03_The Doctor's Perfect Match Read Free Page A

couldn’t afford to take offense. She needed to get well, and it would be foolish to pass up free medical help.
    But if he pulled out a stethoscope and aimed for her chest, she intended to smack him.
     
    Talk about weird coincidences.
    As Christopher washed his hands, drying them on one of the disposable guest towels beside the sink in the rest room, he wondered what the odds were of crossing paths again with the woman in the restaurant.
    They had to be minuscule.
    Unless more than chance was involved.
    So often in the past, occurrences he’d written off as coincidence had turned out, in retrospect, to be part of God’s plan for him. This could be one of them. Perhaps it was best to put the situation in the Lord’s hands.
    As he approached the foyer, his shoes silent on the large Chinese area rug in the dining room, he saw that Marci’s head was resting against the wall, exposing the slender, delicate column of her throat. Her eyes were closed, the curve of her long lashes sweeping her cheeks in a graceful arc.
    His step faltered. On Saturday, he’d been distracted by her great figure and fabulous legs, but today they were camouflaged by a worn, faded pink robe that covered her neck totoes—and directed his attention to her face. Her halo of blond hair softened a chin that was a tad too sharp, while well-defined cheekbones gave her features a slight angular appearance, adding a dash of character that kept her from being just another Kewpie-doll blonde. Full, appealing lips completed the picture.
    In other words, Marci Clay was the kind of woman who would catch any man’s eye.
    But perhaps not for the right reasons, Christopher acknowledged. And her reaction to his appreciative perusal Saturday night indicated she knew that.
    Her eyelids fluttered open, propelling him forward. If she caught him staring again, he suspected she’d hustle him out the door faster than a sand crab could scuttle back to its hole.
    That suspicion was confirmed by the wariness in her deep green irises as he approached. While he couldn’t help noticing the flecks of gold that sparked in their depths as he pulled up a chair beside her, he did his best to ignore them.
    Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he withdrew a disposable thermometer from his bag and tore off the wrapping. “Open up. We’ll have a reading in sixty seconds.”
    He slid it under her tongue, and as they waited he took her wrist to check her pulse. Strong, if a bit fast. No problem there. He was more concerned about the subtle tremors beneath his fingertips. They could be due to weakness. More likely, though, they were fever-related chills. From the heat seeping through his glove, he knew he wasn’t going to like her temperature.
    Withdrawing the thermometer, he checked the reading. The number didn’t surprise him. “A hundred and two.”
    She grimaced.
    After slipping the thermometer into a small waste bag, he gave her his full attention. “Any idea what’s going on?”
    She shook her head.
    “When did this start?”
    “Yesterday.”
    “Anything hurt?”
    “Throat.”
    “Any other symptoms?”
    Again she shook her head.
    Withdrawing a tongue depressor and penlight from his bag, he scooted closer to her. “Let’s have a look.”
    As she opened her mouth, he inserted the tongue depressor and flashed the light to the back of her throat. Swelling and severe inflammation. Depositing the depressor in the waste bag, he reached over to gently feel the lymph nodes in her neck. Puffy.
    She winced and tried to pull away. “Hurts.”
    “Sorry.” He let her go and leaned back. “I think we may be dealing with a case of strep throat.”
    She squeezed her eyes shut, and he watched her lashes grow spiky with moisture.
    “Hey, it’s not the end of the world.” To his surprise, the reassurance came out soft and husky. He cleared his throat. “You’ll be back on your feet in a few days with the right care.”
    “I don’t have a few days.” She opened her eyes,