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  “Scott?” Jeanette pleaded with her eyes and voice.

  Scott uncurled his lean body from the sofa. “Old Uncle Scott will read to Little Bits. Y’all stay here and enjoy the night air.”

  Scott winked as he passed by on his way to Brigitte’s bedroom. Thank God for Scott. So dependable and unflappable in awkward situations.

  When the French doors on her daughter’s room closed with a solid click, Jeanette glanced over at Charles, who sat rigidly in a wicker chair and stared out over the gas-lit courtyard.

  “Okay, what’s wrong?” Jeanette’s voice sounded strained, even to her own ears.

  Charles turned. “Where do you see our relationship heading?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will you ever cut yourself loose long enough from your studies, your child, your dead husband, and your dead husband’s friend to concentrate on our relationship?”

  “Charles?” No, don’t whimper, Bootsie. Try again. Clearing her throat, concentrating on relaxing the tight muscles that threatened to strangle her, she tried again. “I wasn’t aware that I ignored you, Charles. Is that how you feel?”

  “Damn. Answering a question with a question. You’d make an excellent lawyer.” He stood up, turned, then leaned against the balcony. Studying his shoes, he said, “Let me put my cards on the table. I want us to move in together, soon. I want to take our relationship to a more intimate one, make it 24/7 rather than when you can fit me in between all the other demands on your time. Brigitte is going to be a major obstacle. She hasn’t warmed up to me the way you said she would — not like she is with Scott.”

  Lonely little boy hurt colored Charles’s voice. Jeanette had heard enough about his family life to know he’d been trotted out on special occasions when his wealthy family entertained. Poor little rich boy. No wonder he didn’t understand about real family life, he’d never had one. Brigitte and she could change that. It would take time — and patience.

  “Ah, Charles.” She moved toward him, arms open. “Brigitte is a little girl who lost a Daddy she barely even remembers. Scott and I are all she has known. Just give her time.” She put her arms around him. He hesitated, then enclosed her in his, his chin resting on her dark curls. “You could try to be more playful with her. Read to her. Attend her sporting activities. You know — family things.”

  “You think that would help?” Charles tightened his hold on her. He kissed her ear; an answering tingle traveled down her spine.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  Charles’s body relaxed against hers. She sighed. One crisis averted. She wasn’t sure where the relationship with Charles was heading, but she definitely wasn’t ready to deal with ultimatums. And, honestly, she couldn’t answer his question, because she didn’t know the answer herself.

  All she did know was that Charles was different, exciting, and touched a place in her that had been encased in ice since Paul. For now that would have to be enough.

  ———

  “Uncle Scott?” Brigitte’s serious little face looked trustingly into his. Her mouth twisted as if she’d eaten a sour apple. “Is my momma gonna marry Charles?”

  “Um, I don’t know, Little Bits.” Scott looked at a spot over the head of one of the two loves of his life, the other being her mother. “Do you want her to?”

  Scott held his breath, preparing himself for the hurt which might come with his little angel’s next words.

  “Nope.” A mulish look came over the now not-so-angelic face. “He’s not daddy material.”

  Scott raised his eyebrow as he looked into brown eyes so like his dead friend’s that he had to keep from howling out loud at the loss he felt. “And just what is ‘daddy material?’”

  “You are, Uncle Scott.” Then the angel yawned. As she drifted to sleep, sheltered by his arms, she mumbled, “I want you to be my daddy.”

  “And I want that too, Little Bits.” Scott spoke quietly so as not to wake the tired little girl. “I want that so very much.”

  He sat by the bed as Brigitte slept.

  He couldn’t remember a time since Paul’s death when he hadn’t wanted to take the burdens off the petite shoulders of his best friend’s widow. She was easy to love, her delicate beauty only complemented by her kind and giving nature.

  When had he fallen in love? He couldn’t pin it down exactly — but he felt as if he’d loved her forever, maybe even as far back as when Paul had first introduced them. He just knew he wanted to make Jeanette LaFleur his wife and Brigitte his little girl.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on the depths of Jeanette’s grief. There’d been times when he thought she’d never want another man again. But he’d waited. One thing he and Paul had been good at was waiting.

