Buch lesen: «The Baby Doctor's Bride»
‘Would you like me to assist?’ he asked, hoping she’d refuse.
Ivy positively beamed, and took a step forward. For a moment she wore such a supreme look of relief that he thought she might kiss him.
He wouldn’t have minded. In fact, just the possibility of feeling her lips against his sent blood rushing through his body. Having such a strong physical reaction on the basis of merely thinking about a kiss plainly indicated he’d been alone for too long.
Jessica Matthews’s interest in medicine began at a young age, and she nourished it with medical stories and hospital-based television programmes. After a stint as a teenage candy-striper, she pursued a career as a clinical laboratory scientist. When not writing or on duty, she fills her day with countless family and school-related activities. Jessica lives in the central United States, with her husband, daughter and son.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE ROYAL DOCTOR’S BRIDE
THE BABY DOCTOR’S BRIDE
BY
JESSICA MATTHEWS
MILLS & BOON
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To my family, whose unwavering support has been my inspiration.
THE BABY DOCTOR’S BRIDE
CHAPTER ONE
DESPERATE times called for desperate measures.
Ivy Harris parked her SUV on the circular gravel driveway in front of the hunting lodge commonly known as the old Beckett place. For a moment she clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip as she studied her surroundings.
The rustic house, built to resemble a log cabin, was nestled in a shady grove of cottonwood and oak trees. According to her father, the building sat on the edge of three hundred and twenty acres of private land, teeming with deer, quail and turkeys, and was a popular rental property during the hunting season. But she didn’t care about the house or the land or the wildlife. She was only interested in the lodge’s current resident.
After inhaling a bracing breath for courage, she slid out from the behind the wheel. There was no sign of human life—no vehicles, open windows or tools scattered around the yard—and she wondered if today’s excursion was simply a wasted effort. But she’d come too far to jump to conclusions. If Ethan Locke wasn’t here now he would eventually return, and she would be waiting.
Provided he didn’t take longer than her scheduled lunch break.
Her trainers crunched eerily against the gravel as she tramped up the path toward the front concrete steps, conscious of the birds merrily chirping overhead and two squirrels playing tag in the uppermost branches. For an instant she chided herself for not taking time to spruce herself up a bit, in an effort to give a good first impression, but in the next she was glad she hadn’t. She hadn’t come to make a fashion statement, with her khaki trousers, the yellow tank top with its faint pink stains courtesy of a small patient’s cherry lollipop, and her tennis shoes. Looking like the frazzled physician she was, rather than a woman ready for an afternoon of tea parties and shopping, could only help her cause—or so she hoped.
Determined to be as eloquent and as convincing as possible, she pounded on the weathered screen door.
No one responded.
She tested the screen door and found it unlatched. This time she pounded on the inside door.
Still no answer.
Slowly she closed the screen door and glanced at her watch. She could stay another fifteen minutes, but any longer than that would throw off her schedule. If her afternoon passed like most of them had, she’d be working until well past dinner.
Still, it couldn’t be helped. She sat on the front step and stretched out her legs. Without warning, a tall, chocolate-brown-haired man in his late thirties rounded the corner of the cabin, carrying a fifty-pound bag of birdseed over his shoulder. In spite of his rather disreputable state—ragged denim jeans, stained T-shirt, tousled hair and unshaven face—his lean physique and muscled chest made him worthy of a second glance.
Considering how it had been ages since she’d given any man another look, she was surprised by how easily this one had momentarily made her forget her purpose for being there.
“Hi,” she said brightly, jumping to her feet.
He dropped the bag next to a bird feeder in the front yard with a thump and straightened. His storm-cloud-blue gaze was direct, and his straight nose, square jaw, and well-defined cheekbones formed a breathtakingly handsome face. “Hello,” he said, in a deep, pleasant voice. “I hope you’re not lost and looking for directions, because I haven’t lived here long enough to be helpful.”
“I’m not,” she assured him. “I’m here because I’m looking for Ethan Locke.”
Suspicion instantly replaced his welcoming smile. “What do you want with him?”
“It’s personal. Do you know where he is?”
He hesitated for several seconds, as if unwilling to answer. “I’m Ethan Locke,” he finally said.
