Countering His Claim. Rachel Bailey
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unequal to the task but after a moment she managed to force herself to her feet. As she swiveled, she nearly stumbled. A firm warm grip encircled her elbow, steadying her, saving her from that ignominy.
She turned to thank him but her throat seized as she met the hard glitter in his eyes. Her stomach flipped. With all the grace she could muster, she allowed him to guide her out to the corridor.
Once the door to the boardroom had shut behind them, he looked from closed door to closed door. “An empty room where we can talk undisturbed?”
Willing her brain to work, she indicated the door on the left and he headed for it, still gripping her elbow. It was smaller than the room they’d come from, designed for meetings of no more than ten people, furnished with a rectangular table surrounded by chairs and one porthole.
As soon as the door clicked closed, Luke released her and his hands moved to his hips, suspicion and anger radiating from every inch of his six-foot-plus frame.
“Tell me something, Dr. Walsh,” he said, his voice harsh and a sneer curling his top lip. “What exactly did you do for my uncle to earn yourself half a ship?”
It took a moment but then his meaning slammed into her. He thought she’d used her body, sold herself to manipulate sweet, lovely Patrick for financial gain. Rage charged through her veins, hot and wild. Before she’d even realized her intention, her hand was swinging toward him. His eyes widened. He began to turn away, but it was too late.
A crack echoed as flesh met flesh. The force of her slap jerked his head sideways. Heat and pain streaked across her palm, leaving the rest of her body icy cold, and the jolt shuddered all the way up her arm to her shoulder.
And then she froze. She’d struck another human being in anger. The violence felt ugly, alien...she felt alien. She looked down at her upturned palm. Warily her gaze crept up to Luke’s face, to the red imprint of her hand on his cheek and a wave of nausea cramped her stomach.
* * *
Luke swore under his breath. He’d never been slapped before. Now that he had, it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat in a hurry. His cheek hurt like hell.
Della’s hand still hung in the air as if she didn’t know what to do with it now. Her face was blanched of color. Whatever else he may think of her, he could see the slap was out of character. Not that it mattered. What mattered more was that he’d lost his temper. If he were to succeed, control would be his friend. Control over himself, leading to control of the situation. No more angry outbursts—a cool head would win the day.
He spun away and strode over to the other end of the room, trying to find his bearings. He glanced up at a framed photo on the wall of the original Cora Mae proudly entering Sydney Harbour over fifty years ago. Patrick’s Cora Mae had been named after the ship in the photo, which had been Luke’s grandfather’s, and that ship had been named for Luke’s grandmother, Cora Mae Marlow. Now he was effectively sharing his heritage with a stranger...at least until he could rectify the situation. A heaviness pressed down on his shoulders.
What had Patrick been thinking to put him in this position? He scraped both hands through his hair and blew out a breath.
“I have to know,” he said, still facing the photo of the Cora Mae. “When we met earlier and you stitched my hand. Were you aware then that Patrick was leaving you half the ship?”
He turned to face Della. She’d slipped into a chair, her head was bowed, her hands in her lap—her left hand held her right wrist as though she was afraid of what it might do next. Those were the long slender fingers that had stitched his wound with such dexterity, such tenderness. Who’d have thought they’d be capable of delivering such a stinging rebuke.
“No.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I had no idea.”
He surveyed her, curling his fingers around the top of the chair, feeling the padding give under his fingertips. She was the doctor who’d nursed Patrick through his final illness, when he’d been at his most vulnerable. Had she used that time to sway him? To garner a financial reward? Perhaps exerted subtle—or not so subtle—influence over a susceptible, sick man?
He released the chair, dug his uninjured hand into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “It’s a pretty big gift to be a surprise.”
“Patrick had said on more than one occasion that he was grateful I’d arranged for him to be cared for on the Cora Mae. The ship was his home and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay here. Which was why he tried to hide his symptoms as long as he could.” Her eyes closed tight for a long moment, and when she opened them again, she focused on the ceiling. “He also said he’d leave me ‘a little something’ in his will.”
Luke let his silence ask the questions.
She folded her arms under her breasts. “I told him it was unnecessary, that I was just doing my job.”
“But you did more than your job, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “You were with him almost constantly.”
“Yes.” Her eyes flashed but her voice was even and calm. “I loved Patrick and I would have done anything for him. I know what you’re implying but I didn’t care for him for any reward. He was part of my onboard family as well as a mentor and a friend.”
Luke paced across to the porthole, giving himself a few moments to regroup. Patrick was her family and her friend?
Why hadn’t his uncle asked for him? He’d have dropped everything in an instant if he’d known Patrick was so seriously ill. He’d have wanted to be at the old man’s side, wouldn’t have cared that he was frail or tired or any of the other things that the illness had caused. He just wished he’d been there, to talk to him, to hold his hand, to watch over him. A hot ball of emotion lodged in his throat.
Was this part of his problem with Della? She had been here, she had talked to Patrick, helped him, perhaps comforted him in his hours of need. Her competence had provided succor, and Luke wished he’d been a part of that care. It made his voice harsher than he’d intended.
“He was a friend with the capacity to make you a rich woman.”
“Challenge the bloody will, then.” She looked glorious in her anger, her dark eyes shining bright and color high on her cheeks. “Drag it through the courts. Make it look like Patrick wasn’t of sound mind. Knock yourself out.”
Her angry words brought him up short. It would go against the grain to tarnish Patrick’s memory by publically claiming his uncle was incompetent. But he might not have a choice. This was his heritage—how could he just let that go?
The silence was thick and heavy, and when a knock came at the door, it startled him back to the surroundings.
Della turned and wrenched open the door. A crew member stood on the other side. “The executor would like Mr. Marlow back in the room. He’s outlining personal effects, so I expect you’ll be mentioned again.”
Luke nodded then turned to Della. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“I look forward to continuing it,” she said, and stalked from the room.
He watched her leave—the movement of her hips under the soft fabric of her trousers, the bounce of her dark curls at her shoulders—and shook his head. Wasn’t this going to make it hell for negotiating? The last thing he needed was this simmering desire, this spark with his uncle’s doctor—and the part-owner of Luke’s ship. He’d already paid the price of handling her with uncontrolled emotion. A stinging slap and the knowledge that his fierce self-discipline was not as unassailable as he’d believed.
Next time they met, his control over his temper and his body would once again be ironclad.
* * *
Della sat in the back row for the remainder of the will reading, listening to various possessions being allocated to family as well as crew members who had been treasured friends. Although she tried to prevent it, her gaze kept straying to Luke Marlow, his accusations