The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [13]
Bethie resolutely ignored the smell, while simultaneously refusing to make eye contact with any of her fellow Philadelphians. She just wanted to get back to her Society Hill town house, where she could retreat into a comforting shell of ecru-colored walls and silk-covered sofas. Another night alone with cable TV. Trying not to watch the phone. Trying not to wish too badly for it to ring.
She jostled against the man unexpectedly. He was walking out of the gourmet grocery store just as she was passing and knocked her square in the shoulder. One moment she was striding forward. The next she was falling sideways.
He grabbed her arm just before she hit the manure-splattered street.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Clumsy, clumsy me. Here you go. Up again. Right as rain. You are okay, aren’t you? I would hate to think I’d knocked the stuffing out of you.”
Elizabeth shook her head in a daze. She started the obligatory I’m okay, then actually saw the man who’d collided with her, and felt the words die in her throat. His face . . . Strong European features with merry blue eyes, while a generous dollop of silver capped the dark hair at his temples. Older, forties or fifties, she would guess. Well-to-do. The fine linen shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal the distinctive column of his throat and a light smattering of graying chest hairs. The well-tailored tan slacks, belted by Gucci and finished with Armani loafers. He looked . . . He was gorgeous.
She was suddenly much more aware of his hand still on her arm. She started to babble. “I wasn’t looking . . . lost in my own little world . . . ran right into you. Not your fault, no apology necessary.”
“Elizabeth! Elizabeth Quincy.”
“What?” She peered up at him again, feeling even more flustered and not at all like herself. He was tall, very tall, broad shoulders, handsome. And an absolute stranger. She was sure of it.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “Here I go again, making a mess of things. I know you, but you don’t me.”
“I don’t know you,” Bethie told him honestly. Her gaze fell to his hand, still on her arm. He belatedly released her, and to her surprise, he blushed.
“This is awkward now,” he stammered, obviously disconcerted and somehow all the more charming for it. “I don’t know quite what to say. Maybe I should never have mentioned your name, never brought it up. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I’ve seen you before, you see. Had you pointed out to me. Last month. In Virginia. At the hospital.”
It took Elizabeth a moment to put those facts together. When she did, her whole body stilled. Her face paled. Her arms wrapped around her waist defensively. If he’d been at the hospital, had her pointed out . . . She thought she knew where this was going now, and something inside her felt ice cold. She closed her eyes. She swallowed thickly. She said, “Maybe, maybe you’d better tell me your name.”
“Tristan. Tristan Shandling.”
“And how do you know me, Mr. Shandling?”
His answer was as she feared. He didn’t say a word. He simply pulled his finely woven shirt from the waistband of his slacks, and bared his right side to her.
The scar wasn’t too big, just a few inches. It was still a raw, angry red, fresh out of surgery. Give it another month or two, however, and it would fade, the swelling would go down. It would become a fine white line on a broad, tanned torso.
She reached out a trembling hand without ever realizing what she was doing, and touched the incision.
A sharp gasp brought her back to reality. She blinked her eyes, then realized her hand was on a stranger’s stomach and he was still holding up his shirt for her and now people were stopping to stare.
And she was crying. She hadn’t realized it, but there were tears on her cheeks.
“Your daughter saved my life,” Tristan Shandling said quietly.
Elizabeth Quincy broke down. She