Impossible. She’d been told the man was retired, so this had to be his son. “I’m looking for Dr. Ethan Locke,” she stressed as she walked toward his side.
“In the flesh,” he answered gruffly.
“You’re Dr. Locke?” she asked, startled by his admission because she’d been expecting a much older man.
“Yeah, and who wants to know?”
The congenial man she’d first encountered had become a gruff, taciturn fellow. “Ivy Harris,” she said in her most friendly manner, although from his frown her effort was wasted. “I have to apologize,” she continued. “I’d been told you’d retired so I’d expected someone…”
“Gray-haired and walking with a cane?” he finished dryly.
Her face warmed. “Not quite. In any case,” she pressed on, “rumor says you’re a doctor. A pediatrician, in fact.”
“Not anymore. According to you I’m retired, remember?” He slit one corner of the bag with a utility knife, then began pouring birdseed into the feeder. “Did you want something in particular, or did you just drop by to interrupt my peaceful morning?”
For some reason referring to his profession had pressed one of his hot buttons, but she’d come too far to give up now. While she would have preferred to state her case with his undivided attention, she couldn’t demand he stop what he was doing when she had arrived unexpectedly and without an invitation. “I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?” He paused to rake an insolent gaze along her full length. “I’m flattered, but I’d rather not spend my days in jail.”
Her face warmed with embarrassment in spite of the shade-cooled breeze. “Not that sort of proposition,” she said loftily. “A business proposition.”
“Doesn’t matter what sort it is. My answer is no.”
“But you haven’t heard the details. The least you can do is listen. Please?” Trying not to beg, she added, “It’s important.”
“It always is,” he mumbled, before he set the bag of seed on the ground, reattached the lid to the feeder, and strode toward the cabin’s front door. “I suppose you’d better come inside.”
It wasn’t the most gracious welcome, but he was willing to hear her out, so she’d find her victories wherever she could.
In spite of his gruff manner, he courteously held open the screen door for her. “Thanks,” she murmured, equally polite.
As soon as she stepped across the threshold into the main living area she instantly felt at home. Because she spent nearly all of her day seeing patients in claustrophobic cubicles, open spaces appealed to her. If she had a place like this to come home to every night, she’d be one happy lady.
“This is quite impressive,” she said, taking in the rough-hewn log walls, the flagstone fireplace, the bear rug in front of a leather sofa and the overall “Southwest” interior design. At the opposite end of the great room stood an old oak table, large enough to accommodate eight comfortably, and a kitchen area that boasted modern appliances.
Furnishings aside, Ethan Locke dominated the space.
He clicked off the television, then crossed to the table, where a half-empty bottle of water stood, and drank deeply. “I’m sure you didn’t drive this far off the beaten path to discuss my accommodations,” he said when he’d finished.
“No, I didn’t,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by every inch of his six feet plus lean frame or the frown on his ruggedly bewhiskered face. “I need your help.”
“Oh?” Everything about him exuded skepticism, from the way he folded his arms across his massive chest to the suspicion shining in his blue-gray eyes.
“Actually, the whole town needs you.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true,” she insisted. “With our only family practitioner, Walt Griffith, gone—”
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing, but his brother in Phoenix had a stroke and he went to visit. Apparently he’s not doing well, and Walt thinks he could pass on anytime, so he doesn’t want to leave. Which is okay because a friend of his, Jed Richardson, has taken over.”
“Then I don’t see a problem.”
“Jed’s an internist, which means I’ve inherited all of Walt’s pediatric patients. I’m a pediatrician, too, by the way.”
“Lucky you.”
She ignored his comment, although she wondered at the reason for his attitude. “To make matters worse, I have seven kids with whooping cough.”
He frowned. “Aren’t you encouraging your parents to vaccinate their children? Or don’t they teach that in med school these days?”
“The ink may not be quite dry on my board certification,” she ground out, irritated by how easily he’d jumped to the wrong conclusions. She could quickly imagine what he’d think if he knew she’d moved here less than a month ago. “But Walt and I are both well aware of the importance of childhood vaccinations. Three of my cases are eight years and older, and are current with their shots. The other four are babies who haven’t received the full immunization regimen yet. They aren’t sick because of parental or physician negligence.”
