18

“Love you, Yves.” Marie-Beth Drake purred and cuddled deeper against her lover’s broad chest.

Already half-asleep, Steve squeezed her to his side, with a faint “Hmm” . Soon, his light snores filled the air. Sated and relaxed, she stroked his silvery hair. “Love you—”

She froze.

What had she called him?

Oh God, oh God. Had she said Steve or… Yves?

Her fiancé grumbled in his sleep. She immediately yanked her hand away from his head. Her fingers flew to her lips and her stomach somersaulted. She couldn’t have whispered the loathsome name? She’d buried it long ago and forgotten the sexy French doctor and his charismatic smile.

Had Steve noticed the slip of her tongue?

Heart pounding, she studied his closed eyes and slightly gaping mouth. Not to worry. Her fiancé slept as peacefully as a man content with life—as he did every night.

Shivering with mortification, she slid out of his arms. Her throat ached with sudden dryness as she covered herself with a robe and rushed downstairs.

In the living room, she grabbed a bottle of Merlot from the bar, filled a glass and swallowed it, and poured a second one. Her mind in shambles, she settled on the sofa to organize her thoughts.

Hanging over the fireplace, her fiancé’s portrait focused a serious look at her. She blinked. “I don’t know how it happened. Honestly,” she groaned with an apologetic grimace.

Sultry images of the French surgeon obscured her vision. Yves smiling, his knuckles caressing her cheeks, his face reaching closer to hers. She snatched her head back and touched her lips, swollen from Steve’s kisses. And remembered Yves’s passionate embrace. “No, please.” Her world tilted on its axis.

Weary and confused, she emptied her glass. “You’re history. Gone, Dr. Malroux.” To think he’d left Boston the next day after the blissful night she’d spent in his arms, and never came back, never called the chubby medical student she’d been then. “No more crazy dreams or heartaches,” she scolded in a strangled groan.

Why did Steve have to mention his name a few days ago and ask her to participate in an exchange program of residents with his French colleague?

“Nope. Not interested,” she’d immediately replied, and Steve hadn’t insisted.

Training with Dr. Yves Malroux would tempt any residents but her. She’d hoped never to set eyes on him again after she’d torn his picture into a hundred pieces.

With an automatic motion, she rotated the too-heavy engagement ring, token of Steve’s love and status. He’d forgotten to lock the five-carat diamond in his safe after their evening out. Dear Steve, in a few months, they’d be married, that is, if he didn’t ask awkward questions about her stupid blurt, and… She cringed, anticipating the worst.

After two glasses of wine, she’d developed a splitting headache. Torturing herself over the baffling mistake didn’t do any good. She was on call tomorrow and needed her sleep and a clear head to assist in General Surgery. She lumbered up to one of the guestrooms, sprawled on the bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.

“Oh Y-Yves, yes, yes.” Sweating and trembling, she bolted awake and clutched the blanket to her throat. “Yves?” Heaving a deep breath, she shook off the haze of the haunting dream. Yves nuzzling her throat, kissing her open lips, caressing her naked flesh.

Oh, God, am I losing my mind?

In the morning, she shuffled down to the kitchen. Steve didn’t mention anything unusual over breakfast. His satisfied smile contrasted painfully with her restless mood.

“You’re very quiet,” he said in a jovial voice that irritated her frazzled nerves. “Contrary to last night,” he added with a wink.

“Oh yeah?” she muttered, sloshing coffee over the table.

“You mumbled and screamed and butchered my name several times. Reeve,” he mimicked with a strident tone before bursting out in laughter.

“Ah?” Thank you, she whispered, as she wiped the table.

“Poor sweetheart, I shouldn’t wear you out when you have to work a long shift the next day.” The smug tilt of his lips implied he didn’t mind a repeat performance.

“Don’t worry. It was good.” Her weak smile faded as the scorching dream of last night filled her with guilt. “I’m late.” Eager to end the awkward conversation, she swallowed the remaining of her burning coffee and pressed her lips to Steve’s cheek. “Bye, have a good day,” she called over her shoulder and strode out of the kitchen, her thoughts focused on the previous night.

At the hospital, she sprinted to the pre-op room, and bumped into a young woman in a white coat.

“Hi, Mary-Beth.” Loraine hooked her arm. “Boy, you look terrible.” Never one to mince words, the resident in psychiatry examined her with a professional eye. “Difficult shift, last night?”

