The Marriage Experiment

By then, she’d begun to recover from the trauma of coming face to face with her ex-husband, even to relax a little, which was never a good idea around Grant. But he’d seemed more than happy to keep his distance, and when Henry had asked her to dance, she’d accepted. There’d been no reason not to. He was a good, if conservative, dancer, just about all the other guests had been up on their feet, and what better way to celebrate the wedding of two well-known, well-respected Springdale residents than in a turn around the dance floor imported for the occasion?

People had already been talking, of course, even then. Those who’d known Grant in the past hadn’t forgotten him, or his stormy marriage to the chairman of the hospital board’s daughter, and they’d been more than willing to supply the details to those meeting him for the first time. She’d have had to be both blind and stupid not to have noticed the sly glances directed at her, or the way conversation had suddenly stopped whenever she’d come within earshot. If up-staging the bride and groom had been his intent, Grant had succeeded in spectacular fashion.

But Olivia had come a long way since she’d watched him walk out on their marriage. In the seven years since, she’d grown up, and no longer hid behind the high stone walls of her father’s house. So she’d held her head high and smiled determinedly as Henry had swept her around the floor in a precisely correct fox-trot.

If only the music hadn’t changed…if only Henry didn’t feel that jive was something best reserved for leather-clad delinquents….

Sighing, she reached for the loofah and scrubbed languidly at her right leg. If only she’d had the good sense to say no! But Grant had caught her off-guard, stepping in the moment Henry had released her and grasping her by both hands. “Care to show ’em how it’s done, sweet face?” he murmured.

“I really must protest,” Henry began.

“Must you really?” Grant replied with a grin. “And how do you propose to do that, Henry, old sport? Knock my block off?”

Even if he’d been so inclined, at five-ten and only a hundred and seventy pounds or so, Henry was no match for a man of Grant’s build. Comparing the two, Olivia experienced a shocking sense of déjà vu as she recalled the first time she’d seen Grant without any clothes.

Doctors weren’t supposed to be so broad-shouldered or narrow-waisted. They usually weren’t blessed with muscular arms, long, athletic legs, and a chest tailor-made to take a woman’s breath away. They were supposed to be studious and serious and kind and safe and, like Henry, a little bit stooped around the shoulders. And what an M.D. looked like stark naked wasn’t supposed to be the first thing a woman thought about when confronted by him.

Henry, bless his soul, didn’t have a clue about what she was thinking. “Olivia? Do you want me to get rid of this fellow?”

“It’s all right, Henry,” she said, aware that she was mesmerized by Grant’s laughing blue eyes and even more shamefully aware of the sudden rush of moist electric heat dampening her underwear. “I can handle this myself. If Dr. Madison would like to dance, I’m willing to accommodate him.”

Accommodate him, indeed! And far more intimately than Henry could begin to guess! Consigning self-preservation to another time, she let Grant draw her into the seething, insistent tempo of “Proud Mary”, and as if it had been only yesterday, they rediscovered the wordless affinity of two people who knew one another so well that their bodies instinctively interacted as one.

How was it possible for a dance to be so charged with vibrant energy and yet to smolder with such sultry tension? Half the time he sent her spinning away from him, with nothing but the sure grip of his fingers to anchor her. And she let herself go, confident that he wouldn’t lose her, that she wouldn’t stumble, that, eventually, he’d bring her back to him. As he did, drawing her hard and close to him so that their thighs locked and their hips rocked in grinding, hypnotic motion.

Then, when she thought she could bear it no longer and was sure everyone around them knew she was melting for him, he’d fling her away again, turn her so that her spine rubbed against his chest, pass his hand around his waist and offer it behind his back so that, as she swung by him, her arm brushed against him and her fingers wanted dreadfully to drift down and linger on the taut curve of his buttocks.

Oh, he was a devil in disguise, no doubt about it, and she a mindless fool for not putting an end to matters when she had the chance! But, too dazzled to sense the danger, she remained with him and let him draw her into the next dance, a slow, slow number which invited—no, which guaranteed intimacy and full body contact—and he crooned softly in her ear This Guy’s In Love. Words to break her heart, because he’d never really been in love with her.

