Red Hot Lovers: 18 Contemporary Romance Books of Love, Passion, and Sexy Heroes by Your Favorite Top-Selling Authors

by Milly Taiden

  He nodded. Manuelito had grown up in a bilingual household, but we liked to work on his vocabulary. “You go,” he said.

  “Okay. I spy…” I looked around. I usually kept it easy. “Something tall.”

  “Papa Gavin?”

  “Nope.”

  He looked around. He saw the mannequin but probably had no way to describe it, so instead he said, “¿Puerta?”

  “Si, Manuel,” I said. “But it’s a door.”

  “Door,” he said.

  “You know that word,” I said, tickling his belly. “Silly boy.”

  He laughed his loud baby-boy laugh. I tried not to think about how he was only a little over a year younger than Peanut would have been. I just held him close, dodging the sticky lollipop, and was glad that he was such a sweet kid since Corabelle had to manage him in her life.

  Manuel’s mother lived in Mexico. She had an odd relationship with Gavin, and never even told him about his son until this year. It had been a rough road for Corabelle to learn about it, even if they had been split up all that time.

  Gavin’s vasectomy meant his ability to have kids with Corabelle was a big question, if a reversal ever worked. Their situation was tough, but they’d found a sense of harmony with it that I envied. And now they were getting married.

  “Book?” Manuel asked. I guessed we were done with I Spy already.

  The seamstress pinned both the boys’ pants and sent them back to their dressing rooms to change. My head was still pounding, but I pulled a book out of the bag Gavin brought and read it to Manuel. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.

  By the time we got through it twice, the boys had come back out. Mario took off, but Gavin sat in the chair next to me. “Thanks for watching him,” he said.

  “Not a problem,” I said. “He’s easy.”

  Manuel hopped off my lap to jump up on his father. Gavin swung him up in the air and brought him back down to rest on his knee.

  I rubbed my temples. I needed to take something.

  “What’s the deal with that doctor? Corabelle didn’t want to leave the party without you, but you totally disappeared.”

  “We spent the night in that cabana you told us about.” I didn’t really want to say anything more. Half my hangover was emotional. I totally fell apart after that crazy encounter with Darion. He’d been unlike anybody I’d ever been with. What I asked for, I got. In spades.

  I couldn’t figure out which was the bigger mistake. Doing the one-and-done all these years. Or stopping now. My life was in upheaval. I couldn’t stay snarky and distant.

  As if they knew I was doing something ill advised, my wrists began to itch beneath the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I didn’t really need the reminder. God, I told him to bareback, even. I hadn’t lied about the doubled-up birth control, but still. Such a couples thing to do. We were strangers.

  “He’s getting to you,” Gavin said.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “You don’t like that.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to get involved with anyone.”

  Gavin locked his hands behind his head. Manuel dug another book from the bag and flipped through the pages.

  “He seems uneasy. Like he’s got a lot on his mind,” Gavin said.

  I shrugged. “He’s a doctor. He’d just come off a long shift.”

  “Is everything on the up-and-up with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gavin adjusted Manuel on his lap. The boy leaned back against Gavin’s chest, the sucker stick hanging out of his mouth, and flipped through Pat the Bunny.

  “I recognized that look he had. That distraction. I just want to make sure you aren’t setting yourself up.”

  I pressed my fingers against my temples. “I think he’s got some stuff he isn’t telling me,” I said. “Probably everybody does.”

  “You tell him about your history?” Gavin asked.

  “He knows about Peanut,” I said.

  “But not the rest?”

  I tugged on my sleeves. I didn’t go around confessing about my scars. Although all Darion had to do was Google my name to see my old suicide talks. He probably had. He was probably waiting for me to tell him.

  Probably wondering why I wouldn’t.

  Maybe hesitating to tell me about Cynthia, waiting until I told him about my past.

  The more I thought about this, the more I knew it was true. I jumped from my chair. “Thanks, Gavin,” I said. “I know what I need to do now.”

  He looked taken aback. “Not sure what I did, but no problem.”

  I kissed Manuel on the head. “See you soon, little man.”

  The boy didn’t even look up from his book.

  Time to call the doctor.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty Eight: Dr. Darion

  Things were blowing up in my face.

  Angela was up at the hospital, dealing with some weekend social worker who was insisting on something more substantial than an illegible signature on the paperwork for the clinical trial of the new drug.

  This could not be happening now. Cynthia was doing so great. Despite the spiking fevers that first day, she hadn’t been sick at all, and her blast levels were zero. No circulating cells. It was the best drug I’d seen, ideal for her situation. We were supposed to go back for another round in five days. I could not let anything get in the way.

  I might have to confess. I knew I should have gotten that medical power of attorney squared away.

  If only my father wasn’t such an idiot, this wouldn’t be an issue. I knew my mother hadn’t been with anyone else. I was in my early twenties when it all went down. I was perfectly aware of her situation.

  And if he really thought about it, he knew it too. But he’d gone off half-cocked when he finally came home from Oxford after a freaking thirteen-year absence.