He let out a deep sigh and stroked his face thoughtfully with one hand, which wasn’t an apology, but a reluctant acknowledgment of his wrong assumptions.
“What do you want from me?” he asked in a more modulated tone.
Hope rose and Ivy stepped closer. “Your help,” she answered promptly. “Your hands. Your expertise. I’m working twenty-four hour days, and I can’t be effective if I continue at this pace. It isn’t fair to my patients.”
“Hire a locum.”
“I’ve tried, but no one’s available until the end of the summer. You, on the other hand, are here and—” she met his dark-eyed gaze “—available.”
“I’m on vacation.”
“For how long?”
“Indefinitely. Think of me as being on sabbatical—which means I’m not sitting on the back porch, birdwatching.”
Picturing his huge bag of birdseed, she suspected he was, but it would be rude to correct him. She couldn’t risk alienating him more than she apparently already had. “Regardless of how you describe your stay, technically you’re free.”
“It means I’m not punching a clock or taking orders from someone else,” he countered. “And I’m not going to.”
She eyed him carefully, irritated by his refusal, and desperate to gain his cooperation. “Give me one good reason why you won’t help.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Not good enough.”
“What if I said I was sick?”
She gave him a quick once-over, noting how casually he stood straight and tall on muscular legs. His biceps and forearms were well developed, too, as if he lifted weights on a regular basis. He’d also carried a fifty-pound bag across the yard with the easy grace and sure footing of a panther. While he didn’t have the deep tan of someone who spent his days in the sun, he certainly didn’t possess the washed-out, pale color of someone who either was or had been ill.
The only thing she could say about him was that he looked like a man on vacation—a man who hadn’t taken time to shave that morning, a man whose thick hair was longer than she guessed he usually allowed it to be. But underneath the grubby look she saw a tall, suave, sophisticated man in his late thirties, who had an intensely serious expression capable of drawing women to him like metal shavings to a magnet if he’d only smile. Or smile more often.
“I wouldn’t believe you,” she said smartly. “According to Lew at the gas station, you’re retired.”
“He’s wrong.”
“Obviously,” she said dryly. “So you came to Danton for a vacation, but—”
“An extended and well-deserved vacation is what I intend to have. Find someone else if you need an extra pair of hands.”
“There isn’t anyone else,” she insisted. “Look, if you want to spend your days resting and relaxing, great. But can’t you spare a few weeks out of your busy schedule? I’m not asking you to work twenty-hour days, either. Nine to four, Monday through Friday. I’ll take care of the night and weekend call schedule.”
Her offer was quite generous, in her opinion, but if he wanted more—such as working only three days a week—she’d agree to his terms, because any assistance he could give was better than none.
“I sympathize with you, but I’m not interested.”
“I’ll pay you a salary,” she offered impulsively.
He raised one dark eyebrow. “You said this is your first practice?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Then you don’t have two cents to rub together.” His tone was flat. “I know because I’ve been there myself. Unless you’re independently wealthy?”
“I’m not. If you won’t accept a salary, then I’ll split the office profits with you, with none of the expenses.” She didn’t know how she’d manage that and still meet her loan payments, but she’d find a way.
“I don’t take advantage of my colleagues,” he stated. “Save your money.”
Calling her a colleague boosted Ivy’s hopes for the second time since she’d walked into the cabin. “Then it’s a deal? You’ll join me?”
“No.”
Impatiently, she rubbed the back of her neck and struggled to hold her tone even. “What’s the problem?”
“There isn’t a problem. I just want to be left alone,” he ground out. “Is that too difficult a concept for you to grasp, Dr. Harris?”
Although the red highlights in her hair came courtesy of her hairdresser, Ivy’s temper rose to match. “You don’t have a concept. You have an excuse. How can you ignore children who need a doctor?”
“They have you, and you seem capable enough.”
“What about your Hippocratic Oath and the joy of healing those who seek your help?”
“I can’t help you, Dr. Harris,” he said flatly.
“You won’t,” she corrected.
“I have my reasons.”
“Which are?”
“None of your business, Dr. Harris.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand the dynamics of rural communities. Everyone helps each other. Think on that the next time you go to town and expect someone to serve you at the diner, sack and carry your groceries, or change the oil in your car.”
“For the record, I’m immune to threats.”
