He greeted her in a gruff, sarcastic voice.
His eyes, framed by thick brows, looked large and luminous in the dimly lit room. The rugged lines of his face held a serious, almost angry expression.
“No apology necessary,” Rebecca replied lightly. “Of course, considering your condition, Mr. Berringer, you could be out of that chair by now, you know.”
“You think so, do you?” he challenged her. He gave a bitter laugh, then turned to his brother. “Did you find yet another Mary Poppins for the job, Matthew?” His voice sounded weary and vaguely amused. “One would think the supply would be exhausted by now.”
“One would think your brother would be exhausted by now, trying to help you, Mr. Berringer,” Rebecca replied quietly.
She saw Matthew Berringer’s eyebrows pop up at her tart response. But he said nothing. Grant finally lifted his head and stared into her eyes. He seemed impressed. Almost animated. She gave herself two points for that achievement, anyway.
“Well, well…this one’s got some spunk, I’ll give her that much,” he said to Matthew. Rebecca thought she’d noticed a spark of appreciation in his eyes as he gazed at her, then thought she must have been mistaken. His gaze remained flat and dispassionate. “I’ve always preferred a tart, cool taste myself, as opposed to something sticky and overly sweet.”
“None of my patients ever accused me of being too sweet,” Rebecca replied. “More like the opposite.”
“I’m not your patient yet, Ms. Calloway,” he reminded her harshly. “Not by a long shot.”
Rebecca was taken aback, but only for a moment. The wounded lion, cornered in his den, she thought. All he could do was give a loud roar and hope to scare the intruder away.
There was a small chair near his wheelchair, and she walked over and sat in it. She knew that being on the same eye level as the patient—not staring down at them—should help ease a tense moment like this one.
“You’re right. My mistake,” she said simply.
He stared directly at her, and she had her first good look at him, up close and personal. Intimidating was the word that first came to mind. But as she gazed unflinchingly into his dark eyes, she saw his vulnerability, as well, and the wellspring of pain and fear that had driven him to this dark place.
A thin white scar extended from the corner of his eye to his jawline, marring one cheek. Rebecca had read in the medical report that Grant could have easily had the scar erased with plastic surgery, but for some reason preferred not to. Did he keep it to help him mourn his loss? Or as a penance he felt bound to pay?
Her heart was touched by him, moved by him. Not by pity or compassion, exactly, but by some inexplicable urge to restore him, physically and spiritually, to siphon into him some of her abundant strength and will.
She had never felt quite this reaction to a prospective patient before, Rebecca thought with a mental jolt. Why this one?
Then suddenly, Grant’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“I like a person who can admit when they’re wrong,” he said in a low, deep voice.
“I do a lot of that,” she admitted. “Maybe you’ll end up liking me, after all.”
He suddenly laughed, and the deep, warm sound skimmed along her nerve endings, lighting a path in its wake—a reaction that alarmed Rebecca and one she forced herself to ignore. Still, she couldn’t ignore the sudden change in Grant Berringer’s appearance. His smile was like a sudden burst of light exploding in the shadowy room. His face was transformed, softened, making his dark good looks even more appealing, Rebecca thought, as her gaze lingered on the small, attractive lines fanning from the corners of his eyes and deep dimples beside a full, sensual mouth.
Rebecca quickly pulled her gaze away. What was going on here? Was she attracted to him?
No, it couldn’t be. Mustn’t be. She’d been warned about this but it had never happened to her. She tried to find some rational reason it would happen now. It was his sad story, she told herself. Matthew had drawn Grant as a tragic—even romantic—figure. The story had gotten to her. It had to be. She couldn’t compromise her professional standards by taking on a case when she had a romantic interest in the patient.
As if reading her mind, Grant said, “You know, Ms. Calloway, there are women, like yourself, who have come here hoping to bag a rich husband. If that’s your intention, I may as well warn you now, you’d be wasting your time.”
Rebecca knew his insult was merely a tactic, a ploy to drive her away, but it stung nonetheless to hear her ethics—and those of her colleagues—disparaged.
“Grant, please,” Matthew urged his brother. “Why do you have to do this?”
Matthew had been quiet until now. He seemed to think Rebecca and his brother should sort things out, and she was grateful for that. She could hear his frustration and embarrassment for Grant’s rudeness.
“No, it’s okay,” she assured Matthew. She turned to Grant again. “Mr. Berringer, I can promise you, the last thing in the world I’m looking for is a husband, rich or otherwise.”
She watched him blink in surprise, but he showed no other reaction to her words.
“All right, point taken,” he replied. He paused, then looked at her. “My brother says you’re highly qualified. The best he’s found so far. But I want you to give me one good reason I should hire you for this job. Especially when so many others before have clearly failed at it. One good reason, Ms. Calloway,” he added, the note of challenge in his voice growing sharper. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
Rebecca sat straight in her chair. She was being tested, like some character in a myth, required to answer the riddle before a magic portal to another realm would open or some treasure would be handed over.
She wasn’t sure what she should say or do, and on a sudden impulse, she stood and pulled open the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room. God, she’d been itching to do that since she’d come in.
From the corner of her eye, she could see Grant Berringer reel back in his chair, one arm raised to shield his eyes from the sudden flash of light. Rebecca ignored his reaction.
“Here, come with me a minute, I want to show you something.” Without waiting for Grant’s reply, she flipped off the brakes of his chair and quickly wheeled him toward the open glass door.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a nice person,’ Rebecca answered lightly as she pushed his chair onto the deck. Inside the room, she could hear Matthew softly chuckling. She pushed Grant’s chair to the middle of the balcony, near the railing.
“That was quite a ride,” Grant said. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“Strong enough to handle you,” she promised.
He grunted something in reply, but Rebecca couldn’t make out any distinct words. The sound of his dismay made her smile.
“So why have you brought me out here, Ms. Calloway? To catch pneumonia, maybe?”
“It’s not that cold,” she countered with a laugh. “It’s not cold at all.”
“Or maybe you plan to push me off the balcony? Put me out of my misery?”
His words were spoken in a jesting tone, but they touched an alarm in Rebecca. She knew his cynical joke came from a deep, frightening place, and she knew with almost utter certainty that Grant Berringer had considered ending his life, perhaps in that very manner. Still, she managed to answer him in a joking tone.
“I’ve rarely been known to push a patient off a balcony. On purpose, I mean,” she said casually. “And I certainly wouldn’t choose such a low one,” she added, peering over the