by Lucy Ryder
“What about this?” he asked, holding up the unopened condom.
She nearly choked. “I...um...you keep it,” she finished in a breathless rush.
“Thanks,” he said wryly. “But what if you need it?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head frantically. “I won’t,” she assured him hurriedly. “I’m taking a break, remember?”
His mouth curled in a half-grin that was filled with wicked trouble as he reached out to tuck a wet curl behind her ear. “So you said.”
The move was so unexpected that she stilled, feeling the rough pads of his fingers brush the sensitive skin of her ear. Unexpected because it sent a bunch of pleasurable sensations skittering across her skin. And unexpected because...because she couldn’t remember the last time a man had touched her; the last time she’d actually wanted a man to touch her.
And she suddenly did. With frightening need.
Ack!
That it was happening now with a complete stranger was more than a little unnerving.
She licked her lips and shifted nervously.
“Just out of curiosity...” Hot Guy murmured.
He was clearly oblivious to the melting going on inside her head...and, fine, in her thighs too. Melting that left her dizzy and a little too turned on for comfort.
“Does that mean you’re currently into women, then?” He looked intrigued, as if he was picturing her kissing another woman when she’d been picturing kissing him.
“What?” Her mouth dropped open and the dizziness vanished. “No!” she practically yelped, knocking his hand aside and backing up a couple of steps. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that but no, I am not into... Sheesh!” Rolling her eyes, she blew out an exasperated breath. “You are such a...a guy!”
“Guilty,” he murmured, eyes wicked. “But I’m glad.”
“Glad?”
“That Sweet ‘n Sassy isn’t batting for the other team.”
Slapping a hand over her eyes, she blurted out, “Oh, my God!” She wished the ground would open up and swallow her. “Please, please, stop talking.” She gave a laughing groan and pointed a finger in his direction. “And forget you heard that. In fact, forget the last ten minutes altogether because... Oh, great,” she muttered, catching sight of a couple of co-workers at the entrance, gesturing at her to hurry up and pointing at their watches. “Gotta go.”
She was about to step into the road when she was brought up short against a warm, hard—extremely hard—chest as a car whooshed past. “Careful,” he murmured in her ear and for the second time in ten minutes Dani experienced that full-body shiver.
Yeah, Dani, she lectured herself silently as her knees wobbled. Great advice. She’d be wise to heed it.
Fortunately it gave her the impetus she needed to mutter an apology and limp across the road toward the employee entrance. Safely on the other side, she felt inexplicably drawn to look over her shoulder—only to find him watching her retreat, a small baffled smile curving that incredibly sexy mouth. As though he couldn’t believe what he’d just experienced.
“Thank you,” she called out, ignoring the niggling feeling in her gut that she was walking away from something good. Something exciting and...terrifying.
His mouth curved. “Any time.”
She paused again, unsure why she couldn’t seem to walk away, because she was pretty sure she should be running.
For long seconds they eyed each other across the wet road, until he finally gave a low laugh and asked in a rough, deep voice that slid into places she hadn’t known were lonely, “Are you sure you won’t reconsider your embargo?”
Was she?
“Nope,” she said firmly, shaking her head with jerky exaggerated movements that should convince him—or was that her? So for good measure she added; “I most definitely will not.”
Liar. You so would.
He was silent for a long beat, his gaze searching, before finally nodding. “My loss,” he said and dug his keys out of his pocket. “See you around, sweet thing.”
The sentiment that just fifteen minutes ago had made her want to gag filled her with a warm pleasure that no doubt came from hitting her head. Then her brain finally caught up and she gave herself a mental head-slap.
He hadn’t meant anything by that parting shot, she told herself as she reluctantly turned away. Men flirted all the time. It was a kind of pastime...like drinking beer, burping and cheating. Besides, she had enough problems without adding a tall, sexy stranger with a kind streak to her things to obsess about.
The most pressing thing, she decided as she hobbled up the ramp, being that she was late for her shift and looked as if she’d been moonlighting as a mud wrestler.
* * *
Dylan St. James found himself smiling as he headed toward his Jeep. There hadn’t been a whole lot to smile about lately but the hot little mess he’d just walked away from had done what no one else had in far too long. She’d taken him out of his head and made him smile—laugh, even—which was a miracle considering everything that had happened in the last two years.
He’d lost his grandfather after a long, protracted battle with esophageal cancer and a friend to a climbing accident—all in the space of two months. Reeling from the double whammy, he’d accepted a temporary commission on a West African Mercy Ship, thinking the change would help him deal.
He’d immersed himself in doing what he loved: helping people—kids especially—get to live relatively normal lives with his skill as an orthopedic reconstruction surgeon. Helping those who usually didn’t have access to modern medical care.
He’d met some great people and had fallen into a casual relationship with an on-board coordinator—a relationship that had been more about propinquity and convenience than any deeper feelings, on his part at least. It didn’t say much for him but he’d thought they were friends with on-again, off-again benefits—right up until Simone had dropped her bombshell...she was pregnant.
