nursed Patrick through his final illness, when he’d been at his most vulnerable. Had she used that time to sway him? To garner a financial reward? Perhaps exerted subtle—or not so subtle—influence over a susceptible, sick man?
He released the chair, dug his uninjured hand into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “It’s a pretty big gift to be a surprise.”
“Patrick had said on more than one occasion that he was grateful I’d arranged for him to be cared for on the Cora Mae. The ship was his home and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay here. Which was why he tried to hide his symptoms as long as he could.” Her eyes closed tight for a long moment, and when she opened them again, she focused on the ceiling. “He also said he’d leave me ‘a little something’ in his will.”
Luke let his silence ask the questions.
She folded her arms under her breasts. “I told him it was unnecessary, that I was just doing my job.”
“But you did more than your job, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “You were with him almost constantly.”
“Yes.” Her eyes flashed but her voice was even and calm. “I loved Patrick and I would have done anything for him. I know what you’re implying but I didn’t care for him for any reward. He was part of my onboard family as well as a mentor and a friend.”
Luke paced across to the porthole, giving himself a few moments to regroup. Patrick was her family and her friend?
Why hadn’t his uncle asked for him? He’d have dropped everything in an instant if he’d known Patrick was so seriously ill. He’d have wanted to be at the old man’s side, wouldn’t have cared that he was frail or tired or any of the other things that the illness had caused. He just wished he’d been there, to talk to him, to hold his hand, to watch over him. A hot ball of emotion lodged in his throat.
Was this part of his problem with Della? She had been here, she had talked to Patrick, helped him, perhaps comforted him in his hours of need. Her competence had provided succor, and Luke wished he’d been a part of that care. It made his voice harsher than he’d intended.
“He was a friend with the capacity to make you a rich woman.”
“Challenge the bloody will, then.” She looked glorious in her anger, her dark eyes shining bright and color high on her cheeks. “Drag it through the courts. Make it look like Patrick wasn’t of sound mind. Knock yourself out.”
Her angry words brought him up short. It would go against the grain to tarnish Patrick’s memory by publically claiming his uncle was incompetent. But he might not have a choice. This was his heritage—how could he just let that go?
The silence was thick and heavy, and when a knock came at the door, it startled him back to the surroundings.
Della turned and wrenched open the door. A crew member stood on the other side. “The executor would like Mr. Marlow back in the room. He’s outlining personal effects, so I expect you’ll be mentioned again.”
Luke nodded then turned to Della. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“I look forward to continuing it,” she said, and stalked from the room.
He watched her leave—the movement of her hips under the soft fabric of her trousers, the bounce of her dark curls at her shoulders—and shook his head. Wasn’t this going to make it hell for negotiating? The last thing he needed was this simmering desire, this spark with his uncle’s doctor—and the part-owner of Luke’s ship. He’d already paid the price of handling her with uncontrolled emotion. A stinging slap and the knowledge that his fierce self-discipline was not as unassailable as he’d believed.
Next time they met, his control over his temper and his body would once again be ironclad.
* * *
Della sat in the back row for the remainder of the will reading, listening to various possessions being allocated to family as well as crew members who had been treasured friends. Although she tried to prevent it, her gaze kept straying to Luke Marlow, his accusations replaying in her mind. The first—that she’d been more than a doctor to Patrick—still sat in the air like a blight on Patrick’s memory. And the second—that she’d somehow influenced Patrick to leave her half the ship when he was in a vulnerable state—was abhorrent. But admittedly, Luke didn’t know her well enough to know she could never stoop to doing something like that. Which didn’t stop the insult from eating at her gut like acid.
There was an aura of restrained tension in and around Luke’s body as he sat facing the front. Others may not notice, but she’d been watching him before the executor had announced that Patrick had left them half the ship each and there was a definite difference in the set of his shoulders now. She could imagine he was probably grinding his teeth, as well. Life had probably come so easily to him—born into a wealthy family, having the advantages of looks, charm and intelligence—that being disappointed like this was likely a new experience. Luke and disappointment probably hadn’t even been on speaking terms until now.
But that wasn’t her problem. And if he wanted to challenge the will in court, so be it. Patrick had been lucid until the last couple of days and there was a large group of people on board who’d be able to testify to that. She might not have been expecting to be left a gift this size, but neither was she about to throw it away simply because a rich man was used to getting his own way. She needed time to think about it all, to let it settle in her mind.
As the executor wound up and said he’d be in touch again with all the beneficiaries, Della sneaked out the door. She wasn’t in the frame of mind to deal with the questions and comments from the crew, or for Luke to pick up their unfinished conversation.
Temples pounding, she hurried down the corridors until she reached her cabin. After a cup of coffee and half an hour to catch her breath, she rang her parents to see if they’d known of Patrick’s intentions. Despite her father becoming close friends with Patrick while he was captain of the Cora Mae, they were as surprised as she, but they were thrilled.
She skipped lunch, her stomach in too many knots for food, and sat staring out her porthole, playing the morning’s events over in her mind. By dinnertime, she hadn’t come to any conclusions, but knew one thing. She had to face the ship. There was no doubt that this would be the hot topic of gossip and the thought made her cringe, but she refused to hide out. The captain was expecting her at his table tonight. She dressed for dinner in her favorite teal satin dress, which always made her feel good—but it would have a tough job tonight.
One final deep breath before she opened the door, ready to face the questions that were surely coming. Face the stares. Face the man.
* * *
Luke sat at the captain’s table, engaging in small talk with the captain to his left, but most of his attention was on scanning the crowd for Della Walsh. He’d spent the afternoon trying to track her down. First stop had been the medical suite but she hadn’t been on duty and the staff had been protective, refusing to give out her details. In fact, wherever he’d tried, he’d come up against a brick wall—the crew of the Cora Mae were like a shield around their doctor. But the captain had told him Della was expected at dinner tonight and she’d never missed dinner at his table when she was expected. So Luke had arrived early and bided his time. He would talk to Dr. Walsh about Patrick’s will tonight.
His gaze flitted from person to person, taking in the suited men, the women in richly colored evening gowns, the sparkling jewelry. Then he
