by Calista Fox
Yet the place was packed. There were vendor booths galore in the exhibit halls. Hospitals, clinics, private practices, and schools all gathered about and thrusting brochures and literature at her as she wove stealthily through the throng of people, making her way to the ballroom assigned for Dr. Hart’s lecture.
Anxiety ate at her. She was running late. The convention was so huge that Courtney had not been able to book a hotel room nearby on such late notice. Not even in the Gaslamp Quarter or Bayfront area. Staci had checked into the Marriott in Mission Valley and had then battled road construction this morning on I-5.
Locating the correct room, she slipped inside and took a place in the back, shocked to find the seats were practically all full. Making it difficult to see anything.
Apparently, there were big doings in the foot world. It was probably a good thing she was here.
Except that she’d missed the keynote speaker, Dr. Hart, and now the moderator shifted into a Q&A session with the panelists while Dr. Hart strode off and disappeared behind the partition, swarmed by his PR people or conference coordinators. Numerous audience members held their hands in the air for a good fifteen minutes while questions were taken and answered. Not everyone got the chance to query the panelists for an opinion on whatever concerned them. The session ended, everyone onstage exited behind the partition where Hart had disappeared, and Staci literally got swallowed up in the mass exodus.
Damn it!
When she finally broke free of the crowd, she stepped outside to get away from the mayhem and consulted the day’s agenda. No more Dr. Hart. He must have had private engagements that required an invitation to get into. She hit the speed dial number on her phone for Courtney.
“Hey, Court,” she said. “Can you do me a huge favor and try to find out where Dr. Hart is staying? Likely around the convention center. Maybe I can catch him in the bar tonight.”
“Sure, I’ll call around and see if an operator tries to connect me to his room.”
“Great, thanks.”
But Courtney had no better luck with her calls than Staci did scouring the conference trying to get a glimpse of the surgeon.
The trip was a complete bust.
Though Staci wouldn’t give up.
Courtney had her on a flight to Seattle the next day and secured her entry into another conference.
Staci felt a zing of exhilaration as she slid into the back of a Town Car outside of Sea-Tac. The driver Courtney had arranged knew to take her to the Four Seasons. Courtney had already discerned that was where Hart was staying—the front desk staff having confirmed it when Courtney had made her round of calls.
If Staci couldn’t make contact with Hart at this conference, she ought to be able to locate him in one of the common areas of the hotel. She didn’t want to stalk him, but running into him would force him to at least hear her out.
Having just read online the night before that he was operating on Regina Hines, Staci was even more convinced that she and Hart were destined to meet and collaborate.
He had to want to partner with her in building a better, safer—though still infinitely stylish—shoe.
It simply didn’t compute in her head that he wouldn’t want to team up to improve footwear so popular that women the world over were willing to risk serious injuries to enjoy it.
As she considered this, Staci composed a very eloquent and compelling email to Hart, imploring him to meet with her for this very reason. She was coming to him—all he had to do was give her twenty minutes of his time over coffee.
She sent off the missive. And planned to leave the hotel extra early the next morning to ensure she didn’t arrive late at the conference.
* * *
It was another packed auditorium, this one tiered for better viewing of the stage area, though she was still too far away to see the entire panel or Hart without binoculars. The coordinator of these lectures needed to invest in projection screens that displayed the speakers, not just their visual aids and PowerPoint presentations.
For God’s sake, Evan Hart was like the rock star of podiatry.
Too bad he’s such a pompous ass…
She listened to him pontificate over foot and ankle bones, tendons, and cartilage. Rattle off complicated afflictions that required extensive surgery and physical therapy. He also spoke of prosthetics and the advancements he hoped to make in that area.
Staci wasn’t sure if she was fascinated or not.
Dr. Evan Hart had a very curious effect on her. She concentrated on his voice, mostly. It was rich and deep, and her skin actually tingled as she listened to him. She shifted a few times in her seat, feeling heat and electricity against her clit just from his studious diatribe, delivered in the most sensuous bedroom voice imaginable.
Oddly familiar, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. His voice being amplified by microphones, it was a little difficult to completely dissect. And she was a little disturbed that it made her think of Nick.
Then again, everything sensual made her think of Nick. And he really needed to be the furthest thing from her mind.
Staci glanced around her, trying to note if any other females in the room reacted to Hart’s tone the way she did.
Most of the women took feverish notes on pads of paper or small laptops, so she guessed not.
Admittedly, he was riveting, even if nine-tenths of what he said went well over her head.
Dr. Evan Hart spoke compellingly, insistently, passionately…
Get that man on a topic he believed in and he was clearly a force with which to be reckoned.
Oh, yes. He was definitely the answer to her shoe dilemma.
To the world’s shoe dilemma!
And again, his voice. The warm timbre trilled down her spine, making Staci squirm once more in her seat. She felt a tickle along her clit. Excitement flared in her belly. Why? Anticipation over the possibility of partnering with this man for her cause? Or…What?
Something about him piqued her interest far beyond her shoe initiative.
Had she really heard his voice before?
She studied the program in her hands, but it was the same across-the-room photo of Hart that was plastered all over the Internet. As though that was the identity he wanted to present to the world and none other. Obviously it was perpetuated by his PR people.
