by Lori Wilde
But her instincts about him and the image he projected didn’t fit.
Oh, the man looked like he could be a cop—he possessed the right posture, the right air of self-assurance, the “no bullshit” eyes. Like he’d seen too much of the world, knew too much to ever really trust anyone again.
What didn’t jive were the suit and the hair and the platinum watch and the way he seemed to be biting his tongue to keep from saying what was really on his mind.
She hated to admit it, but he intrigued her.
Plus, he was exceptionally handsome. Not that she let good looks sway her opinion of someone.
He leaned toward her, narrowing the gap between them. His gaze was level and she felt it again.
Something oddly exciting.
The chemistry surged up. A rush of hormones that told her sex with this man would be very good indeed. She experienced the knowledge in her lungs, in the pit of her stomach, between her legs.
It was more than his coal-black, stylishly cut hair. More than the tawny eyes and the angular bow-shaped lips she was already imagining grazing softly across the nape of her neck. More than the sexy cleft in his hard, masculine chin. Nervously she raised a hand to her hairline and averted her eyes from his face.
He felt it, too.
She saw it in the almost imperceptible quickening of the pulse at the hollow of his throat. Elle flicked her gaze back to his.
His eyes narrowed, but his pupils widened. He was struggling for control, trying to recover without her noticing he’d been affected, trying to hide that he was interested.
Very interested.
“My goal was to defuse the situation as quickly as possible,” he said, finally answering the question she’d posed. “Ever hear the adage that actions speak louder than words?”
He was throwing her words back at her. Giving as good as he got. Cop talk. He sounded like her parents and her brothers and her grandfather and her uncles.
“Do you always act first and ask questions later?”
“If need be.”
“Seems like a dangerous way to live.” She raised an eyebrow. It was almost as if he knew she’d pegged him. A cop trying to slip into someone else’s skin. Was he undercover? But why would there be an undercover cop at Confidential Rejuvenations? Could it have anything to do with the series of unfortunate events that had been going on at the hospital?
Nah, she was jumping to conclusions, reading something into his behavior that wasn’t there. Probably he was just like her—raised around policemen and steeped so long in the culture of law enforcement he behaved like a cop even when he wasn’t one.
“A flaw of mine.”
Now that definitely wasn’t coplike, readily admitting a shortcoming. But she found it appealing. Mark had never once admitted he was wrong, not even when she’d caught him red-handed with Cassandra. Her ex-husband had tried to turn it around, make his cheating Elle’s fault by saying she’d been too absorbed with her work.
The jackass.
“And,” the stranger continued. “I apologize for disturbing your drill.”
Admitting a fault and apologizing for it? From an alpha guy like this? She didn’t buy it. He was trying too hard to make her like him.
Why?
“Who are you?” She cocked her head upward and crossed her arms over her chest again.
“Dante,” a voice from behind Elle boomed. “You made it!”
Elle didn’t have to turn to see who was speaking. She’d spent five years of her life listening to that voice. A voice that had made promises he never intended on keeping.
The voice of her rat bastard ex-husband, Mark Lawson.
Elle gritted her teeth and tried to tamp down her resentment. A year ago, just when she thought Mark was finally ready to start a family, after she had put him through medical school, worked double shifts while he completed his residency in psychiatrics, he had dumped her for one of his patients. A twenty-one-year-old actress named Cassandra Roberts.
Cassandra, bless her little heart, couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. But she was blond, beautiful and one shade above anorexic. Plus, her daddy was a big-wheel movie exec, and Mark had always been enamored of money, glitz and glamour.
Mark moved around Elle as if she didn’t exist and clasped the stranger in a bear hug. “Dante, man, you look great.”
So this was Dante Nash. Mark’s college roommate, and the newest surgeon to join the staff of Confidential Rejuvenations.
Just her luck.
Back when she and Mark were married and he would occasionally get drunk and chatty, he would reminisce about his college days at the University of Texas. During those times he’d tell of the antics he and Dante had gotten into, recounting tales of their prowess on the football field.
And in the bedrooms of sorority houses.
According to Mark, Dante was something of a player. This explained the suit and the haircut and the Rolex and the brooding charm. Elle lumped him into the same category with her ex-husband.
Untrustworthy skeeve.
In her book, anyone who was a friend of Mark’s was an enemy of hers.
Now, Elle, chided her good-girl side. You only diminish yourself when you think like that. Not giving Mark power over your feelings is the best revenge. No need cluttering your mind with negativity.
Maybe so, but it didn’t seem as satisfying as the fantasy of slashing the tires on Mark’s new Mercedes. She was still driving the compact Chevy she’d bought after she graduated from college ten long years ago.
Thank heavens for her two best friends, Vanessa and Julie. They also worked with her at Confidential Rejuvenations. In an attempt to deal with the stress of their professions and the secrets that the job forced them to keep, they’d formed an after-hours club where they could get together and vent. Sharing their hopes, dreams and fantasies with one another.
Her friends had been there for Elle during her divorce and they understood her even when her own family didn’t. The group was meeting on Wednesday night and she couldn’t wait to tell them what had happened in the E.D. with the new surgeon.
