Chapter 3
3
Guthrie had the feeling he’d just gotten snubbed here. He fought the instinctive, immediate hostility the woman always brought whenever they were too close and forced himself to be objective. He studied her again, taking in the thin T-shirt and the faded sweatpants.
She wasn’t in pajamas like some of the other women already were. Just sweatpants and a T-shirt.
He really wanted to see her in silk pajamas… small, skimpy, maybe lacy, silk pajamas…
With her hair down everywhere from his fingers, her arms reaching for him. Then he would take off those pajamas and bury his hands in that blonde hair, hold her still and?—
Guthrie reined his thoughts in fast. He wasn’t a caveman pervert like his sisters had accused before. He really wasn’t. He would just really like to see Aubrey like that someday.
The thought of that nearly knocked him sideways.
This Aubrey, anyway. The one in front of him right now.
She didn’t look all cool perfection like she did at the hospital each day. Not at all. He had never seen her hair pulled up into a simple ponytail like it was tonight. At the hospital, it was always in a sophisticated braid or pinned up somehow, like a fancy queen. She didn’t have on any makeup now. Not that he thought she wore much at the hospital, but he saw a few freckles there tonight.
He liked what he saw. She looked real. Instead of the untouchable witch she was at the hospital.
Cool, cold sophistication, and out for what she could get. That had been how he had perceived this woman.
He’d thought she was just like his ex.
His ex had been as cold as ice, on the outside… and the inside. It had taken him too long to see that. He had been one hundred percent convinced Aubrey was a carbon copy. Right down to the same style of business suit she wore every day.
He’d thought he’d had Dr. Aubrey Fisher figured out. Apparently not.
She darted a look at him.
One filled with fear and uncertainty. Like she was just… waiting for him to pounce on her, maybe?
She straightened her shirt sleeve. It fell to her elbow. She always wore longer sleeves; he’d noticed that before. He’d just thought icicles were cold creatures and chalked it up to that.
Now he understood why. Any doctor worth their salt would recognize those scars for what they were. And there were some who would gossip about how she’d gotten them. Maliciously. She was in a position of authority—people would be vindictive.
Her shirt sleeve brushed against the first of the half dozen scars. Only two were visible below the elbow. They were enough for him to know. Someone had seriously hurt her before. Held her down and burned her. Abused her.
Those were cigarette burn scars.
The scars were old. Faded. He had studied them while stitching her arm. She had known he was, as well. Maybe that was part of the uncertainty now. She should know he would not ever share her secrets. He would not do that. Ever.
But those nervous little glances she kept sending him shot straight through him.
Until it clicked.
This woman was afraid.
It slammed into him like a ton of bricks.
Seriously afraid. Terrified. Aubrey was afraid of him. Why?
He didn’t want her to ever be afraid of him again.