The MacGregor Brides

  Gwen, with a strong spine, a serious nature and a romantic heart. And a brain? God love her, the child is bright as the sun. Still, she's like her grandmother and doesn't see that she needs a man beside her, children to bring her joy.

  So it's up to me to see that she has the right man, a man of substance. I've already picked him out for her. Good solid stock. He has a good mind, a fine heart. I'd settle for nothing less for Gwen—and be damned if I'd let her settle for any man who didn't measure up. This will take a bit of time, but I've time yet. A man who's lived as long as I knows all about choosing his moments. I can be patient. I'll take a few months to lay the groundwork. I'm a man who appreciates the importance of a good, strong foundation, when you intend to build something that will last.

  I'll wager my Gwen will be planning her own wedding by Christmastime. And I won't ask for any thanks there either. No, no thanks will be necessary. I look after my own.

  But I wouldn't have to if they'd look after themselves.

  Part Two - Gwendolyn

  Chapter 11

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  "On three. One, two, three." Gwen and the emergency room team lifted the two-hundred-pound man from gurney to table. Well trained, they moved in synch, almost a blur of motion as she called out orders.

  "Intubate him, Miss Clipper." Gwen knew the fourth-year medical student was eager and had good hands. But she watched those hands in training as they worked, while the head trauma nurse cut away the bloody, tattered jeans of the unconscious man. She watched, and assessed the patient, storing his vital signs in her mind, relaying orders to the others, while her own hands worked swiftly. "Motorcycles," she muttered. "Hello, death."

  "At least he was wearing a helmet." Audrey Clipper let out a short breath as the tube slid in. "Intubated."

  "He should have been wearing body armor. Let's get blood gases, toxicology. Smells like he'd been partying." Gwen adjusted her protective goggles and went to work on the leg.

  She had to work fast, but her hands and her mind were cold and steady. The gash on the left leg ran from ankle to knee, exposing bone. And the bone had snapped clean. It was her job to piece the patient back together and get him up to surgery. Quickly, efficiently. And alive.

  From the next room, a woman continued to scream and sob, calling out for Johnny over and over in a voice pitched to shatter eardrums.

  "This Johnny?" Gwen asked, flicking a glance through the glass that separated the two treatment rooms.

  "John Petreski, age twenty-two," one of the orderlies informed her.

  "Okay, we'll make sure he can dance at his next birthday. Lynn, call up to OR, tell them what we've got coming up. Fyne, take over here while I check on the screamer in room two."

  She swung out through the connecting doors, stripping off gown and gloves. "Status," she snapped out while she yanked on fresh protective gear.

  "Contusions, lacerations. We're waiting for pictures. Dislocated shoulder." The resident had to pitch his voice over the woman's hysterical screams.

  "What's her name?"

  "Tina Bell."

  "Tina." Gwen leaned over until her face dominated the hysterical woman's vision. "Tina, you have to calm down. You have to let us help you."

  "Johnny. Johnny's dead."

  "No, he's not." She didn't wince when the young woman grabbed her hand and squeezed, bone against bone. But she wanted to. "He's going up to surgery. We're taking care of him."

  "He's hurt, he's hurt real bad."

  "He's hurt, and we're going to take care of him. You have to help me out here, Tina. How much had he been drinking?"

  "Just a couple beers." Tears leaked out of Tina's eyes, to mix with street grime and sweat. "Johnny!"

  "Just a couple? We need to know so we can treat him properly."

  "Maybe six or seven, I don't know. Who was counting?"

  Gwen didn't bother to sigh. "Drugs? Come on, Tina."

  "We shared a couple of joints. Just a couple. Johnny!"

  Through the glass panel of the door, Branson Maguire watched what he thought of as a ballet. Motion, teamwork, costumes and lights. And the strongest light, he decided, was on the delicate blonde in the incredibly ugly pea green scrubs and clear plastic gown. He couldn't see her eyes. The wide protective goggles covered them, and half her face, as well. Still, he knew what she looked like, Dr. Gwendolyn Blade, heiress, prodigy, daughter of a part-Comanche gambler and another prodigy heiress. A MacGregor. He'd seen Gwen's picture in newspapers, in tabloids, on television, during her uncle's years of campaigning and the eight years he'd lived in the most important house in the country. He'd seen her photograph, crammed with other faces on the massive desk of her grandfather, Daniel MacGregor, builder of empires.

  Though Branson considered himself to be a keen observer, he hadn't expected her to be so… slight, he decided. She looked as though she should be wearing gossamer and granting wishes, not encased in a blood-smeared tent and fighting to save lives. She moved like a dancer, he mused. Her gestures filled with personal grace, effort and efficiency. Her hair, somewhere between red and gold under the bright lights, was gamine-short, with spiky bangs across the forehead. For style, he wondered, or practicality?