  But then, Charles Carter swept into her life. The prestigious New Orleans lawyer was the complete opposite of everything she’d ever loved in Paul LaFleur. But deep down, Scott knew she wouldn’t marry a guy like Charles. The rich easterner was too stuck on himself, too concerned with what people thought of him, and too materialistic. Too critical. Too cold.

  Tonight was a perfect example. Charles was in the other room, monopolizing Jeanette’s time and attention, while Scott read bedtime stories, but Scott knew the woman better than Charles ever would. She needed a man who would be a supportive partner, a passionate lover and a selfless friend. Charles didn’t have it in him to be all those things. Scott did.

  When Jeanette woke up and realized it, Scott intended to be there — waiting.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three weeks later.

  Jeanette glanced around her and sighed. Lots of hard work had gone into this “living lens” training session for ophthalmologists — most of it Jeanette’s.

  As Walter Monnier had intimated that first day, her predecessors in the Clinical Coordinator job had been lacking in either brain power or work ethic. Nothing had been organized at all. She’d been thrust into a situation where, simultaneously, she had to learn her new duties and arrange this special training program — promised almost five months ago at the annual convention. Needless to say, her other duties had gotten the short shrift. After this evening’s final reception for the attendees, she could get back to mastering her real job. From what she’d managed to glean, the patient records were in as much of a mess as the plans for this event. Jeanette had a long hard row to hoe to get the clinic running efficiently.

  The fact that Walter had been right about the “bimbos” as he called her predecessors didn’t pan out with his other prediction. Dr. Rutherford had never even intimated a personal interest. He continued to be charming, courtly almost, and truly grateful for her intelligence and hard work.

  She glowed, remembering his words after the continental breakfast and before his opening remarks.

  “Jeanette, my dear.” Rutherford had leaned over the hand he held in his, kissing the tips of her fingers. “Without your diligence and enthusiasm, this program would never have come off. Thank you.”

  She’d been walking on air ever since.

  She checked her watch — 11:45 a.m. It would soon be time for lunch. She rose from her seat at the registration table, collected the name tags of the no-shows, packed them up, then placed the box in the closet that the Medical Center conference facility had provided for supplies. Walking briskly, she entered the Conference banquet area.

  Unlike most meeting facilities, the dining area of the New Orleans’ Medical Conference Center was laid out like a buffet. The attendees of any conference being held that day could go through the buffet line and choose from assorted salads, hot food, and desserts. There was also a grill and a deli for the finicky eaters. After obtaining their food, the attendees went to assigned rooms off to the side of the buffet line. There, waiters and waitresses brought drink orders and whisked away plates.

  Jeanette loved the concept; it allowed people to choose what they ate and probably saved a lot of banquet rubber chicken du jour from being tossed out.

  Peeking into their assigned
dining room, Jeanette spied some familiar faces. She had been so busy when Drs. Shriver, Warren and Payton checked in that morning that she hadn’t gotten a chance to speak with them.

  “Ah, Jeanette,” Dr. Shriver called out. “You caught us. We sneaked out to get a head start on the food. Grab something and join us.”

  “I think I will.”

  Jeanette hurried to the salad line. She prepared a quick Caesar salad and grabbed a breadstick. The desserts were tempting, but she’d wait. Her stomach was tight from anxiety. She looked forward to sitting and relaxing with her former professors from the Med Center. Maybe, she’d feel like a dessert once she calmed down.

  As she walked back to the dining area, other conference attendees started to stream toward the food.

  “I see why y’all got a jump on the others,” Jeanette gasped, as she sat at the table and observed the swarm of ravenous doctors buzzing around the food. “That crowd acts like they haven’t eaten for a week.”

  “It’s boredom.” Dr. Payton waved her fork in the general direction of her peers chattering in line at the food stations. “Most of those guys over there have forgotten more than Rutherford knows.”

  “Now, Maggie, behave,” admonished Dr. Warren. “Don’t let your dislike of Rutherford color your objectivity. You’ve got to admit his Epi study stats look very impressive.”

