by Lori Wilde
The Hotshot
Heartthrob Hospital, Volume 3
Lori Wilde
Published by Lori Wilde, 2020.
The Hotshot
Heartthrob Hospital Book 3
Lori Wilde
Copyright © 2020 by Lori Wilde
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Excerpt from A Perfect Christmas Surprise
Also by Lori Wilde
About the Author
1
There was a naked man on her terrace.
Dr. Janet Hunter froze in mid-stride, her medical bag, purse, and a small flat briefcase tucked underneath one arm. Keys in hand, she had been on her way out the front door for her first day on the job as a junior member of the Blanton Street Group—Houston’s most prestigious pediatric practice.
She blinked in disbelief.
Yep. No mirage. A buck-naked man lurked among her wrought iron patio furniture.
“Mother, this time you’ve gone too far,” Janet muttered under her breath and took a third look.
Okay, so the guy wasn’t totally nude. He was strategically clutching an empty charcoal bag—presumably pilfered from the trash can beside her outdoor grill—in front of his manly appendages, but everything else was open for ogling.
And ogle she did.
It could have been much worse. The guy could have been a sumo wrestler. Instead, she found herself treated to a rather pleasing view. Mom’s tastes were definitely improving. She had to give her credit.
“Any other day, Mother, I could handle this. But today of all days, your timing really stinks.”
Janet set her medical bag and briefcase down on the kitchen table and slipped a can of pepper spray from her purse. She stalked to the sliding glass door and yanked it open.
“Hey, buddy!” she hollered, keeping the pepper spray hidden in her palm.
The man had his back to her and startled, leaping a good foot off the ground. He spun around, the empty sack of briquettes barely camouflaging his naughty bits.
He had nice biceps, a classic washboard stomach, and legs to shame a racehorse. Dark stubble encroached on the chiseled terrain of his masculine jaw. He possessed sandy brown hair, piercing cocoa-brown eyes, and powerful features.
Utterly gorgeous. Beyond perfect.
Well, except for that panic-stricken expression on his too-handsome-for-his-own-good face. If she had a testosterone meter mounted on the wall beside her outdoor thermometer, the mercury would have been erupting through the top.
What was the matter with her? Why was she admiring this guy’s body? That’s exactly what her mother wanted her to do, but Janet would subvert her. Yes, ma’am.
“Are you speaking to me?” he asked as casually as if they were companionable shoppers in the A&P produce aisle, squeezing cantaloupes and comparing their findings.
“You see any other nude reprobates hanging around? Tell the truth. How much is she paying you?”
“P-p-pardon me,” he stammered.
“How much is she shelling out? It can’t possibly be worth this kind of humiliation.”
It had been bad enough when Gracie Hunter had sent over an exterminator last week to spray Janet’s totally bug-free condo. Or when she’d called the fire department with a tall tale about a kitten caught in a tree. Or the time she had taken out a lonely hearts ad in Janet’s name. But depositing a bare buns male on her terrace was beyond the pale.
Ever since Gracie’s astrologer, Nadine Maronga, told her mother that if she wasn’t a grandmother by the age of fifty-two, then she never would be, Gracie had gone around the bend with finding her only child a husband.
Unfortunately for Janet, Nadine’s predictions were uncannily accurate. Gracie, who had been having her chart done twice a week for the last thirty years, believed every word the woman told her. Nadine had correctly predicted that Janet’s father would take a powder, that Gracie would need a gallbladder operation, and that she would win two thousand dollars in a lottery scratch-card game. Coincidence, surely, but Gracie never let Janet forget these things.
The clock was ticking. In eighteen months, Gracie would be fifty-two, and she was hell-bent on having a grandchild. Half in jest, Janet thought of her mother’s delusional affirmation as the Baby Predicate, as if Gracie’s determination to see her only daughter hitched and pregnant was strong enough to affirm a baby.
“Excuse me?” the guy said, jerking her back to the present. “What are you talking about?”
“The jig’s up. You’re not fooling anyone. I know you and my mother are in cahoots. Now, shoo!” She waved both hands at him like she was scaring crows from a cornfield, one thumb remaining wrapped around the pepper spray, just in case.
He looked at her as if she’d hopped the fence at a mental facility. “Sorry, lady, but I think you’re mixing me up with someone else.”
“You think so?” Janet arched an eyebrow.
“Could I please come inside for this discussion?”
She considered him a moment. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Mom finagled you into this situation. Let her get you out of it.”
“Ah, c’mon,” he begged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear it.”
“Then would you care to explain this scenario?” She sent a critical gaze over his body.
Zowie!
It ought to be illegal to look that good. A strange, shocking heat more forceful than a rain-swollen river flowed through her body. Her reaction was inexcusable. She had to stop feeling so...so...darned impressed with him.