Her family thought she was crazy for staying at Confidential Rejuvenations, considering she had to see Mark on a daily basis. She would admit it was particularly difficult when Cassandra Roberts showed up, dangling adoringly from his arm.
But this was the best job Elle had ever had. For one thing, she was extremely well paid. She couldn’t go anywhere else and make the same kind of money. Plus, she was given lots of autonomy and she adored the staff. The VIP patients could be challenging at times, simply because they were VIPs, but Elle enjoyed taking care of people. Being a caregiver, however, had its drawbacks. For instance it prevented you from making a voodoo doll of your ex-husband and sticking sharp pointy things through it.
“Come on, let me show you to your office,” Mark said. Without even bothering to introduce the new doctor to the staff, he slung an arm around Dante’s shoulder and propelled him toward the door.
Typical Mark. No thought for anyone except himself.
As her ex-husband dragged the new physician past her, Dante’s elbow accidentally grazed Elle’s breast.
Sharply she inhaled as the shock of the unintentional contact spread out through her nerve endings.
She saw Dante glance down at her from his imposing height. He had to be at least six-three, almost a foot taller than her own five feet four.
For the briefest of moments, their gazes wed.
His eyes glinted as if he knew exactly what she looked like stark naked and he approved. The intimate suggestion in his stare caused Elle’s knees to weaken.
Nature had packaged him in a hard, muscular frame. He was meaty but not bulky. At once both supple and strong. His hands were big and square, his fingernails manicured. Nothing odd there; lots of surgeons babied their hands. Then she spied something that completely rattled her. There, at his wrist, from underneath his Rolex, curled the hint of dark-blue ink.
A tattoo.
> Talk about out of place.
Who was he really?
The look that passed between them was succinct and yet weighted with a meaning she couldn’t begin to unravel. She felt heavy and light at the same time.
Elle’s cheeks tingled. She was blushing!
God, how embarrassing.
What was happening to her? One minute she’d been minding her own business, doing her job as the nursing director of the E.D. and the next minute this sharp-dressed, broad-shouldered stranger had her locked in some emotional chokehold.
She didn’t trust a man who could make her feel so breathless with just a look.
Not one little bit.
2
AS MARK ESCORTED HIM from the emergency department, Dante couldn’t help swiveling his head for one last look at the feisty red-haired nurse.
She glowered, hands on her hips, watching him go.
Her eyes narrowed. The woman didn’t like him. But could he blame her? He’d messed up her disaster drill, and in the process he could very easily have blown his cover. He’d already made her suspicious.
Not good.
Dante could tell from the way she’d scolded him that she thought he was a bulldozing hothead, and he’d given her plenty of reasons to draw that conclusion. He’d have to be more careful. He threw her the most disarming grin he could conjure before turning his attention back to Mark. Behind him, he heard her snort indignantly. He wasn’t winning her over that easily.
“The medical staff is waiting in the doctors’ lounge,” Mark was saying. “We’re throwing you a little welcome party.”
Ah crap, he hated this sort of political meet-and-greet, but he knew it was necessary. Suck up to the old guard if you want to fit in, and he had to fit in to gain their trust. He’d done it well enough in college. He could do it again.
“Who’s the redhead?” Dante asked, the words popping unexpectedly from his mouth.
“Redhead?”
Dante jerked his thumb in the direction of the emergency department.
Mark wrinkled his nose and his smile disappeared. “Word to the wise, steer clear of Elle.”
“Any particular reason?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“She’s my ex-wife.”
“For real?”
“We were married for five years.”
Surprised, Dante tightened his chin. Elle wasn’t Mark’s typical type. She was solidly built for one thing—well-rounded hips, sturdy legs, the generous look of a true earth mother. She also had quick, intelligent seashore-blue eyes. Unless his college roommate’s tastes had changed, Mark went in for thin, leggy, big-breasted blondes with wide eyes and a minimum of brain power.
Dante resisted the urge to look back down the hallway again. “What happened?”
“Things happen. People change.”
“Bad breakup?”
Mark shook his head. “Don’t ask.”
She’s available.
It was the wrong thought to think. He should have been wondering what had caused their breakup, but it was too soon to ask probing personal questions of Mark. Tread lightly and trust no one. It was, after all, his lifelong motto.
He had to forget the redhead. The fact that she’d rattled his concentration bothered him almost as much as the rattling itself. He was not a man easily swayed from his objective.
It was the memory of his sister and the filthy alley where her body had been found that had him steeling his mind, clenching his fists. She’d overdosed on heroin, but the medical examiner had found that her death was not accidental. Ligature marks on her wrists had told the tale. She’d been tied up and forcibly injected. She’d been murdered and Dante had never forgiven himself for not protecting her.
As part of his penance, Dante would do whatever it took to bring the bastard responsible for putting Rapture in the underground drug pipeline to justice, and if Mark was that bastard, then so be it.
“Here we are.” Mark pushed through the frosted-glass double doors marked Doctors Only.