“A threat would be if I said no one would serve you,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m merely pointing out that the people in this area share their skills and talents. We don’t hoard or use them only when it’s convenient.” Her voice shook with frustration. “You don’t have any children, do you, Dr. Locke?”
His eyes turned dark and his expression cold. “No.”
“I didn’t think so, because if you did, I wonder how you’d feel if you had a sick son or daughter and the doctor who could treat him refused because his vacation was more important.”
He didn’t answer.
Unable to spend another minute in his presence, she headed for the exit. “Enjoy your rest and relaxation, Doctor. I hope you’ll be very happy spending time in your ivory tower.”
She stormed out, carefully and quietly closing the screen door when it was tempting to do the opposite. It was equally tempting to rev her engine and scatter the gravel as she peeled out of the driveway, but she refused to act in such a petty manner. Ethan Locke might think of her as a country hick, but she possessed more class than that. With any luck she wouldn’t run into the man for the rest of his so-called vacation, however long it lasted. Considering how she spent nearly all of her time at the clinic, the ten-bed hospital, or her father’s diner, the odds of never seeing him again lay solidly in her favor.
Twenty minutes later she parked in her spot behind the Danton clinic’s employee entrance and gratefully entered the air-conditioned wing which had been earmarked for pediatrics.
Heather Fox, Ivy’s office nurse and inseparable childhood friend, poked her head out of an exam room as Ivy walked past. “How did it go?”
Ivy detoured into the cubicle and sank into a chair. “Not well. He turned me down. Flatly and unequivocally. I shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed. It was a long shot.”
Long shot or not, she’d carried high hopes… To add insult to injury, it wasn’t fair for a man with his good looks to be such a selfish grump! What an insult to pediatricians everywhere!
“Hmm. I would have thought a retired gent would have been happy to hop back into the saddle and supplement his income for a few weeks.”
“He’s not retired,” Ivy said. “I don’t know how Lew got that impression, but Ethan Locke hasn’t hit forty. To quote him, he’s on ‘an extended and well-deserved vacation’.”
“He’s under forty and can take an extended holiday? Wow! Makes you wonder what his rates as a pediatrician are.”
Remembering how he’d related to Ivy’s lack of finances, she wondered that herself. If he’d earned his millions by charging his patients exorbitant fees, it was a good thing he’d turned her down. Neither she nor the families in the area could afford his services. “No kidding.”
Heather frowned, clearly puzzling out the situation. “So why did he say no? Even if he’s wealthy, I’d think he’d be willing to volunteer.”
“‘Let me count the ways’,” Ivy quoted as she began ticking off his reasons on her fingers. “He’s on vacation. He’s not interested. He wants to be left alone.”
“Did you explain he wouldn’t have any evening or weekend duty?”
“I did, but he still wasn’t interested.” Ivy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Nothing I said made a difference.” She met her friend’s gaze, disappointed by her failure. “I’m sorry, Heather. I know you’d like to leave at a decent time every evening to spend time with your family, and now—”
“Hey, don’t apologize. You did everything you could.” She sighed. “This hasn’t been the best welcome home for you, either, Ivy. Instead of a quiet summer with Dr. Griffith, getting to know the routine, you got tossed in over your head from the very beginning.”
Ivy shrugged, although she smiled. “Don’t worry about me. Murphy’s Law and medicine seem to go hand in hand. We’ll do the best we can and hope it’s enough.”
Like all other doctors, she’d learned how to function without sleep, and how to survive on a few winks grabbed here and there, but as an intern and as a resident at Children’s Mercy, there had always been medical people around to catch any blatant errors she might make. Here, she didn’t have a safety net.
Ethan Locke was the nearest candidate, and he wasn’t interested. Still, no point in crying over circumstances that couldn’t be changed.
“I just hate to ask you to work such long days when you have your own pre-schoolers at home,” Ivy continued.
The nurse shrugged. “This situation won’t last forever. My mother loves babysitting, and I doubt if the kids miss Mom all that much when Grandma caters to their every whim.”
“Believe me, when things get back to normal, I’ll insist on you taking time off.”
“I won’t argue over that,” Heather said with a smile. “But if you ask me, you’re the one I’m worried about. When’s the last time you slept?”
