Countering His Claim Read online

  Though, even when the nurse had been on duty, Della had found it difficult to leave him, and had checked in often.

  Luke nodded his acceptance of the information as he let out a long breath. “Will you be at the will reading?”

  “Yes.” Patrick had made her promise to attend, saying he’d left her a little something. Telling him he didn’t need to had made no difference. “Quite a few of the crew have been invited.”

  “I hope Patrick left you something for what you did for him, but if he didn’t have time to change his will, I’ll make sure you receive something of meaning.”

  With a twinge of grief in her chest, she realized that the generosity in his expression reminded her of Patrick, and of the stories he’d told about the man before her. She’d often wondered if Patrick had exaggerated his stories about his nephew or if Luke really was a prince among men.

  “That’s sweet of you,” she said. “But there’s no need. I was doing my job and as I said, I had a lot of respect for Patrick. I counted him as a friend. I wouldn’t have had things any other way.”

  “Either way, I’m grateful you were able to be there for him.”

  “I appreciate you saying that,” she said and meant it. She’d often wondered if Patrick’s family would blame her for their not knowing about his illness. “And if you’re going to make that will reading, we need to take a look at your cut now.”

  He glanced down at his watch. “You’re right.”

  She washed her hands, sat down across a table from him and set out the sterile cloth. “Lay your hand over here,” she said as she slipped on a pair of gloves.

  * * *

  Luke looked into Dr. Della Walsh’s eyes and laid his hand, palm up, on the table. She was an intriguing woman. It couldn’t have been easy caring for his stubborn uncle out at sea, yet the information from the ship’s captain when he’d rung the family twelve days ago was that Patrick’s care had been second to none. But it was something else that had compelled him to insist she handle his stitches—something that radiated from within her. She wore no makeup yet her toffee-brown gaze captivated him more than any preening society woman. Her eyes held depth, intelligence and the promise of something more.

  Breaking the eye contact, he frowned. It didn’t seem right to think this way about the doctor who’d cared for Patrick until his death, especially when that had been so recent that he could still feel the permanent punch to the gut the loss had created.

  Della looked down and gently unwrapped the blue handkerchief he’d tied around his hand. It wasn’t much of a cut, more a good-size nick at the base of his thumb, but she was treating it seriously. That made him feel even better about Patrick’s care in the past few months.

  “I’ll just give you some local anesthetic,” she said as she drew up a needle. The two jabs into the fleshy part of his palm stung, but Della’s hand, soft and warm through the gloves, stabilized his as she administered the drug. Then she swiped the area with an antiseptic and gave it a quick wash with clear fluid from a bottle marked sterile saline.

  She bent her head and scanned his palm closely. “How did you do it?”

  “Car accident.”

  Her eyes flew to his, then roved down his neck, across his shoulders, assessing everywhere she could see. “Are you hurt anywhere else? And the others in the car with you?”

  “We’re all fine,” he said with a casual shrug. “To be fair, you could hardly class it as an accident. I was pouring some sparkling water from the minibar into a glass—”

  She blinked. “I thought this was in a car?”

  “Stretch limo.” He’d needed to meet with several of his staff, and hated wasting time traveling, so the price of a larger vehicle to accommodate the meeting was easily worth it. “The driver had to swerve hard in traffic, just hitting the bumper of another car. The glass in my hand caught the corner of the fridge as I swung forward, and it shattered.”

  “You were lucky,” she said, returning her attention to his palm.

  The cut was minor, but it had led him here, so perhaps he had been lucky. His gaze was drawn back to the doctor’s silky brown hair as she bent her head forward.

  “Can you move your thumb for me? And the index finger?”

  Obediently, he bent his thumb and finger in turn.

  “Okay, good. Tell me if you can feel this.”

  The featherlight touch of her gloved fingertip ran across the planes of his fingers and thumb. “Yes.”

  She nodded, satisfied, and picked up a pair of tweezers. “I’m just checking for glass fragments while the anesthetic takes effect. This shouldn’t hurt,” she murmured.

  Her dark lashes swept down over creamy pale cheeks as she worked. Under normal circumstances, he’d have asked her out for a drink, maybe dinner, but that would cross a line now that she would soon be an employee.

  Besides, he doubted Della would take him up on the offer. The signals she’d been sending had been limited to professional concern, both for his hand and because he was Patrick’s nephew.

  She skimmed a finger over a long, straight scar along the length of his thumb pad. “This looks like it would have been a nasty cut.”

  A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Childhood accident.” Though, it had been far from an accident—it had been with conscious, purposeful intent that, at thirteen, he’d sliced his thumb with a pocketknife and pressed the injury against similar ones on three friends’ thumbs. They’d become blood brothers that night in a darkened boarding school dorm room. He looked at the scar, remembering how his youthful enthusiasm had made him slash long and deep—as though more blood would deepen the bond. Maybe it had, because he was still closer to those guys than any other person on the planet.

