thirty-foot yacht can turn that fast.”
Mary settled back in her chair, eyelids drooping as she considered him. Her stomach felt stretched too full and she was getting sleepy. She’d heard something else about the crash. What was it? Thanks to someone’s quick thinking, no one had drowned. Well, this man was quick. She could certainly attest to that after witnessing him defuse the situation back in the E.R. She wondered if he had been the one people had talked about. “Oh, I meant to thank you for stopping that fight.”
He angled his head toward her, elbows on the table. “I figured you were busy enough without having to sew those two back together. Otherwise, I might have just let them kill each other. Damned selfish fools.”
However she might agree with that sentiment, she felt uncomfortable about voicing it, especially after Victor had interceded for her when she lost control earlier. She shifted in her seat. She asked with diffident curiosity, “So are you friends with Harold?” She tried to imagine it, but couldn’t quite. Harold was so urbane, a natural politician who dealt dexterously with not only the university set of Cherry Bay, but the native population, both the country-club set and the working class, and the summer tourists, as well. On the other hand, Chance apparently wasn’t a man to mince words.
His eyebrows rose. “Harold? You’re on a first-name basis with old Shoe-Licking Schubert?”
Mary tried hard not to spit coffee. Grabbing quickly for her napkin, she covered her mouth and coughed, eyes watering. Chance pounded her on the back, until she waved her hands at him to stop. “Well,” she wheezed emphatically, “that’s a—refreshing point of view.”
“It’s the truth.”
He was still eyeing her inquiringly, so she cleared her throat and told him, “Harold—” Licks my grandfather’s shoes, she nearly said, but caught herself quickly and changed a chortle into another cough. “Ahem! Harold and my grandfather are acquaintances. He and his wife have been for dinner.”
The realization registered very quickly with him. His gaze flickered and then went opaque. Did the bit of news pique his interest, or kill it? It was hard to tell. Neither option was good. And was she disappointed? Though she worked hard, she couldn’t come up with an answer to that, and her transparent face, as always, registered everything that went on inside her. His eyes narrowed. “Ah, so you’re one of those Newmans, are you?”
One shoulder lifted and rotated in a fine show of indifference. “So what if I am?” Of course I don’t care. Why would I care, for heaven’s sake? And besides, Victor’s going to find out I ate dinner with this man and be—be what, jealous? She tried hard to get there, to picture Victor jealous, then just sagged in her seat. No, he’d be surprised.
Her fork was out of line with her knife. She straightened it carefully. Out of her vision, Chance’s face broke into a predatory grin. He forced it away and said evenly, “I don’t know that Schubert and I are friends, but as a member of the faculty, I get invited to his parties now and then.”
Her little face tilted up and brightened as she snatched at that conversational tidbit. “You’re a member of the faculty? What do you teach?” It couldn’t be anything to do with medicine, or Mary would have heard of him or seen him by now.
“Journalism.”
“Oh.” That was clever repartee, Mary. She shut her mouth firmly and stole sideways glances at him. She felt as if she was looking at a different, rather dangerous, species in fascination. He didn’t strike her as the academic type. She couldn’t see him as a career professor and wondered what kind of journalist he would make. No doubt a very good one; she had firsthand experience of his tenacity.
Something danced in his eyes. “You don’t have to be worried. I won’t bite.” His voice dropped to a seductive purr. “At least, not without permission.”
This time she felt not only her eyes round, but her mouth, too. He was back to flirting, or teasing, and either one was frightening. He was a creature so very far out of her sphere of existence, she felt instinctively that the wisest course of action would be to throw her coat over her head and run for cover. He lounged back in his chair, a sleek, honed machine, and his heavy-lidded gaze traveled slumberously over her. She felt as if she had been physically touched by psychic tendrils that curled around her body and crooned of male intent.
Like a spider wrapping up its dinner in a cocoon.
She gulped. Now was the time to say something witty. “I have to go home,” she whispered. “It was nice visiting with you.”
Nice?
He unfolded from the chair and stood. She watched him go up—and up—and found her gaze at a level with the skintight shirt that rippled over an accordion stomach. She lunged to her feet and grabbed her purse.
“Do you have a ride home?” Chance asked her. “Because if you’ll pardon me for saying so, Dr. Mary, you don’t seem to be in any condition to drive.”
“I’m all right.”
“But it’s been a long shift for you, hasn’t it?” he asked shrewdly. “And the traffic is worse on land than it is on the lake.”
“Well…” she said reluctantly, fiddling with the strap of her purse. He did have a point. Even standing made her body groan, and the floor didn’t seem any too certain underneath her feet. “Maybe I can get a ride from someone else going off duty.”
“I’d be happy to drive you.”
I don’t know you, she almost said, but she bit it back. No doubt he was just making a generous offer, but every sultry movement and suggestive smile screamed danger. “Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“Let me make sure you’ve got a ride at least.”
“If there isn’t anyone who can take me, I can always get a cab.”
He smiled. “On the Fourth of July? You might as well hope for a ride on the space shuttle. Come on, Dr. Mary, your caution is praiseworthy, but I really am just a pussycat. Look—there’s old Shoe-Licking Schubert right now. He’ll tell you I’m okay.”
A pussycat, my belly button, she thought. More like a great prowling hunting cat, preening its whiskers with a Cheshire grin. But she followed his gesture toward the dinner line anyway.
The dean of the university, a slim, balding man in his late fifties, dressed smartly in deck shorts and a blue shirt, stood in line with a few other members of the faculty. They all looked sunburned, tired, and one of them had a bandaged wrist. Mary shifted from foot to foot. “I should go to say hello anyway,” she decided out loud.
Chance promptly took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and led her over to the dean and the others. Mary felt the heat from his bare skin burn into her fingers the entire way.
Harold looked up as they neared and immediately smiled. “Armstrong, good to see you. Why, hello, Mary.”
As she returned his greeting, Mary felt more than relief at finding out that Chance was as legitimate as he had promised—was there perhaps some excitement? She scowled. No! He’d just offered her a ride home, for heaven’s sake!
Pleasantries were exchanged, but when Harold and the others thanked Chance, apparently again, for all that he’d done after the accident, he suddenly developed an urgent need to leave the scene. Before Mary knew it, they had said their goodbyes and she was being hustled down the corridor away from the cafeteria.
I knew it, she thought, looking up at his face as she trotted to keep up with him. I knew it would take a lot to knock you off your feet. And you don’t feel comfortable with the praise, do you? She said in all sincerity, “You’re quite the hero today, aren’t you?”
He threw her a frowning glance. “I’m no hero. Just some things needed to be done, that’s all.” Then, before she had time to even consider that as a rebuff, his mood changed entirely. “And I can drive and everything,” he added with a wink. “See what