steely gleam in his eyes as he watched the little scene.

The rest of the diners let out a collective sigh of relief. Michael felt the tension drop about ten levels in the café.

To his surprise, the older man came to their table. He nodded to Flynt, Matt and Tyler, then looked at him. “You’re the heart doctor, right?”

Although Michael was pretty sure the man had been born in the U.S., there was a definite trace of an Italian accent in his guttural tone.

“Michael O’Day, yes.”

Mercado stuck out his hand. Michael had no choice but to shake it. He did so, then gave the don a level stare, refusing to be intimidated by the perusal he was getting.

“My doc told me I needed a new heart.”

Michael digested this news, which tied in with the pastiness of the man’s skin and the quick, shallow breaths he took. “You need to give up smoking,” he stated.

The bushy eyebrows, still black although the man’s hair was mostly gray, rose as if questioning Michael’s sanity to speak to him this way. “I read about you,” Mercado continued. “I want you to do the operation.”

“I work out of Houston.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Mercado waved this little inconvenience aside. “I’ll come there.”

“I take cases only upon referral from other medical professionals,” Michael coolly informed the man.

“My doc will refer me.”

This was said in such a way that Michael knew there would be no question about it. He suppressed a smile. There was something of a farce in the scene, as if they were all playing parts in a bad movie.

“Good.” He pulled out a business card. “Here’s my office number. Have your doctor call.”

The bushy eyebrows wagged up, then down. He handed the card to the man behind him. “Here, Frank, hold on to this for me. I’ll be in touch,” he said to Michael, and walked off.

Silence followed his path to the door.

“Damn,” Tyler muttered as everyone relaxed again, “I’d hate to have him for a patient. One mistake and you’re out of this world. Literally. What will you do if he shows up?”

Michael shrugged. “A patient is a sick person. I don’t judge a sick person’s personal life.” He grinned. “But I sure hope his doctor suggests someone else.”

While his friends chuckled, he made a connection between the don and the recent murder of Carl Bridges.

“Wasn’t Carl the one who defended you guys when you were accused of negligent homicide in the death of Mercado’s niece?” he asked Flynt and Tyler.

Flynt nodded. “Spence and Luke were also involved. We were having a big reunion celebration out at Luke’s place, all of us having survived the Gulf War and made it home in one piece. Naturally the beer was flowing pretty freely. For some stupid reason, the four of us and Haley went for a boat ride. The boat overturned, and Haley drowned. Her family used its influence to have us tried for manslaughter. Carl saved our bacon. It was a bad time for everyone.”

Michael dealt with pain on a daily basis, both physical and mental, in his patients and in the relatives who worried about them. He recognized it in his friend and was sorry to have reminded him of the past.

“I was half in love with Haley,” Flynt continued softly, sadly. “I guess we all were. She was beautiful, with thick dark hair and flirty eyes and a smile to melt your heart. She was also smart. And funny. She could imitate almost anyone after hearing them once.”

“Could Carl’s death have been some kind of revenge thing from the Mercado family?” Michael asked.

Tyler spoke up. “Not for something that happened years ago. They’d have offed him, and probably us, as soon as the trial was over and we walked out of the courthouse. Haley’s brother, Ricky, was a friend. He might have intervened with his uncle for us. Who knows?”

Daisy Parker, aka Haley Mercado, slipped into the lady’s lounge, thankful that it was empty at the moment, and slid into a chair.

She crossed her arms over her chest, holding in the need to cry and rant against fate. It had been terrifying to face Carmine Mercado and his henchman, Frank Del Brio, in the café, not that either man suspected who she really was.

When the Mafia boss had approached Flynt Carson’s table, she’d wanted desperately to listen in.

Perhaps it had been foolish to return to Mission Creek, which held so many bad memories for her. But along with the pain, there had been one wonderful one, a night so special she would never forget it.

A sob caught in her throat. At present, her life was unbearably lonely, and she longed for an end to this charade. Please, she prayed, let the FBI complete their investigation of the Texas Mafia soon. She wanted the case finished. She wanted an end to spying and trying to overhear conversations as she worked in the café and grill at the posh country club.

More than that, she wanted things that were probably never going to happen—a quiet life, the husband of her dreams, their children happily playing in the sun.

