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Moments later, the woman reappeared. She paused to fluff her hair and tug down the hem of her uniform’s top, before starting back down the hallway toward him. He couldn’t help but notice the swing she’d added to her hips’ movement on the return trip.
When she reached the reception desk, she leaned close to the window. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice having turned sultry on the return trip, “but Dr. Montgomery’s schedule is full today.” She lifted a hand to toy with the top button of her uniform’s top and batted her eyes at him. “But if you’d like, I can make an appointment for you to see her.”
Unless he was mistaken—and he could be, since he was a little out of practice—the woman was flirting with him. Another day, another place and he might’ve flirted right back. But, as it was, nothing, not even a hand-engraved invitation for a quick roll in the hay, could persuade him to spend another minute longer than necessary in Dallas, Texas.
“What time do y’all lock up for the day?” he asked.
Her smile brightened a notch or two. “Four o’clock.”
It was obvious she thought he was asking the question to find out what time she’d be free. He didn’t bother to set her straight. He figured any misunderstanding was hers to deal with, not his.
He glanced at his watch and noted that it was half past three. “I’ll wait.”
She fluttered a hand toward the waiting room. “Just have a seat over there. Can I get you something to drink?”
Already turning away, Woodrow shook his head, sure that the offer didn’t include a shot of whiskey.
And whiskey was what he needed right now.
Wedged in a chair better suited for one of the seven dwarfs, Woodrow considered passing the time by thumbing through one of the magazines scattered across the coffee table. But a closer inspection revealed titles like Good Housekeeping, Working Mother and Ladies Home Journal, and nothing, not even the threat of a hot branding iron on the hip, could persuade him to touch a one of them. Resigned to boredom, he tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Two breaths later, he was asleep.
“You’ll need to call the lab and check on the results for the Carter baby. They promised to have it by Monday at four.”
Woodrow snapped up his head, blinked. A woman was standing in the doorway that separated the waiting area from the examining rooms. She had her hand braced against the door to hold it open and was talking to the receptionist, giving what sounded like last-minute instructions.
Must be the doc, he decided, noting the white lab coat, the stethoscope clasped around her throat like a necklace. Fully awake now, he narrowed his eyes and studied her profile.
She didn’t look like a doctor, he decided. She looked more like somebody’s spinster aunt. The horn-rimmed glasses were his first clue. The bun she’d swept her blond hair up in was the second. But then she turned her back fully to him and exposed the nape of a long graceful neck, and he was suddenly struck by the strongest urge to have his mouth there. Little wisps of hair curled against porcelain-smooth skin shades lighter than his own. Halfway between the collar of the lab coat she wore and the base of her hair-line lay a tiny patch of pinker flesh.
A birthmark? he wondered. Nerves? A heat rash?
Whatever it was, it was on that spot that he wanted to center his mouth.
“Dr. Silsby will be taking my calls,” he heard the doc say, and made himself focus on the conversation again. “I’ve left the number where I can be reached on my desk, in the event of an emergency. And, of course, I’ll have my pager with me.”
Woodrow straightened, his gut clenching. The doc was leaving town? He glanced at the receptionist, and she shot him a surreptitious wink. Knowing he’d best slip out before the receptionist boogered up his one chance of catching the doctor, he eased to his feet and slipped out the door. At the bank of elevators, he paused, hoping to corner the doc there on her way down.
Seconds later he heard the office door open and stole a glance that way. The doc was walking toward him, her head bent as she dug through a purse that hung from a slim shoulder.
He punched the Down button and the door opened. He slapped a hand against it and stepped to the side. “Going down?” he asked.
She glanced up, startled, as if unaware of his presence until that moment. “Why…yes. Thank you.”
She pulled a key ring from her purse, then let the bag fall to swing at her side as she slipped past him. Woodrow released the door and stepped in after her. “First floor?”
“Yes, please,” she replied, then shifted her gaze to watch the panel of lights that would mark their descent.
He punched the button, then moved to stand beside her. She took a discreet step to the side, keeping a safe distance from him. Cautious, he decided. Probably wise, since she lived in a big city like Dallas. As the car slowly descended, her scent drifted his way. That clean, sterile scent associated with doctors’ offices and, beneath it, just a hint of something floral, more feminine.
When they reached the first floor, he placed a hand against the door and stepped back, permitting her to exit first.
Averting her gaze, she murmured, “Thank you,” and swept past him.
He caught up with her in two strides, then slowed and matched his step to hers. “Are you Dr. Elizabeth Montgomery?”
She tightened her fingers on her purse strap, but she didn’t look his way or slow. “Yes.”
They reached the front entrance and Woodrow held the door open for her. Again, she murmured her thanks and swept past him, without making eye contact.
Frustrated, he strode after her. “If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m running rather late, as it is.”
She reached a car, a Mercedes, and fumbled with the automated lock on her key ring. He noticed that her fingers were shaking.
“I’m not a mugger,” he said, hoping to put her fears at rest. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
She managed to unlock the door and slip inside. “As I said, I’m running late. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Woodrow caught the door before she could shut it in his face. “About your sister,” he added pointedly.
She looked at him then, her blue eyes sharpening behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “You know my sister?”
He stepped around the door and braced a hand along its top. “No. Not personally.”
She gulped and turned her face away to stare through the windshield, her skin paler now, the knuckles on the hand she gripped the steering wheel with a pearly white. “I haven’t seen her in years. She—” She clamped her lips together and angled her head, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did she send you? Is she in trouble again?”
Woodrow blew out a long breath, unsure how best to proceed. “No. Well,” he amended, frowning, “I wouldn’t call it trouble exactly.”
“If it’s money she wants,” she told him coolly, “you can tell her she can come and ask for it herself.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. “She doesn’t need your money.”
“Well, what does she want?” she snapped impatiently. “That’s usually why she contacts me.”
“Well…she…she…” He scowled, trying to think of a gentler way to deliver the news. Unable to think of anything, other than the bald truth, he muttered glumly, “Ma’am, your sister is dead.”
The blood drained from her face. “Dead? My sister is dead?”
His expression grim,