  It would be interesting to find out.

  He stood where he was, hands comfortably in the pockets of stone-gray chinos, and watched her, watched everything. It was one of his finest skills, this watching. And he didn't mind waiting for whatever happened next.

  Gwen noticed him—the face behind the glass. Dark blond hair that fell to the collar of a navy crewneck sweater. Cool gray eyes that rarely seemed to blink, an unsmiling mouth.

  He made a statement just by existing, but she didn't have time to wonder, or to give him more than a passing thought But when she had both her patients stabilized, through the door, and on their way to treatment, he was still there. She had to pull up short when he blocked her way.

  "Dr. Blade? Gwendolyn Blade."

  He smiled now, just a quick, crooked lift of lips. And she saw she'd been wrong. The eyes weren't cool, but smoky-warm, like his voice.

  "Yes, can I help you?"

  "That's the idea. I'm Branson Maguire."

  She took the hand he offered automatically, had hers squeezed and held. "Yes?"

  "Ouch." His grin was both charming and self-deprecating. "There goes my ego. I guess you don't have a lot of time to read." She was tired, and wanted five minutes to sit down and fuel up with coffee. And she wanted her hand back. "I'm sorry, Mr. Maguire, I don't—" Even as she tugged her hand free, she placed the name. "Oh, yes, Detective Matt Scully, Boston PD. I have read your books. You've created an interesting character."

  "Scully's doing a good job for me."

  "I'm sure he is. I don't have time to discuss popular fiction just now. So if you'll—"

  "They're lavender."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your eyes." His stayed steady and focused in what would have been a rude stare in another man. In him it merely appeared a natural state. "I'd wondered if it was just a trick of the light. But they're not blue, they're lavender." Prickles of irritation scraped at the back of her neck. "It says blue on my driver's license. Now, as I said, I'm a little pressed for time."

  "Isn't your shift over at two? It's nearly three."

  The temperature dropped as she drew back—an automatic defense for a woman who, due to family, had lived most of her life in the spotlight. "Why would you know my schedule?"

  Not just ice, he thought, impressed. Sharp, jagged ice. This pixie could grow fangs. "Ah, I take it you weren't expecting me?"

  "No, should I have been?" She glanced back as Tina was wheeled out.

  "Doctor. Doctor. I want to see Johnny. I have to see Johnny."

  "Excuse me." She turned her back on Branson and walked over.

  All he heard was the tone, the way that frosty voice immediately warmed and soothed. The young woman on the gurney subsided into muffled sobs and nodded.

  "Nice bedside manner,
Doc," Branson commented when she approached him again.

  "You were saying I should have been expecting you this morning?"

  "Your grandfather told me he'd set it up."

  "Set it up?" And because she was tired, she closed her eyes. "I need coffee," she muttered. "Come with me." With a swing of her lab coat, she turned and marched down the hallway. She bore left, shoved through a door and into the lounge. Branson looked everywhere, noting, filing in his mind the dull colors, the cheap chairs, the stingy lockers, the noisily humming refrigerator, the smell of stale coffee that didn't quite mask the underlying stench of hospital.

  "Cozy."

  "Do you want coffee?"

  "Sure. Black."

  She took a pot from the warmer, filled two insulated cups. And, because she knew just what the filth disguised as coffee tasted like, added a heap of sugar to her own.

  Branson sampled the cup she gave him and shuddered. "Good thing I'm in a hospital. You pump stomachs, right?"

  "It's one of my greatest joys. I need to sit down." She did so, crossed her legs and tried to wiggle her toes inside her flat, practical shoes. "Look, Mr. Maguire."

  "Bran."

  "Look," she repeated, "I'm sorry you were misled. My grandfather is… well, he is what he is."

  "He's the most incredible man I've ever met."

  She had to smile at that, and it warmed her eyes as he sat on the threadbare sofa beside her. "Yes, he's an incredible man. He is also set in his ways, in his methods, and in his goals. I'm sure you're very nice, and as I said, I enjoy your work. But I'm just not interested."

  "Uh-huh." He risked another swallow of coffee. "In what, exactly?"

  "In being set up." She skimmed long, slender and unpainted fingertips through her hair. "Grandpa doesn't think I give enough attention to my social life, but I give it the attention I believe it warrants. Dating just isn't very high on my list right now."

  "Oh?" Intrigued, Branson lifted a brow and settled back comfortably in the corner of the couch. The shadows under her eyes nearly matched the fascinating color of the irises, and made her seem as delicate and appealing as spun glass. "Why?"

