An Irresistible Bachelor (An Unforgettable Lady #2)(67)

When he was alone, he finished his drink and then went to look for Callie.

Even if he was out of sorts, there was nowhere else he wanted to be but with her.



A week later, Callie returned to the house following a productive afternoon with the portrait. After having worked her way around the outside of the painting, she was now far enough in so that she was cleaning Nathaniel’s face. Even with the dirt and grime, he had been handsome, if rather dour, but revealed in all his glory, he was resplendent. His eyes were a dark mahogany, his cheeks a gentle pink, his hair thick with a multitude of browns. Copley had brought out the best in his subject, but she suspected that there had been a lot to work with. And with the old varnish gone, his brooding expression was less intense.

As she opened the back door, the resounding silence in the kitchen reminded her it was Thomas’s day off. This meant Mrs. Walker would be out to dinner, and Callie grinned. Although she and Jack had plans to go to the movies and have dinner somewhere, maybe they should just stay home. It seemed a damn shame to waste the privacy.

She glanced at her new watch. She was getting used to it and it did serve the purpose of telling her when it was lunchtime. More than anything, though, she liked it because it made her think of Jack.

Sitting down at the table, she started to leaf through the paper, stroking Arthur’s ear with her free hand.

An hour later, she looked at the watch again and started pacing around the kitchen. Jack was never late, and he’d told her he’d be home an hour and a half ago. She was wondering whether she should try him at the office when the phone rang.

Even though she wasn’t in the habit of answering calls at the house, she picked up the receiver, hoping it was him.

“Hello?”

“Callie, it’s Jack. I need your help.”

In the background, she heard muffled voices and the sound of something shrill. Were those alarms?

“What happened?” she asked, her hand coming up to her forehead.

“I totaled my car.”

Her lungs immediately stopped functioning.

Calm, stay calm, she told herself. At least he can still pick up the phone.

“Oh, God. Are you—”

“I’m fine except I broke my damn arm. Can you come pick me up? I’m at Beth Israel.”

“Where? And what’s around here to drive?”

“Take the other Jag.”

He told her where the keys were and gave her directions to the medical center. As she flew out the door, she was imagining all kinds of what-ifs with horrid consequences. The way he drove, he could have done a lot more damage to himself than just ending up with a cast on his arm.

“The other Jag” was a convertible, and, as luck would have it, a stick shift. As she hiccuped down the driveway, she was hoping that enough of the transmission system would be left by the time she got to Boston to get them home again. The trip was interminable. She was a reluctant driver under the best of circumstances, and stress didn’t improve her skills. Behind the wheel of a powerhouse engine, working the clutch and accelerator with all the finesse of a student driver, she was no Jeff Gordon.

A lifetime later, she pulled up to the emergency wing of the hospital’s massive complex. She figured she’d have to ditch the car to find Jack, but then he came limping out of the double doors, his arm in a sling. She jammed on the brakes and leapt from the car.

“You hurt more than your arm,” she said, eyeing the bandage at his temple.

“You should see the DB9.” He shook his head and winced. “It looks like it’s been through a trash compactor. This morning it was a sports car. Now it’s an accordion.”

Callie opened the door for him and he grimaced as he carefully slid inside. She ran around and got in, but hesitated before pulling away from the curb because she wanted to take a good look at him. His jacket was around his shoulders, his tie was hanging out of his pocket, and his untucked shirt had some dried blood on the collar. She wondered what kinds of bruises were hidden under his clothes.

“Can we go now?” He put his head back against the rest and closed his eyes. He looked tired and uncomfortable, but not as if he were on death’s door by any stretch.

As soon as she was convinced he was all right, she got pissed.

“What the hell did you hit?”

He winced as her voice bounced around the inside of the car.

“How do you know it was my fault?” he asked quietly.

“Because I’ve been in a car with you. Damn it, you could have been killed.”

“First of all, I wasn’t. And I know this because I hurt all over. Secondly, the driver that swerved into my lane had a thing or two to do with the accident. Now can we please go?”

Biting back a curse, she gripped the steering wheel and eased them onto Brookline Avenue.

“How did it happen?” Callie grumbled.

“I was on Storrow Drive. Some guy in an SUV shot into my lane, and when I tried to get around him, I hit the guardrail, did a three-sixty, I think, and ended up on the esplanade.” He turned his head and looked at her. “That’s the strip of green between Storrow and the Charles River. Usually it’s reserved for pedestrians, so you can imagine I wasn’t the only one surprised to find myself in a car on the jogging path. Thank God no one else was hurt.”

She shook her head. “You drive too fast.”