‘No, it was my fault, Max.’ She sounded distraught. ‘I shouldn’t have come back here.’
For the first time, Max wondered if he’d made a mistake. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to. He could read charts, he could read patients, he could read histories. He’d never been bothered to learn to read relationship signals before.
Dammit. Had he got it all wrong?
‘Evie, is there something else going on here?’
‘Leave it, Max. Please.’ She stepped back so abruptly that she almost fell, but it was the pleading in her eyes that stayed his arms from catching her.
Max watched some inner battle war across her features, then, apparently unable to trust herself to say another word, she straightened up and forced her legs to move. He knew it wasn’t the moment to stop her. He had some investigating to do before he charged in there.
He forced himself to stay still as she stumbled out of the room, the slamming door reverberating with raw finality.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS TIME for answers.
Max pulled up outside the unfamiliar house and turned the purring engine off with satisfaction. His sleek, expensive supercar—one of his very few real indulgences to himself—was incongruous against the older family cars and the backdrop of the suburban street. He checked the address he’d hastily scribbled down on the back of a hospital memo.
It was definitely the right place. But the nondescript, nineteen-fifties semi-detached house on a prepossessing street, almost ninety minutes from Silvertrees, was the last place he would have expected to find Evie—it all seemed so far removed from the contemporary flat that he was aware had come as part of her package working at the Youth Care Residential Centre.
But then, what did he know about the real Evie Parker?
And for that matter, what was he even doing here?
Instinct.
Because decades as a surgeon had taught him to follow his gut. And right now, as far as Evie was concerned, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something fundamental he was missing. Sliding out of the car, he crossed the street, his long stride easily covering the ranging pathway from the pavement to the porch. He knocked loudly on the timber door, hearing the bustle on the other side almost immediately, before it was hauled open.
‘Max.’
‘Evangeline.’ He gave a curt nod in the face of her utter shock, wishing he didn’t immediately notice how beautiful she was.
And how exhausted she looked. He’d seen the dark rings circling her eyes yesterday, along with the slightly sallow skin, so unlike the fresh-faced Evie he’d known a year ago. Just like how thin she’d become, all clear indicators of the toll her illness was taking on her body. He could scarcely believe his surgeon’s mind had allowed her to fob it off on being concerned for the health of her sister-in-law. But as soon as she’d gone and his gut had kicked back in, it hadn’t taken much digging to discover that it was Evie who was unwell, not Annie. That it was Evie who needed the transplant, not Annie.
He felt a kick of empathy. And something else he didn’t care to identify. He shoved it aside; he was here to satisfy himself there really wasn’t something he was missing, and to be a medical shoulder to cry on. Nothing more than that.
Evie stepped onto the porch, pulling the door to behind her, clearly not about to invite him in.
‘What are you even doing here?’
Ironic that he had asked her the same question less than twenty-four hours earlier.
‘Why did you tell me Annie was the one who needed the transplant?’ He was surprised at how difficult it was to keep his tone even and level with her, when at work his professional voice was second nature.
Evie’s face fell. He didn’t miss the way her knuckles went white as she gripped the solid-wood door tighter.
‘I didn’t.’ She tilted her chin defiantly.
‘You implied it, then. It’s semantics, Evie.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I was concerned. Things didn’t seem to add up.’
To her credit, she straightened her shoulders and met his glare with a defiant one of her own. That was the Evie he knew.
‘You’ve been checking up on me? Reading my file?’