  And then that stupid paternity test. The worst part about it was that the same blood test reported that Cynthia didn’t belong to my mother. And THAT was clearly ludicrous. The mutated gene sequence had clearly caused the test results to fail.

  It was a known medical fact that it could happen. Nobody knew that better than my father.

  I wanted to punch him. Daily. Until he got past his stupid hatred of all the artists and creative types that had nurtured Mom in ways he never could.

  I riffled through the files in my study at home, pulling copies of the reports. I stuffed everything in a folder and headed to the hospital.

  When I got to the room, Cynthia looked much better. She pushed her IV around the room, skating on her fuzzy socks. She must have worn the nonskid nubbies right off.

  “Dary!” she cried. “Look what I can do!” She spun in a circle with the IV pole on its casters.

  “It’s like she’s on speed,” Angela said. “Been running around like she’s never been sick a day in her life.”

  “I’ll have them run her blood counts,” I said. “She might not need the platelets anymore. Has she eaten?”

  “Some. A grilled cheese. Ice cream. She does have mouth sores.”

  “I’d expect that.”

  “They don’t hurt,” Cynthia said. “Not like last time.”

  “Just nothing spicy,” I said.

  “We’re on it,” Angela said.

  I leaned against the wall, watching Cynthia twirl around the room as though the IV stand was her dance partner. “If her ANC is up, she can walk the halls, go in the courtyard,” I said.

  Angela nodded. “She’ll like that.”

  “Is Tina here today?” Cynthia asked.

  “It’s Sunday,” I said. “She’s at home.”

  “Like you should be,” Angela said. “They’re going to wonder why you’re here.”

  I held up the folder. “But the family of one of my patients felt threatened that they were going to lose access to the trial.”

  “They can’t do that now that we’ve started,” Angela said. “It would be unethical. I just wanted you to know they were still questioning it.”<
br />
  “I’m not going to risk it. We have to jump through all sorts of hoops to get those chemo bags.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Cynthia stopped buzzing around the room.

  We shouldn’t be discussing this in front of her. “I’ll just make sure it’s taken care of.”

  “That lady is already gone.”

  “I’ll go down there tomorrow, then. I wanted to check in anyway.” I tucked the folder back under my arm. “Should I bring you something special for lunch tomorrow?” I asked Cynthia.

  “A cheeseburger!” she said. “A real one!”

  “Done,” I said.

  “When do I get to go home?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, Cyn. That fever was pretty bad, so they’ll want you here to do the treatments just in case.”

  “I don’t even remember it,” she said.

  I wasn’t surprised. She’d been completely delirious by the time we started getting her temperature down. Among scary things, it hadn’t been the worst. But it was up there.

  My phone buzzed, so I checked it. Tina, asking if I would come over.

  I’d dropped her off at home in the wee hours, after we’d slept a while in the cabana house. The party was actually over when we emerged, the tables cleared off, the pool empty. There were still quite a lot of cars parked haphazardly out front, but the owners must have all been tucked away in the wings of the house, as the living room had been empty as we passed through.

  I tried to convince Tina to drink water and take aspirin to head off a hangover, but she’d crashed as soon as I got her in her apartment. I had gone home and slept a few hours myself before getting the first text from Angela.

  “I’m going to head out,” I said. “Let me know if anything else happens.”

  Cynthia skated over to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “I can’t wait to go home,” she said.

  “Me too,” I told her. I knew the better she felt, the more she would start to fight having to stay. Maybe if the second treatment went smoother, we could check her out in between.

  I tapped off a note to Tina as I headed out of the hospital.

  Things had certainly been intense. That first night, followed by the surgical suite — I felt my blood surge just thinking about it. Then last night.

  We probably needed a little bit of normal. Maybe we could have a quiet dinner somewhere.

  A cold front was blowing in. The temperature dropped noticeably in the time I drove from the hospital to her apartment. The wind howled as I took the path up to Tina’s door.

  She must have been watching for me, as she opened it before I could knock. I hadn’t seen her quite like this before, in jeans and a loose sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in little clips.

  We sat on the Pink Monster, and she leaned into me. “Have you looked me up online?” she asked.

  This was unexpected. “Hadn’t thought to. Is there a criminal record I should know about?” I tweaked her nose.

  “None of the bodies have ever been found,” she said. Her fingers traced the pattern of my sweater across my belly.

  “If I ever need to dispose of someone, I’ll know who to call.”

  She glanced up at me. Without mascara, her lashes were pale and delicate. “I Googled you as soon as I knew your name.”

  “Mine’s a boring story,” I said, grateful, as I had been for years now, that my mother’s obituary had never been public, linking both Cynthia and me as her surviving children. Dad hadn’t been listed at all.

  “It was, actually,” Tina said. “You’re squeaky clean and doctorated.”

  “I take it you’re not?” I felt a trickle of apprehension. What was she about to tell me?

  She hesitated, plucking at her sleeves. “I do these talks, or I used to,” she said. “When I was in college. It was how I made money. It’s what got me the job at the hospital, actually.”

