holding,’ Laura went on. ‘It’s supposed to be fine through Monday.’
‘Supposed to,’ Maggie echoed dryly.
‘Well, yes.’ Laura gave a little sigh.
Maggie ushered her out into the waiting room. It was empty. Her office manager, Marilyn, had already left for the day, and so had Janet, who handled billing and insurance. She closed the front door after Laura, blew a breath through her lips and lifted the thick hair from the back of her neck with both hands, enjoying the sensation of air on the tender skin there.
Last patient of the day. And, as was the case more often than not, she’d been running a half-hour behind for most of the afternoon. It happened when she was the only doctor in a practice that really needed two. She often had to squeeze in extra patients who really needed to be seen. It was well after six already.
Not a problem, normally, with the quiet, ordered life she’d led here for the past two years. Tonight, though, she was having dinner with Will Braggett, of all people, in less than an hour. He had called out of the blue last week, his voice rough, musical, careless, confident and astonishingly unexpected.
‘I’ll be in the area. Any chance that you’re free to meet?’
She’d said, yes, fine, no problem. Had imagined a quick coffee, for old times’ sake.
No, for Alison’s sake. Will’s divorce from Maggie’s old college room-mate and close friend had apparently been an amicable one.
Although why bother even with coffee when Maggie and Will had strenuously detested each other for years? she wondered.
And then he had suggested a Friday night dinner, in that typical far-too-confident way of his. Would she meet him at the Caprice restaurant at the Craigiemoor Hotel at seven? He’d already made a reservation.
Of course he had!
Caprice was easily the most expensive and exclusive dining establishment within a radius of a hundred miles or more, just as the Craigiemoor was the most expensive and exclusive resort hotel. The place occupied its own island in Lake George, linked to the mainland by a picturesque bridge. Maggie had only eaten there once before, nearly three years ago. With Mark, celebrating their second wedding anniversary. Just two months later, Mark’s aggressive form of prostate cancer had been diagnosed.
‘Is that why I’m sorry I said yes to this? Because it’ll remind me too painfully of Mark?’ she murmured to her reflection ten minutes later, after she’d changed her clothing and brushed her hair to a dark sheen.
Didn’t let herself answer the question.
Ten minutes, she decided, really wasn’t long enough. And neither was this dress. The stiff cream line of its hem flirted sexily with her knees, when it would have been far more compatible in a staid relationship with her lower calves. Also—tonight, suddenly—cream was not her colour. It wasn’t assertive enough.
Dissatisfied, she wrenched the back zipper open again. Halfway down, right at the tightest spot, it got caught in the fabric. It took her five minutes and a strained muscle in her neck to get it free, and in a bad mood she then dived into the safest, simplest outfit she owned, with her jaw already aching and tense.
It was a pair of black linen trousers and a matching sleeveless top, with a round, open neckline and a closely fitted shape. Not dowdy, but not a show-stopper either. The outfit was, however, far more her than cream silk and lengths of nylon-covered leg.
Maggie had always been quite aggressively herself in the company of William James Braggett. Intelligent, uncompromising, argumentative, sure of her ground.
On the surface, at least.
In return, he’d barely spared her the time of day. Well, no, that was an exaggeration. Certainly, though, he’d never appeared to take her seriously in any way. Apart from one solitary occasion…
Late. She was definitely going to be late.
Her pager vibrated as she was adding some defensive length and blackness to her lashes and, nervous, her hand slipped and streaked an ugly blob of mascara onto one eyelid.
‘Ugh!’ A rough flourish with a moistened cotton ball only made it worse, and her eye stung. She’d have to start again, after dealing with the pager.
Her medical answering service reported a call from the mother of one of her patients, and she returned it straight away. The ten-month-old had a fever. It was fairly high, at a hundred and two Fahrenheit, but some questions calmed both her own concerns and those of the mother. It was probably the start of a simple cold. The baby’s older brother and sister both had one.
Maggie put down the phone, swabbed the mascara off her eyelid with make-up remover and completed a sketchy version of her make-up, resisting the temptation to try for glamour. She wasn’t glamorous. Never had been. Her mind was her strength, not her body. Why pretend to Will Braggett, of all people?
That phrase kept cropping up in her thoughts, annoying and disturbing her. Did she really still have him under her skin, after so long, like some irritant chemical?
Apparently she did, because when she finally turned into a parking place outside the stately and exclusive hotel, she was aware of an emotion that could only be described as glee as she noted that the time on the dashboard clock now read seven twenty-two. Yes, that definitely counted as late.
Unpunctuality was a power play she normally scorned to indulge in, but just this once, since it was Will—of all people—and, anyway, it hadn’t been deliberate…
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said to her, nine minutes after this.
Maggie threw back her head and laughed. ‘In the space of five seconds, Will Braggett,’ she jeered lightly, ‘you have just taken me back in time about eight years!’
Still laughing, she took in his dark, impossible and totally masculine good looks, which had only improved with the seasoning effect of the years. Thick, short-cropped hair showed off the neat shape of his head. Brown eyes and long lashes created a liquid impression of tenderness and warmth. His mouth was made for kissing, or murmuring in a woman’s ear.
There were laugh lines around it now, too, showing the teasing humour she’d always refused to respond to. His build, in contrast, gave him a very definite aura of power. Finally, she registered that his charcoal suit fitted him like armour, his smile dripped with charm and he was thrusting a very pretty bunch of white daisies in her direction.
She remained unimpressed. Tilted her head to one side and looked at him from beneath her lashes. ‘Is that part of the apology?’
He frowned, and looked—but this was impossible—taken aback. ‘No, I bought them earlier.’ His voice dropped a little. ‘Maggie, I really am sorry about being late. I’ll explain while we eat.’
Maggie took the flowers, feeling the heat rise in her face. How had she managed to let him wrong-foot her so soon?
‘They’re lovely,’ she said. She hid her repentance by looking down at the simple blooms.
‘I thought they’d suit your place better than hothouse roses.’
She angled her head once more, and met those dark eyes. ‘How do you know…?’
‘I