At the thought of home and family, she nearly gave in to her anger and grief. She was positive her own mother had died at the hands of a Mafia enforcer. She would help the FBI by finding out anything she could.

Straightening, she vowed to keep her word. Holding in the useless tears, she returned to work.

Later that afternoon, swimming laps in the community pool at Mission Ridge, Michael mused on the ill mob boss. Carmine Mercado had been dressed in an expensive suit. His manner had been arrogant, but with a certain Old World directness not without charm. It would certainly be interesting to have him as a patient.

Still smiling at a mental picture of him operating, with a bunch of thugs milling around the sterile room, all with tommy guns hidden under their green surgical scrubs, he went home, showered and shaved, then dressed in casual slacks and a blue shirt.

Rolling the sleeves up on his arms as he headed for the garage, his thoughts turned to the ordeal at hand. Susan Wainwright, at her age and level of health, would be an ideal candidate for a new heart.

He grinned with wicked humor. She’d be furious when she saw him at dinner tonight. The idea still amused him when he arrived at the Carson ranch, all 15,500 acres of it.

Susan heard the purr of an engine and knew Michael had arrived. She wished she hadn’t come, but Rose had asked her to help with the meal, since her morning sickness was acting up and apt to occur at any time of the day or night.

A funny ping went through Susan at the thought of a child. It wasn’t that she was jealous—Rose was the most wonderful sister one could imagine—it was just…

Okay, maybe she was envious, but only a little.

A heaviness swept over her spirits at the lie. This past year, as it became harder and harder to stick to her practice schedule, several truths had crept up on her.

First, dancing was hard work. Few lead ballerinas made it much past thirty, because the job was so hard on the knees and feet. She’d had no injuries in that department, but one never knew when it could happen. Besides, lately she was so tired all the time.

Second, she’d become aware of loneliness in her life. It didn’t seem as if she would ever find the one person meant for her, someone who would understand her drive as a dancer and let her live her life.

And third, she’d probably never have children.

Watching Rose and Matt, seeing the glow in their eyes for each other had awakened something inside her.

Envy, yes. But more than that. A longing for something she couldn’t exactly define.

A mate?

She grimaced. Most men she met didn’t take her career seriously at all. They didn’t seem to understand that she’d spent years getting where she was, that she’d started dance lessons when she was four years old. Twenty-three years of unrelenting effort. One couldn’t let up for a second and expect to remain at the top of the pyramid.

She’d expended just as much sweat equity in her career as most men had in theirs, and a heck of a lot more than some of them had.

“Hey, Michael.” She heard Matt call a greeting to the famous doctor. Her heart pounded furiously.

Arrogant ape, implying she was self-centered and bratty to cause her family concern over her condition.

It was her life, her body, her heart!

Only she could decide what to do about it. So far, she’d done fine, showing their family doctor and the cardiologist from her youth that she could make it with her “child-size” heart.

“The salad’s ready,” she announced.

Rose glanced up with a smile from the chocolate icing she was spreading over brownies. “Good. The potatoes are done. I turned the oven off. Josie, would you mind taking the steaks out to Matt? Oh, and see if Michael would like a glass of wine or iced tea rather than beer.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Josie smoothed the tablecloth and placed the crystal bowl of floating roses in the center.

Flynt’s wife, Josie, was also expecting. There must be a fecundity in the Texas air these days, Susan thought. Josie was a natural mother. Susan had watched her earlier with Baby Lena, who was asleep in the guest room at present.

“I’ll set the table,” Susan volunteered, shaking off thoughts of babies and such things. She felt a tad self-righteous about helping her sister. That should show the baboon she was as nice as anyone.

Except she wasn’t as nice as her big sister. Nor as beautiful. Rose, with her black hair, violet eyes and fair, delicate skin, was truly lovely. She had depth to her, a quietness within, as if she’d always known who she was and where she was going.

Susan sighed. She’d been something of a rebel, stubbornly packing off to Houston and trying out for a position with the ballet company in spite of her family’s conviction that she would never make it, that her health wouldn’t let her even if she had the talent.

