by Blake, Jill
The orchestra segued into another tune and she cleared her throat. “You wanted to ask me something.”
His fingers skimmed lightly over her waist to rest at the base of her spine, just above the swell of her bottom. “Ah, Professor…”
“You can call me Kate.”
He dipped his head and breathed her in. “Kate. Bonny Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom…”
Her lips quirked. “And Kate the curst. I know, I know. The shrew comes out at midnight.”
He laughed. “Is that an invitation?”
“No, thank you, Petruchio.”
His cell phone vibrated, interrupting his response. In a few quick steps he twirled them toward the edge of the dance floor. One arm still wrapped around her, he fished the device out from an inner pocket and checked the text message. Then he swore softly and let her go. “Sorry, I need to get this. It’s the SICU, and I’m on call. Don’t disappear.”
“Actually,” she nodded toward a nearby table, where a tall dark-haired man half-waved in her direction. “I need to get back.”
Marc paused in the process of punching in the callback number. “You’re together?”
She hesitated, and in that moment Marc took an instant dislike to the other man. “Yes.” She turned and offered Marc a parting smile that made his gut clench and his palms sweat. “Pleasure meeting you.”
He followed her with his eyes, even as his call connected and he spoke with the critical care nurse at the other end.
When he got back to his table to excuse himself, his sister Emma grinned. “What happened?”
Isabelle, his other sister, joined in. “Not like you to retreat in the face of a little competition.”
He glanced involuntarily toward the table where Kate’s escort had gotten up and was now draping a silk wrap across her shoulders. “Sorry to disappoint, but I was called in. Fever and dehisced wound on one of my post-ops, and the resident is—” He broke off, sighed. “It’s July, you know how it is.”
His siblings winced and made sympathetic noises. July first marked the official start of the academic year, when medical interns and residents began their clinical rotations: a fresh batch of inexperienced doctors-in-training let loose on the hospital floors.
Marc’s stepmother, Sophia, half smiled. As the only nurse in a family of doctors, she was used to deflating overblown egos when the occasion demanded. “Wasn’t too long ago you were in their shoes, hot-shot.”
Joseph DiStefano patted his wife’s hand and winked at his son. “Four years and counting,” he said. “But from the residents’ perspective, it might as well be a lifetime. You forget that training years are like dog-years: easily seven-to-one.”
Marc grinned and took his leave, the sound of his sisters’ laughter echoing in his wake.
Outside, as he waited for the valet to bring his car around, he caught sight of Kate stepping into a low-slung Porsche. Her companion closed the passenger door behind her and circled around to the driver’s side, boot heels ringing on the pavement. Just before folding himself in behind the wheel, he removed his black Stetson and tossed it into the car, presumably onto Kate’s lap.
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Taking a Chance
(Doctors of Rittenhouse Square, Book 2)
by Jill Blake
City girl…
When Samantha Winters’ career as a big-city doctor leads to major burnout, she applies for a temporary position at a small clinic in central Pennsylvania. She’s as out of place in the town of Oakridge as a pair of high heels in a cow pasture, but that won’t stop her from going after what she wants. And what she wants most—after rediscovering her passion for medicine—is a loving husband and kids.
…meets country boy
Alex Kane is the local boy who made good. He’s spent years building his computer start-up into the biggest employer in Oakridge. Between that, and raising his sister’s orphaned kids, he’s ready for a break. What he really wants is to cut loose and have some fun. Too bad the new doc in town isn’t interested…. Or is she?
Chapter 1
Samantha cut off the motor and sat in the sudden stillness, hands clenched on the steering wheel. A faint breeze stirred through the open window, teasing strands of ash blond hair that had escaped her tight chignon.
She blinked and took a deep breath. The scent of blooming azaleas filled her nostrils. For a moment, she wondered if she should restart the car in order to close the window. But a brief glance around had her dismissing the thought. Eleven in the morning, and not a soul in sight.
If not for the sign out front that read Oakridge Urgent Care, she might have thought she’d come to the wrong place. Like nearly everything she’d seen since rolling into town, the clinic looked deserted. Horizontal blinds shuttered across the windows. A handful of envelopes and advertising circulars peeked from the top of the mailbox beside the front door.
It was the middle of the week, when ordinarily Samantha would have been rushing from one exam room to the next in her primary care practice in Philadelphia, swamped with appointments, charts, and calls from patients, hospitals, nursing homes, and pharmacies. Or at least that’s what she would have been doing prior to ten days ago, when the ever-capable, efficient, resilient Dr. Samantha Winters had fallen apart.
“This will give you some breathing room,” her best friend Jane had told her, when she’d first floated the idea over the weekend.
“I thought that’s what I’m getting by taking time off,” Sam said.
“No, you’re wallowing. Sinking into depression. Isolating yourself. When was the last time you wore something besides sweats?”
Sam glanced down at the faded T-shirt and cut-off sweatpants, with the barely legible “Bryn Mawr College” logo. “I’m not depressed,” she said.
“Well, maybe not clinically,” Jane conceded. “But if you don’t do something to shake off this funk, you’re certainly headed that way.”
