The MacGregor Brides Page 11

  "Well enough." He grinned when Julia came back in with a tray holding a coffeepot, cups and a dish piled with his pastries. He signaled her by a wiggle of brows, then moved silver ribbon onto the red. "That looks great." Julia tucked her tongue in her cheek as her cousin meticulously realigned ribbon. "You're telling me. I hope you don't mind, but I've already culled out my share to take upstairs. I've got a few calls to make. Drop by anytime, Bran. Bring chocolate." She gave him a thumbs-up sign behind Gwen's back and sailed out.

  "So can I give you a hand with your wrapping?"

  "No, I have a system."

  "No kidding." He poured the coffee himself and put a glossy cruller on a plate. "Have some sugar."

  "I will. Just a second." Her focus was on exact alignment as she folded down the corners of the paper.

  "How was your Thanksgiving?"

  "Noisy, confusing, greedy. Wonderful. Yours?"

  "Pretty much the same." He watched her thumb slide over the paper, form an edge as straight and sharp as a razor. And found her intense concentration to detail utterly adorable. "I'm sorry about this, Gwendolyn, but it just has to be done." He put a hand on the back of her head, angled it, and brought his mouth to hers. She didn't jerk, barely stiffened, but he felt her surprise. Deciding to use that to his advantage, he brought his other hand to the edge of her cheek and slid it around her ear into the soft, short gold of her hair.

  She tasted fresh, he thought, like the first warm breeze in early spring. He'd wondered, spent three weeks wondering, and he had to ask himself why he'd waited so long, when she was just so… perfect.

  He coaxed her lips apart, slipped inside. The sound that hummed in his throat was pure approval. This had to stop, she told herself. Immediately. Oh, God, she felt dizzy, hot, helpless. Her blood pressure must be… Her pulse had to…

  Then his teeth scraped gently over her bottom lip and she didn't think at all. "Sweet" he murmured, losing himself. "Sweet, gorgeous Gwendolyn." His hand slipped down so that his fingers could stroke over the back of her neck, make her shiver. "What have we got here?"

  "Wait." She put a hand to his chest, surprised that his heart beat as fast as hers, when he'd seemed so much in control. "Just wait."

  "I don't want to." Branson deepened the kiss before either of them could prepare for it. He wanted to pull her down into his lap, move his lips from hers to her throat, from throat to shoulder, and keep working his way down until he got to her toes.

  "I said wait." She broke free, fought for breath, for composure, for rationality. "We have an arrangement."

  "Are you involved with someone else?"

  "No, that's not the point."

  He only lifted his brows. "Do you have a problem with mystery writers of Irish extraction?" She raked a hand up through her hair, causing it to spike like a sunflower. "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Do you consider kissing an unhealthy habit?"

  Suspicious, she slanted a look over at him. "You're making fun of me."

  "Maybe of both of us. And since I'll take that for a no, I'll confess I think kissing you could become a habit." He lifted a fingertip to trace her mouth while his cool gray eyes skimmed over her face. "I'm developing a thing for you."

  "A thing?"

  "I haven't figured out the definition yet. But I'm working on it. Or maybe I should call it a condition. You'd relate to that." His fingers trailed down to trace her jaw. "Maybe you'd help me explore it, study it."

  His eyes met hers, curiosity gleamed in them. "You're nervous," he realized with a jolt of surprise and pleasure. "I would have sworn you didn't have a nerve in your body, with the things I've watched you do these past weeks. You never flinch, you never hesitate, you never sag. But you're nervous right now, because I'm touching you. And that, Gwendolyn, is incredibly arousing."

  "That's enough." Abruptly she pushed back her chair, sprang to her feet. "Just stop it. I'm not nervous. I just don't want to pursue this."

  "Now you're lying." He chuckled when her eyes went dark with temper. "That's ticked you off, and I can't blame you. But the fact is, when a woman melts in my arms the way you did, a claim of indifference just doesn't ring true."

  "I didn't claim indifference," Gwen said coldly, and made him laugh.

  "No, you're right, you didn't. My mistake." He took her hand, ignoring her tugs for freedom. The mouth that had so recently seduced her smiled arrogantly. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kiss you again until… well, until."

  "Branson, I'm busy."

  "Gwendolyn, I'm persistent. And I want you. It can't be the first time you've heard that." It was the first time she'd heard it delivered with a cocky grin and an overabundance of confidence. She hated the fact that the combination excited her. "If you want me to continue helping you, you're going to have to understand and acknowledge the conditions and restrictions."