  “I don’t have to admit anything.” Maggie Payton bit down on her breadstick and tore off a chunk. “How you can stand by while that low-class charlatan takes the credit for a concept you created, I’ll never understand.”

  Dr. Warren turned red as he concentrated on his beef tips. From past experience with the two, Jeanette knew he wouldn’t defend himself. Margaret Payton wore the pants in that relationship.

  “Maggie, you know I went through residency with Byron,” said Dr. Shriver.

  “Yes, we know that Austin,” she said. “You’re like a broken record about it. It makes no difference if you went through training with him or not. Everything I said is true.” Ticking off on her fingers, she continued, “One, he is low class. He rose from the slums of Desire.”

  Desire was a housing project. Even during Rutherford’s youth, it still wasn’t what Jeanette’s momma would’ve called a “good” neighborhood.

  “He’s come a long way from there,” Jeanette said.

  “My point exactly.” Dr. Shriver beamed at Jeanette and patted her arm. “He’s brilliant, you know.”

  Maggie Payton snorted, then recited in a sing-song voice, “Went to Emory on scholarship. Top of his medical school class. Awarded more research grants than any other medical resident in the history of Emory. Yadda, yadda, yadda.” She sniffed loudly. “Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Two, Rutherford is a leech. He got his suckers into Larry, here, pumped him for all he was worth, then took the idea for the living lens to the grant committee before old gullible Larry could say ‘boo’.”

  “That’s enough, Maggie.” Larry Warren’s face burned. “I never would’ve taken the project to the grant people, and you know it. I’m not sure how he’s getting these stats, because I’m seeing some of his people in our clinics with failed grafts. The procedure is inherently risky. You know it. As do most of the other doctors here.”

  “Then why are they here, if they don’t believe it works?” Jeanette asked, filing away the info Dr. Warren just related on Epi study patients visiting the other Med Center clinics. It was the first she’d heard of that and couldn’t believe it.

  “Because they want to see how he’s doing it,” Dr. Shriver said. “Maybe there is an outside chance that he has perfected the procedure. His patent depends solely on his unique preservative measures and the lessening of the antigenic reaction of the recipients to the donor corneal button. If he has beaten the odds, they don’t want to be left behind when patients start demanding it.” Dr. Shriver smiled at his own patently cynical take on his peers’ motivations.

  “Oh.” Jeanette’s gut tightened. The salad looked a lot less appetizing. Dessert was a dim memory.

  “Jeanette, don’t tell me that you haven’t seen failed grafts in the surgical follow-ups. I won’t believe it.” Dr. Payton leaned across the table.

  “I’ve been so busy with organizing this training program and trying to put together patient records that I haven’t seen that many patients. My job duties are to schedule the surgeries, which I have managed to do. Keep the records, which are quite frankly in a mess — my predecessors figured that throwing the paperwork in a file drawer sufficed for medical records administration. And, schedule follow-up and troubleshoot, which I haven’t been able to do at all.” Jeanette shrugged. “The other techs see the patients. Really, I’m just a glorified paper pusher.”

  However, now she vowed to get more involved in seeing follow-up patients, that is, once she got the records in some order so she could figure out just which patients should be seen.

  “Interesting.” Dr. Payton looked around the table. “Then where in the hell is good ole Byron getting his stats if the paperwork is in such a holy mess?”

  No one answered.

  ———

  Dr. Payton’s question haunted Jeanette the rest of the day. Obviously, Dr. Rutherford had been keeping his own records. Or, maybe the follow-up records were more organized than the presurgical histories and work-ups.

  After her third day of work, when she’d begun to realize what a mess the medical records were in, Jeanette had started to set up a new patient records system. Then she had to drop it to work on this program. Well, it would be the first thing on her “to-do” list. Accurate patient records were not only necessary, but prudent. What if someone sued the doctor for alleged malpractice? Inaccurate and sloppily kept records wouldn’t help the defense.

  Standing in the room set aside for the post-program cocktail hour, she shifted from foot to foot. Her shoes were killing her. She’d be glad to go home and put her feet up. Between her mental and physical distress, she felt exhausted. Thank God she only had a couple of hours to go.