To hide the sudden pang of regret which blurred her vision, she closed her eyes and dropped her head to his shoulder. He gave a little growl of satisfaction and, folding her hand against his heart, tilted his hips so that she couldn’t possibly miss noticing how thoroughly aroused he was. Which was what it always came back to, with Grant. Sex, sex, and sex. As if that was enough to make her forget the hurt and betrayal he’d dealt out to her.

So, to let him know that she wasn’t about to be seduced again, she reared back and practically shrieked, “How dare you, Grant Madison?”

“Well,” he muttered, obviously chagrined, “it’s not as if I took the damned thing to obedience school and had it trained to perform on command! When a woman presses her nice soft body up against a man, he’s likely to react.”

Too late, she realized that the music had stopped. Had the people closest overheard the exchange? she wondered, appalled. Were the titters and giggles and one or two outright guffaws directed at her, or were they just the normal reactions of people enjoying a wedding party?

Surely they were. But did she comport herself with dignity, as befitting a woman of her position in the community, and simply walk away from Grant Madison and his deplorable behavior? Oh, no, not Olivia Margaret Whitfield! As if they hadn’t already put on enough of a floor show, she hauled off and slapped him across the cheek as a grand finale.

Groaning at the recollection, she drew in a long breath and submerged her head beneath the water, wishing she could drown herself. How would she ever face people again, after such a performance? Worse still, how would she face him, as she’d undoubtedly have to do if, as he’d claimed, he’d be acting as Justin Greer’s locum for the next two months?

CHAPTER TWO

FOR the next two days, Olivia literally hid from the world. Turning off her phone, she buried herself in tasks about the gatehouse, spending Sunday morning painting the powder room at the back of the hall, and the afternoon weeding the flower garden bordering the patio.

On Monday, thanks to the miracle of modern computers, she was able to put in a full day’s work without once stepping outside her front door. But when she found herself actually planning to lie about not feeling well rather than attend a scheduled meeting at Springdale General on the Tuesday, she knew the self-indulgence had gone on long enough.

“Grow up, Olivia!” she muttered. “After Saturday’s wedding debacle, showing your face in public again won’t be easy, but you’ve survived worse.”

An hour later, she wasn’t sure that was true.

“Hear your husband’s back in town,” Ingrid from the deli greeted her, when she stopped by on her way to the hospital. “Hear your father’s fit to be tied about it, too.”

There wasn’t much Ingrid didn’t hear in the course of a week. The little tea shop at the back of her premises was well patronized by local matrons and a hive of gossip, even when there was nothing much to talk about. The return of the renegade Dr. Madison would have made front page news even if he’d come sneaking into town under a cover of darkness. Olivia wasn’t the only one who’d found his slow, sexy smile and hypnotically persuasive voice irresistible.

“I’ll take a jar of black olives, please, and a small carton of the bean salad,” she said stiffly, hoping to nip the conversation in the bud. “And, just for the record, he’s my ex-husband.”

But picking up subtle hints never had been one of Ingrid’s strong points. “Don’t think folks haven’t noticed, hon! There’s a whole flurry of social events suddenly being planned and, as usual, the first one out of the gate is Mrs. Bowles. Just yesterday, she booked me to cater a garden party and let slip that Dr. Madison’s name’s at the top of her list of invitees. And I guess we all know why.” She weighed the salad, slapped a lid on it, and hitched her bosom on the edge of the glass-fronted display case of imported cheeses, a sure sign she was settling in for the duration. “She didn’t shell out the better part of eight thousand dollars to make her daughter presentable just to have her sitting home and withering on the vine, as it were. Now that Joanne’s got the braces off her teeth and shed all that extra weight, Mrs. Bowles is looking to fix her up with a rich husband. And if the car your ex is driving is anything to go by, he’s not exactly on the bread line.”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that, since I have absolutely no idea what sort of car he’s driving, nor any interest in finding out.”

“No,” Ingrid said slyly. “I guess you’ve been too busy checking out his other assets. Having second thoughts about the divorce, are you?”