  "No, I don't. I don't like conditions and restrictions."

  "You arrogant, insufferable—"

  "Guilty. You're afraid I'm going to seduce you," he declared. "Because we both know now that I can. We'll just hold off on that a bit." If her voice had been frosty before, it now dipped to subzero. "If you think I'm a pushover, an easy mark, you couldn't be more mistaken."

  "I don't think anything of the kind. I think you're incredibly strong, even valiant. I'm amazed by you every day. You're selling yourself short if you think the only reason I want you is because you have beautiful eyes and a wonderful body."

  "I—" She lifted her hands, let them fall. "You've succeeded in confusing me."

  "That's a start. Why don't I let you think it over for a while, since that's what you're going to do anyway? I'll see you at the hospital later." She let herself relax again, nodded. "Yes, all right."

  He caught her face in his hands, pressed a firm, brief kiss to her mouth. "I guess that will have to hold me until then," he told her, and strolled out.

  Chapter 14

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  She was back on the day shift the first week in December. Over the years, Gwen had learned to adjust her body clock as her schedule demanded. When it was time to sleep, she slept, and slept deeply. When it was time to wake, she woke, and woke quickly. Since she decided to follow her grandmother into medicine, into surgery, she'd allowed nothing to distract her. Family and work were the focus of her life. Everything else was incidental.

  Including men.

  Including, she told herself firmly, Branson Maguire.

  He'd been conspicuously absent for three days. She'd decided that he'd gathered enough information and atmosphere that her help was no longer necessary. And she'd concluded that her lack of encouragement for a personal involvement had finally penetrated his undoubtedly hard head.

  She was determined not to be disappointed by that fact.

  Carefully she continued suturing a three-inch gash on the calf of a patient who had had a nasty meeting with a tree.

  "I was really moving down the hill," he told her, looking anywhere but at the sterile field and the needle. "Just thought I'd take the sled for a test run before my kids hogged it." He winced at the tug on his flesh. "Guess I'm a little old for sledding."

  "You've just got to watch out for those trees jumping in the way."

  When the door opened and Branson walked in, her stomach shimmied. She completed the next suture without a tremor. "You're not allowed in here," she said mildly.

  "I won't get in your way." He walked over to look down at the wound. "Ouch," he said with a sympathetic smile.

  "You're telling me. Bled like a son of a bitch."

  "Hold still, Mr. Renekee. We're nearly done here."

  "Sorry. Say, you look familiar," he said to Branson, seizing on the distraction.

  "People are always saying that to me." He pulled up a metal folding chair and sat companionably. "So, how'd you end up having the prettiest surgeon in Boston sew you up?"

  "Ah…" Renekee glanced at Gwen, noted she remained focused on him. "It was me, a Flexible Flyer and a tree. The tre
e won."

  "It's a great day for sledding. And if you had to lose to a tree, you couldn't do better than Dr. Blade. Tell me, since you've gotten to know her a little bit, what do you think I have to do to get her to have dinner with me tonight?"

  "Well, I…"

  "Branson, go away." She didn't blush, but embarrassment was a hot little ball in her stomach.

  "Just a nice, quiet dinner," he continued. "She forgets to eat, so I'm just thinking about her health."

  "That could work," Renekee decided, enjoying himself. "You know, a doctor, proper nutrition, that sort of thing."

  "Exactly. Wine—in moderation, of course. Candlelight—restful on the eyes. A relaxing meal after a long day. It's all a matter of taking care of yourself."

  "Don't make me call security, Branson. Mr. Renekee, I'm going to dress this now. You'll want to keep it dry. I'll give you a list of instructions, and you need to come back in a week to ten days to have the sutures removed."

  "She's got great hands, doesn't she?" Branson commented. "I tell you, if I needed stitches, I wouldn't have anyone else touch me. You know, I was thinking of this French place—they do some really impressive flaming desserts. Do you think Dr. Blade would go for that?"

  "My wife sure would."

  "And I'm sure she's a very discerning woman. How about it, Doc?"

  "You're done here, Mr. Renekee." Gwen shoved back in her chair, wheeling it over to a table and selecting a printout of instructions for caring for sutures. "I'd stay off Flexible Flyers for a while."

  "Yeah, thanks." He took the sheet, smiled at her.

  "You ought to give him a break," he told her, and walked out.

