Home To The Doctor. Mary Anne Wilson
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of foghorns over the water and the cry of a night bird in the air.
She could have kept walking, and would have if she hadn’t finally heard someone scream in anger or pain or both. That drove her to change all her plans. She looked around and spotted a series of broad steps that led to the top of the bluffs defined by lights so dim they were little more than a blur. Jogging over to the well-fashioned stairs in the rock wall, she grabbed the cold damp metal railing that ran up one side.
She climbed as quickly as she could, not at all sure what she’d find at the top, but images of a naked man lying prone on the deck, bloodied and in pain, flashed in her mind. She’d look to make sure everything was all right, then she’d leave. Being a doctor, she’d learned that you offered help first and worried later about the details. The worst that could happen was that some burly bodyguard would “usher” her off of the estate.
She stepped out at the top onto an expanse of deep emerald grass, dotted by thick ferns hugging the ground and wind-twisted pines along with madrone trees. The main house, which was two hundred feet back from the bluffs and beyond a stone terrace, loomed high into the dusky sky, looking like some monstrous castle as it had from the waters. Light through the multipaned windows was concentrated in the central area, creating a series of glowing strips. Heavy drapes that covered French doors were partially pushed aside. In the low light, the structure looked foreboding and unsettling. It didn’t look like home sweet home at all.
To her left and fifty yards or so along the bluff’s edge, Morgan saw the guest house that overlooked the beach. At least that bit of structure wasn’t hidden behind trees, shrubs and ferns. She spotted a portion of the deck to the left and a stone walkway that cut a meandering path through the ankle-deep grass and separated to go to the back toward the deck and to the front of the house. She hurried along the path, avoiding the low limbs of old trees, and hesitated at the fork, finally choosing the direction of the deck.
She took two wooden steps up onto the deck that seemed to shoot right out into the air, with no visible signs of the heavy supports she knew were below it. Interior light spilled out of a pair of open French doors, and showed at least one reason for the crashes she’d heard. What had been a huge potted plant moments ago was now a heap of broken pottery, scattered soil and a huge, thick-leafed tree of some sort lying askew. She crossed to the mess, and carefully picked her way around the pottery shards, to get to the open doors.
She grabbed the door frame and almost stepped in, but stopped when she saw the second cause of the noise—a heavy leather chair had been upended along with a small side table. A lamp that had probably been some sort of Tiffany antique was shattered beyond hope of restoration. Broken pieces of bright glass scattered in a wide arc on the polished wooden floor.
She looked into an expansive room with polished wood floors, furniture in supple leather and dark woods arranged in front of a stone fireplace to the left, and more antique furniture set to get the most of the view of the sound. Paintings on the rough plaster walls were either great prints or the originals. She’d bet on them being originals.
She carefully stepped past the chair and to one side of the broken glass, then called out “Hello?” before noticing traces of dirt smeared on the floor as if something had been dragged through both messes. Whatever had done the damage had been heading to steps that led up to a set of partially ajar doors. She touched the closest door and it swung back silently.
“Hello?” she called again, and was slightly surprised when she heard a muffled response from a deep male voice.
“In here.”
She took the steps in one stride and found herself in a huge bedroom space. She barely noticed the heavy antique furnishings or the fact that the area was a true suite, with open rooms off both sides and a circular staircase near the middle of the room that led upward to another level.
All she really saw was the man from the porch sitting on the dark, polished wooden floor at the foot of a bed that would have been appropriate for Bartholomew Grace’s boudoir. It was huge, made of dark, intricately carved wood, with heavy drapes at all four posts and a mattress that sat a good three feet off the floor. She focused on the man slumped against the side of the bed, the partial cast on his left leg and his skin, which was sleek with sweat despite the definite chill in the room. His eyes were closed tightly, and his face looked oddly flushed and pale at the same time. She knew that look—he was in real pain.
She hurried over to him, crouched and automatically took in his rapid breathing, his clenched jaw and erratic pulse. At some point she realized he wasn’t actually naked but wore a pair of khaki shorts. He also wasn’t just anyone. He was Ethan Grace.
“What’s going on?” she asked, knowing that he’d been aware of her presence when he didn’t flinch at the sound of her voice or even open his eyes.
“Get my medication. It’s in the bathroom.” He rasped out the order.
She didn’t take any offense at the rude demand; pain changed everything. “Of course,” she said, “but first, let me get you up off the floor.”
She scooted closer and reached out to him. She might only weigh a hundred and ten pounds at the most, but she was used to lifting patients twice her size. She’d guessed he was around a hundred and ninety pounds, maybe six feet two or three inches tall. She hadn’t seen Ethan Grace for years, but she had no doubt she was helping the man who owned all of this. And that man didn’t have a smudge on his upper arm but a tattoo, which surprised her as she looked at the four-inch-long dagger with a snake twined around it. Beneath it was the script “Do It.”
When she touched the tattoo, he jerked at the contact and his eyes flew open. Deep brown eyes, almost black. He looked confused, then said in a tight voice, “What in the hell?”
His dark brown hair was clinging damply to his flushed face that seemed all sharp angles and his jaw was shadowed by the beginnings of a new beard. He looked strong and capable, but she knew that even the strongest man couldn’t help himself when pain took over. She tried to be reassuring as she said, “Okay, we can do this,” while carefully straddling his legs and attempting to push her hands under his arms.
His skin was hot to the touch. No wonder he had the doors wide-open. She needed to get him in bed, then find the medication he mentioned.
“Mr. Grace, I’m going to get you up and onto the bed.” She braced herself, took a deep breath and pushed as hard as she could with her legs. But nothing worked.
Even with his dead weight, she could have lifted him, but he barely moved up before his momentum pulled her back and toward him. She felt her feet slip on the hardwood floor, and in that moment, she knew that she was going to fall onto him.
Deliberately she let go of him and threw herself to her right as far as she could so her legs wouldn’t make more contact with him than they already were. She tumbled to the floor, hitting her shoulder hard, but as she landed she knew that she’d managed to keep off of his legs.
She twisted to look at him, saw those black eyes on her. She was sitting on the floor by Ethan Grace, in a guest house and trying to figure out how to get him into bed.
ETHAN WASN’T SURE what the hell was going on. It seemed that there was a woman with him, a stranger, almost sitting on top of him and calling him Mr. Grace. This small redhead wasn’t Natalie. No, Natalie was in L.A. on a case. Or maybe she was in Europe. He couldn’t remember. And Natalie never would have worn a sweatshirt and jeans and certainly wouldn’t have called him Mr. Grace. His mind was so damn foggy from the pain. Then the woman was pulling him, making pain shoot up his leg, making him almost nauseated.
She was suddenly gone as if she’d fallen off the edge of his world, and he was back on the floor surrounded by the throb of bone-deep pain. No, she was still there, close by, talking in a breathless voice. “I’d say that didn’t go well.”
What hadn’t gone well? He frowned, then she was in front of him again, crouching over him, her hand on his forehead, her fingers pressed to the hollow of his throat. “You have to get into the bed,” she was saying. “And you have to help me.”