Ivy thought back. “I got a few hours last night.” Those had come between two-year-old Erica Weyland’s asthma attack and five-year-old Tabitha Jones’s sprained wrist after she’d fallen out of her new canopy twin bed.
“And when did you eat last?”
Ivy tried to remember. Breakfast seemed like such a long time ago. “I grabbed a cinnamon roll from the hospital cafeteria this morning.”
“Then it’s a good thing your dad sent over a take-out order of his meatloaf special. It’s in the lounge with your name on it.”
Ivy’s mouth watered, but her wristwatch told her it would have to wait. “I’ll eat later.”
“You’ll eat it now,” Heather ordered. “The kids can wait ten more minutes to see you, especially if it means their doctor won’t collapse from hunger. So go, put up your feet for a few minutes, and don’t come back until you’ve cleaned your plate.”
Ivy didn’t argue. “Yes, Mother,” she said, grateful that her father, once again, had come to her rescue.
At least there were some good men in this world, she thought uncharitably as a mental picture of Ethan Locke appeared. It probably was a good thing he’d turned her down, because he might be handsome and he might be talented, but he clearly didn’t have a heart.
Ethan slumped onto the sofa and stared at the blank television screen, wishing the bottle in his hand held something more bracing than water.
When he’d first laid eyes on his surprise guest, he’d been dazzled. The easy way she moved, the apparent softness of her skin, the shine to her shoulder-length auburn hair, the impish smile on her beautiful face had made him feel as if the sun had reappeared in his life after months of cloudy days.
And for the first time in a long time he’d also been curious. During the few weeks he’d been living here no one, not even the mail carrier, had wandered down his lane. For a man who’d been content to mark the days by the number of soda pop bottles he emptied, curiosity was a novel experience.
Then she’d started asking questions, discussing things he didn’t want to discuss. One visit that could have held some promise and make him feel “normal” had suddenly ruined his day. Hell, she’d ruined his entire week!
Almost six months ago he’d left his life behind in St. Louis. After severing the few ties he had in the Gateway City, he’d packed the belongings he couldn’t live without in his car and stored the rest. He’d headed west on I-70 without any clear-cut destination in mind other than a desire to find a quiet location to settle until he refocused his life.
His criteria had been simple. He’d wanted a place where he would be as average as the next guy, a place where no one would expect more from him than he was willing to give, a place where he could sort out his life and find peace. A place where he could forget….
Surprisingly enough, a place meeting his specifications had been more difficult to find than he’d expected, but after detouring off one interstate onto another that headed south, he’d stumbled across Danton, a southern Kansas town of about five thousand, which provided enough retail businesses and services to satisfy its residents. Healthcare was limited to a doctor and a ten-bed hospital that was equipped to deal with emergencies and provide nursing care for anyone needing round-the-clock attention they couldn’t receive at home. Thanks to a conversation with the loose-lipped Lew, who’d obviously found the doctor’s parking permit Ethan had yanked off the rearview mirror and shoved under the driver’s seat, he’d hunted down the owner of this cabin, signed a lease and moved in for the summer.
He’d taken to his new surroundings without any problem, and knew he’d made the right choice to leave his old life. After nearly six months of drifting, he didn’t miss the phones ringing, his pager buzzing, the monitors beeping, the gentle whoosh of respirators, or babies that fit in the palm of his hand. More importantly, he didn’t miss the worry, the tears, or the sense of failure.
Allowing each minute, each hour, to pass by quietly and without plan or purpose seemed therapeutic, although he didn’t expect to be healed of what ailed him.
How did one recover from disillusionment, especially when you were disillusioned with yourself?
I need your help.
She might need help, but she didn’t need his, he thought sourly. He was the last doctor she’d want treating her precious patients, although she didn’t know that. Better for her to think he was a selfish bastard, that he had no heart, than for her to know the truth.
Actually, knowing she hung at the end of her emotional rope bothered him more than he cared to admit—mainly because he’d been there, done that. If only she’d stayed away; if only Lew hadn’t discovered Ethan was a doctor; if only he had chosen today to pack a lunch and explore the acres and acres surrounding the cabin. Then he could have remained in ignorant isolation.
But she hadn’t left him in peace. In a few short minutes she’d done what his colleagues in St. Louis hadn’t been able to accomplish in months.
