to let him know that she wasn’t about to be seduced again, she reared back and practically shrieked, “How dare you, Grant Madison?”
“Well,” he muttered, obviously chagrined, “it’s not as if I took the damned thing to obedience school and had it trained to perform on command! When a woman presses her nice soft body up against a man, he’s likely to react.”
Too late, she realized that the music had stopped. Had the people closest overheard the exchange? she wondered, appalled. Were the titters and giggles and one or two outright guffaws directed at her, or were they just the normal reactions of people enjoying a wedding party?
Surely they were. But did she comport herself with dignity, as befitting a woman of her position in the community, and simply walk away from Grant Madison and his deplorable behavior? Oh, no, not Olivia Margaret Whitfield! As if they hadn’t already put on enough of a floor show, she hauled off and slapped him across the cheek as a grand finale.
Groaning at the recollection, she drew in a long breath and submerged her head beneath the water, wishing she could drown herself. How would she ever face people again, after such a performance? Worse still, how would she face him, as she’d undoubtedly have to do if, as he’d claimed, he’d be acting as Justin Greer’s locum for the next two months?
CHAPTER TWO
FOR the next two days, Olivia literally hid from the world. Turning off her phone, she buried herself in tasks about the gatehouse, spending Sunday morning painting the powder room at the back of the hall, and the afternoon weeding the flower garden bordering the patio.
On Monday, thanks to the miracle of modern computers, she was able to put in a full day’s work without once stepping outside her front door. But when she found herself actually planning to lie about not feeling well rather than attend a scheduled meeting at Springdale General on the Tuesday, she knew the self-indulgence had gone on long enough.
“Grow up, Olivia!” she muttered. “After Saturday’s wedding debacle, showing your face in public again won’t be easy, but you’ve survived worse.”
An hour later, she wasn’t sure that was true.
“Hear your husband’s back in town,” Ingrid from the deli greeted her, when she stopped by on her way to the hospital. “Hear your father’s fit to be tied about it, too.”
There wasn’t much Ingrid didn’t hear in the course of a week. The little tea shop at the back of her premises was well patronized by local matrons and a hive of gossip, even when there was nothing much to talk about. The return of the renegade Dr. Madison would have made front page news even if he’d come sneaking into town under a cover of darkness. Olivia wasn’t the only one who’d found his slow, sexy smile and hypnotically persuasive voice irresistible.
“I’ll take a jar of black olives, please, and a small carton of the bean salad,” she said stiffly, hoping to nip the conversation in the bud. “And, just for the record, he’s my ex-husband.”
But picking up subtle hints never had been one of Ingrid’s strong points. “Don’t think folks haven’t noticed, hon! There’s a whole flurry of social events suddenly being planned and, as usual, the first one out of the gate is Mrs. Bowles. Just yesterday, she booked me to cater a garden party and let slip that Dr. Madison’s name’s at the top of her list of invitees. And I guess we all know why.” She weighed the salad, slapped a lid on it, and hitched her bosom on the edge of the glass-fronted display case of imported cheeses, a sure sign she was settling in for the duration. “She didn’t shell out the better part of eight thousand dollars to make her daughter presentable just to have her sitting home and withering on the vine, as it were. Now that Joanne’s got the braces off her teeth and shed all that extra weight, Mrs. Bowles is looking to fix her up with a rich husband. And if the car your ex is driving is anything to go by, he’s not exactly on the bread line.”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that, since I have absolutely no idea what sort of car he’s driving, nor any interest in finding out.”
“No,” Ingrid said slyly. “I guess you’ve been too busy checking out his other assets. Having second thoughts about the divorce, are you?”
“Certainly not!”
“Probably just as well. From all I’ve heard, he’s a bit more than a woman like you can handle.”
The way Ingrid looked at her, she might have been the offspring of a troll trying to pass for human.
“Thank you very much!” Olivia said, and made her escape. But, instead of heading directly to the hospital, she detoured by way of the park and found a bench in a quiet corner overlooking the river. She needed a few moments to collect herself before running the risk of facing anyone else because, in her present state, she could only be described as a mess.
Why had Ingrid’s last comment hurt so much when it coincided exactly with the conclusion she herself had arrived at years ago? Why did it matter that every eligible woman within hailing distance was setting her sights on Grant Madison, or that invitations were being issued and she probably wouldn’t be receiving any? And why couldn’t she forget how it had felt to be in his arms again, to feel his heart beating beneath her hand?
She knew the answer and it had nothing to do with falling in love again—at least, not with him. It had to do with his all-too-accurate assessment of her relationship with Henry.
She was a woman in her prime. She should be married and pregnant, with one or two children already hanging onto her skirts. She should have a warm, exciting body sleeping next to her in bed each night.
Instead, she had Henry, who’d implied more than once that he was in love with her. But the thought of actually making love with him left her cold, and he fortunately was too much the gentleman to press the point. Unlike Grant….
Unbidden, the memories of that long-ago summer came sweeping back. She’d been just two months shy of her twentieth birthday when they’d met, and to say that she’d fallen in love with the handsome new intern was an absurd understatement. She’d literally tumbled headlong into a passion so hot and intense it had nearly killed her.
On their third date, Grant had rented a boat and they’d spent the afternoon drifting down the river. Because of the heat, she’d worn a white sun dress with nothing underneath but a pair of cotton panties, and he’d worn denim cut-offs and a blue golf shirt. Spreading out her skirt, she’d reclined against the boat cushions, rested her head against one raised arm, and let the fingers of her other hand trail through the water, all the time watching him through half-closed eyes, admiring the play of muscles beneath the smooth tanned skin of his arms and legs, and very much aware that he was watching her.
A few miles past the town limits, he’d steered into a quiet backwater, tethered the boat, and led her up the bank toward a huge old weeping willow. She’d sensed the urgency in him, had seen the smoldering passion in his eyes. When he’d drawn her down beside him in the long, sweet grass, she’d known he wasn’t going to stop at a kiss or two, just as she’d known she wasn’t going to object at his wanting more from her.
Even all these years later, remembering made her blush. How willingly she’d sprawled beside him, with her skirt up around her waist and the straps of her dress pulled down to reveal her breasts, and her underwear hanging off one ankle! How brazenly she’d let him pleasure her, moaning low in her throat as he’d skimmed his lips over the slope of her shoulder and at excruciating leisure taken each pebbled nipple in his mouth! And