“Certainly not!”

“Probably just as well. From all I’ve heard, he’s a bit more than a woman like you can handle.”

The way Ingrid looked at her, she might have been the offspring of a troll trying to pass for human.

“Thank you very much!” Olivia said, and made her escape. But, instead of heading directly to the hospital, she detoured by way of the park and found a bench in a quiet corner overlooking the river. She needed a few moments to collect herself before running the risk of facing anyone else because, in her present state, she could only be described as a mess.

Why had Ingrid’s last comment hurt so much when it coincided exactly with the conclusion she herself had arrived at years ago? Why did it matter that every eligible woman within hailing distance was setting her sights on Grant Madison, or that invitations were being issued and she probably wouldn’t be receiving any? And why couldn’t she forget how it had felt to be in his arms again, to feel his heart beating beneath her hand?

She knew the answer and it had nothing to do with falling in love again—at least, not with him. It had to do with his all-too-accurate assessment of her relationship with Henry.

She was a woman in her prime. She should be married and pregnant, with one or two children already hanging onto her skirts. She should have a warm, exciting body sleeping next to her in bed each night.

Instead, she had Henry, who’d implied more than once that he was in love with her. But the thought of actually making love with him left her cold, and he fortunately was too much the gentleman to press the point. Unlike Grant….

Unbidden, the memories of that long-ago summer came sweeping back. She’d been just two months shy of her twentieth birthday when they’d met, and to say that she’d fallen in love with the handsome new intern was an absurd understatement. She’d literally tumbled headlong into a passion so hot and intense it had nearly killed her.

On their third date, Grant had rented a boat and they’d spent the afternoon drifting down the river. Because of the heat, she’d worn a white sun dress with nothing underneath but a pair of cotton panties, and he’d worn denim cut-offs and a blue golf shirt. Spreading out her skirt, she’d reclined against the boat cushions, rested her head against one raised arm, and let the fingers of her other hand trail through the water, all the time watching him through half-closed eyes, admiring the play of muscles beneath the smooth tanned skin of his arms and legs, and very much aware that he was watching her.

A few miles past the town limits, he’d steered into a quiet backwater, tethered the boat, and led her up the bank toward a huge old weeping willow. She’d sensed the urgency in him, had seen the smoldering passion in his eyes. When he’d drawn her down beside him in the long, sweet grass, she’d known he wasn’t going to stop at a kiss or two, just as she’d known she wasn’t going to object at his wanting more from her.

Even all these years later, remembering made her blush. How willingly she’d sprawled beside him, with her skirt up around her waist and the straps of her dress pulled down to reveal her breasts, and her underwear hanging off one ankle! How brazenly she’d let him pleasure her, moaning low in her throat as he’d skimmed his lips over the slope of her shoulder and at excruciating leisure taken each pebbled nipple in his mouth! And how trustingly she’d opened to him, her flesh so slick and eager and his so hard and hot and big that the pain as he’d entered her had barely had time to register before it had been thrust aside by raging passion.

Today, the sun shot brilliant silver arrows through her closed eyelids, but that day the light had been the softly diffused green of a tranquil, underwater sort of world. After the loving, she’d lain there for the longest time, waiting for him to say the right words, the only words a woman wants to hear when she’s given herself unconditionally to a man.

Instead, the silence had lengthened and left her wondering if he’d found her a terrible disappointment. When she’d finally found the courage to look at him, he’d been stretched beside her with his head propped up on his hand and a lazy smile on his face. “Hey,” he’d murmured.

Hey, what? she’d almost cried. What does that mean? And what happens next?

What had happened next was that he’d climbed back into his cut-offs as casually as though he was quite used to baring his all in the great outdoors and, glancing at his watch, reached down and hauled her to her feet. “We’d better head back,” he’d said, planting a swift kiss on her mouth. “I’m due at the hospital in another hour.”

There’d been grass stains on her dress, and she’d cried all the way home as aftermath had set in. “Everyone will know what we’ve done,” she’d wailed.

“How?” he’d said. “I’m not planning on spreading the news.”