  "I am not having you distract me or my patients while I'm working." Incensed and working her way toward being outraged, Gwen stripped off gloves and gown. "You are not to enter treatment or examining rooms unless you require treatment or examination. And you will most certainly not hit on me while I'm on duty."

  He couldn't have stopped the grin if he wanted to. Her voice was all New England frost "Is it any wonder I can't get you out of my head?" She made a strangled sound and tossed her gloves away. "Do you require treatment or examination?"

  "Darling, if you want to play doctor—" He stopped himself this time. After all, there were a lot of sharp implements close at hand.

  "Okay, bad joke. I've been working around the clock for the past couple of days. When I came up for air, you were the first thing that came to mind. I figure there's a reason for that, and I'd like to take you to dinner."

  "I have plans."

  "Flexible or inflexible?"

  "An inflexible hospital fund-raiser."

  "I'll go with you."

  "I have an escort."

  "An escort." He didn't know whether to chuckle over the term or snarl over the idea of her going out with another man. "Sounds tedious."

  "Greg is a friend, an associate, and a very charming man." Who she could admit privately defined the term tedium. "Now, if you'll excuse me I have work."

  "How about breakfast?"

  She had to close her eyes. "Branson."

  "Do you really think I'm going to give up because some guy named Greg is escorting you to a hospital fund-raiser?" She tried a new tack, giving him a slow, challenging smile. "Perhaps I intend to have breakfast with Greg." There was a little flare of something directly under his heart, quickly banked. "Now you're trying to make me mad. Okay, forget breakfast. When's your break?"

  "Why?"

  "We can run over to my hotel, have a quick bout of hot sex, and I can get it out of my system. You're driving me crazy." She surprised them both by laughing. "Take two Prozac, call me in the morning, and go away." She started for the door.

  "Did you mean the call-you-in-the-morning part?"

  She shot a glance over her shoulder, and let the door swing in his face.

  All right, Gwendolyn, Branson thought as he rocked back on his heels. He was just going to have to start playing dirty, pull out the big guns. And he knew just where to find the big guns.

  A light, wet snow was falling in Hyannis Port. It coated the grand old trees that graced the sloping lawn of the castle the MacGregor had built

  Branson loved the house, with its gleaming stone, its elegant windows and its fanciful turrets. He'd often wondered how he could work it into a book. What murder or mayhem would bring the world-weary Scully to such a place? he mused. Or, as it was for his creator, would it be a woman that drew him here?

  A woman, Branson admitted, who was definitely under his skin, on his mind, and beginning to sneak into his heart. He'd always figured if he fell for a woman, it would come in an explosion of recognition, of certainty, of passion, lust and madness. But this was a nagging tug, a gentle pull that was drawing him slowly along from basic attraction and into unexplored territory. A mystery, he thought as he climbed the steps to the great front door, with the prideful crest of the MacGregors. He couldn't resist a mystery, needed to pick it apart, layer by layer, until he found the core.

  If he was indeed falling for Gwen, he needed to be sure, to compile the facts, as well as the emotions. And, damn it, he needed a little cooperation.

  It didn't surprise him that Anna answered herself, or that she looked lovely and trim. Her dark eyes warmed with pleasure, her fine hands reached out for him. "Branson, how wonderful. Daniel will be just delighted."

  "I was hoping he wasn't here, so that I could convince you to leave him and run off with me to Barcelona." She laughed and kissed his cheek.

  "Get your hands off my wife, you Irish dog." His grin fierce and deadly, Daniel MacGregor, wide of build and huge of voice, descended the grand stairs. "Barcelona, is it? You think I'm deaf, as well as blind? Coming around flirting with my wife right under my nose."

  "Caught. Well, you're a better man than I, MacGregor, to have caught and held such a woman all these years."

  "Ha!" Pleased, Daniel caught Branson in a bear hug, with an energy, Branson managed to think as the wind rushed out of him, that belied more than ninety years of living. "That silver tongue of yours saved you again. Come in and sit, we'll have us a drink."

  "Tea," Anna said firmly, angling her head at her husband.

  He rolled his bright blue eyes. "Anna, the boy's driven from Boston on a cold, snowy day. He'll want whiskey."

  "He'll get tea, and so will you. Go into the parlor, Branson. I'll be right along."

  "I tell you, a man can't get a whiskey in this house anymore until the sun sets, and then he's lucky if he gets more than two fingers, with that woman around." He had his arm around Branson's shoulders, propelling him into the parlor, with its roaring fire, gleaming antiques and art-filled walls.