She brightened. She had made it. But now her life’s passion was threatened. The dance company director had made it clear she couldn’t return without a clean bill of health.

Not only that, she wasn’t even allowed to drive. Her license was temporarily suspended due to her collapse, until a doctor determined that she was well enough to manage a car. It was simply too much.

“Hello, Susan,” Michael said in a deep voice that caused the tension level in the room to soar.

Although she’d been aware of him entering the house, unexpected tremors vibrated through her, like a string plucked carelessly and too hard by someone who was not a musician. She inhaled sharply, aware of the heightened pulse beating in her temple, and filled her senses with the scent of talc, men’s cologne and the freshness of the evening that clung to his powerful frame.

After placing the last plate on the table, she tossed a casual smile his way. “Nice to see you again.”

She’d be polite if it killed her. Rose didn’t need to be upset by strain between her and this overconfident surgeon. Needing to go between him and the table to return to the kitchen, she hesitated as she eyed the space.

He was about six inches taller than her five feet, eight inches. A perfect height for ballroom dancing, the thought came to her. She loved all forms of the art.

Meeting the intense blue of his eyes, she murmured, “Excuse me,” and waited for him to move out of her way.

He didn’t.

To her chagrin, he took her hand in his, then laid the fingertips of his other hand against her wrist.

“Don’t,” she warned.

He counted, then released her hand. “One hundred and five.” He informed her of her heart rate as if he’d taken on responsibility for her health.

“I’m not your patient,” she whispered in a near snarl.

“Chalk it up to my job. It’s worrisome when someone ignores the obvious. How long do you think your heart can keep up that pace?”

She swept past him. Seeing Rose’s concerned gaze, she forced a smile and kept her hands by her sides, although the familiar pain stabbed at her chest. She breathed very deeply, willing her body to slow down and relax.

Her pulse was fast only because Michael O’Day, famous heart surgeon, made her so blasted angry. He probably tortured his patients into letting him operate.

At that ridiculous idea, she had to grin. She was letting all this turmoil affect her too much.

“Well,” she said when they sat down for the meal, “here we are. Two Wainwrights—” she indicated herself and Rose “—two Carsons—” she nodded toward Flynt and Matt “—and two referees to keep the peace.” She gestured toward Josie and Michael.

Susan was pleased when the other five laughed at her little jab about the infamous Carson-Wainwright feud. Their father had been furious when he learned Rose, the sweet, quiet one in the family, was pregnant. He’d nearly had a hemorrhage when he learned the father belonged to the Carson clan.

“Rose is a Carson now,” Matt said with obvious satisfaction.

Susan shook her head. “No way. Maybe half and half, but certainly no more.”

“These modern women,” Michael complained. “Life was simpler when we could just kidnap them and drag them off to join the male’s clan.”

“In some tribes, the male joined the female’s family,” Susan said, quick to point out this fact.

A cry from the bedroom had Josie leaping to her feet and fleeing the room, Flynt right behind her.

“Lena,” Rose explained.

The couple returned to the dining room carrying a bundle of pink. The baby girl blinked sleepily at the adults, then puckered up again.

“The bottle,” Flynt said, and rushed to the refrigerator. He brought a baby bottle to Josie. “Would you like me to feed her so you can eat?”

Josie shook her head. “Please, all of you, don’t let your food get cold. This will only take a few minutes.”

The surrogate mother fed the hungry little girl while the other adults watched in open fascination.

“How old is she now?” Susan asked.

“About six months, we think,” Josie told her. “The doctor said she wasn’t more than eight to ten weeks old when she was found. How could her mother bear to leave her?”

Susan pressed a hand to her chest as fresh pain surged there. How, indeed, could anyone leave a child?

“I operated on a six-month-old in June,” Michael said, a pensive look on his face. “He had a hole between the chambers of his heart.”

Flynt gave his friend a worried glance. “How did he do?”

Susan’s heart did a little dance against her breastbone when Michael smiled.

“Fine. He was a fighter from the start. Now his mother says she can’t keep him out of trouble. He crawls all over the house and gets into everything.”

Susan was surprised at how relieved she felt at the happy ending to Michael’s story concerning the child. Her eyes were drawn to Baby Lena. Her own mother had almost given up on grandchildren. Justin, her brother, had once been married, but that had ended in divorce and no children. Now they had Rose’s baby to look forward to.