“They’ll be able to tell, just by looking at me!”

He’d bent over the oars and grinned in that carefree way of his. “You don’t look any different to me, sweet face,” he’d said.

She’d been devastated. How could he appear so untouched by what they’d shared, when she would never again be the same?

Her father had sensed the change in her immediately, and when Grant hadn’t phoned the next day, as promised, had said cryptically, “That’s what you get for giving in to a man like Madison. He’s using you, Olivia, and you’ll live to regret the day you met him.”

True enough, she thought now, dashing impatiently at the tears suddenly stabbing at her eyes. And if she was so determined to revive the past, she’d do well to dig up some less romantic memories, such as the day she’d told him she was pregnant, in the February following their September wedding.

“Oh, damn!” he’d sighed, sinking to the edge of their bed and lowering his head into his hands. “How the hell did that happen?”

As if he hadn’t known!

Better yet, what about the day he learned she’d miscarried? “A blessing in disguise,” he’d said, using his most professional bedside manner. “I know you’re hurting now, but you’re young and healthy and there’s no reason you can’t carry a baby to term when the time’s right. But that time, Olivia, is not now.”

Of course it hadn’t been—at least, not for someone who’d secretly applied to work on a medevac team in the Northwest Territories once his year of internship was up, and who, if he was accepted, would spend at least half his time away from home. But that was the kind of man she’d married—too focused on his own wants and needs to give a hoot about anyone else’s, least of all a wife who’d become a millstone around his neck.

The bitter after-taste of that long-ago time acted like a tonic on her wilting spirits. No longer just Sam Whitfield’s daughter or Dr. Grant Madison’s wife, she was a woman of consequence in her own right and deserving of the respect she’d earned. No one had the power to reduce her life to a shambles, and she would not give credence to the gossip currently circulating by hiding herself away.

Brushing a speck of dirt from the sleeve of her jacket, she rose from the bench and walked purposefully through the park gates and across the road to the main entrance of the hospital.

At that hour of the morning, the main lobby was crowded with visitors, clerks, technicians and other medical personnel, all busily going about their business. Yet more than a few curious gazes followed her as she made her way to the bank of elevators, and Olivia knew that the gossip hadn’t stopped at Ingrid’s Deli. The hospital was buzzing, too, and if she’d had the slightest doubt of that, it was laid to rest the minute she stepped into the boardroom where her meeting was to take place.

“So you haven’t holed up in your little house for the duration,” Daphne Jerome, head of the social committee, greeted her. “My dear, how I do admire your fortitude!”

Since Daphne didn’t admire anyone but herself, her remark could be construed as nothing more than a blatant attempt to get an account, from the source, of what had actually happened on the Saturday. Feigning surprise, Olivia said blandly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daphne.”

“Why, the reappearance of your unlamented ex-husband, of course! From all accounts, he quite stole the limelight at Justin Greer’s wedding—and you didn’t do so badly, yourself. How did it feel to come face to face with him after all this time?”

“Not particularly exciting. We’ve been divorced for so long, it was almost like meeting a stranger.”

“Really? In that case, I shudder to think how you’d greet a friend.”

Realizing too late the mistake of trying to play Daphne at her own game, Olivia said shortly, “A woman your age ought to know better than to set much store by hearsay, and I frankly don’t have the time to waste setting you straight. Where’s Dr. Harte? I thought that, as head of Cardiology, he wanted to sit in on today’s meeting.”

“Haven’t you heard? He’s been called out of town. And since his next-in-command is Dr. Greer, who happens to be off on his honeymoon, that leaves only his stand-in, and…” Daphne smiled archly. “Well, dear, I see from the look on your face that you’re beginning to get the picture—and just in time, because here he is, in the flesh.”

The small silence which punctuated her announcement probably lasted no longer than a heartbeat, yet it seemed to Olivia that it stretched interminably, during which time everything happened in slow motion.

Grant closed the door and confronted the faces turned expectantly to his. Sparing the room at large a brief, professional smile, he nodded a reply to the murmured greetings and favored her with a pleasant, “Morning, Olivia,” as he took the chair Daphne indicated was his.

