An Irresistible Bachelor(78)

"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-if's 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 cat

"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 kind 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

"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."

"I know."

"You're too aggressive."

"I know."

"You could have killed yourself," she repeated, irritated by his laconic responses. "And don't say I know."

"Okay."

She shot a glare across the seat. In the glow from the dash, she saw that his eyes were closed. He looked beat and the urge to yell at him faded. Focusing on the road, she figured she would get him home and put him right to bed.

Assuming he didn't fall asleep in the car.

When she pulled into Buona Fortuna's drive, she thought she was going to have to wake him up, but he lifted his head and let out a long sigh. Carefully parking the Jag in the garage, she wondered if she was going to have to help him get out, but he stood up on his own and slowly limped out into the night air. Closing the garage door, she noted that Mrs. Walker's car was back and wondered what the woman's response was going to be. Here was her perfect son, all banged up. She was probably going to throw a fit.

As Callie came to his side, Jack was staring up at the stars with a thoughtful expression, his good arm cradling his broken one in spite of the sling around his neck.