  "Because I'm a second-year surgical resident and

  I have other priorities. And because," she added with a snap, "I don't choose to date men my grandfather has hand-selected for me. And you don't look like the type who needs a ninety-one-year-old man to set you up with women."

  "Maybe that was a compliment," Branson said after a moment. "I think that was a compliment, so thanks." Then he grinned, a lightning flash of humor that had a dimple winking at the corner of his mouth. "I wasn't planning to ask you out, but now I'm going to have to. Just to soothe my ego."

  "You weren't—" She drew in a breath, struggled to adjust. Her brain was starting to shut down, she realized. The double shift was catching up with her. "What are you doing here?"

  "Research." He smiled again, charmingly. "At least that's the plan. I'm starting a book—I need some hospital and medical data, some background, some atmosphere. Color and buzzwords and rhythm, that kind of thing. Daniel said you'd help me out, let me hang around for a couple weeks, play things off you, annoy you with questions."

  "I see." She let her head rest against the back of the couch, let her eyes close. "Well, this is embarrassing."

  "I think it's great. So, how about it? You want to go out with me, get some decent coffee, have sex, get married, have three kids, buy a big house and an ugly dog?"

  She opened one eye and nearly smiled again. "No, thanks."

  "Okay, you don't want the coffee. I'm flexible. But

  I still want sex before we get married. I'm firm on that."

  She did smile, let out a weary sigh. "Are you trying to make me feel better, or more ridiculous?"

  "Either way." He set the coffee down. The caffeine kick just wasn't worth the loss of stomach lining. "You're beautiful, Gwendolyn. I'm telling you that so if I end up hitting on you, you won't think it's because I'm trying to score points with the old man." Her smile remained in place, but sharpened like a scalpel. "Men who try to hit on me often end up requiring medical treatment. I'm telling you that in case you need to renew your insurance."

  He puffed out his cheeks. "Okay. How about the research assistance? I observe in the ER a few weeks, keep out of everybody's hair. I ask questions when it's convenient for you and the staff. I run certain angles I hope to use for the story by you. You're free to shoot them down, to suggest how they can be adjusted to ring true."

  She wanted a pillow, a blanket and a nice, dark room. "You're free to observe. Even if I objected, you could go over my head—which you already, in essence, have. My grandparents have a lot of influence with the administration of the hospital."

  "If you don't want to cooperate, I can go to another hospital. There are plenty of them in Boston."

  "I'm being rude. I'm tired." She lifted her hands to rub at her temples and struggled to adjust her mood. It wasn't his fault he'd caught her at the end of a particularly hideous day. "I don't have a problem giving you a hand with your research—as long as you don't get in my way or anyone else's in the ER. I'll answer your questions when I have time, and instruct the staff on my shifts to cooperate with you—when they have the time."

  "I appreciate it. And if, after we're done, I ask you out to dinner or buy you a small, tasteful gift to show that appreciation, are you going to hurt me?"

  "I'll try to restrain myself. I'm on the graveyard shift for the next three weeks."

  "No problem. I like the night. You're exhausted," he murmured, surprised by the urge to tug her down so that she could rest her head in his lap and sleep. "Why don't I give you a lift home?"

  "I have my car."

  He angled his head. "How many people have you patched up who've fallen asleep behind the wheel?"

  "Good point I'll sleep here."

  "Suit yourself." He rose, looked down at her. Her eyes were heavy, nearly closed. The delicate shadows beneath them seemed to deepen as he watched. "Try for eight straight, Doc. I'll be back tomorrow."

  He started for the door, paused, turned back. "One last point—I have full coverage on my medical insurance." He stepped into the hall, noting that for tonight, at least, the ER was quiet at 3:00 a.m. He headed out, filing away the position of the admitting desk, the number of computers, the sound his own sneakers made on the tiles of the floor. The November wind slapped hard at his face when he stepped outside. His hair blew into his eyes as he jingled keys out of his pocket. One other point, Dr. Dish, he mused. A man would have to be an idiot not to hit on you. And Meg Maguire's son Branson was no idiot. He climbed into his classic Triumph convertible, the seat already adjusted to accommodate his long legs as best it could. He turned the key, smiled at the purr. He was a man who loved a well-tuned engine.

  And for all her resemblance to a fairy princess, Branson had already decided Gwendolyn Blade was a well-tuned engine. He flipped on the CD player, hummed along with Verdi. And, driving away, he began to plot in a way that would have made Daniel MacGregor proud.

  Chapter 12

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  It was after ten in the morning when Gwen unlocked the door to the house in the Back Bay. A thin, icy rain was falling, making her hurry inside to shiver in the warmth.

  She didn't bother to call out. She knew her cousin Julia would be out, wheeling some real estate deal. And her third housemate, Laura MacGregor, had moved out months before, when she married Royce Cameron.