“No, I wasn’t working.” Mary-Beth tried to disentangle herself and continue her way. “Sorry, I’m in a rush.”

“Ah, so good old Dr. Galt gave you a rough night?” With a big laugh, Loraine patted her arm. “Lucky girl, who managed to catch the Mass General Director of Surgery.”

“Steve is a great lover. No complaint here.” Mary-Beth chuckled and then sobered. “But I didn’t sleep well because— I have other things on my mind.”

“That bad?” Her friend squinted at her. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m a good listener. I’ll practice my psychiatry on you,” she added with a kind smile.

“Don’t worry. I’m not one to let emotions rule my head. It was just a stupid dream.” She snorted and raised her chin. “I can handle it.”

“Anyway, you know where to find me.” Loraine continued down the corridor and Mary-Beth entered the pre-op room to scrub up and ready herself for a long day.

~*~

Exhausted from shifts and unending surgeries, Mary-Beth barely saw Steve during the week. By the time he’d arrive home after a conference or late dinner with specialists, she’d have collapsed on their bed, deep asleep.

Tonight was Saturday, the evening Steve reserved to entertain his special colleagues. It was also the special night he set aside to make love to her—every Saturday at 11:00 pm precisely after sharing an after-dinner drink. Driving home to his elegant colonial mansion in Beacon Hill, Mary-Beth mulled over the previous week’s incident. Not to be repeated at any price.

After a short nap and a refreshing shower, she flexed her arms and wrapped herself in a warm towel. If she could control her emotions, she’d never blurt a wrong name, right? She rubbed her wet palms against the bath sheet and muttered, “Repeat after me: Steve, Steve, Steve.” Yes, she’d be in full control, and ready to enjoy her evening out with her fiancé.

She proceeded to the guestroom closet where she hung her clothes and pulled a printed turquoise outfit. “Love you, Steve. Love you, love you,” she sang with the tune of Beyoncé’s song, Dangerously in Love, to convince her subconscious of the right words to blurt.

There would be no mistake tonight. The cheerful color of the dress cemented her determination to have a good time. She held it against her in front of the mirror, and then pirouetted just as Steve entered the room.

“Well?” she asked, waiting for his approving comment.

“Delightful but…” Arms crossed over his chest, he shook his head. “Too childish for our evening. We’re entertaining Dr. Lee and Dr. Yokamo, and the retired California University Dean of Medicine, for dinner, and then we’re attending Madame Butterfly at the opera.”

“How fun,” she mumbled between her teeth as she explored her closet for a more conservative outfit to wear at the black-tie dinner. She’d have to play hostess to visitors who reminded her of great-uncles. Talk about relaxation. Her shoulders sagged at the anticipated boring evening, but it wasn’t worth arguing over clothes. She reached for a sleeveless, black chiffon evening gown with a V-neck, and slipped it on. A pair of matching high heeled pumps enhanced her recent slim figure.

“Perfect. Much more elegant.” Steve zippered the back for her, and moved her hair aside to nuzzle her neck.

“Love you, Steve,” she said as she turned into his arms.

A quick brush of his lips over her mouth assured her he loved her too. “You’re stunning. Lovely beyond compare.”

Words like these compensated for the misery of the previous years when she dwelled in self-contempt and dejection. “Thank you.” Heck, she’d rather have Steve with his overprotective and sometimes authoritarian ways, than a womanizer of Yves’caliber.

“Trust me. Didn’t I choose you for my fiancée?” He tickled her chin with his finger and grinned. “That alone attests to my good taste.”

She chuckled at his confident arrogance. Here was a man who had scarcely gone out after his wife’s death, yet when he noticed Mary-Beth working late in the library and helped her with a difficult question, he’d immediately decided he wanted to marry her.

Superb in his black tux, Steve opened the velvet sachet he held in his hand, slipped the splendid diamond on her finger and kissed her cheek. “We should leave now, my love.”

At dinner, she dazzled her old visitors with medical stories and accepted their compliments graciously. In an exceptional effort to mingle with their guests, she accepted an extra drink after the performance.

Her fiancé maintained an approving smile, then glanced at his Rolex watch. “Sweetheart, let’s go home. It’s Saturday night,” he muttered against her ear.