She’d made him feel guilty.
Feeling guilty was a step up from feeling like a failure, which was how he’d felt in the weeks before he left St. Louis. Like Dr. Harris, his colleagues had tried to convince him to reconsider, but he’d been adamant about pulling up stakes and they’d finally accepted his decision. A week later they’d found a replacement, who’d stepped into his shoes without the smallest hiccup, and life went on.
It would for Ivy Harris, too. Besides, she’d seemed resourceful enough to locate someone to do what he could not.
But what if she didn’t?
She’d manage. Managing was what doctors did best, especially under the most difficult of circumstances.
You don’t have any children, do you, Dr. Locke?
Ivy’s voice echoed in his head and he steeled himself against the pain. She’d definitely played hardball with her remark, but he hadn’t been inclined to explain how every one of his tiny, tiny patients had been “his” kid. And he certainly hadn’t been about to admit that he’d fathered one of his own, because it would have prompted an entirely new set of questions; questions that would only lead to him reliving what still lay so heavily on his heart.
In spite of his expertise, in spite of the advances in modern medicine, he hadn’t been able to save his own son.
“How long has Robbie had this patch on his arm?” she asked Molly Owens.
Molly shrugged. “Several weeks. At first I thought it was just part of his allergies, so I used an over-the-counter cortisone cream. But the area is getting larger, so I thought it was time to try something else.” The thirty-year-old grinned. “Unless you’re going to tell me I haven’t given the cream enough time to work?”
The lesion was about the size of a silver dollar, red and flat, and the center was scaly looking. A textbook picture if she ever saw one.
“Not a chance,” Ivy said with a smile. “Your cream won’t help. Robbie has ringworm. It’s a fungus infection and requires special medication.”
“Ringworm?” Molly was aghast. “Are you sure?”
“I could do a skin scraping for fungus and send it to the lab, if you’d like, but I’m certain about my diagnosis.”
“Oh, I’m not questioning you,” Molly was quick to reply. “It’s just that I thought it was transmitted from animals, and we don’t have a dog or a cat.”
“That’s often the case,” Ivy agreed, “but sometimes a child will pick up the fungus from the soil.”
Molly exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “He does love to play in the dirt with his trucks,” she said as she fingercombed the little boy’s sandy-colored hair.
“See my truck?” Robbie held the metal vehicle under Ivy’s nose. “It goes fast. Vroooom, vroooom.”
“I see,” Ivy told him. “I’ll bet you’re an excellent driver.”
Focused on his toy, and making the appropriate engine noises, Robbie jumped off his mom’s lap and began pushing it along the linoleum.
“So what do I do?” Molly asked. “Keep him out of the dirt?”
“You can try, but I suspect you’ll fight a losing battle.”
“To put it mildly.”
Ivy wrote on her prescription pad. “Here’s a script for an anti-fungal cream. Apply it to his arm twice daily.”
“For how long?”
“Until the patch disappears, which will take a few weeks.”
“That’s it?”
“You should also sterilize his towels, his bedding, and any clothes that come in contact with the area. You don’t want this to spread to anyone else in your family.”
“OK. Not a problem.”
“If you notice the lesion becomes redder, or oozes pus, come back. Same for if it hasn’t disappeared in three or four weeks. And if by some chance you notice another area developing, start treating it immediately with the cream.”
“Will do. Thanks so much, Doctor.”
Ivy smiled as she escorted Molly to the door of the exam room. “You’re welcome.”
Heather waited outside the cubicle. “You aren’t going to believe this—”
“After today, I can believe anything,” Ivy said dryly. “How many more patients are waiting?”
“None.” The woman grinned. “Robbie was the last one.”
Ivy glanced at the clock. 6:15 p.m. “You’re right. I don’t believe it. I thought we’d be here until seven at least.”
“Same here. I guess we were lucky. And, speaking of lucky, you have a visitor.”
It was too late in the evening for a drug rep to drop in and peddle his wares. “Who is it?”
“I have no idea. He wouldn’t leave his name, but he’s quite a hunk if you ask me.”
“Then it’s no one you know?”
“Nope, which is a shame. He’s the sort who would have women flocking around him if he’d bother to smile. He’s the dark, brooding Heathcliffe type.”
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