BY THE TIME Guy finished reading Heather’s diary, it was nearly nine-thirty. He looked at his desk and saw the piles of reports neatly laid in his in-box. He hadn’t even heard Connie come in or leave for the day.

      When he rubbed his face, he was startled that his eyes, his cheeks were wet. He’d cried? God, he was falling apart. Everything felt surreal—Heather’s death, this book of sorrows, Heath.

      Heath.

      He stood up, carefully putting Heather’s notebook in his top drawer, and headed for the NICU. Again, the staff treated him diffidently. Gave him more room in the hallways, smiled with that tinge of sympathy that made him want to punch through a wall. He retreated into familiar behavior, acting as if nothing had happened, nodding but not speaking.

      The elevator held only strangers, and for that Guy was grateful. On the fourth floor, he listened to the soft strains of Bach wafting beneath the bustle of nurses and orderlies. On this floor, aside from the NICU, was the nursery. If he walked to his left, he would see the healthy babies, the exultant parents. Just past the nursery was a waiting room, and then there was the delivery room.

      He knew that Heather had been in the right place last night, and because of Rachel’s deft handling of the delivery, Heath was alive today. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder what if.

      What if he’d called Heather more often? What if he’d paid attention? What if he hadn’t been such a selfish prick for the last five years?

      He felt the blood beneath his skin and was aware of his rapid heartbeat. His breath became shallow and harsh, and he ducked into the men’s room. Alone, he went to the sink and threw cold water on his face. Tried for calm, settled for nonpsychotic.

      He leaned on the granite counter, stared into his own wild eyes. He’d gone through the looking glass this morning, and it had just turned into a mirror again. He didn’t like what he saw.

      Who the hell was he? A doctor, but why? Did he even care about the people he helped? Or was it all self-aggrandizement? Had he ever loved Tammy, or was it just that she was beautiful? That she thought he was God’s gift? That she fit into the pretty little picture he’d created that represented his life. Only, where was the life part?

      The moment he’d held that boy in his arms, the facade had shattered. But now that Guy was broken, what was he supposed to do about it? How was he going to pick up the pieces? That baby needed him, and he was useless. Stripped bare and without any of his shiny protective coating.

      “Okay, Giroux. Get it together. This is not about you.” He turned off the water, then dried his hands and face, balling the paper tightly before he threw it in the trash. Then he went to look in on his grandson.

      As he walked into the unit, his gaze went to the far corner. Heath’s incubator. And Rachel Browne.

      Instantly, as if a switch had been flipped, his anger disappeared. Gone, just like that. He studied her. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail that fell to the middle of her back. The white coat, prim, professional, hid the curves that had burned themselves into his brain. Her navy skirt came down to just above her knees, and below that were remarkable legs, the kind of legs that launched ships, that wars were fought over. Her shoes—black, with one-inch heels—were as perfectly groomed as the rest of her. That was Rachel. Always put together, always fresh and beautiful, even if she’d been working twenty-four hours straight.

      She instilled confidence in her patients, had complete control of even the most complicated cases. And she never lost her cool. Altogether, she was an extraordinary doctor.

      Right this second, he needed her, more desperately than he could ever remember needing a woman. But not for sex or even a kiss. He needed her to calm him. When Rachel was near, the world stopped caving in on him.

      He went to the sink first and prepared himself to hold the baby. It was second nature, this washing routine. He’d done it so many times, hundreds, thousands, that it had become a ritual.

      Rachel was looking at him when he turned toward Heath. God, her face. It was the best part of her, really. Incredibly large dark eyes, dark eyebrows, and lips painted a perfect red. She had a fascinating beauty, but more important, she was a born healer, in the best sense of the word. And in his eyes, that made her looks a detail. An afterthought.

      That didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate how attractive she was. He simply put her beauty in proper perspective.

      “Guy,” she said, her soft voice carrying clearly across the room.

      He walked toward her, the stirrings of hope quickening his step.

      “He’s doing a little better,” Rachel said. “He’s been sleeping peacefully. No arrhythmia, and look—” she handed him the chart “—his kidney function is up.”

      Guy read everything, then reread it before he spoke. “He’s still not out of the woods.”

      “No,” Rachel said. “But what this tells me is that even if we don’t find his father, we can get to the bottom of his condition. We’ll find out everything. His blood work has gone to the lab in San Francisco.”

      He knew what that meant. DNA sequencing, as fast and as accurately as it could be done. It cost him a fortune and was worth every penny. But it still wasn’t magic. Getting the results would take time. Time he could use finding the bastard that had impregnated his stepdaughter. “His name is Stan,” he said. “I think he might still be in Los Angeles.”

      Rachel stepped closer and put her hand on his sleeve. “When’s the last time you ate?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Well then, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to spend a few minutes looking at that beautiful boy. Then I’m going to take you down the street and force-feed you, if necessary.” She caught his gaze. “We’ll talk.”

      CHAPTER

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