Free A Match for the Doctor by Marie Ferrarella Page B

myself and I certainly don’t have time to conduct any more lengthy interviews.”
    Any more? Kennon bit her tongue to keep from echoing the last part of his statement incredulously. Did this qualify as a lengthy interview in his mind? On what planet? He hadn’t asked her for any kind of information, any backup statements, nothing. This didn’t qualify as an interview. It didn’t even make the grade for a run-of-the-mill conversation.
    Don’t antagonize the gift horse, Kennon, she cautioned herself.
    Putting on her brightest smile, she asked, “So then I’m hired?”
    Simon raised his deep blue eyes to hers, silently asking what part of his statement she didn’t understand. Ofcourse she was hired—unless she had a comprehension problem.
    â€œThat’s what I just said.”
    Not really. Her smile never shifted.
    The man needed to work on his communication skills. She wondered if he was just as obscure and distant with his patients when he spoke to them. Heart patients, she would think, would want to have their hands held, would want to be comforted and put at their ease. They would want to know that their surgeon cared. There was absolutely nothing about this exceedingly handsome, exceedingly sexy, reserved man that came close to even hinting that he cared about the people he operated on. Was it a protective device? A mechanism he employed so that he couldn’t get close to anyone, just in case they didn’t make it?
    Focus on what’s important. You’ve got bills to pay, Kennon. “Thank you,” she told him. “I can start tomorrow. Tonight if you like.”
    He shook his head. Her eagerness made him feel tired. It was almost as if her energy was growing only because it was sapping his.
    â€œWhat I’d like,” he informed her, “is to go to my study and get back to the paper I was working on yesterday. The paper with the quickly approaching deadline.”
    She backed away quickly. It did no good to get a client stirred up about anything except color schemes. “Of course. So when can I speak with you?” she asked so she could plan accordingly.
    â€œYou just did,” he pointed out, rising from the table. “This was very good,” he told her, as if he was measuring out each word carefully, taking them out ofsome invisible bank account and leaving a deficit in their wake.
    Kennon watched him leave the room, heading for the stairs. She did her best not to let her frustration show in her face. No matter what he thought, she was really going to need to speak to him about the house. Decorating was a matter of personal taste—in this case, his. She wasn’t about to impose her own aesthetics on him. Aside from perhaps a fondness for blue, she had a feeling that their individual preferences would most likely clash fiercely.
    â€œHe doesn’t mean anything by it, Miss. He’s just hurting.”
    Edna’s voice floated in from the living room, cutting into her thoughts. Giving the girls a quick, fleeting smile, Kennon cocked her head and looked around the side into the living room.
    Edna was sitting up on the sofa, propped up exactly where she and the girls had left her. The plate Kennon had brought out to her earlier lay on top of the black-lacquered folding TV tray, which she’d brought with her expressly for Edna’s usage until the nanny was literally back on her feet.
    After first encouraging the girls to have another serving, she left them to finish their dinner and crossed over to the living room and Edna.
    â€œI understand,” Kennon said, lowering her voice so that it wouldn’t carry. “But I need to know what Dr. Sheffield wants me to do with the house besides just ‘fill’ it.”
    The girls had heard her anyway. “I’ve got pictures,” Meghan volunteered happily.
    Kennon’s attention instantly shifted. Something wasfar better than nothing. “You mean