distance from the doorway, she could make out Matthew’s tall form, and beside him a man in a wheelchair who she assumed was Grant. His back was turned to her. Not a good sign, she thought.
As she walked toward them, Rebecca’s first instinct was to pull open the long curtains that covered one wall. From the layout of the adjoining room, she guessed the drapery covered glass doors that led to the long deck and framed an ocean view. Some sunlight and fresh air would do a world of good in here, she thought.
But she didn’t touch the curtains. Instead, she continued to approach the two men. Matthew’s voice cut through the tense silence.
“Ms. Calloway, I’d like you to meet my brother Grant.” His tone was so smooth and sociable, Rebecca thought she might have stumbled into a garden party instead of this dark, stuffy lair.
“I would like to meet him,” Rebecca replied, standing just a few feet from them. “If he’d be so kind as to turn around.”
Matthew looked at Grant, a tense expression on his face. But he didn’t say anything. They waited what seemed a long time, though it was perhaps only a moment or two.
Then finally Grant Berringer spun his wheelchair around and Rebecca had her first look at him. His hair was dark and thick. Appealingly so, she thought. She couldn’t tell if he was growing a beard or had just neglected to shave for a day or two. His cheeks had a scruffy appearance that could not detract from his strong good looks. With his hair combed straight back from his forehead and his broad, high cheekbones and angular jaw, his face had a distinctly regal, lionlike appearance.
He was extremely attractive, she thought, though not in a smooth, typical way, the way his brother, Matthew, was handsome.
She’d learned the basic facts of his physical appearance from his medical records—six feet in height, one hundred and seventy-five pounds. At thirty-eight years old, he was almost ten years her senior. Yet the basic facts had not prepared her for some undefinable quality he possessed—his sheer intensity, which was as much a characteristic of the man as the dark eyes that took her in from head to toe.
“You’ll forgive me for not getting up.” He greeted her in a gruff, sarcastic voice.
His eyes, framed by thick brows, looked large and luminous in the dimly lit room. The rugged lines of his face held a serious, almost angry expression.
“No apology necessary,” Rebecca replied lightly. “Of course, considering your condition, Mr. Berringer, you could be out of that chair by now, you know.”
“You think so, do you?” he challenged her. He gave a bitter laugh, then turned to his brother. “Did you find yet another Mary Poppins for the job, Matthew?” His voice sounded weary and vaguely amused. “One would think the supply would be exhausted by now.”
“One would think your brother would be exhausted by now, trying to help you, Mr. Berringer,” Rebecca replied quietly.
She saw Matthew Berringer’s eyebrows pop up at her tart response. But he said nothing. Grant finally lifted his head and stared into her eyes. He seemed impressed. Almost animated. She gave herself two points for that achievement, anyway.
“Well, well…this one’s got some spunk, I’ll give her that much,” he said to Matthew. Rebecca thought she’d noticed a spark of appreciation in his eyes as he gazed at her, then thought she must have been mistaken. His gaze remained flat and dispassionate. “I’ve always preferred a tart, cool taste myself, as opposed to something sticky and overly sweet.”
“None of my patients ever accused me of being too sweet,” Rebecca replied. “More like the opposite.”
“I’m not your patient yet, Ms. Calloway,” he reminded her harshly. “Not by a long shot.”
Rebecca was taken aback, but only for a moment. The wounded lion, cornered in his den, she thought. All he could do was give a loud roar and hope to scare the intruder away.
There was a small chair near his wheelchair, and she walked over and sat in it. She knew that being on the same eye level as the patient—not staring down at them—should help ease a tense moment like this one.
“You’re right. My mistake,” she said simply.
He stared directly at her, and she had her first good look at him, up close and personal. Intimidating was the word that first came to mind. But as she gazed unflinchingly into his dark eyes, she saw his vulnerability, as well, and the wellspring of pain and fear that had driven him to this dark place.
A thin white scar extended from the corner of his eye to his jawline, marring one cheek. Rebecca had read in the medical report that Grant could have easily had the scar erased with plastic surgery, but for some reason preferred not to. Did he keep it to help him mourn his loss? Or as a penance he felt bound to pay?
Her heart was touched by him, moved by him. Not by pity or compassion, exactly, but by some inexplicable urge to restore him, physically and spiritually, to siphon into him some of her abundant strength and will.
She had never felt quite this reaction to a prospective patient before, Rebecca thought with a mental jolt. Why this one?
Then suddenly, Grant’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“I like a person who can admit when they’re wrong,” he said in a low, deep voice.
“I do a lot of that,” she admitted. “Maybe you’ll end up liking me, after all.”
He suddenly laughed, and the deep, warm sound skimmed along her nerve endings, lighting a path in its wake—a reaction that alarmed Rebecca and one she forced herself to ignore. Still, she couldn’t ignore the sudden change in Grant Berringer’s appearance. His smile was like a sudden burst of light exploding in the shadowy room. His face was transformed, softened, making his dark good looks even more appealing, Rebecca thought, as her gaze lingered on the small, attractive lines fanning from the corners of his eyes and deep dimples beside a full, sensual mouth.
Rebecca quickly pulled her gaze away. What was going on here? Was she attracted to him?
No, it couldn’t be. Mustn’t be. She’d been warned about this but it had never happened to her. She tried to find some rational reason it would happen now. It was his sad story, she told herself. Matthew had drawn Grant as a tragic—even romantic—figure. The story had gotten to her. It had to be. She couldn’t compromise her professional standards by taking on a case when she had a romantic interest in the patient.
As if reading her mind, Grant said, “You know, Ms. Calloway, there are women, like yourself, who have come here hoping to bag a rich husband. If that’s your intention, I may as well warn you now, you’d be wasting your time.”
Rebecca knew his insult was merely a tactic, a ploy to drive her away, but it stung nonetheless to hear her ethics—and those of her colleagues—disparaged.
“Grant, please,” Matthew urged his brother. “Why do you have to do this?”
Matthew had been quiet until now. He seemed to think Rebecca and his brother should sort things out, and she was grateful for that. She could hear his frustration and embarrassment for Grant’s rudeness.
“No, it’s okay,” she assured Matthew. She turned to Grant again. “Mr. Berringer, I can promise you, the last thing in