“It’s a long story that has nothing to do with your mother, whoever she might be.” He gave her a shaky grin. “And I’m feeling a little vulnerable at the moment.”
Janet bit the inside of her cheek to bolster her resolve. She kept her eyes trained on his face and avoided looking down at all costs. “Obviously.”
“Let me inside and I’ll fill you in on all the gory details.”
“I might be mistaken, but didn’t the Big Bad Wolf hand Little Red Riding Hood a similar line?”
“Could be, it’s been a while since I’ve read nursery rhymes.” He had really amazing brown eyes that held her gaze like a thumbtack.
“Grimm’s Fairy Tales.”
“What?”
“‘The Big Bad Wolf’ is not a nursery rhyme. The story first appeared in a collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.”
“Gee, thanks for the literary lesson. That’s exactly what I needed at the moment.” His sexy disc-jockey deep voice held more than a dollop of sarcasm.
“Would you rather discuss the cautionary tale of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Emperor’s New Clothes?” she asked dryly. “It seems more apropos under the circumstances.”
“I think we can skip the fairy tales altogether. How ’bout you just let me come inside?” He turned up the wattage on the grin, doing his best to look suave and debonair despite the awkward state of affairs, going all Cary Grant on her.
Janet had to admire his aplomb. Maybe her mother wasn’t behind this after all. “I’m still not convinced that letting you into my
house is such a smart idea.”
“I’m not a deviant or a raving lunatic or anything like that,” he said. “And your mother didn’t hire me. I promise. I would show you my ID, but unfortunately, I don’t have it on me.”
He had a sense of humor; she had to give him credit for that. She sighed and stood to one side. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.” He edged past her, struggling to maintain his dignity while keeping his backside turned away and his front side obscured by the charcoal bag. “Perhaps your husband has something I could borrow to cover my er...bareness?”
“I don’t have a husband.”
Now why had she told him that? She should have said something like, oh no, my six-foot-seven, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound professional boxer husband’s clothes are way too big for you.
“Live-in lover?” he asked.
“No.”
“Perhaps an old boyfriend left a pair of skivvies lying around?”
“If he had, I would have torched them long ago.”
“Hmm, just my luck you’re not the sentimental type. Do you have an apron or a towel or anything like that?” His voice rose a little. “I’m not picky. Throw me a bone, lady. I’m desperate here.”
“I can loan you one of my bathrobes,” Janet said, trying to hide her amusement. He was in something of a pickle, and now that she realized he wasn’t part of Mom’s marry-off-Janet plot, she felt more sympathetic to his plight.
“Okay. Anything will do. I just need some coverage to get back upstairs to my place.”
“You live upstairs?” Janet couldn’t help but sneak a quick peek at his chest sprinkled with a nice number of curly dark sprigs. As her good friend CeeCee Adams would say: He’s a hunk among hunks, who wants a chunk?
“I just moved in,” he said.
“Me, too.”
“I’d shake your hand, neighbor, but under the circumstances...” He shrugged.
“Let me get you that robe.” With the canister of pepper spray still clutched in her palm, she hurried to the bedroom. Janet hated leaving him alone, but the guy was a neighbor. Surely, he wouldn’t try anything funny.
She pulled her bathrobe from the closet and scurried back to the living room. He was lucky she was tall and preferred plain terry cloth to fluffy chenille.
With a grateful smile, he snatched the robe from her hand. “Thanks a million. You’re a lifesaver.”
She stood there feeling awkward. The sensation was an odd one. Janet was a professional, a doctor. She was accustomed to being in control. Having a naked man in her house should not rattle her. Especially now that she knew he wasn’t being paid to seduce her.
But she felt more shaken than a James Bond martini.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“Huh?” Janet realized that she had been staring at him as intently as a germ under a microscope.
He made a twirling motion with his index finger. “Turn around.”
“Oh. Yeah. Excuse me.” If she were the type to blush, her face would flame crimson. As it was, she pressed her lips firmly together and turned her back to him.
Is this smart? her rational voice queried. Turning your back on a naked stranger? What if he attacks you? What if he’s casing the joint to come back and rob you later? What if he’s lying about being your neighbor? Just because he’s cute doesn’t mean he’s harmless.
“Okay,” he said. “You can turn back around now.”
She turned.
He looked silly in her purple robe. The hem hit him mid-thigh and the sleeves, which were long on her, fell to his elbows.
In his hands he held the wadded-up charcoal bag. Sheepishly, he shook his head and a lock of sun-burnished hair flopped over his forehead, making him appear years younger than his age, which she guessed was probably four or five years older than her own thirty years.
“So you got down here...” Janet crossed her arms over her chest and tossed her head toward her patio. “How?”
“Gravity.”
“Har, har. No kidding. Gravity sucked you right through your shower and onto my terrace?”
He grinned. “Witty. I like that in a woman.”
“Clothes. I like them on a man.”
