water from the minibar into a glass—”
She blinked. “I thought this was in a car?”
“Stretch limo.” He’d needed to meet with several of his staff, and hated wasting time traveling, so the price of a larger vehicle to accommodate the meeting was easily worth it. “The driver had to swerve hard in traffic, just hitting the bumper of another car. The glass in my hand caught the corner of the fridge as I swung forward, and it shattered.”
“You were lucky,” she said, returning her attention to his palm.
The cut was minor, but it had led him here, so perhaps he had been lucky. His gaze was drawn back to the doctor’s silky brown hair as she bent her head forward.
“Can you move your thumb for me? And the index finger?”
Obediently, he bent his thumb and finger in turn.
“Okay, good. Tell me if you can feel this.”
The featherlight touch of her gloved fingertip ran across the planes of his fingers and thumb. “Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied, and picked up a pair of tweezers. “I’m just checking for glass fragments while the anesthetic takes effect. This shouldn’t hurt,” she murmured.
Her dark lashes swept down over creamy pale cheeks as she worked. Under normal circumstances, he’d have asked her out for a drink, maybe dinner, but that would cross a line now that she would soon be an employee.
Besides, he doubted Della would take him up on the offer. The signals she’d been sending had been limited to professional concern, both for his hand and because he was Patrick’s nephew.
She skimmed a finger over a long, straight scar along the length of his thumb pad. “This looks like it would have been a nasty cut.”
A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Childhood accident.” Though, it had been far from an accident—it had been with conscious, purposeful intent that, at thirteen, he’d sliced his thumb with a pocketknife and pressed the injury against similar ones on three friends’ thumbs. They’d become blood brothers that night in a darkened boarding school dorm room. He looked at the scar, remembering how his youthful enthusiasm had made him slash long and deep—as though more blood would deepen the bond. Maybe it had, because he was still closer to those guys than any other person on the planet.
Della put the tweezers down, then picked up the needle.
“How does it look?” he asked.
“It’s only minor,” she said, all polite reassurance. The needle pierced his skin and he felt a slight tugging as she sewed the stitch. Della worked quickly and efficiently after the first one was in place, knotting and cutting. Her hands as they worked were graceful and capable, like Della herself.
After she tied off the third one, she rose and removed her gloves, saying over her shoulder, “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”
“About a year ago.”
“That will be fine. You shouldn’t need antibiotics—the cut was clean, and there was no foreign material.” She washed her hands then turned back to him. “You’ll need the stitches out in about seven days. If you’re still here, come to the clinic and either Cal or I will do it. If you’ve left by then, see your local doctor.”
A twinge of regret surprised him. “I’m only here for a couple of nights.” He’d come for the reading of Patrick’s will and to spend a few days assessing the ship’s operations. He’d disembark when they reached Sydney.
“You’re not staying for a full run?” A fine line appeared between her eyebrows. “To experience the Cora Mae out in the Pacific?”
“That won’t be necessary.” His plans for the ship didn’t include her cruising the Pacific or anywhere.
“Then you’ll need to see your own doctor in a week, Mr. Marlow,” she said with her courteous, professional smile. “Ring him earlier if you have any concerns or your hand shows signs of unusual pain, redness or swelling.”
With a start, he realized the appointment was over. He was seconds away from walking out the door and in all probability wouldn’t see her one-on-one again. Which was probably for the best—that impulse he’d had to invite her for a drink might reemerge, and he wouldn’t start anything with a future employee who never spent more than one night in any given city.
He nodded, and rested a hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for the medical care, Dr. Walsh. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Marlow,” she said, her voice even, unaffected.
Something about this woman intrigued him, and that was rare. What if, despite the obstacles—
Walk away now, the sane part of his brain said. This is not a woman for you. Which was true. He shook his head ruefully and stepped through the door, only just reining in the impulse to turn back for one final look over his shoulder at Dr. Della Walsh.
Less than an hour later, Della rushed along a carpeted corridor to the boardroom where Patrick Marlow’s will was probably already being read. She hated being late. Hated it. Being late meant drawing attention to herself and that made her uncomfortable anytime. And this was such an important occasion.
The life of a shipboard doctor wasn’t frantic like a medical career based in a hospital, but occasionally there would be a run of patients. Just after Luke had left the clinic, they’d had a minor influx of passengers returning early from shore—a child with a bee sting, another with a twisted wrist after a fall, a young woman with a migraine and a man with a bad case of sunburn. She couldn’t have left them all to Cal.
She flicked a glance at her watch. Only three minutes past two—hopefully people were still taking their seats. Arriving late to Patrick’s will reading seemed disrespectful, and the thought made her skin prickle.
Gently pushing open the door, she let out a breath—although people were seated, there was still murmuring as the short, gray-haired man at the front table shuffled papers on his desk. Most chairs were taken, but she was relieved to see a vacant aisle seat in the back row. She slipped in and greeted the woman beside her.
“Have I missed anything?” Della whispered.
“No,” Jackie said. “He just asked everyone to take their seats. It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it? I still can’t believe Patrick’s gone, let alone that we’re all sitting around to talk about his money.” Jackie ran the housekeeping department and had been friends with the ship’s owner, as had many of the senior staff.
Tears stung the back of her eyes but Della blinked them away. “Even knowing how sick he was at the end, part of me kept believing he’d pull through.”
“Well, he thought he’d pull through,” Jackie said, shaking her head, her smile a bittersweet mix of admiration and sadness. “He was still making plans the last time I saw him.”
Breath tight in her lungs, Della had to pause before her voice would work. “Determination and optimism were probably what kept him going longer than his specialists expected.”
