complained about the way she’d denied herself any possibility of following her own dreams in order to keep the marriage from falling apart. Yet in her zeal to retain their conventional family unit, she’d been blind to the fact that her own unhappiness had been as ravaging as George Devon’s anger. Year by year, Lucy had watched her mother wither away. Where once she’d been a joyful, loving woman, she’d soon become a sad, embittered ghost of herself. And as she’d descended into despair, she’d brought her daughter along for the ride.
When Lucy had agreed to marry Nick, it hadn’t been without misgivings. Her greatest fear had been that she wasn’t capable of sustaining a loving relationship. After all, she’d had no role models as a child. She wasn’t even sure if she believed in true love. But Nick’s exuberance had allowed Lucy to push her own concerns aside.
Lucy groaned, remembering those horrible few weeks leading up to the wedding. With each day that had passed, her worries had increased, not diminished. She’d become paralyzed with fear, certain that she’d fail to measure up to Nick’s expectations.
Finally, when she’d been sure she was about to shatter into a million pieces from the stress of it all, Lucy had realized she couldn’t be the person Nick wanted her to be. Marriage had felt like an impending prison sentence, personally and professionally. In being totally honest with herself, she’d acknowledged that her drive to succeed was as necessary as breathing. She couldn’t live without the thrill of hunting down a story. And she wouldn’t subject her loved ones to the pressures her job demanded.
And nothing had changed since then. Nothing at all.
Rolling onto her side, she pounded her pillow into shape with more force than was necessary.
Enough. She wouldn’t think about Nick or the past. She had more important concerns to occupy her thoughts—such as two little girls who’d been entrusted to her care.
Tomorrow, the twins would arrive. The nuns from the orphanage had christened them Faith and Hope, and the names fit. Not quite three months old, they had overcome enormous obstacles just to survive. So much was riding on whether or not they could be separated. They deserved the very best medical attention Lucy could provide. She couldn’t allow herself to forget that.
THE NEXT EVENING, Nick stood with his palms braced on the shower wall, the hot spray beating down on the cramped muscles of his shoulders.
There had been a time when he could complete a full day of surgery, then play a game or two of basketball at a local gym afterward. But he was beginning to discover that—try as he might to ward off the effects of turning forty with diet and exercise—his stamina wasn’t what it used to be.
Granted, the morning hadn’t started out well. He’d had his whole day booked before he even stepped through the doors of Primary Children’s Medical Center. A six-car pileup on I-15 had resulted in two youngsters being air-lifted to the hospital before dawn. At six, Nick had been in one of the operating theaters, and he hadn’t left until after seven that night.
Which meant he was tired. Bone tired.
Normally, after a punishing day Nick treated himself to a quiet evening. He’d turn on some jazz or watch a game on television. But tonight…
Tonight, he felt edgy and anxious. His house was too quiet.
Grimacing at the melancholy turn of his own thoughts, Nick squeezed shampoo into his palm and vigorously scrubbed his scalp. If he was willing to indulge in self-pity, he was getting old. Now wasn’t the time to—
A muffled noise filtered into his musings. Frowning, Nick stepped away from the spray and bent his head in the direction of the bathroom door, sure that he was mistaken. But the muted sound of the doorbell left him in no doubt that someone had chosen this inopportune moment to visit.
Cursing, he rinsed the soap out of his hair, shut off the water and grabbed a towel. Max Garcia still hadn’t dropped off the case study, and it was possible that Nick’s colleague was waiting on the stoop, but Nick doubted it. Instinctively, he knew the identity of his visitor. Grabbing a pair of jeans from the dresser, he pulled them over his hips, zipped and fastened them and pulled on a button-down shirt, all while making his way down the stairs to the front door where someone was now pounding away on the other side. Grasping the knob, he threw open the door.
Lucy stood with her arm raised, poised to resume her knocking. The light spilled around her, playing up the copper highlights in her hair.
“Hello, Lucy,” Nick murmured.
“Nick.”
He couldn’t account for the pleasure her visit inspired. It was as if he’d been waiting all day for this moment.
Lucy said, “I need to talk to you again.”
“I can see that.” He worked on fastening his buttons, needing to finish at least that much before he let her inside.
“I have a telephone, you know,” Nick said, hoping for a halfhearted apology at the very least. But he was doomed to be disappointed.
“I hate talking on the phone.”
He looked at her questioningly. “Doesn’t that prove difficult as a reporter?”
Irritation flashed deep in Lucy’s eyes and she proudly tilted her chin. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
Nick briefly debated the merits of telling her to go away, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. If there was one thing he’d learned about Lucy, it was that she was tenacious. It was a quality that made her a top-notch reporter. Unfortunately, it didn’t go well with the weary throbbing of his head.
“Fine. Come in.”
Nick turned and strode into the kitchen. He had no doubt that she’d follow him.
The bang of the front door being slammed made his lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile, but he immediately wiped the humor from his expression.
“How long have you been skulking in my bushes?” He continued his lighthearted baiting as he flipped on the kitchen light.
“I have not been skulking in your bushes.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Frankly, I’ve got better things to do than spy on you. I just arrived.”
“Uh-huh.”
He opened the refrigerator, then scowled. Other than an inch of milk left in the jug, a whole shelf of condiments and a single slice of bologna, he was out of food.
“Listen, Nick, I’d like to have you—”
“Are you hungry?” he interrupted.
Lucy gaped at him, clearly nonplussed at his inability to sense her urgency. “I haven’t come to you to talk about—”
“Are you hungry?” he cut in again. “It’s a simple question.” Closing the refrigerator door, Nick allowed his gaze to slide down her frame, then back up again. “Because, frankly, you look like a bag of bones.”
Her face froze in response. “Don’t be rude,” she said when she recovered from the initial shock of his words.
“I wasn’t being rude. As I said the other day, you look like hell.”