Hmm. That was a curious thought. The man was a complete mystery. An enigma. And that had her dying to know more about him.
She had to speak with him. Pick his brain. Get to know him. Because he’d lit a fire under her by successfully evading her, and not even knowing exactly what he looked like or why he wouldn’t hear her out made her desperate to find out everything she could about Dr. Hart. The man. The myth. The legend.
Actually, she wanted to scratch the surface far beyond just the professional accreditations and convictions. But she had no time to dwell on all of that. When the Q&A session began, her arm shot into the air. Since she wasn’t near the front of the room, she feared she wouldn’t be recognized.
Jesus, there were a lot people here! And they had tons of questions to ask.
A good twenty minutes passed, and she still anxiously waved her hand in the air. Staci knew exactly the direction she’d take if—when!—called upon. She’d jump right in with both feet and ask if Evan had ever considered designing better insoles. That ought to grab his attention, pique his interest, and solicit a meeting with her.
The moderator moved up the aisle, inching closer to Staci. Her heart thundered in her chest. What an incredible way to start her journey to more conscientious footwear—a phenomenal niche to pursue!
Staci could just imagine the interviews in Vanity Fair, Vogue, Marie Claire…
And she’d land front-row passes to Fashion Week in New York and Paris! This would be another fantastic coup for her company and would put Staci Kay Shoes on the lips of every woman who once thought she had to pay Prada prices for exceptional designer shoes.
No. They. Did. Not.
Nor wou
ld their feet have to suffer from the trendy styles that were her customers’ fetish.
The moderator reached Staci’s row and leaned in. “Yes, you in the green dress. Do you have a question for Dr. Hart?”
“I do,” Staci said, her pulse racing. She stood, and the moderator stretched the boom toward her. Staci smoothed her skirt and noted that her fingers trembled. This was so thrilling!
“My name is Staci Kay.” She spoke clearly and audibly into the mic. “I’d like to ask Dr. Hart if he has considered—”
“I’m sorry,” the surgeon cut her off. From his perch at the front of the room, he said, “Miss Kay, as previously mentioned to you, I don’t have an interest in addressing media inquiries.”
She had to look around numerous people on the move, since the session was ending. She craned her neck, but couldn’t see around the crowd. “This isn’t a media inquiry,” she insisted. “I own a shoe company.” What part of that was he not getting?
“I’m afraid we’re out of time, Miss Kay,” said the moderator. “My apologies.”
The mic holder moved away, and everyone dispersed.
Leaving Staci with another failed attempt to engage Dr. Hart.
Willie Wonka, indeed.
* * *
Evan sucked down half a bottle of water in his hotel room and then reached for the scotch. He poured two fingers, drinking it neat. It wouldn’t be his one and only cocktail this evening, that was for damn sure.
Staci Kay. Her name popped into his head.
Why couldn’t he escape this woman?
And why the hell had adrenaline pumped through his veins when she’d addressed him in the auditorium?
Yes, he was hot for her.
He was also aggravated beyond all belief at her. At himself—for still wanting her. When he knew that all she wanted was to stay under his skin until he stopped denouncing the podiatric hazards of high heels.
Which would never happen.
No matter how damn beautiful she was. How sensual. How alluring. How…tempting.
Idiot, he chided himself.
Get over her already.
Yes, that was the smart thing to do. But one look at her today—absolutely stunning in an emerald dress set off the shoulders—and he was back to lusting after her.
No doubt that’d been another ploy. If she could keep him in a constant state of arousal, perhaps she’d win this game?
He yanked on his tie to loosen the knot, then undid the first two buttons of his dress shirt. He took a big gulp of the expensive whisky. It burned a path to his gut, but didn’t quite eclipse the gnawing, the sizzling, within him.
All wrapped around Staci Kay.
His Liz.
You are a moron of epic proportions, man.
And here he’d always prided himself not solely on his ambition, but also on his brain power. But the little head overruled the big one this time.
She was that damn irresistible.
But, no. He could do this, he assured himself. He could maintain distance. He could retain his focus. He could ignore Staci Kay.
He could.
Evan phoned Tanya and followed up on messages she’d taken. Then he hit the speed dial number for his mother, always an awkward conversation because she was always distracted. But it’d been over a week since they’d spoken. He tried not to go that long, wanting to make sure she was okay. He knew from past experience that she could get so wrapped up in her work that she didn’t sleep for days, couldn’t recall when she’d last eaten. Evan worried incessantly about her.
“Honey, you read about my new serum, right?” It was the first thing out of Abigail Hart’s mouth when she connected the call.
“I did. Congratulations, Mom.”
She went to town about her latest creation, and Evan listened dutifully. At the end of her lengthy and highly detailed scientific discourse, she changed up topics and asked, “How’s the lecture circuit?”
“Interesting.”
He was being stalked by a gorgeous redhead, after all.
As Evan refreshed his drink and his mother returned to her own professional, valiant plight to rid the world of all disease, his mind continued to drift. That never happened. Then again, he’d never had a sexy woman follow him around the country.