Yeah. Big shock that, considering that they’d lately been more off than on and he’d never had unprotected sex. Ever. Still, that hadn’t been the worst of it, because although he’d been willing to face up to his responsibility—without getting married to someone he didn’t have deep feelings for—she’d had other ideas.
Ideas that had emerged one night when he’d finished surgery earlier than expected and headed over to the mess hall for dinner, inadvertently overhearing Simone and an Australian nurse discussing him—or rather his family’s money. Simone had been bragging that she’d managed to catch herself a rich Canadian doctor—her sole reason for working in such God-forsaken countries on a boat that didn’t even have a swimming pool.
As if that was important on a hospital ship.
He’d been about to reveal himself when he’d heard something even more enlightening—that the baby she was trying to pass off as his belonged to a Mercy Ship colleague. A married colleague.
To say she’d been shocked when she’d looked up and seen him standing there was an understatement. There’d been tears, pleas, threats and hysterics but in the end he had been done. He’d finished his contract and come home.
She wasn’t the first woman who’d thrown herself at him after learning that his family owned the largest shipbuilding company in the Pacific Rim and she probably wouldn’t be the last. He’d just have to be more careful, that was all. Besides, he wasn’t interested in marrying someone he couldn’t see himself growing old with.
Not that he was against marriage. He wasn’t. But he hadn’t found a woman who wanted him rather than what his family’s money could do for her. Hadn’t found a woman with whom he could build the kind of relationship his parents and grandparents had.
He sometimes wondered if he ever would.
Arriving at his Jeep, he keyed open the door and slid inside. About to shove his key into the ignition, he realized he was s
till holding the condom. Tossing it into his console, he chuckled at the horrified embarrassment on the woman’s face and her insistence that it wasn’t hers.
Now, there was a feisty little bundle of contradictions, he thought, picturing her huge gray eyes as she’d blurted out that she was taking a break from anything with a Y-chromosome, stirring up all kinds of mixed emotions he hadn’t been ready to feel.
Shaking his head at himself, Dylan cranked up the engine. Reversing out of the parking bay, he drove toward the exit, feeling much more cheerful than when he’d landed a few hours ago. He had a few days to catch up with his family and then he’d be back in the saddle at St. Mary’s as a consultant.
And if the thought of seeing a certain hot little doctor again made him smile with anticipation he chalked it up to the long flight, three days without much sleep and eight months of celibacy.
CHAPTER TWO
DYLAN FELL BACK into the hospital routine as if he’d only been gone for a week. His old partner, Steve Randall, had been so delighted to have him back that he’d cleared his calendar and headed for the South Pacific, leaving Dylan to handle any upcoming surgeries that couldn’t be postponed.
Although he’d have liked to say he was too busy to think about the sweet little brunette from the parking lot, it was kind of disconcerting to discover that he was as susceptible as the next guy to a pair of soft gray eyes and a sweet sassy smile.
He was thirty-five, for God’s sake. A surgeon. He’d been dating for twenty years; having sex for almost that long, and he’d never—not once—thought about a woman during surgery.
That was until he’d looked into the smoky eyes of an irresistible brunette as he’d reached for the scattered contents of her purse.
Not only had she invaded his dreams but the Zen-like calm he usually adopted in the OR as well. It had to stop. Distraction was costly—especially in his profession. With Steve off in Bora Bora he didn’t have time to take a lunch break, let alone think about a woman determined to stick to her man embargo.
He wondered what had happened to leave her so wary and mistrustful of men. And if he experienced an inexplicable urge to find the guy who’d done it and pound him into the ground it was only because he had two sisters and would do the same to any guy who messed with them.
Yeah, he assured himself, he was feeling protective in an entirely fraternal way. It certainly wasn’t because his ego had taken a little beating. Besides, he knew next to nothing about her other than the fact she worked at St. Mary’s. Even if he’d wanted to prove to himself that he’d imagined the entire incident, St. Mary’s was a large hospital. She could work anywhere, and he didn’t have the time—or the inclination, he assured himself—to hunt down a woman who wasn’t interested.
It was just as well that she’d turned him down because he wasn’t looking for anything more than the occasional good time with an attractive woman who knew the score. And since she hadn’t seemed like the “occasional” type, or even a “good-time” girl, he would forget all about her and focus on cementing his professional reputation.
With back-to-back appointments and two solid days of surgery, by the Thursday evening of the following week Dylan was ready to call it a day. He grabbed his leather jacket and turned off the lights as he walked through the darkened waiting room. It was after eight and he had plans to meet up with a couple of kayaking friends at a sports bar near the marina. He hadn’t seen them since his return and was eager to get back on the water.
He dug in his pocket for his Jeep keys and was about to lock the door behind him when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID had him smiling. “Hi, Mom, what’s wrong?”
