Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
T hey spent the rest of the day sightseeing around Atlanta.
Their first stop was the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site, where they toured the civil rights leader’s birth home, former church and neighborhood. As they strolled the beautifully landscaped grounds of Peace Plaza and walked around the King Center, people recognized Michael and pointed him out excitedly to their companions. But for the most part they kept a respectful distance, perhaps in deference to the solemn locale.
Later, as Reese and Michael stood beside the clear reflecting pool that surrounded Dr. and Mrs. King’s marble tomb, she was so moved that tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
Michael, who’d been watching her, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wordlessly passed it to her.
She let out a teary laugh as she dabbed at her eyes. “Only a true Southern gentleman would carry around a hankie in his jeans.”
Michael smiled softly. “I came prepared.”
She sniffed. “So you knew I’d be reduced to a blubbering idiot if we came here?”
“You wouldn’t be the first. As many times as I’ve been here, I’m always moved by the experience. Believe me, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. ”
His gentle words earned him a grateful, albeit wobbly smile. Reese held up the damp wad of handkerchief. “I’m gonna hang on to this—just in case.”
Michael chuckled softly. “It’s yours.” He reached out, his knuckle gently skimming her cheek as he tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
She stared up at him, arrested by the tender expression on his face. When their eyes caught and held, her heart thundered.
After a prolonged moment Michael stepped back, clearing his throat and glancing around at everything but her. “Ready to go?”
She let out a shaky breath, then nodded.
They left the historic black neighborhood and returned to Midtown to visit the High Museum of Art. The popular museum was housed in a striking contemporary building that featured four floors of European and American paintings, decorative artifacts, photography, graphics and an impressive collection of African art.
Unlike Victor, Michael didn’t sigh impatiently or complain as Reese wandered from one exhibit to another, sometimes lingering for long stretches of time. He seemed to take quiet pleasure in her spirited enjoyment of the museum. When they stopped for an early dinner in the piazza, he gave her his undivided attention as she enthused about her favorite artists and explained how a college professor had turned her on to the Renaissance period.
“That’s another reason I’m dying to visit Italy,” she told Michael. “To see the works of Michelangelo and da Vinci, to visit Florence Cathedral and St. Peter’s Basilica.” She sighed wistfully. “One of these days.”
“What’s stopping you?” Michael asked curiously. “You’re a doctor, so it can’t be the money.”
“No, it’s not that.” She bit her lip, remembering with renewed irritation that she could’ve been in Venice right now if it weren’t for Victor.
“So what is it?” Michael probed, watching her with a quiet, focused intensity that made her wonder if he’d somehow discerned her thoughts.
She heaved another sigh. “I don’t know. Growing up, I’d always intended to travel a lot, see the world. But after college there was med school, then my residency. Once I started working at the hospital, time just got away from me.” She shrugged. “I guess we all have to make sacrifices to achieve our goals.”
“That’s true,” Michael murmured, and she wondered about the personal sacrifices he must have made along the way to becoming an international celebrity.
Before she could ask, he said suddenly, “Why are you on sabbatical?”
Reese tensed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re only thirty-four. So I’m guessing you haven’t been practicing medicine long enough to be burned out. So what would make you take a two-month hiatus from a job you obviously love?”
Reese stared into his keen dark eyes, dismayed by his perceptiveness. She thought of not answering him, but somehow she knew he wouldn’t let her get away with that.
“I lost one of my patients in childbirth,” she said dully.
His expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. When did it happen?”
“Two months ago.”
He nodded slowly. “You blame yourself.” At her surprised look, he gently explained, “You didn’t say one of your patients had died in childbirth. You said you lost a patient, as if it was your fault.”
Reese swallowed hard, wanting to close her eyes against his intense scrutiny. “I did everything I could to save her.”
“Of course you did.” He wasn’t patronizing her. He’d spoken with absolute certainty, as though there was no room for doubt regarding her innocence. “So what happened?”
It was the tender concern in his voice that broke her. The raw emotions she’d been holding in check welled up inside her and spilled out: the grief, the guilt, the frustration over her inability to convince Deidra Thomas that she had too many risk factors to have another baby.
By the time Reese finished blurting out everything, Michael had brought his chair around to hers and pulled her into his arms. As she quietly sobbed into his broad chest, he stroked her back and murmured soothingly to her, his lips in her hair. It didn’t matter to Reese that they were in public. His arms were strong, his voice was understanding, and she’d needed a good shoulder to cry on for far too long.
Still, she felt more than a little embarrassed when she finally pulled away and met the sympathetic stares of several other diners, many of whom had asked for Michael’s autograph when he and Reese first arrived. What must those people be thinking now?
Reese fumbled out the handkerchief Michael had given her earlier and mopped at her streaming eyes. “I knew this would come in handy again,” she joked with a whispery laugh.
Michael smiled, kissing the top of her head.
“God, I didn’t mean to cause a scene.” She blew her nose, glancing around furtively. “I hope there aren’t any paparazzi around. They’ll run an exposé about a woman reduced to hysterical tears after you broke up with her.”
Michael chuckled. “I never do breakups over a meal. It’s sacrilegious.” He ran a thumb under her eye, wiping at the moisture she’d missed.