  Della put the tweezers down, then picked up the needle.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  “It’s only minor,” she said, all polite reassurance. The needle pierced his skin and he felt a slight tugging as she sewed the stitch. Della worked quickly and efficiently after the first one was in place, knotting and cutting. Her hands as they worked were graceful and capable, like Della herself.

  After she tied off the third one, she rose and removed her gloves, saying over her shoulder, “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “That will be fine. You shouldn’t need antibiotics—the cut was clean, and there was no foreign material.” She washed her hands then turned back to him. “You’ll need the stitches out in about seven days. If you’re still here, come to the clinic and either Cal or I will do it. If you’ve left by then, see your local doctor.”

  A twinge of regret surprised him. “I’m only here for a couple of nights.” He’d come for the reading of Patrick’s will and to spend a few days assessing the ship’s operations. He’d disembark when they reached Sydney.

  “You’re not staying for a full run?” A fine line appeared between her eyebrows. “To experience the Cora Mae out in the Pacific?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” His plans for the ship didn’t include her cruising the Pacific or anywhere.

  “Then you’ll need to see your own doctor in a week, Mr. Marlow,” she said with her courteous, professional smile. “Ring him earlier if you have any concerns or your hand shows signs of unusual pain, redness or swelling.”

  With a start, he realized the appointment was over. He was seconds away from walking out the door and in all probability wouldn’t see her one-on-one again. Which was probably for the best—that impulse he’d had to invite her for a drink might reemerge, and he wouldn’t start anything with a future employee who never spent more than one night in any given city.

  He nodded, and rested a hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for the medical care, Dr. Walsh. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Marlow,” she said, h
er voice even, unaffected.

  Something about this woman intrigued him, and that was rare. What if, despite the obstacles—

  Walk away now, the sane part of his brain said. This is not a woman for you. Which was true. He shook his head ruefully and stepped through the door, only just reining in the impulse to turn back for one final look over his shoulder at Dr. Della Walsh.

  Two

  Less than an hour later, Della rushed along a carpeted corridor to the boardroom where Patrick Marlow’s will was probably already being read. She hated being late. Hated it. Being late meant drawing attention to herself and that made her uncomfortable anytime. And this was such an important occasion.

  The life of a shipboard doctor wasn’t frantic like a medical career based in a hospital, but occasionally there would be a run of patients. Just after Luke had left the clinic, they’d had a minor influx of passengers returning early from shore—a child with a bee sting, another with a twisted wrist after a fall, a young woman with a migraine and a man with a bad case of sunburn. She couldn’t have left them all to Cal.

  She flicked a glance at her watch. Only three minutes past two—hopefully people were still taking their seats. Arriving late to Patrick’s will reading seemed disrespectful, and the thought made her skin prickle.

  Gently pushing open the door, she let out a breath—although people were seated, there was still murmuring as the short, gray-haired man at the front table shuffled papers on his desk. Most chairs were taken, but she was relieved to see a vacant aisle seat in the back row. She slipped in and greeted the woman beside her.

  “Have I missed anything?” Della whispered.

  “No,” Jackie said. “He just asked everyone to take their seats. It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it? I still can’t believe Patrick’s gone, let alone that we’re all sitting around to talk about his money.” Jackie ran the housekeeping department and had been friends with the ship’s owner, as had many of the senior staff.

  Tears stung the back of her eyes but Della blinked them away. “Even knowing how sick he was at the end, part of me kept believing he’d pull through.”

  “Well, he thought he’d pull through,” Jackie said, shaking her head, her smile a bittersweet mix of admiration and sadness. “He was still making plans the last time I saw him.”

  Breath tight in her lungs, Della had to pause before her voice would work. “Determination and optimism were probably what kept him going longer than his specialists expected.”

  “You were a big part of that, too, Della.” Jackie took her hand and squeezed, and Della appreciated the warmth, the solidarity. “We all know the long hours you put in with him, going above and beyond. The way you devoted yourself to making sure he was as comfortable as he could be. And Patrick knew it, too. He sang your praises whenever he could, told us he was indebted to you.”

  Della managed something of a crooked smile, but this time her constricted chest wouldn’t let her reply. Thankfully, the man at the front of the room cleared his throat and introduced himself as Patrick Marlow’s lawyer and executor of his will.

  As he spoke, Della’s gaze drifted to Luke Marlow, also in an aisle seat, but in the front row beside the captain. His back was tall and straight in the chair and, just as when she’d first seen him when she was boarding a few hours ago, she found it difficult to drag her attention away. There was something magnetic about that man.

  Then he slowly turned and searched the crowd before his gaze landed on her. A shiver of tingles ran down her spine. His head dipped in acknowledgment, and she nodded back, before he turned to the front again. Della tucked a curl behind her ear and tried to put Luke Marlow from her mind as best she could. She was here for Patrick.

  The executor had finished his preamble and come to the division of assets. He’d left a collection of rare and first edition books to his sister-in-law, Luke’s mother, who, the executor noted, hadn’t been able to attend; he left some personal effects such as cuff links and a tie clip to various members of staff.