Since Steve had proposed, she’d always looked forward to their nights together. “I know,” she said with a soft voice that ended in a silent groan when a different face danced in her mind and beckoned with a wicked smile. Go to Hell, Yves. Her cheeks heated and her stomach clutched at the possibility of another inappropriate blurt.

On the way to the parking lot, she mumbled her Love you, Steve, mantra that should wipe her apprehension. To no avail, as if a thin crust of memories had wedged between her and her fiancé.

Steve gave her an assessing look before starting his Mercedes. “You look tired, sweetheart. Why don’t you nap on the way home?”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Silence hovered in the car while Steve sped through highways and shortcuts. Sleep eluded her. Instead, a guilt-laden panic grew. “Slow down. I’m getting dizzy.”

“What?” Doubt underlined his question and he glanced at her. “Since when are you sensitive to speed?”

“It happens, sometimes, at the least expected moment.”

“Fine.” He patted her knee and decelerated.

Even at the slow speed, they reached home too soon. Once in the garage, Mary-Beth darted from the car to the guestroom and jumped into a long cotton nightgown, ready to claim an honest headache.

A moment later, Steve stood at the door, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Come on, not that ugly thing.”

Her hands clenched on the reassuring plain material as she glared at the bottle of Cognac and the two glasses in his hands.

“Wear the short red silk one I bought you two weeks ago.” A suggestive smile formed on his lips. “Darling, it’s Saturday night.”

His unspoken demand swirled the gourmet dinner up into her throat. She clutched her middle, gagged and dashed to the bathroom.

“You’re not sick? Are you? Not tonight, for heaven’s sake.”

No, she wasn’t sick, just terrified of lying with him, making love, and screaming the wrong name again.

“Sweetheart, how are you feeling?” he asked from behind the bathroom door. His concern needled her with remorse.

“I’m better.” She brushed her teeth, splashed cold water on her face, dabbed it with a scented towel, and donned the tiny silk negligee over her shivering body. She took a deep breath. “I love you, Steve,” she said with a forceful voice when she opened the door.

“I love you too, my precious one. I become a younger man when I hold you in my arms.”

They toasted their future with a drink of Cognac and climbed into bed. In a swift movement, Steve peeled her nightgown over her head and covered her breasts with kisses.

Stiff as a board, she watched him wide-eyed.

Exasperated, he raised his head. “What’s wrong? I feel like I’m kissing an ice block.”

“I’m sorry. I’m tense. Maybe I worked too much this past week.” Alarmed at the possibility of blurting Yves’s name again, she bit her lips.

“Let me help you relax. Turn over. I’ll massage your back.” He kneaded her muscles with firm hands and she breathed easier. “Think about something nice. Our honeymoon. We’ll go to France. My friend Yves Malroux has often invited me to visit his chateau.”

“No,” she snapped. “I don’t want to go to France.”

“Oh, I thought you’d like it. Such a romantic place, perfect for a honeymoon.”

“No, we’ll go to Italy, or Greece, or England.” Damn it, anywhere except at Yves’ chateau. If that was Steve’s way of relaxing her, it wasn’t working. “Forget the massage. Make love to me.” She turned around and pulled him on top of her.

“My pleasure. Glad I managed to put you back in the mood.” He captured her mouth with eager lips, and she concentrated on his caresses.

Steve excelled at everything he did, surgery, research, social life and lovemaking. Soon enough Mary-Beth forgot her inhibitions under his expert hands and kisses. Soon enough she sighed and moaned with pleasure.

After they collapsed in panting orgasms, she snuggled against his shoulder. Content, she raised her face for one more kiss. “Love you, Yves, Yv… Oh no, again? Ste-eve, Steve. Oh God. Again? Why? Oh God. Love you, Ste-eve.” She jammed her fist against her mouth as she jumped to her knees and stared at him.

“Again?” Yanked from his happily sated semi-slumber, Steve frowned. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, but I can’t do it again. I’m not twenty anymore.”

“What?”

“It’s very flattering, my love, but… Why don’t you come in my arms and try to sleep?”

“I’m sorry. Did I scream?”

“No, you just whispered in a kiss, ‘ Love you Ste-ee-eve’, several times. And you asked for an encore.” He stroked her arm. “That’s what I love about you, your passion for life, your youth. Damn it, you make me feel so good.”