She gave him a rueful smile. “I assure you I’m not always this weepy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a good cry. And you definitely needed one.” He put a finger under her chin and lifted it. His gentle eyes searched hers. “Feel any better?”
“I do,” Reese admitted, surprised. “That was very…cathartic.”
In a moment of clarity, she’d decided to donate her grand prize money to Deidra’s family. It wouldn’t bring her back, but the hundred grand would help cover the family’s medical expenses and would enable Ian Thomas to start a college fund for little Faith.
Reese touched Michael on the shoulder. “Thank you for loaning this to me.”
He smiled into her eyes. “It’s yours anytime.”
Something melted inside her, tightening her throat. In the span of thirty minutes, he’d offered her more empathy and compassion, more emotional support and tenderness, than Victor ever had. It was a sobering realization, a bitter pill to swallow.
Seeking to lighten the mood, she picked up her wine and sipped, smiling at him over the rim of the glass. “So getting back to our original conversation. How many times have you been to Italy?”
He chuckled, not leaving her side. “How do you know I have?”
She gave him a look. “Any chef worth his knives has been there. So come on, Michael. Tell me all about it. Let me live vicariously through you.”
He smiled again, and she listened with rapt absorption as he told her about his forays to Italy over the years. When he casually mentioned owning a small cottage in Tuscany, Reese groaned with envy and jokingly lobbied to have the apprentice episodes shot from that location—which he didn’t think was such a bad idea .
When they left the museum, he surprised her by asking, “Have you ever played paintball?”
She laughed. “Not since childhood.”
He flashed a wicked grin. “Then you’re long overdue.”
Reese snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. And I know just the place. It’s usually closed to the public on Sundays, but they’re running a summer special.”
“Great,” Reese said weakly.
He winked at her. “It’ll be fun.”
He took her to a place called Paintball Atlanta. In exchange for two tickets to a live taping of Howlin’ Good , the manager gave Michael and Reese their own private field, and they spent the next two hours chasing each other around with loaded paintball guns.
Michael was fast, hunting Reese down with a stealth that any Navy SEAL would admire. She found herself alternately squealing with laughter and howling with frustration every time she got hit—which was often. Whenever she did manage to pick him off, she was so ecstatic she didn’t even care that he’d probably let his guard down just to level the playing field.
It was the most fun she’d had in years. Afternoon stretched into night, and all too soon Michael was driving her home and walking her to the front door.
“I had a wonderful time,” Reese said warmly, her sandals dangling from her fingertips. On the way to the paintball complex, they’d stopped at an outlet mall so she could get more appropriate footwear. Before she could even think about pulling out her credit card, Michael had paid for the new sneakers and strolled out the door, whistling cheerfully to drown out her protests.
He’d paid for everything, making their day together feel almost like a… date .
By far the best date she’d ever had in her life.
She blushed at the thought. “Thank you for giving up your entire Sunday to take me sightseeing. I know you probably would’ve preferred to stay home and catch up on sleep,” she added ruefully.
Michael smiled down at her. “Sleep is overrated.”
Ignoring the way her heart fluttered, she gave him a teasing grin. “You probably won’t think so tonight when you’re knocked out cold and drooling into your pillow.”
He chuckled softly. “I don’t drool.”
Speak for yourself , Reese mused, staring at his full, sensual lips and remembering how incredible they’d felt against her own. The memory of that searing, soul-shattering kiss they’d shared would haunt her long after she’d returned to Texas.
Inexplicably, the thought of going home made her throat tighten.
“So,” Michael drawled, “what’re you doing tomorrow?”
“Sleeping.”
They both laughed quietly, calmly, never taking their eyes off each other.
A sultry breeze kicked up, caressing Reese’s skin. She wished it were Michael’s hands, his mouth. She wanted nothing more than to invite him inside, to spend the night making love to him. But she knew she couldn’t. Not until she’d decided what to do about Victor.
“When you’re done sleeping tomorrow,” Michael said, smiling, “maybe I could pick you up and take you to the studio. You know, to give you a tour and introduce you to the crew before we start taping next week.”
Reese nodded quickly, so excited at the prospect of spending more time with him that she would’ve agreed to accompany him anywhere . “I’d like that very much.”
“Good.” He hesitated, then reached out and brushed his thumb across the pulse beating at the base of her neck.
Reese shivered. Everything inside her went hot and sensitive.
His eyes met hers. “Paint,” he explained.
She nodded. She had to fight the intense urge to capture his hand and draw his thumb slowly into her mouth. And she didn’t want to stop at his thumb.
“Goodnight, Reese,” he said huskily.
She swallowed hard. “Goodnight, Michael.”
With one last lingering look at her, he turned and sauntered to his car, which he’d parked beside hers in the driveway. She stood watching as he climbed inside the low-slung Maybach and closed the door. The engine purred to life.
He met her gaze through the windshield. Go inside , he mouthed .
Reese obeyed without hesitation. After closing and locking the front door, she sagged against it and lifted a trembling hand to her throat, where her skin still burned from Michael’s whisper-soft touch.
When she closed her eyes, she swore she heard her relationship with Victor flat-lining.