  "Tea will do me," Branson told him. "I want both our heads clear for the matter I've come to discuss."

  "The day a glass of whiskey clouds my brain—or that of a good Irishman—is a dark day in the world." Daniel sat, stretched out his long legs, stroked his soft white beard. "A matter to discuss, you say?"

  It was the gleam in the twinkling blue eyes that clinched it. "You know, it took me a while to realize that Gwendolyn was right with her first instincts."

  "Gwen?" All innocence, Daniel folded his big hands. "Ah, that's right, she's been helping you a bit with your story. And how is that going?"

  "The help, or the story?"

  "Whichever. Both."

  "The story's going very well, and she's been a tremendous help so far."

  "Good, good. A bright girl, my Gwennie, diamond-bright. Takes after her grandmother—a woman you seem to have more than a decent affection for."

  "You old meddler," Branson murmured. " 'Go by the hospital, lad. Gwen's just the one you need.'" Daniel smiled broadly. He'd never thought Branson Maguire slow. If he had, Daniel would never have picked him for his granddaughter.

  "And wasn't she?"

  Branson sat back. "And what do you think she'd have to say to your scheme? Do you think she'd thank you for dumping me at her feet?"

  "I
'd say that depended on you."

  "What have you done, Daniel?" Anna wheeled the tea tray in herself, shooting her husband an exasperated look.

  "Nothing. I've done nothing at all."

  "He's matched me up with your granddaughter," Branson told her, rising to see to the tray himself. "Gwendolyn."

  "Daniel." Anna lifted her chin. "Didn't we discuss this type of thing? Didn't we agree that you would not interfere in the children's lives?"

  "It's not interfering to see that Gwen is introduced to a fine young man like Branson here. It's interest, it's…"

  "Meddling," Branson finished, and poured tea for Anna. "And I appreciate it."

  "It's not meddling to—" Daniel broke off, and his eyes went shrewd. "There, you see. He appreciates it. And why shouldn't he? A beautiful girl like our Gwen. Smart, tidy, loving, good bloodline."

  "You needn't list her virtues," Branson said dryly, and poured a cup for Daniel. "And I hope you'll resist listing whatever you consider mine to her and messing this up before I've got it started."

  "Got it started." Daniel thumped a fist on the arm of his chair. "You've had the best part of a month already. You're dragging your feet."

  "Daniel." Patience, Anna warned herself. Surely after a lifetime with the man she had accumulated a mountain range of patience. "Leave him alone."

  "If I leave him alone, it'll be the next century before he comes up to the mark."

  "That's why I'm here."

  "See." Daniel thumped his fist again, this time in triumph. Then he frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Your granddaughter isn't cooperating."

  "Cooperating." Daniel rolled his eyes. "Well, why aren't you charming her, romancing her? Do you need it written down, boy, what a man needs to do to court a woman?"

  Branson shifted in his chair. "Courting is, perhaps, the wrong term."

  "Oh, is it?" Those blue eyes became sharp, deadly. "And just what is the term you had in mind when it comes to my granddaughter?"

  "I don't have one, exactly." Branson held up a hand for peace. "I'm very attracted to her, I'm very interested in her." What the hell, he thought, he was among friends. "I'm halfway in love with her."

  "What's wrong with the other half?"

  This time Anna only laughed. "Oh, he is never satisfied."

  "Well, what the devil good is halfway about anything?"

  "It's far enough for me, until I see if she's even going to catch up. I've gone a long time without having my heart broken," Branson told Daniel. "And I'm hoping to keep it that way. My point is, you haven't gotten to where you are without being an expert at the art of a deal, without being able to read people, judge their strengths and weaknesses. And I know you love your family. So, you had to consider the pros and cons before you decided I'd suit Gwendolyn."

  "There's a smart lad, Anna. Is it any wonder I'm so fond of him?"

  "Don't get too excited," Branson warned. "I haven't decided if we'll suit yet. But," he added before Daniel could explode, "I want very much to explore the possibility. Since you've known Gwendolyn—"

  "He calls her Gwendolyn," Daniel said, misting up a little. "See how he calls her by her full name, Anna, the romance in it?"

  "Hush, Daniel," Anna murmured, because indeed she had.

  "You've known her all her life," Branson continued. "I've only had a few weeks. So how about a little insider information, some pointers?"

  "She respects honesty," Anna said, with a telling look from man to man.

  "I'm not planning on being dishonest." A dimple winked charmingly as Branson smiled. "I'm planning on taking advantage of a situation already in place."