Um…I didn’t know you were here.” Her fixed stare on him was cool. Not friendly, not unfriendly. Not affected in any way, which surprised him because he remembered her eyes as warm, and the stare she’d always given him provocative. But not now. He stared for a moment, trying to find a bit of the old Catherine, but none of it was there. “I didn’t see your name on the literature.”
“My name is at the top of the literature, actually,” she said, dropping the pillow onto the plush easy chair by the door.
As if to prove her wrong, Dante grabbed up the packet of information he’d been given pre-admission, and took a look at the staff roster. But what he saw wasn’t Catherine Brannon. It was Dr Catherine Wilder. Which meant she’d gotten married. He hadn’t expected that. Of course, he didn’t have the right to that expectation, did he? Didn’t have the right to anything where Catherine was concerned. Not even to think of her.
Dante looked up at Catherine again. “I didn’t know.” And that was the truth. Sure, the fact that he’d be under the care of a rehab doctor by the name of Catherine had possibly persuaded him to choose this clinic over several others, for no particular reason other than a little sentimentality. Yet he’d had no reason to suspect that his Catherine would be the Catherine in the brochure. But, damn, if that hadn’t turned out to be, well, he wouldn’t go so far as to say good. Maybe interesting?
“And if you had known, would you have chosen Aeberhard?”
He was still surprised by the turn of events. “It’s the best in Europe, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she answered, “it is.”
“Then I would have chosen it.” Easy to say, but he wasn’t sure. Catherine was good. He knew that. But having the doctor in charge of his medical care falling into the line of past lovers? Well, he’d expected to be bored out of his mind here but, if nothing else, the next couple of weeks should prove to be interesting.
“Small world, isn’t it?” she said, shifting a quick glance at Cristofor.
“Smaller than we’d ever guess,” Dante responded, also shifting his glance to Cristofor. “My brother,” he said, nodding in Cristofor’s direction. “Cristofor, this is Catherine Brann—Wilder. Dr Catherine Wilder. We were…colleagues, back in Boston.”
Cristofor looked first at Dante, then at Catherine. Then smiled. “He never told us he had such a beautiful colleague,” he replied, turning on his typical ladies’-man charm, something that had never, until that very moment, bothered Dante.
“And he never told me he had such a handsome brother,” she answered, duplicating Cristofor’s charm with a warm smile. “Or, actually, any living brother at all.”
Dante cleared his throat. “I don’t recall you ever asking.”
The warm smile she had for Cristofor went stone cold as she turned to Dante. “Even if I had, would you have told me? You weren’t exactly open about things, were you? Open, or honest?”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more going on here than meets the eye?” Cristofor asked.
“The only thing going on here,” Catherine stated, “is that, as director of this clinic, I’ve come to welcome your brother to our facility and to help him get settled in and acclimated. It’s what I would do for any patient.” She was avoiding looking at Dante now, instead fixing her stare on his brother.
“Except I’m not just any patient, Catherine,” Dante said, drawing in a tense breath. “No matter how you want to frame it, you know I’m not!”
Cristofor took a long, hard look at the both of them and started to edge his way to the hall leading to the door.
“No,” Catherine admitted. “I don’t suppose you are just any patient.”
Dante eased out the breath he’d been holding. “Good, because I don’t want our past—”
“Our past is just that. Our past.”
“But you admitted I’m not just any patient.”
“You’re not. You’re a celebrity. You can afford our best suite. We’ve had celebrities before, and we have to take special precautions to keep their fawning public at bay. I’m sure it will be no different with you.”
Cristofor finally made it to the door, and as he slipped into the hall, he paused briefly. “Nice to meet you, Dr Wilder. I think I’ll leave you and Dante alone to settle this…whatever it is going on between you, and go find myself a cup of coffee.”
Before either Dante or Catherine could say a word, Cristofor was beating a hasty retreat down the hall, not even looking back.
“Looks like we scared him off,” Dante commented casually.
“Speak for yourself, Dante. You can read anything you want into this situation, but to me it’s strictly professional. I’m the doctor, you’re the patient. That’s all there is. We’ll heal your broken ankle and you’ll be gone. End of story.”
“Then sleeping together the way we did for all those months, and getting engaged, didn’t mean anything to you?” he challenged, not intending to be contentious as much as wanting to evoke something more than ice from Catherine.
She cocked her head, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then finally, she said, “That’s right. We did sleep together, didn’t we? I guess I’d forgotten about that part of my life.”
He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, and simply smiled. Sizzling, red-headed temper. Beautiful fire in those green eyes. He’d never seen that in her before, but he had to admit, he liked it in her now.
CHAPTER TWO
“HE’S w-what?” Catherine sputtered, not sure she’d heard that right.
“He’s requested you to be his physician here. I went in to explain his therapy schedule to him and he said he wanted Doctor Wilder to oversee his therapy.” Dr Friedrich Rilke shrugged casually. “Sorry, Catherine, but we do always bow to our patients’ requests if at all possible or reasonable. Dr Aeberhard insisted on that when he ran the clinic and I’m sure he wouldn’t have that changed now that he’s stepped down from admin duties. Dante Baldassare specifically said he wants you to be his doctor in charge so, unless there’s a good reason for you not to be, I’m literally handing his chart back to you.” Which was what he did.
A good reason? Did she ever have a good reason! “I admitted him, Friedrich. Went down to greet him, said hello, gave him a five-minute explanation of how we do things here at Aeberhard, then left. That’s all there was to it. And I don’t want to be Mr Baldassare’s doctor. I don’t like him, I have a full schedule of other patients, and you’re much better with ankles than I am. I specialize in knees, for heaven’s sake. Did you explain that to him, that you’re the ankle specialist?”
“Explained it, and he wasn’t interested.”
“Do you think you could you talk him into using one of the other staff members?”
Rilke gave his head an adamant shake. “The man was damned insistent about wanting you. He made that perfectly clear, and he threatened to call Dr Aeberhard personally if we don’t grant his request.”