  Gwen still missed her. The three cousins had roomed together for years and had all but grown up together before that. They'd been a threesome from college campus to apartments to the houses Julia had begun to acquire.

  Knowing Laura was wildly happy was everything she wanted, but Gwen still caught herself glancing up those curving stairs off the foyer and expecting to see Laura come flying down them.

  Gwen draped her coat over the newel post. She had the entire afternoon free, she realized, and there were dozens of t
hings she could catch up on. Including a long, hot bubble bath. But that was going to be her second order of business, she decided. Food was first. She headed back into the kitchen, rubbing at the ache she'd worked into her neck by spending four hours sleeping on the lounge sofa instead of getting into one of the cots.

  She'd get one of the physical therapists to give her a neck-and-shoulder massage before she started her next shift. She smelled the roses before she saw them. There must have been three dozen, pale as snow, long stems tucked into a gorgeous crystal vase, then spearing up to end in tightly curled buds.

  One of Julia's men, she assumed, and indulged herself by sniffing, then sighing over the mass of blossoms. Her romantic heart had a weakness for roses, and for foolishly extravagant gestures.

  She crossed to the refrigerator with little hope. Since Laura had moved out, the pickings were invariably slim. They'd often said Julia never ate, Laura always ate, and Gwen herself ate only when food was shoved in front of her. Without much enthusiasm, she pulled out a carton of yogurt, checked the expiration date on the bottom. Well, what was a week when it came to curdled milk, anyway? she decided, and pried off the lid. She closed the door, then tugged the note attached to it down to read while she ate.

  Gwen, hubba-hubba on the roses. What other secrets are you keeping from me? Will interrogate you later. Messages for you on the machine. Grandpa. Don't ask me. And some sexy voiced man named Bran. Flower guy? Hmm. Well, as a doctor you'd know bran's good for you. Back by six. Maybe. Jules.

  Frowning, Gwen read the note again, then glanced back at the flowers. She stared at the little envelope tucked among the stems. She plucked it off the clear plastic holder, tapped it consideringly against her palm. Then, with a shrug, tore it open. They looked like your style. Thanks in advance for the help.

  Bran

  "Oh." She couldn't quite suppress the giddy little thrill as she looked at the roses. "Mine," she murmured and, leaning over, inhaled deeply. Then she caught herself, stepped back. Three dozen long-stemmed white roses in November was definitely an overstatement. A terrific one, but nonetheless…

  She was going to have to be more direct in discouraging Branson Maguire. Grandpa, she mused, just what are you up to and what have you done?

  She turned to the answering machine, punched for messages, and had to grin as Daniel's voice boomed out

  "Hate these damn things. Nobody talks to anybody, just rattles away to machines. Why aren't you girls ever home? Gwen, I've a young friend who needs a bit of help. He's a writer, spins a good tale. But then, he's an Irishman, so what would you expect? Does well murdering people right and left and tracking down mad killers. You'll give him a hand, darling, won't you? A favor to your old grandpa. He's a nice boy. His mama went to college with yours, so he's not some strange man off the street. Julia, I spoke with your father. He said you're buying another house. That's a lass. And would it hurt either of you to call your grandmother now and again? She worries." Gwen chuckled, combed her fingers through her hair. A typical Daniel MacGregor message, she thought, delivered at full volume. But it seemed harmless enough. The son of a friend of her mother's. All right, then, there seemed to be no plot or scheme behind it. Just a favor, an easily granted one.

  Satisfied, Gwen picked up her yogurt again, got out a spoon, then hit the button for Branson's message.

  "Gwendolyn."

  She paused, with the spoon nearly to her lips. There was something about the way the man said her name, she thought. Using the romantic whole of it, rather than the quick and easy Gwen.

  "It's Branson Maguire. I hope you got some sleep. And I hope you like white roses. I was thinking, if you had the time to spare, I'd appreciate an hour, anytime today. I'd offer to buy you lunch or dinner, but I don't want to put your back up again. I'd just like to run a couple things by you—plotwise. If you can manage it, give me a call. I'm planning on being in all day. If not, I'll see you tonight." She didn't bother to note down the number. She'd remember. Thoughtfully, she spooned up yogurt. It was a reasonable request, she supposed. There'd been nothing really flirtatious in the content or the tone. Laughing at herself, she scooped up another spoonful. Just listen to yourself, analyzing every nuance. It was exactly the attitude that had caused her such embarrassment the night before. The man was a professional, and so was she. She could certainly give him an hour—if for no other reason than to secretly apologize to him, and to her grandfather, for being so suspicious.

  She picked up the phone, punched in his number. He answered on the third