His mother’s light, familiar laugh floated through the phone. “Nothing’s wrong, darling. I’m just calling to find out how my favorite son is doing on his first week back and to invite him to dinner.”
“Mom, I’m your only son.”
“Still my favorite,” she teased. “But don’t tell your sisters.”
Dylan chuckled, because he’d heard his mother tell his sisters the same thing. “I’d love dinner, Mom but I’m on call. It’ll take too long to get back from West Vancouver if there’s an emergency.”
“That’s the beauty of my plan, darling,” said Vivian St. James smugly. “We’re having dinner at the Regis with the Hendersons. You remember Fred and Daphne, don’t you?”
For some reason his mother’s overly bright, chatty tone put Dylan’s senses on alert. He grimaced when her next words confirmed his suspicions.
“Well, their daughter Abigail is back from Europe, and we can all have a wonderful dinner tog—”
And there it was. “Mom,” he interrupted gently. “Don’t.”
There was a short pause, then a bewildered, “Don’t what, darling?”
Dylan sighed. “You’re trying to set me up again.”
“Don’t be silly!”
His mother gave a laughing snort but Dylan could tell that he’d hit the nail on the head. His mother was trying to get him a date in the hopes that it would lead to the altar. She wanted grandchildren before she died—which was ridiculous because she wasn’t yet sixty.
“Even if that’s true, young man,” she said in her “mom voice”—the one that said he was being deliberately uncooperative. “And I’m not saying it is, you need to get out and meet people. Women.”
“Mom, I meet women every day. Besides, I have met someone,” he heard himself say.
And then he wanted to slap himself upside the head for giving his mother false hope. Vivian would hound him until she met the mythical woman herself. He loved his mother fiercely but if she thought one of her brood needed a helping nudge in the right direction she wasn’t above using both hands.
“You have?”
Oh, hell. His mother sounded so delighted at the prospect that her son was dating again after his friend’s death. She thought all her children were amazing and wouldn’t be able to resist meddling.
“That’s wonderful, darling. Where did you meet and when can I meet her?”
No pressure there, St. James, he thought with amused exasperation. “Who says it’s a her?”
There was a moment’s stunned silence on the other end of the phone and Dylan could picture his mother’s expression.
Then Vivian snorted. “Dylan Thomas St. James!” She chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay but I know you’re only trying to wind me up. So, when can I meet her?”
Fortunately he was saved from replying when his phone beeped an incoming call. Talk about being saved by the beep.
“Just a sec, Mom. I’ve got a call coming in.” With a flick of his hand he accessed the call. “St. James.”
“This is Rona Sheppard from the ER,” a brisk voice said. “Are you still in the building?”
“I am,” he said, shrugging out of his leather jacket and reaching for his lab coat because any call that included the words Are you still in the building? meant he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. “What’s up?”
“A young child with a traumatic arm injury,” the supervisor said briskly. “ETA three minutes—vitals shaky.”
“I’ll be right down,” he said before disconnecting, his mind already flying ahead to the case.
He was about to shove his phone in his pocket when he remembered his mother.
“Mom,” he said, returning to his call. “I’m sorry but I won’t make dinner tonight.” He didn’t say he’d been headed to Harry’s on the marina anyway—mostly to prevent the lecture he knew would follow about the kind of women who hung out in sports bars.
“Oh, darn.” Vivian sighed. “I’ve been giddy with happiness since you got back.”
She very obviously didn’t say she was disappointed that he wouldn’t meet their friends’ daughter but Dylan could read between the lines.
“Is it something bad?”
&
nbsp; “I don’t know yet but it’s a little kid.”
“Oh, darling, I know how much you hate these cases. Call me when you can.”
He said goodbye and disconnected, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, because traumatic injuries were always bad. That it was a child made it that much more urgent.
Dylan had spent enough time in the ER to appreciate that when children were involved emotions ran high. It was one of the worst parts of working in trauma and he held a huge respect for the people who dealt with it on a daily basis.
Even as he hit the swing doors and headed down the hallway he could hear someone rapping out orders in a soft, feminine voice that sent skitters of recognition across his skin. From the rapid-fire instructions, he knew even before he approached the trauma bay that the patient had just arrived. Even more surprising was that right in the center of the chaos, directing proceedings, was the brunette from the parking lot.
The attending physician.
He didn’t know why the sight of her so competently handling the emergency threw him but it did—enough that he paused at the entrance, his gut clenching in a combination of dread and anticipation.
The kid, probably no more than six or seven, looked so tiny and fragile on the bed that he felt his heart squeeze before he had a chance to take an emotional step back. These were the cases that ripped at him. And he’d feel it all the more deeply if his team wasn’t successful in reattaching the severed limb.
The sight of the blood-soaked compression dressing instantly sucked him back to West Africa where he’d spent the past two years replanting limbs torn off in explosions and artillery fire or lopped off by panga-wielding soldiers. The young victims had been the hardest to deal with because often there had been no limbs to reattach, or necrosis and infection had already set in by the time they got to him.