feel of the leather seat of the limousine. She must have been carried and put inside. The sounds of the voices around her steadied and the cause of this fainting spell gelled in her mind. She’d been freaking out and gasping for air until she passed out on the boat. Her eyes snapped open. She was inside a limousine with Malcolm and his entire entourage of alumni pals.
He leaned over her, stroking back her hair. His buddy Dr. Rowan Boothe had her wrist in his hand, taking her pulse. The rest of their friends loomed behind them, her world narrowing to this stretch limo with tinted windows and a lot of curious, concerned faces.
How incredibly embarrassing.
She pushed up onto her elbow, sitting. “What time is it? How long have I been—”
“Whoa, whoa, hold on …” Malcolm touched her shoulders and glanced at Rowan. “Doc?”
“Her pulse is normal.” Rowan set her hand aside and tucked himself back onto a seat. “I don’t see any reason to go to the E.R. I can check her over more thoroughly once we’re on the plane to Germany.”
Malcolm moved closer again, looking unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened back there?”
“I’m fine.” She sat up straighter, blinking fast as she tried to regain equilibrium. “Probably just low blood sugar from skipping breakfast.”
The lie tasted bad on her tongue. But admitting the truth? Explaining her lingering battle with panic attacks? She wasn’t ready to share that.
Malcolm seemed to accept her explanation, though. His shoulders relaxed a little as he opened the mini-fridge. He passed her a bottle of orange juice and a protein bar. “No offense, beautiful, but you don’t look okay.”
She twisted off the cap and sipped, just to appease him and make her story more believable. What she really needed were some breathing exercises or her emergency meds. Or a way to distance herself from all the feelings Malcolm was stirring up.
She looked out the window as they drove along the shore of the Seine River.
He eyed her for five long heartbeats. “We used to understand each other well, from the second on the playground when you threw sand at that kid for making fun of my asthma attack. Now, though, I want the chance to fight back for you.”
Without another word, he gave her the space she’d requested and took a seat at the far end of the stretch limo. Quite a long way. Especially with all of his friends, plus Hillary and Jayne, sitting between them and trying to pretend there wasn’t a thick, awkward silence all the way to the airport.
Once the Learjet was airborne to fly them to Berlin, Malcolm continued to honor her request for space, which was actually the best way to get closer to her again. Did he remember that from their past? She fished in her floral bag for her eReader to pass the time and calm her nerves, still jangled from the incident on the boat. She had to steady herself before she ran the gauntlet for the next concert. She pulled the reader case out, her fingers fumbling with the zipper.
Dr. Boothe knelt in front of her, taking the case from her hand and opening it before setting the eReader beside her. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”
She glanced around the plane. Everyone else seemed occupied with the business station or talking in the next cabin. Hillary, an event planner, was in deep conversation with Jayne about a fundraiser in the works for Dr. Boothe’s clinic—where apparently Jayne worked, as well. Even the steward was busy readying lunch in the galley.
Turning back to the fair-haired doctor, she said carefully, “I already told Malcolm. I forgot to eat breakfast, but I’m feeling better now,” but he still didn’t move away. “I’m just going to read until lunch. Thank you.”
He picked up her wrist. “Your pulse is still racing and you’re struggling for breath.”
“You said back at the limo that my pulse rate was fine.” She tugged her hand away.
“It wasn’t Malcolm’s business unless you chose to tell him.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her eReader pointedly. “I’ll let you know if I have a heart attack. I promise.”
He shifted to sit beside her. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on here, medically speaking.”
Of course it wasn’t, but she didn’t particularly want to trot out the details of how she’d screwed up and left her medicine at home. She didn’t need it all the time, and it had been so long since she’d reached for an antianxiety pill, she’d hoped …
Dr. Boothe stretched out his legs, as if in the middle of some casual conversation. “We can make this a patient/doctor thing, and then I can’t say a word to anyone else. The whole confidentiality issue.”
She shot a quick look at him, and he seemed … non-judgmental.
Weighing her options, she decided it was better to trust him and hope he could help her rather than risk another embarrassing incident. “I’m fighting down a panic attack. I left home so quickly I didn’t have a chance to get my, uh, medicine. I don’t have to take anything regularly anymore, but I do have a prescription for antianxiety medication. The bottle just happens to be sitting in my bathroom cabinet.”
A big oversight given that she had a stalker on her tail. But oddly, the thought of being in danger like that wasn’t half as scary as the resurrection of her old feelings for Malcolm. The memories of what they’d given up. She hadn’t realized how deeply this time with him might affect her.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Rowan nodded slowly. “That’s problematic. But not insurmountable. Your doctor can call in the prescription.”
She had already thought of that. “Malcolm is so worried about the stalker back home that I can’t make a move without him noticing. It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything. I’m just not ready to tell him yet.”
“Understood,” he said simply, the window behind him revealing a small and distant Paris below. “If you’ll give your doctor permission to speak with me, I can take care of a prescription.”
“Thank you.” The tightness in her chest began to ease at the notion of help on the horizon.
“If you don’t mind my asking, when did these attacks begin?”
She recognized his question for what it was, an attempt to help talk her down. “After I broke up with Malcolm. I’ve had some trouble with depression and anxiety. It’s not a constant, but under times of extreme stress …”
She blew out a slow breath, searching for level ground and some control over her racing pulse.
“This sure qualifies as a time of stress, with the threats back home and all the insanity of Malcolm’s life.”
As the engine hummed through the sky, she thought about the patients he saw on a regular basis in Africa, of their problems, and felt so darn small right now. “You treat people with such huge problems. I probably seem whiny to you, the poor little rich girl who can’t handle her emotions.”
“Hold on.” He raised a hand. “This isn’t a competition. And as I’m sure your own doctor has told you, depression