“Is that your professional opinion, doc?”
“You betcha. So do me a favor, okay? At least check it out. Ross says it’s a cushy position, small town, nice people.”
“If it’s so appealing, why hasn’t someone snapped up the job already?”
Jane’s sigh sounded long and clear despite the spotty wireless connection. “You need me to tell you about the medical malpractice crisis in Pennsylvania? The mass exodus of physicians to neighboring states? The fact that coastal cities are super-saturated while rural America is facing its biggest primary care shortage ever?”
As one of the physicians who’d been lucky enough to nab a plum position straight out of residency in an affluent center-city private practice, Sam didn’t need her nose rubbed in the facts. Nor did she need reminding about the litigious state of American medicine—she’d had enough first-hand experience of that to last a life-time, thank you very much.
Still, six months out in the boondocks?
The closest she’d ever been to rural America was a class trip to Lancaster County in the fifth grade. They’d visited an Amish farmer’s market and gotten to pet some goats. She still remembered the smell of manure and the nauseating sweetness of freshly fried funnel cake.
So what was she doing, parked beside a quaint Victorian on a dead-end street in the middle of rural York County, Pennsylvania? Already the lack of city noise was making her nervous. And she hadn’t passed a single Starbucks on Main Street. How was she supposed to survive without her daily infusion of Skinny Lattes?
She closed her eyes and focused on taking slow, deep breaths. The drive had taken two and a half hours—less time than expected thanks to light traffic, so she had an hour to kill before her scheduled interview. Enough time to stretch her legs and look around. Then she’d find Mona’s Kitchen, the local diner where she was supposed to meet the man doing the hiring.
One meeting, no promises beyond that. If she didn’t like the offer, she was free to hightail it back to her comfortable Rittenhouse Square condo and hol
e up for another few weeks or months or however long it took her to climb out of this emotional sinkhole.
Grabbing her bag, she got out of the car and approached the pale yellow clapboard. Two steps led up from the main path to the wraparound porch, while a wide ramp with low-set handrails provided easy access from the small parking lot tucked off to the side of the building.
A hand-lettered sign in the front door window read, “Open Tuesdays, 8-4. In case of medical emergency, call 911.”
One day of available medical care per week? No wonder they were desperate to hire someone. What did people do the rest of the week if they got sick or injured? Surely there were neighboring towns with physicians who could accommodate the residents of Oakridge? And where was the nearest hospital, anyway?
For a moment she regretted her lack of preparation. She prided herself on always doing due diligence, no matter the situation. This time she simply hadn’t planned on doing anything beyond allaying her friend’s concern. A half day commitment at most, she’d figured. And some pretty scenery to temporarily distract her from the grim thoughts that kept circling in her head like relentless buzzards over a corpse that had been picked clean long ago.
It wasn’t as if she were seriously considering taking a locum tenens position. And certainly not in some backwater town with three stoplights and no decent coffee. She had a perfectly good practice waiting for her back home. Both her partners had assured her they would welcome her back once she’d gotten herself sorted out and was ready to return from her leave of absence.
She followed the porch around the side of the house toward the rear, where another set of steps led to a large expanse of lawn. Glancing up to the second floor, she thought she saw movement behind one of the windows. Was someone there, watching her?
The sound of footsteps and a door slamming somewhere inside had her backing up as her imagination kicked into high gear. Just because it was mid-morning and the place looked like Mayberry didn’t mean it was immune to twenty-first century crime. Drug-seekers were notorious for breaking into clinics, looking for whatever controlled substances they could find.
She dug through her purse for the reassuring outline of her Blackberry and turned to beat a rapid retreat to her car—only to slam into a solid wall of male flesh.
Her phone crashed to the floor, and if not for the hard hands that gripped her arms and steadied her, she would have fallen too.
“You okay?” The deep voice seemed to come from high above her.
She blinked, her pulse fluttering erratically and breath coming in shallow puffs.
The man peered down at her, his face blurring a little as he leaned close. She jerked back. The hands tightened and he frowned, dark brows furrowing over pale blue eyes.
He didn’t look like he was strung out on drugs. In fact, the way he was examining her, as if committing her features to memory in case he had to pick her out of a line-up later, you’d think he was having his own suspicions about her.
“Ma’am?” The gravelly tone raised goose bumps across her skin.
“Yes.” She stepped back, both relieved and strangely disappointed when he let go. “I’m fine, thanks.”
He nodded, then bent down to retrieve her phone. She caught a brief glimpse of broad shoulders flexing beneath a white cotton t-shirt and powerful thigh muscles outlined against faded denim before he straightened up.
Well, well, she thought, eying the square jaw faintly shadowed with stubble, the high forehead partly screened by a fall of thick black hair, and those cool eyes that were taking their own unhurried survey of her from head to toe. Maybe small town America did have something to recommend it after all.
“You’re not from around here,” he said. He made no move to hand over the cell.
“No.” She cleared her throat. “Are you?”
He ignored the question. “If you’re looking for Doc Cohen, he’s only here Tuesdays.”