Staci Kay certainly didn’t pose any sort of physical threat to him, so no worries there. Evan had studied martial arts after being bullied through his formative years. During his junior year at Harvard, he’d begun working out at the gym several times a week with a trainer and had buffed up over the past decade.
He didn’t flinch at awkward situations such as a woman showing up repeatedly at his speaking engagements. He did, however, find it incredibly difficult to keep his mind off of running into her in the middle of the night for another go round.
Damn it. Not something to be thinking about.
A long breath blew through his parted lips.
“What’s wrong, Evan?” his mother instantly asked. “Are you ill? What is it, dear? Have you seen a specialist? If you need a referral, I can—”
“No, Mother.” He chuckled at her tenacity. If he did suffer from a serious health condition, he could rest assured she’d likely find a cure. “I’m just exhausted from the schedule. I’m about to call it a night.”
“Yes, you do that. Get some rest. You have to operate in a few days. You need to be fresh and alert. I can send something over to help you sleep.”
“I’ll be fine, thank you.”
Too bad he already knew that, when he closed his eyes this evening, he’d be seeing the stunning woman from the Four Seasons in her sexy lingerie. Or completely naked.
He fought a groan of frustration, said “good night” to his mother, and disconnected.
Evan finished his scotch while he prepped for a couple more invitation-only lectures coming up. He was pretty damn certain Staci Kay wouldn’t be able to score access to them, no matter how much she batted her long, sooty eyelashes.
And he really needed to be fine with that.
Chapter Eight
Staci noted a break in Evan’s lecture schedule and surmised he’d returned to New York—likely for surgery.
She phoned Tanya at precisely eight a.m. on Wednesday. “Good morning, Tanya. This is Staci Kay.”
“Good morning, Miss Kay.” The assistant greeted her in a patient tone.
“Is Dr. Hart in the office today?”
“Yes, he is. However, he’s currently—”
“Thank you so much,” Staci interjected. “You’ve been most helpful. Have a wonderful day!”
An hour later, Staci was on the train from Baltimore to Manhattan. She caught a cab to Mount Sinai. After consulting the directory, she took the elevator up to the floor where Evan’s office was located—though it was barricaded behind glass doors. No worries. She settled into a chair to wait for him, not bothering Tanya because Staci knew she’d only get the runaround.
She flipped through Time and Forbes magazines. Was glad she’d skipped coffee this morning and had grabbed snacks at the train station because she didn’t dare dash off to the ladies’ room or the cafeteria, fearing she’d miss Evan coming from or going to his office.
She used the free time to call her sister to say they could still make the cruise if they booked that evening. Jen hemmed and hawed, then said she’d think some more about it.
“Valentine’s is right around the corner,” Staci reminded her. “Like, next Monday.”
“Yes, I know when Valentine’s Day is, Stace. I’m just not all that interested in acknowledging the holiday that shredded my life.”
“That’s precisely why you should acknowledge it. To let go of the past and embrace the future.”
“You’re one to talk,” Jen said. “You’re still anti-romance because of what that slug Jeremy Markson did to you in college.”
“I don’t have time to be anti- or pro-romance. I have a company to run. Now, the cruise—”
“I don’t know,” Jen cut in. “B
ig doings over here. I’m not sure I have the time.” She rambled on about some events she needed to bake for—weddings and more church and school functions. Eventually, she said, “I’ll let you know tonight.”
“Okay, I lied,” Staci admitted. “The travel agent said we can still book tomorrow before noon—I just didn’t want you to backburner the decision. But that’s it, so…Think hard. Sleep on it. Call me in the morning or let Mom know. Whatever.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Yeah, love you, too.” Staci hung up.
While she kept up her vigil, her toe tapped out an insistent rhythm on the tile floor and her anxiety mounted—yet there was still no sign of Dr. Hart. She hoped like hell to catch him. It was already nearing three o’clock. She’d wait all night if she had to, though she suspected security wouldn’t be too keen on that and they’d kick her out. Probably within the next two hours, damn it.
She tossed aside the magazine she’d been perusing with one eye and reached for another. She could practically hear the clock ticking away the minutes, another chance to speak with the mysterious, impossible-to-pin-down surgeon coming to a close.
How difficult did he intend to make this? And what a huge pain in the ass he’d become with his—
“An extreme case of neuromas requiring the removal of the growths of nerves that could have been prevented years ago, with proper care and early intervention.”
Staci heard Evan’s stirring, rumbling voice in the hallway.
And damn, why’d it make her think of Nick again? At the most inopportune time!
She set aside Wired magazine and got to her feet, straightening her chic midnight-blue suit, the jacket of which featured an asymmetrical hem and brushed-silver buttons. She had a dyed-to-match clutch that she tucked under her arm. Her platforms featured a bold blue-and-white houndstooth pattern.
She pulled in a deep breath. Mentally prepared herself for this golden opportunity.
A trio of men rounded the corner, the dark-haired man in the middle still discussing a particular procedure. Dr. Hart? It was difficult to tell because he was flanked, his head down as he studied a chart.
As they approached, Staci cleared her throat to grab their attention, then said, “Dr. Hart. I’m Staci Kay. I was hoping—”