  “Ah, Jeanette, my dear.” Dr. Rutherford’s smooth bass tones came from behind her. She turned to see him approaching. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Accompanying the doctor was a man she’d caught glimpses of several times during the day. He hadn’t checked in at her table and seemed to be a special guest of Dr. Rutherford’s.

  “Jeanette, allow me to introduce you to Dr. Manuel Lopez of the One World medical relief organization. Manuel, this beautiful young lady is my very important right hand and the chief organizer of today’s highly successful program, Jeanette LaFleur. Now, you two get acquainted. I need to speak to someone before he leaves.” Dr. Rutherford moved off into the crowd, leaving Jeanette to deal with a total stranger, one who for some reason made her uncomfortable.

  “Buenas tarde, Senora LaFleur.” Dr. Lopez’s eyes glanced toward her left hand. “Senor LaFleur is a very lucky man to have such a beautiful and talented wife.”

  Dr. Lopez bent over her hand, then placed a wet kiss on her ring finger, still prominently displaying the LaFleur family heirloom ring. Rejecting the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt, Jeanette pasted a smile on her face, reminding herself that this man was her boss’s guest. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Lopez. I’ve heard of One World. Sister Mary Cecille at my old parish school speaks highly of the work you’ve done in Mexico. How do you know Dr. Rutherford?”

  “We met when he worked on one of One World’s projects in Puerto Rico. We found we shared many of the same ideals and goals. We’ve been friends ever since.” Lopez’ hungry gaze swept her body. “Is Senor LaFleur not here this evening? Maybe you’d like to sit with us two old foxes.”

  “I’m a widow, Doctor, and I really need to mingle, but thank you.”

  Bootsie, chalk up a couple of more “Hail Marys” this week at mass. Father George is going to wonder what this job has done to your morals, if you don’t watch out.

  Jeanette turned then walked away, leaving Dr. Lopez to stare after he
r. She’d been rude, but he made her skin crawl. Her destination was anywhere away from Dr. Lopez. She couldn’t understand how Dr. Rutherford could leave her to that, that…

  Lecher, Bootsie, the word is lecher as in reprobate, wolf, libertine.

  “Hit on you, did he?” Dr. Alex Randolph’s sneering voice halted Jeanette’s flight. “Old Manuel has a thing for dark-eyed ladies. Must be his Latin blood.”

  “Dr. Randolph, enjoying the reception?” Pasting her much-abused social smile back on her face, Jeanette turned to meet Alex Randolph head on.

  Jeanette avoided Alex, one of a series of surgical residents assigned to the Epi Study, almost as much as she avoided Walter Monnier, but for different reasons. At least, Monnier was open and up front about what he wanted from Jeanette. As for Randolph, she hadn’t quite figured out what his goal was. All she knew was he had the “sly and hungry look” of a Cassius. She didn’t want to end up like Caesar.

  She’d discovered one thing during the time she’d known him — Randolph thought Rutherford had made a mistake in hiring her. It wasn’t a guess on her part. She’d actually overheard him tell Walter Monnier when the two men hadn’t realized she was around. She still hadn’t figured out why, though.

  “Yes, I am enjoying myself.” Randolph gestured, the glass he held in his hand sloshing liquid on the floor. “Quite a spread. Only the best for old Byron. You’d better run along before Manuel catches up to you, little girl. In fact, you should run and never look back. You’re in way over your head in this…”

  “Ah, Alex, monopolizing Jeanette?” Dr. Rutherford’s silky dark voice cut into whatever his drunken resident had been about to say. “Jeanette, come along, my dear. Manuel didn’t get to explain about his new One World project in Brazil. I’m sure you will find it utterly fascinating.”

  The looks exchanged between Randolph and Rutherford set Jeanette’s nerves on edge. What had the inebriated Randolph been about to say when he’d been interrupted? How was she in over her head? Her inexperience? Or, was he warning her against the obviously on-the-prowl Lopez? Her already aching head now throbbed. She needed to find a quiet place to sort this out.