Olivia wasn’t quite sure how she found her place, but the relief at being able to sit down before her knees gave way was overwhelming. How had Saturday’s outrageous and irreverent dancing partner metamorphosed into this white-coated stranger with the cool blue eyes and air of distinguished respectability? What had happened to the rebel in blue jeans who’d once stalked the halls of Springdale General and thumbed his nose at those in authority whom he perceived to be fools—most notably her father?

Blindly, she reached into her briefcase for her folder of notes, and wondered what other surprises Grant had hidden up his immaculately starched sleeve. Under cover of uncapping her pen, she sneaked another look at him, half expecting to find him laughing at her for being taken in by so ludicrous a performance. Because surely that was all it was?

But, if so, he wasn’t ready to put an end to it. Instead, he sat listening attentively to the man on his right, nodding occasionally in a serious sort of way and absently polishing a pair of rimless glasses. Add a false beard, Olivia thought, more confounded by the minute, and he’d pass for a college professor!

Someone called the meeting to order and droned on about various administrative concerns. The minutes from the last meeting were read, during which Grant seemed to find staring out of the window vastly more interesting than paying attention to the proceedings.

The social committee’s fundraising efforts came fifth on the agenda, and when, finally, they were opened for discussion, Daphne took the floor. “I’d like to begin by introducing Dr. Grant Madison, who’s here specifically to enlist our support for the Cardiac Unit. Before we get down to specifics, I’ll ask those of you involved in this particular undertaking to identify yourselves, just so that he knows who you are. We’ll start with you, Ms. Whitfield.”

And say what? Hello, I’m your ex-wife, who hasn’t been able to get you off her mind since you marched back into her life three days ago and practically seduced her in front of half the town? Though truthful, such an admission was hardly appropriate.

Olivia’s dismay must have been painted on her face, because Grant cut in before she could open her mouth. “No introduction’s needed. Olivia and I are already well acquainted.”

A titter rippled around the table at that, but soon died when he continued sharply, “And, since I’m sure your time is as valuable as mine, I suggest we forego the social niceties and cut to the chase.”

He scanned the table at large, and although his gaze this time settled on her only briefly, Olivia thought she detected a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. “At your last meeting, Dr. Harte made clear the dire need for new equipment in CCU. You waived making a decision on whether or not to support his request for help in raising the funds required until you’d had time to study the feasibility of such an undertaking. I’m here now as his representative to find out your answer.”

Such a direct approach allowed for little equivocation on the part of the committee, particularly not with his unblinking stare dissecting every face as decisively as a laser beam. Even Daphne squirmed a little, and couldn’t wait to pass the buck elsewhere.

“You’re the one who’s done the research on this, Olivia,” she said. “Are we going to be able to assist, and if so, how?”

“We’ve already pledged support to other departments,” she began, wondering how she’d managed to make her voice sound so calmly confident when her insides were in a total uproar. “And I recommend that we honor those first, but—”

“Which departments, Olivia?” Grant inquired.

“Maternity and the Outpatient Clinic, for a start, but—”

“Their situations aren’t as critical.”

“No, they aren’t. But under the circumstances, I feel that—”

“How you feel isn’t the issue,” he said tersely. “We’re talking about saving lives here. With all due respect, childbirth is a normal function which the female body is superbly designed to deal with, and most deliveries are free of complications—”

“But not all of them, Dr. Madison,” she cut in, any inclination she might have harbored to view him in a more kindly light fast disappearing. “Although you can be forgiven for having forgotten that, since it’s never been an area of particular interest to you.”

For a second or two they locked gazes, and she knew from the faint flush that ran under his skin that he recognized the private condemnation behind her remark. But he recovered quickly and overrode it so thoroughly she might as well have saved herself the bother of airing it. “I don’t wish to be offensive, but you’re scarcely qualified to determine priorities here. The Outpatient Clinic, by definition, is not an acute care facility. Anyone requiring round-the-clock supervision would be admitted to one of the wards.”

She laid down her pen and said very distinctly, “I know.”