At ten, when Rose served coffee and dessert, Susan realized she was really tired. She’d have to wait until everyone left, though, so Matt could drive her home.

As if on cue, Matt spoke up. “Uh, Michael, would you mind dropping Susan off at her place on your way home?”

“Not at all.” Michael leveled a sardonic glance on her. “I probably should go since I have to return to Houston in the morning. If you’re ready, Susan?”

She realized there was absolutely nothing she could say but yes. She hugged her sister, told Josie what a lovely job she was doing with Lena, bid the Carson brothers good-night and allowed Michael to escort her from the house.

In the car, with moonlight softly illuminating the landscape and the cool night air flowing through her hair, Susan fumed silently, determined not to quarrel or even speak for the duration of the ride. Thank goodness it wouldn’t be long, for the Wainwright ranch adjoined the Carson spread along one side.

“Is it too windy?” he asked. “Shall I put the top up?”

“I’m fine.”

“It was a good thing Flynt took the baby, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“The foundling brought Josie into his life. She’s been good for him, I think, just as Rose had been good for Matt.”

“Mmm,” she said.

Michael enjoyed needling her into conversation, such as it was. He had to fight a grin as her answers grew shorter and shorter. “Why don’t you say what you’re thinking before you explode?” he suggested.

“And what is that?” she asked haughtily.

“That you’d rather ride on a bony mule than in a car with me.”

“Personally, I can’t see much difference.”

That did it. He burst into laughter while she flashed him a killing glance from those cool green eyes. “I’ve always been attracted to a woman of quick wit and a fiery temperament,” he murmured.

He was certainly attracted to this woman, he admitted. Flames singed his insides as they rode through the balmy September night. He had the feeling she wasn’t indifferent, either, although she pretended he didn’t exist at the moment, focusing her attention on the moonlight-flooded fields.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it? If we were a couple of kids on a date, I’d be looking for a parking spot about now. Maybe under those pine trees over there.”

“You’d get pine sap on your car,” she informed him.

“For you I’d chance it,” he goaded, his voice lowering to a sexy, husky level that he hadn’t intended.

Arriving at the entrance to the Wainwright ranch, he turned in, then stopped in front of a sprawling white ranch house reminiscent of South Fork on the old TV series, Dallas. He wondered which bedroom was hers.

She had the door open almost before he stopped. When she headed for the house entrance, he was hot on her heels. With a deliberately casual air, he grasped her arm as if to make sure she didn’t stumble and fall into the lush landscaping bordering the front walk.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said politely. It was an obvious dismissal.

Something stubborn reared up inside him. “No trouble,” he murmured, then did something he’d never done before: he kissed an unwilling woman.

Bending slightly forward, he lowered his head and brushed his mouth over hers, softly, teasing her and perhaps himself because of the sparks that flashed between them now and that had from that first encounter in the street.

If he had any sense, he’d run as fast as he could in the opposite direction from this beautiful young woman with her lithe dancer’s body and her fierce anger at the unfair hand she’d been dealt.

Instead of slapping his face as he half expected, Susan stood perfectly still during the first brief kiss, then another…and another.

It was hard to stop, to give up the softness of her mouth, to ignore the tremor in her sensitive lips or the unconscious invitation when they parted in an audible sigh. Caressing her neck, he felt the telltale pounding of a pulse that spoke of the danger she was determined to deny.

“You can’t fight fate,” he advised gently as he finally surrendered her mouth. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Her chin shot up. “So you say. How much do you get for performing heart surgery?”

“A lot,” he admitted, not taking offense at her intended insult.

She went inside and closed the door quietly but firmly in his face.

Michael drove home, no longer aware of the moonlight, but thinking instead of the precarious nature of life itself. There was a sense of urgency in him, as if he needed to do something right away.

Like make love to Susan Wainwright before she disappeared into a wisp of moonlight?

He gave a wry grimace at the absurdity of this notion as he parked and depressed the remote to close the garage door behind him. Two shadows stepped out of the gloom of the dim interior.

“Easy, Doc,” one of them said. “We need to have a little talk.”

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