“All the time?”
“Don’t go there.” She fingered the pepper spray and his eyes followed her movements.
“Oooh,” he teased. “Armed and dangerous. I like that in a woman, too.”
“I’m waiting for an explanation,” she replied. “A good reason why I shouldn’t call the police and tell them I found a naked lunatic lurking outside my condo.”
“I doubt you’ll believe me.”
“Try it.”
“I’d just gotten out of the shower,” he began, “when I heard these mockingbirds squawking. They have a nest in the oak tree outside my terrace.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I had a towel knotted around my waist, so I stepped outside to chase away a big white cat hell-bent on getting to those baby birds. Apparently, he had an avian breakfast on his mind. Anyway, I leaned over the edge of the patio wall to scare him out of the tree, and the mama bird dive-bombed me and pecked the top of my head.” He reached up to finger his scalp. “I was only trying to help.”
“That’s what you get for being a good Samaritan.”
“Tell me about it.” He winced. “I lost my balance and fell. My towel got hung up in the tree, and I landed on your terrace sans coverage. I swear, I never intended to moon you.”
She eyed the stranger critically and tried to decide if he was telling the truth or not.
“Go ahead, check the tree for my towel if you don’t believe me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t have time. I’m going to be late for work. Just go to your own place. You can return my bathrobe later and please throw that charcoal sack away.”
“Okay. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m sorry to have intruded.”
“We’ll forget this minor incident ever happened.” Janet ushered him toward the door, her heart thudding strangely. “You keep quiet and so will I.”
“Nice meeting you,” he said after stepping into the hallway. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
I hope not.
“Bye.” She closed the door in his face, vowing to avoid her new neighbor at all costs.
Feeling like forty shades of fool dressed in a woman’s purple terry cloth bathrobe, Gage Gregory slunk up the back stairwell to his condo.
So much for keeping a low profile. He had moved to Houston to escape the limelight, not to end up on his exceptionally lovely neighbor’s backyard terrace in his birthday suit.
Lunkhead.
He raised a hand to push his fingers through his hair and caught a whiff of her scent from the robe. A piquant blend of oriental spices enveloped him.
And intrigued him.
The woman was fascinating. A frank-talking, raven-haired beauty with patrician features and a challenging look-but-don’t-dare-touch aura. When they had been eye to eye, he’d had the strongest urge to reach out a hand and trace her full lips and see if they felt as soft as they looked.
Just his luck. He’d met the sexiest woman he had come across in months while in the throes of a very embarrassing situation. It was unlikely she would even speak to him again. And he couldn’t blame her.
Thank God, she was the sensible sort and hadn’t called the police. Gage cringed at the thought. The tabloids would have had a field day with that tidbit.
If a regular Joe Schmoe had saved Senator McConelly’s son from drowning on that California beach five weeks ago, it wouldn’t have caused more than a minor ripple of media attention. But let a former child actor turned plastic surgeon to Hollywood’s elite turned Houston pediatrician do something altruistic and the paparazzi couldn’t shut up about it.
He shuddered to think of the headlines if they got wind of this incident. Hunkiest Bachelor Alive Caught with His Pants Down In Texas or Child Star Gage Gregory St
arts New Career On A Low Note or Has Hollywood’s Favorite Doctor Hero Gone Nudist?
He’d dodged a bullet with this one. He’d come to Houston for a clean break, a fresh start. The fewer people here who knew of his celebrity, the better. He wanted nothing more than a normal life—a thriving medical practice, a loving wife, healthy kids, a house with a white picket fence, a dog in the yard, vacations twice a year ... yada, yada, yada.
“No more sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Gregory, you got that?” he muttered. “No more damsels in distress. No more diving in without testing the waters.”
And no more turning up on his sumptuous neighbor’s terrace. In fact, if he was smart, he would avoid his gorgeous neighbor altogether. Why that last thought should bother him, Gage had no idea.
But it did.
On the drive to work, Janet couldn’t stop thinking about the stranger. He hadn’t told her his name, she realized, and she still harbored niggling doubts about the veracity of his story. Although the minute he’d left her condo, she had checked the tree and seen a Batman beach towel flapping from the branches, confirming his claim.
Face it, she was gun-shy of Gracie. Two months of evading unwanted male attention, courtesy of the Baby Predicate, confirmed her low opinion of men on the whole and romance in particular.
Janet anchored her feet in reality. If she ever got married, she would go into it with her eyes wide open and her heart firmly anchored in her chest. She didn’t believe in love at first sight like her friend, Lacy Calder, or that best friends make the best lovers like her other best friend, CeeCee. Neither did she believe marriage was just for producing offspring, as her mother apparently believed.
When it came to love, Janet wasn’t sure what she believed. She’d spent twelve years striving to become a pediatrician. She’d never had time for romance. Nor even the inclination.