Off the hook one more time, she exhaled. She’d caught herself this time, but how long could she keep on saying another man’s name when her fiancé held her? And why on earth, did it happen now? Three years after Yves had left. Did she need a shrink?

“You rest,” she said. “I’m going downstairs to review a report.” And ponder how to handle the situation.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he muttered, then rolled to his favorite position and started snoring.

Wrapping her robe around her, she lingered an extra moment to trail the lines around his forehead, eyes and mouth, and then contemplated his silvery hair. He was handsome, and kind, and protective. He loved her and would give her a stable life, free of passionate outbursts and wrenching heartbreaks.

Wouldn’t that make for a happy marriage?

What more could she ask for?

The past was over, damn it. Her infatuation with Yves had been a youthful mistake. It should have—it had—worn off by now. Her heart twisted in her chest.

If Steve ever figured out her moaning, he’d be deeply hurt, and she’d have only herself to blame. She couldn’t destroy their relationship because of a selfish bastard who’d deceived her three years ago. The plump gullible nerd she’d been at medical school had ceased to exist. Her naiveté had vanished quicker than her pounds. But how could she suppress her inappropriate moaning?

In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of milk and carried it to Steve’s office. Her fiancé liked to have her next to him when they both worked on their laptops. She glanced at his mahogany desk and the folders piled neatly next to his computer. The white label Hôpital de la Santé, Summer Training, caught her attention.

Ah, the famous folders about medical training in France. No wonder Yves’name had come to her lips. Those damn folders had been sitting on Steve’s desk for two weeks now, teasing her subconscious with unwanted memories and suggestive dreams. Imagine if she happened to scream Yves or Eel-eve on their honeymoon.

How in the world could she coach her treacherous subconscious into proper behavior?

Needing reassurance, she stopped by Loraine’s office the next morning. “Hi Loraine. Just a quick question. I had a slip of the tongue.” She bit her lip, paused, and then shrugged, while Loraine patiently waited for more explanation. “I blurted the wrong name when Steve and I were—umm—well, at the wrong time. It’s no big deal, right?”

Her psychiatric friend shot her one of those looks that penetrated her mind and searched for tiny details with the accuracy of a microscope. “Oh sweetie, you’re not sure about your marriage, now?”

“What are you talking about? Of course, I’m sure. It’s just weird to mention a name I’ve completely, totally, utterly forgotten.”

Loraine crossed her arms, glanced at her watch and squinted over her glasses. “Have a seat. Whose name?”

All her secrets tumbled out of Mary-Beth’s mouth while Loraine patiently listened. “Is Yves really a lousy womanizer?”

“I think, I mean—”

“Can it all be in your head?”

“Huh?” Her hand flew to her skull, fingering and skimming for a problematic bump.

“Do you really love Steve?”

“Of course.” Had she wasted a whole hour just to get that stupid question?

“Passionate love?”

“Yes, I think, I mean I’m sure—”

“Is it possible that you think you love him because you’ve decided he was your best option?”

Mary-Beth shook her head vehemently and stood to leave. This was going nowhere. Loraine bombarded her with one question after another. Soon she’d make her doubt the wise decisions she’d reached.

“It’s all in your head, Mary-Beth. You’ve repressed your emotions and tried too hard to control your feelings. You need to face the reason for your problems and analyze your reactions before you get married.”

“Face…Yves? No way.”

“Why not? What’s the problem if you’re convinced you don’t care about him?”

“I’ve already faced him in my nightmares, and didn’t like it.”

“Are you sure you didn’t like it?”

Her face in flames, Mary-Beth opened her mouth and closed it.

“Join the exchange program, go to France, and get some answers,” the psychiatrist said as she walked her to the door.

Later at home, Mary-Beth sat in front of Steve in his office, staring at the screen of her laptop, while he opened the folder on his desk. “Sweetheart, I think you should join the training program.” Always the dedicated mentor, Steve handed her an application form. “Trust me. It will improve your experience in Surgery.”

Good God, both the psychiatrist and her fiancé challenged her—for different reasons— to go to France and work with Yves for three months.

Would it help her forget the French doc and put the past to rest?

Would facing Yves convince her obtuse mind she didn’t give a fig about his devilish smile or his intense green gaze?

***End of Preview***