said.
“Hi,” he answered, then simply stood and looked his fill. She wore a pale blue silk blouse and matching pants. Shiny silver loops dangled from her earlobes, and she wore a trio of thin silver bracelets on one arm. Her soft-brown hair hung loose, flowing in glorious waves to her shoulders. On television she’d worn it pulled back in a sleek twist, but this… God, he wanted to run his hands through it, then run them on a long, thorough journey over the rest of her.
She flushed under his intent gaze. “You didn’t say where we were going. Is this okay?” She glanced down at her outfit. For the first time since he’d known her, she sounded uncertain.
“Perfect,” he said hoarsely, his eyes drawn to the dainty pearl buttons on her blouse. He’d like to unfasten them one by one…
The hell with dinner; he wanted to take her to bed.
Firmly he stifled that thought. They’d taken a major step today, and she wasn’t ready for the next one. He’d wait. He was a patient man. Oh, he could be rash at times, but when something really mattered, he knew how to bide his time, how to take care. He did that every day, when he battled disease, beating it back inch by inch. He’d do that now, too. “I’ve made reservations at The Orchard,” he said, and took her arm.
The restaurant was quiet and elegant, with subdued lighting, attentive service and a menu food critics consistently applauded. A perfect setting for the evening he’d been waiting for since the first time he’d seen Elyssa.
As the maamp2;ˆtre d’ led them to their table, someone called his name. Brett turned and saw a group of senior staff members from St. Michael’s. He stopped to greet them.
“Well, I see Clark lets you out sometimes,” Dr. Herbert Raines said.
“Not only that, but he recommends restaurants.” Brett grinned as he met the eyes of Clark Madigan, the hospital chief of staff, who’d convinced him to leave Duke University Hospital and come here.
Madigan returned the smile. “Dr. Cameron deserves an evening out at a fine restaurant now and then. He’s doing a first-rate job.”
Brett acknowledged the smiles and nods from around the table, then said, “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Elyssa Jarmon. She’s been entertaining the kids in the cancer unit.”
To his surprise Madigan’s eyes cooled. He shook Elyssa’s hand but said only a curt hello. Not his usual style. Clark Madigan was charm personified. But not tonight.
None of the other doctors were particularly cordial, either. But Brett put that out of his mind. He wasn’t here to speculate on his colleagues’ moods. The evening he’d been longing for had finally come to pass, and he wanted to focus on Elyssa.
“Sorry for the interruption,” he said when they were seated.
“I don’t mind.” Her eyes teased. “I’m enjoying being with a famous doctor.”
“You’re pretty well-known yourself.”
She flashed a wry smile. “Former celebrity.” She paused, then said, “Brett, I want to tell you about my accident.”
The waiter hovered, order pad in hand. When they’d made their choices, Brett said, “I know about the accident,” then, noting her surprise, added, “but not the details. I ran into the coordinator of volunteer services the other day, and she told me you’d offered your services because you were grateful for the care you’d gotten at St. Michael’s after your wreck. That’s all I know.”
Elyssa picked up her water goblet, set it down. “It happened last year in March. Randy Barber, a friend from the station, gave me a ride home from work. Someone ran into us and Randy was…killed.” Her lip trembled, and Brett quickly reached over and covered her hand with his.
“I was in a coma for two weeks,” she went on. “When I woke up, I didn’t remember anything about the wreck. I still don’t.”
“Not remembering’s a way to protect yourself from something too painful to face. You may be better off if you don’t.”
“No.” The intensity with which she spoke surprised him. “Last month Jenny Barber, Randy’s wife, told me she believes what happened wasn’t an accident. She wanted to know what I could remember. She wanted my help.” Her face was stark with anguish. “I couldn’t give it to her.”
Wanting to soothe, he stroked her hand. “It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe I’m not trying hard enough to remember,” she said, and he saw that the thought brought her pain. “Since Jenny talked to me, I keep wondering if I could have done something that night, something that would have kept Randy alive.” Her free hand fisted on the table. “And if what happened wasn’t an accident, if someone deliberately ran into us, then I need to know who and why. I have to find out.”
Her words made him uneasy. He didn’t like the idea of Elyssa investigating a possible murder. But surely she didn’t intend to conduct a serious inquiry, not on her own. Or did she? “That’s a job for the police,” he said.
“The police report said the wreck was accidental.”
“Well, then.”
“I think they’re wrong.” Her eyes flashed, and he suddenly saw the determined reporter.
“You won’t learn much a year and a half after the wreck,” he pointed out.
“Maybe not, but I have to try. Yesterday I found some notes Randy made the day before he died. Under them he drew a skull and crossbones. I’m researching the notes, but so far I haven’t come up with anything. I’ve started asking questions, too.”
Brett felt a prick of alarm. “Be careful.”
“I will. I’ve done investigative work before.” She touched her cheek. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that wreck ended my career. That’s reason enough for me to try to find out who caused it.”
“I understand how you feel,” he said, “but watch your step. And get some help if you need it.”
While the waiter served them, Brett studied the crisscross of tiny lines on Elyssa’s cheek. An idea occurred to him, but he needed to present it tactfully. “Some cancer patients have scars,” he said carefully. “You could help them come to terms with that.”
She frowned. “How?”
“By visiting them, talking to them, letting them see that you’ve gone on with your life in spite of the injury.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“The Department of Social Work has a training program for breast cancer survivors who talk to patients. I could give them a call, tell them what I have in mind…if you feel up to it.”
“How can I help people ‘come to terms’ as you call it when I’m not sure I have?”
“Coming to terms—healing—is a process,” he said. “You’re building a new career, doing something with your life. You’re farther along the road toward healing than most.”
“I’ll
