The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,494

a quiet voice. Her face had gone suddenly smooth. “What if it was Langtry, and Langtry wants you to leave me?”

“That doesn’t compute.”

“Of course it computes.”

“Look. Let’s drop it. I only want to be straight with you, to tell you everything that happens, not to hold back on something like that. And I don’t want you to hold back either.”

“Don’t go over there again,” she said, her face clouding. “Not alone, not at night, not asking for trouble.”

He made some little derisive noise.

But she had risen and stalked out of the room. He’d never seen her behave in quite that manner. In a moment she reappeared, with her black leather bag in hand.

“Open your shirt, would you please?” she asked. She was removing her stethoscope.

“What! What is this? You gotta be kidding.”

She stood in front of him, holding the stethoscope and staring at the ceiling. Then she looked down at him, and smiled. “We’re going to play doctor, OK? Now open your shirt?”

“Only if you open your shirt too.”

“I will immediately afterwards. In fact, you can listen to my heart too if you want.”

“Well, if you put it that way. Christ, Rowan, this thing is cold.”

“I only warm it in my hands for children, Michael.”

“Well, hell, don’t you think big brave guys like me feel hot and cold?”

“Stop trying to make me laugh. Take a slow deep breath.”

He did what she asked. “So what do you hear in there?”

She stood up, gathered the stethoscope in one hand, and put it back in the bag. She sat beside him and pressed her fingers to his wrist.

“Well?”

“You seem fine. I don’t hear any murmur. I don’t pick up any congenital problems, or any dysfunction or weakness of any kind.”

“That’s good old Michael Curry!” he said. “What does your sixth sense tell you?”

She reached over and placed her hands on his neck, slipping her fingers down inside his open collar and gently caressing the flesh. It was so gentle and so unlike her regular touch that it brought chills up all over his back, and it stirred the passion in him to a quick, surprising little bonfire.

He was one step from being a pure animal now as he sat there, and surely she must have felt it. But her face was like a mask; her eyes were glassy and she was so still, staring at him, her hands still holding him, that he almost became alarmed.

“Rowan?” he whispered.

Slowly she withdrew her hands. She seemed to be herself again, and she let her fingers drop playfully and with maddening gentleness into his lap. She scratched at the bulge in his jeans.

“So what does the sixth sense tell you?” he asked again, resisting the urge to rip her clothing to pieces on the spot.

“That you’re the most handsome, seductive man I’ve ever been in bed with,” she said languidly. “That falling in love with you was an amazingly intelligent idea. That our first child will be incredibly handsome and beautiful and strong.”

“Are you teasing me? You didn’t really see that?”

“No, but it’s going to happen,” she said. She laid her head on his shoulder. “Wonderful things are going to happen,” she said as he folded her against him. “Because we’re going to make them happen. Let’s go in there now and make something wonderful happen between the sheets.”

By the end of the week, Mayfair and Mayfair held its first serious conference devoted entirely to the creation of the medical center. In consultation with Rowan, it was decided to authorize several coordinated studies as to the feasibility, the optimum size of the center, and the best possible New Orleans location.

Ryan scheduled fact-gathering trips for Anne Marie and Pierce to several major hospitals in Houston, New York, and Cambridge. Meetings were being arranged at the local level to discuss the possibility of affiliation with universities or existing institutions in town.

Rowan was hard at work reading technical histories of the American hospital. For hours she talked long distance to Larkin, her old boss, and other doctors around the country, asking for suggestions and ideas.

It was becoming obvious to her that her most grandiose dream could be realized with only a fraction of her capital, if capital was even involved at all. At least that is how Lauren and Ryan Mayfair interpreted her dreams; and it was best to allow things to proceed on that basis.

“But what if some day every penny of that money could be flowing into medicine,” said Rowan privately to Michael, “going into the creation