She nodded. “I saw the sign. Where is he the rest of the time?”
“Shrewsbury.” At her blank look, he gestured vaguely with his free hand. Clean blunt nails, no ring. “About five miles southeast of here. Has his own practice. You want directions? I’m sure he’ll see you if you’re sick.”
“I’m not. Sick, that is.” She swallowed, her cheeks flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with illness or the ambient temperature. How long had it been since she’d felt even mildly attracted to someone? A year since Craig had left her, and she’d had no desire to even look at another male in anything but a professional capacity—either as patient or courtroom adversary. Until this moment. “Who’s here when Dr. Cohen’s in Shrewsbury?”
His eyes narrowed, as if trying to uncover some hidden motive behind her question. “What did you say you were looking for?”
She hesitated, wondering at his sudden wariness. Had she been too quick to dismiss him as a potential threat? He hadn’t introduced himself. Then again, neither had she. Which left them at something of an impasse.
Still, she didn’t feel comfortable volunteering any more information until she knew who he was, or at least what he was doing here. He might not be a drug addict looking for a quick fix, but that didn’t mean he had a legitimate reason for being inside the clinic when it was clearly closed for business.
And she was pretty sure now that he’d been the one inside. There were no other cars parked on the street when she’d pulled up. A quick glance beyond the man assured her the street was still empty. So either he lived near enough to walk here, or he’d taken special care to park out of sight. In which case he was probably up to no good, and she was an idiot for standing here chatting him up.
What if she’d caught him in the process of burglarizing the house? Maybe the reason there weren’t any other cars around was because he’d been dropped off to do whatever it was she’d interrupted, and any minute now his partner in crime would drive up and Samantha would be in real trouble.
On second thought, that didn’t make much sense. If he were doing something clandestine, wouldn’t he have stayed inside and waited until she was gone, instead of venturing out and confronting her?
Unless of course he wanted to get rid of any possible witnesses, and was counting on the isolated location to cover up his actions.
She shifted, gauging the distance to her car. Unfortunately, the man still had her cell phone. And worse, he was blocking her way.
Without taking her eyes off him, she fumbled in her purse for the car keys. The moment her fingers closed around the familiar shape of the remote control, she felt a measure of calm return. She rested her thumb on the panic button.
He was watching her expectantly, and she realized she hadn’t answered his question. What was she doing here? “Coffee,” she blurted. “I was looking to get some coffee. You wouldn’t happen to know a place nearby?”
He quirked a brow. She could almost see him thinking: trespassing on private property in search of coffee. Sure. Pull the other one. Then his eyes flicked to her hair and his lips lifted in a half-smile. Oh, great, now he was probably stereotyping based on her hair color. Or worse yet, maybe he was thinking she was coming on to him? For goodness sake, she wasn’t a total moron. Foolish enough to get caught off guard, maybe. But picking up a complete stranger who might be involved in something shady? Definitely not on the agenda. No matter how attractive that stranger happened to be.
“Mona’s Kitchen is probably your best bet,” he finally said. “Head back toward Main Street and hang a right. It’s a couple blocks down. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” She might as well head over there now. A bit early for her interview, but at least she’d be in the right place. “Can I have my phone back?”
For a moment, she thought he would refuse. Then he extended the device in her direction. Their hands touched briefly, and she jerked from the jolt of sensation that surged up her arm. She clutched the Blackberry. “Thanks.”
He stepped aside, and she lost no time skirting around him. She could almost feel
his eyes burning into her as she hurried across the porch, down the stairs, and toward her car.
###
Alex turned to admire the woman’s trim little backside and long legs as she scurried away. Even the severe gray suit with its pencil skirt and buttoned up jacket failed to dampen the sudden surge of lust.
A neatly executed K-turn, and the late model Lexus shot up the street toward Main, disappearing around the corner.
Alex leaned against the porch railing, willing his arousal to subside. In the twelve years since he’d moved back to Oakridge, there hadn’t been many strangers passing through town. The occasional biker die-hard looking for the Harley-Davidson plant half an hour to the north, or a family on its way to Hershey Park desperate for a pit stop, or some history buff asking for directions to Gettysburg.
This woman looked too polished to be a run-of-the-mill tourist stopping to fuel up and use the facilities. And she certainly didn’t look like a college student backpacking her way cross-country. He pictured the diamond tear-drop pendant that hung on a delicate gold chain around her neck, the discreet glint of an Omega watch on her wrist. No, definitely not a college student. A reporter, then? He clenched his jaw at the thought.
After the unwelcome media frenzy he’d experienced in the four years since his company went public, the last thing he needed was another bottom-feeding journalist disturbing his peace. He'd tried to protect his privacy over time, limiting personal interviews and photo-ops to an absolute minimum. He had especially tried to shield the kids from the intrusive media spotlight. God knew they'd suffered enough with the loss of their mother and then the return of their good-for-nothing father, who’d seen dollar signs and tried to contest Alex for custody. Thankfully a hefty settlement and cut-throat legal team had managed to stave off that attack.