Behind the doors was a collection of well-heeled doctors mingling in an atmosphere of opulence. This room, with its designer draperies, Persian rug, a marble waterfall and chic modern furniture, was a far cry from the sparse, functional doctors’ lounge at the county hospital in Dallas where Dante had done his internship.
“Here he is,” Mark called out to the gathered contingency. “Our newest plastic surgeon and my old college roommate, Dante Nash.”
There was a polite smattering of applause. Someone gave Dante a new scalpel and told him to cut the cake that read in neon-blue buttercream icing, Welcome to Confidential Rejuvenations, Dr. Nash.
He felt like rolling his eyes at the pomp, but in the spirit of cozying up to his new colleagues, he forced a grin. Un-sheathing the blade, he then made a precision slice right through the middle of the N in his last name.
Someone else handed him a flute of champagne. He felt awkward as hell standing there with a glass of Dom Perignon at nine o’clock in the morning, but he had to act as if he expected such treatment. He forced himself to take a sip.
Mark took him around the room, introducing him to the people gathered.
Dr. Jarrod Butler was the chief of staff. He had a lanky build and a leisurely way of speaking that reminded Dante of Gregory Peck’s classic role of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Dante guessed Butler was in his early sixties; he was the most senior person in the room.
The chief of surgery, Wilson Covey, was a few years younger than Butler. He had the square, muscular build of a boxer and wore his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back off his forehead. He had a broad smile and a booming voice that seemed more suited to coaching basketball than practicing medicine.
Together Butler, Covey and Mark co-owned Confidential Rejuvenations. Dante had already met Butler and Covey during his initial interview. Both doctors hailed from a long line of money, and they looked the part. Dignified, impeccably dressed, well-mannered and reserved. They wielded a subtle but undeniable power. What Dante hadn’t been able to figure out was how Mark had managed to swing a partnership with these guys.
Beyond those three, there were thirteen other doctors in the lounge, five women, eight men. They held a variety of specialties, particular to a private facility like Confidential Rejuvenations, ranging from psychiatry to substance abuse to antiaging. They were dressed like celebrities in their high-end fashions and designer suits. Clothing targeted at impressing their discerning clientele. The most memorable of the group was a fellow surgeon, a young Latina woman named Vanessa Rodriquez.
Vanessa possessed a firm handshake, cautious eyes and a penetrating way of looking at him as if she knew exactly who he was and what he was trying to hide. Her stare was unnerving because he could not peg her. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her makeup as flawless as a runway model’s. The woman was a beauty with her raven hair and sultry black eyes, but Dante had a thing for redheads. In spite of the care this woman took with her appearance, there was something about the defensive tilt to her shoulders that told him she wasn’t entirely comfortable in this group.
Did she have a past she was trying too hard to deny? What was her background? Why was she, at her age, working at a cushy place like Confidential Rejuvenations when she would get so much more experience at a county hospital? The questions intrigued him. He was going to keep a very close eye on Dr. Rodriquez.
She held out a slender hand. He noticed she wasn’t having any champagne. “It’s nice to have you here, Dr. Nash. And it’s encouraging that we’re attracting such distinguished talent, especially after what’s been happening.”
“Excuse me?” Dante raised an eyebrow. “What’s been happening?”
She looked surprised. “Mark didn’t tell you?”
“About what?” He’d been there less than an hour and already he felt the energy of a dozen hidden secrets.
Vanessa shot a glance at Mark who was deep in conversation with Wilson Covey.
“That was unfair of him not to tell you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’ve been some…” She paused a moment before finishing with, “unusual occurrences around here lately.”
“Unusual occurrences?”
She shrugged and gave him an enigmatic smile.
“Are you always this cryptic?” he asked. “What’s the big mystery?”
She ducked her head, lowered her eyes. “I work at Confidential Rejuvenations. As our motto goes, ‘You do it, we keep it strictly confidential.’”
“That’s the motto?”
Dr. Rodriquez shrugged. “If you have questions, you should talk to Mark. Anyway, welcome aboard. It was nice meeting you, but I’ve got surgery in thirty minutes.” With a wave of her fingertips, she was gone.
Twenty minutes later the welcome reception began breaking up as the doctors wandered off to make morning rounds.
“Come on,” Mark inclined his head toward the back exit. “I’ll show you to your office.”
Dante set down his champagne glass and followed Mark out into the corridor. He was ready to get to work.
They left the hospital proper and took the flagstone path to the physicians’ offices at the back of the property. Inside the clean, glossy building Mark introduced him to the perky young receptionist named Hailey. She looked barely out of high school, had a subtle tattoo of a blue butterfly on the inside of her wrist and she blushed when Dante shook her hand.
“Here we are.” Mark stopped outside the fifth office on the left and handed Dante a key. He clamped a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t tell you how good it is to have you at Confidential Rejuvenations. Feels like old times.”
“It’s great to be here,” Dante said. It wasn’t a lie. It was great to be so close to catching the low-life scum who was poisoning people with dangerous designer street drugs.
“I’ll let you get settled in,” Mark said. “If you need anything, just ask Hailey. I’ve got rounds, but I’ll be back at noon and we can grab some lunch and do a little reminiscing about our football glory days at UT.”