  “What kind of talks?”

  She paused. When she finally spoke again, her voice wavered. “About suicide.”

  My chest tightened. “Is it something you’re familiar with? Someone in your family?”

  Tina pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt, revealing pale scars from wrist to mid-forearm. Years of experience helped me hold in any reaction to them. I reached out and encircled her slender wrist with my fingers. “How long ago?”

  “Same time as everything else. When Peanut died.”

  “Was it postpartum depression?”

  She laid her arm on her lap. I kept my hold on her. “I don’t think so. I didn’t even do it with the thought of dying. Just to be scarred. I felt like somehow I needed to be permanently marked by what happened.”

  I ran my thumb along the lines. “You didn’t realize how dangerous it was to do?”

  “I kinda knew. It just didn’t really hit home until I’d already done it.”

  “Razors?”

  “Nice sharp ones. Part of my art tool chest.”

  “You got help after?”

  Tina snorted. “More than I wanted. I thought I’d never get free of the social workers.” She snorted again. “And now I’m going to be one. That’s a lark.”

  She pulled her sleeves down, forcing me to let go. “Is it too freaky for you?”

  I wrapped my arms around her and tucked her in a little closer. “Not too freaky.” Truth be told, this didn’t surprise me at all. The signs had all been there from her history. I wished she hadn’t had to go through it, though.

  She relaxed her head on my shoulder. “I have five people who attempted suicide coming to my art class. Four teens and an older man. So much hurt in the world.”

  I definitely agreed on that.

  She got quiet, as if she was waiting for me to say something else.

  “It’s part of who you are, Tina. It’s all right.”

  But this didn’t get her to relax.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” she asked.

  I tensed a little. Was that what this was about? A secret for a secret?

  Had Cynthia spilled something?

  I had to go face the whole mess tomorrow to make sure she got her chemotherapy. I couldn’t jeopardize it right now.

  Tina began to pull away. Damn it. I needed to do something. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she just expected me to say something else about her history.

  “I’m not spooked by it,” I said.

  She stood up. “I’m not normally the sort of girl who dates anybody long term,” she said. “I don’t even know how to do this.”

  I got up too. “There isn’t any one way. I think we’re doing fine.” I tried to squeeze her shoulders, but she shrugged me off.

  “You don’t think there is anything in your history I should know? A marriage? Anything?” She wouldn’t look at me.

  “I’ve never been married, Tina. Did the Google search maybe point you in the wrong direction? Or is someone telling you something about me?”

  “No. No one knows anything about you.”

  “You’ve asked?” I tried to keep my voice even.

  She whirled around at that. “Not really. Everyone thinks you’re this obstinate, coldhearted machine.”

  “I can’t help the impression people get of me.”

  “Of course you can!”

  “Tina, what do you want me to be?”

  She walked toward the kitchen. “I don’t know! Honest with me, maybe?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  She leaned against the wall, facing away. I had no idea how to manage her moods. She was so hard to figure out.

  “You don’t have a daughter?” she finally asked, quietly.

  Where would she get that idea? “No, I do not have any children,” I said. “I’ve never been married.”

  “I see,” she said.

  I stood in her living room, not sure what else to say. I knew it was probably time to explain about my sister, but she seemed more worried about my marital status. I had no idea where that was coming from. As upse
t as she was acting, bringing up Cynthia seemed like a bad idea.

  “I’m still tired and hungover,” she said. “Can we just call it a day?”

  “I was hoping to take you to dinner. Do something simple.”

  She hugged herself, still not looking my way. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I have a twelve-hour —”

  “Right,” she said. “That’s fine.”

  I walked toward her, but she held up her hand. “Tomorrow,” she said. “That’ll be better.”

  I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I just agreed with her. “Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

  But I had a feeling that this was the wrong answer.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty Nine: Tina

  I couldn’t think about anything but Darion, Darion, Darion during all my art therapy sessions the next day. Had he straight out lied about Cynthia? I didn’t think so.

  But he wouldn’t tell me anything either.

  This wasn’t good. He had been completely unmoved by my confession.

  He wasn’t the right guy.

  The aide wheeled Albert in, and my excitement over getting to see him was immediately squashed by his haggard appearance.

  He slumped in his chair, holding tight to the arms as though if he let go he would simply fall out.

  “I didn’t want to bring him,” the aide said, “but he insisted.”

  “Pshaw,” Albert said. “You guys are always making me out to be sicker than I am.” His eyes sparkled as they always did when he winked at me. “If I get well, who will they flirt with?”

  The aide wrote a number on a piece of art paper. “Page me directly if you need me,” she said.

  When she was gone, I said, “You were doing so well on Friday.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” Albert said. “The whole thing is one step forward, two steps back. Tricky when you’ve got one foot in the grave.”

  He held up his hands, and the shaking was so pronounced that even holding a brush was probably impossible, much less using it.

  I tried to think of something we could do, but Albert was shaking his head. “Stop worrying about it. Let’s work on yours.”

  “And here I thought you just came down to escape all the unwanted attention of the nurses.”