  “Regarding the ownership of the cruise ship, the Cora Mae…” The executor paused for a muffled cough and darted a quick glance around. “I leave a one-half share to my nephew, Luke Marlow.”

  The room was silent for the longest beat as though everyone was too shocked to move. Then a wave of murmuring washed over the small crowd.

  Luke had inherited one half? As Della struggled to make sense of the phrase, her gaze flew to Luke. He sat very straight, very still.

  One half meant…there was someone else. She could feel the sudden wariness of every crew member present—if their future had seemed uncertain five minutes ago, it was now even more unpredictable. She ran through Patrick’s stories of his family in her mind for possibilities, scanned the rigid bodies sitting in the front row. Although their tension was nothing compared to that emanating from Luke as he sat motionless, waiting, focused.

  “The other one-half share,” the executor continued, “I leave to Dr. Della Walsh.”

  What? Her heart skidded to a halt then leaped to life again, thumping hard in her chest, each beat a painful hammer in her ears. Oh, God.

  Surely there was a mistake. She replayed the words in her head, looking for where she’d misunderstood, but found nothing. What had Patrick done?

  People turned in their seats to face her, some with mouths open, others with confused frowns, a few whispering her name in incredulous voices.

  Even through the bewilderment, the irony struck her—despite rushing and managing to arrive before the proceedings had begun, every pair of eyes in the room was on her, after all. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose up, then died again when Luke pinned her with fierce gray eyes.

  She leaned back against the chair, away from the force of his unspoken accusation. Abruptly, he stood and the crowd’s attention switched to him. Her skin went cold as he stalked down the aisle then stopped to loom over her.

  “Dr. Walsh,” he said through a tight jaw. “A word in private, if you please.”

  He held his hand out, plainly expecting her to rise and precede him out of the room. Her jellied joints felt unequal to the task but after a moment she managed to force herself to her feet. As she swiveled, she nearly stumbled. A firm warm grip encircled her elbow, steadying her, saving her from that ignominy.

  She turned to thank him but her throat seized as she met the hard glitter in his eyes. Her stomach flipped. With all the grace she could muster, she allowed him to guide her out to the corridor.

  Once the door to the boardroom had shut behind them, he looked from closed door to closed door. “An empty room where we can talk undisturbed?”

  Willing her brain to work, she indicated the door on the left and he headed for it, still gripping her elbow. It was smaller than the room they’d come from, designed for meetings of no more than ten people, furnished with a rectangular table surrounded by chairs and one porthole.

  As soon as the door clicked closed, Luke released her and his hands moved to his hips, suspicion and anger radiating from every inch of his six-foot-plus frame.

  “Tell me something, Dr. Walsh,” he said, his voice harsh and a sneer curling his top lip. “What exactly did you do for my uncle to earn yourself half a ship?”

  It took a moment but then his meaning slammed into her. He thought she’d used her body, sold herself to manipulate sweet, lovely Patrick for financial gain. Rage charged through her veins, hot and wild. Before she’d even realized her intention, her hand was swinging toward him. His eyes widened. He began to turn away, but it was too late.

  A crack echoed as flesh met flesh. The force of her slap jerked his head sideways. Heat and pain streaked across her palm, leaving the rest of her body icy cold, and the jolt shuddered all the way up her arm to her shoulder.

  And then she froze. She’d struck another human being in anger. The violence felt ugly, alien…she
felt alien. She looked down at her upturned palm. Warily her gaze crept up to Luke’s face, to the red imprint of her hand on his cheek and a wave of nausea cramped her stomach.

  * * *

  Luke swore under his breath. He’d never been slapped before. Now that he had, it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat in a hurry. His cheek hurt like hell.

  Della’s hand still hung in the air as if she didn’t know what to do with it now. Her face was blanched of color. Whatever else he may think of her, he could see the slap was out of character. Not that it mattered. What mattered more was that he’d lost his temper. If he were to succeed, control would be his friend. Control over himself, leading to control of the situation. No more angry outbursts—a cool head would win the day.

  He spun away and strode over to the other end of the room, trying to find his bearings. He glanced up at a framed photo on the wall of the original Cora Mae proudly entering Sydney Harbour over fifty years ago. Patrick’s Cora Mae had been named after the ship in the photo, which had been Luke’s grandfather’s, and that ship had been named for Luke’s grandmother, Cora Mae Marlow. Now he was effectively sharing his heritage with a stranger…at least until he could rectify the situation. A heaviness pressed down on his shoulders.

  What had Patrick been thinking to put him in this position? He scraped both hands through his hair and blew out a breath.

  “I have to know,” he said, still facing the photo of the Cora Mae. “When we met earlier and you stitched my hand. Were you aware then that Patrick was leaving you half the ship?”

  He turned to face Della. She’d slipped into a chair, her head was bowed, her hands in her lap—her left hand held her right wrist as though she was afraid of what it might do next. Those were the long slender fingers that had stitched his wound with such dexterity, such tenderness. Who’d have thought they’d be capable of delivering such a stinging rebuke.