Dirty Charmer

by Emma Chase

Dickmaster’s gaze slices from me to him. “Why?”

  “Not at liberty to say,” Mr. Sullivan replies. “But it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. The hospital administration has given us all necessary clearances and permissions. They really ought to have informed you, Dr. Dick.”

  Oh noooo . . .

  From somewhere in the back, a medical student with a death wish snickers. But the rest of us don’t move an inch—because that’s what you do when you step on a land mine.

  Nothing.

  You wait—and hope to God it doesn’t blow you to bits.

  “Dickmaster,” the doctor grits out, clenching his teeth furiously enough to crack them.

  There’s a story the nurses tell in hushed tones on slow nights in the hospital halls. The tale of the fourth-year resident who was complaining in the break room about Dickmaster’s demands—and used the unfortunate nickname within earshot of the god himself. He wasn’t fired or even reprimanded—that would’ve been too merciful. Instead, his life became a nightmare of overnight shifts, double shifts, bedpan duty, emergency department stitches, blown IVs galore and charts as far as the eye could see. He ended up quitting—forced out—taking a research position in a basement office at some subpar university whose name no one can remember.

  But, they say sometimes when you’re scrubbing in, if you listen very carefully, you can hear the mournful cry of the fourth-year resident’s soul begging to be let in to a surgery.

  I glance at Tommy Sullivan in time to see him lifting a careless eyebrow and cupping a hand around his ear.

  “Pardon?”

  “My name is Doctor Dickmaster.”

  “Ah, sorry about that.” His face is unreadable, even innocent, but his eyes practically dance a jig—because he’s not really sorry at all. “I’m hard of hearing on this side—old war injury.”

  Dickmaster exhales through his nose, like a bull who’s been denied a spearing.

  “Stay out of the way.”

  Mr. Sullivan salutes. “It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

  I wish.

  He’s only been here an hour and he’s already getting me into trouble.

  “And as for you, Haddock . . .” Dr. Dickmaster glares down at me in warning. Because in some ways, medicine is the great class equalizer. It doesn’t matter who your family is, your name, your title if you have one—it doesn’t matter who you know.

  It’s what you know, what you can do, that counts. It’s all that counts.

  “Keep up.”

  * * *

  “I think you’re pretty.”

  It would be accurate to say the best surgeons in the world are arseholes.

  Cold, clinical, egotistical bordering on narcissistic, emotionally impotent—practiced compartmentalizers. They have iron control over their thoughts, their focus, and are able to detach from any messy feelings that may seep in and trip them up. Like machines.

  Arsehole machines.

  All calculations and predictive outcomes and flawless performances.

  Dickmaster is seen as a god around here, but the secret is . . . when he looks in the mirror, that’s what he sees too. Utterly confident in his power over life and death, completely secure in his own infinite knowledge.

  It takes a high level of arrogance and indifference to cut a human being apart and be certain you can put them together again. To slice skin, sever arteries and incise muscle—to crack bone. For some it comes naturally.

  For me . . . I’m still working on it.

  I straighten up, removing my stethoscope from the chest of the round-eyed, tiny, dark-haired five-year-old in the hospital bed. Her smile is precious and irresistible.

  “I think you’re pretty too,” I whisper tenderly. “And very brave.”

  This is Maisy Adams’s third surgery. I’m not required to know her name—it’s her diagnosis that matters. Tricuspid atresia, a congenital defect in the atriums of the heart. Forty years ago she wouldn’t have seen her first birthday . . . hell, twenty years ago she wouldn’t have made it either.

  But now she will. She’ll have the chance to grow and dream and live. Because of grouchy men like Dr. Dickmaster. Because medicine is an ever-evolving miracle. It sets right and saves what it couldn’t salvage before.

  “That other doctor told Mummy that after this operation and then one more I’ll be all done,” she says.

  Children like Maisy amaze me. So much resiliency and courage in such a small package. Enduring pain and procedures that would break most adults—and still retaining that innocent cheeriness the whole time.

  “That’s right. One more operation after this one and you’ll be done.”

  “And my heart will be all better,” she declares.

  “Yes.”

  I run my hand down her soft hair, petting her, in the way I remember my mother did once when I’d won first place in the spelling bee at school.

  “Do you promise?” she asks, her expression solemn.

  I make an X with my fingertip over the left side of my chest.

  “Cross my heart.”

  And the smile Maisy shines on me warms me from the top of my head to the very bottom of my toes.

  But it shouldn’t.

  Her postoperative stats are what should warm me. The techniques used in her surgery should be what excites me.

  This is why I’ll never specialize in pediatrics. Because when you have a soft spot for patients, it makes everything else a little bit harder—treating them, operating on them . . . losing them.

  Nothing shakes the confidence more than really wanting to fix someone—and failing. And a surgeon who doesn’t have confidence . . . won’t be a surgeon for long.

  I turn away from little Maisy. I lift my chin and straighten my white coat and smooth my features into an expression of professional aloofness. It’s as much a part of our uniform as our scrubs. And then I glance around to see if any of my colleagues have noticed my sweet exchange with the adorable patient.

  They haven’t.

  But someone has.

  Tommy Sullivan is supposed to have his eyes on the corridor, watching for breaches in security—but he’s not.

  He’s watching me.

  Intensely. Deeply.

  His dark gaze is penetrating—and so very, very interested. I’ve seen that look on his face before. Right before he kissed me.

  It’s not something I let myself think of often, but my lips tingle now with the memory. The dominant slide of his mouth, the tantalizing stroke of his tongue, the sure, confident pull of his strong hands that told me he knew exactly what he was doing and wanted to do more.

  I’m a grown woman. I’ve been kissed—I wouldn’t say plenty of times, but I’ve had my share. A few were even nice kisses—wonderful kisses.

  But none of them were like that one.

  None of them came with a tidal wave of sensation. The kind of feeling that knocks you sideways and sends you spinning. And for that one perfect, carnal moment you forget who you are, where you are—or you simply don’t care—because all that matters is him and you and the feel of him, the scent of him . . . and the craving, glorious desire that’s fusing you together.

  Once upon a time, Tommy Sullivan’s kiss made me lose control.

  And that makes him dangerous.

  Discipline, control—they are the foundations of success. Without them, everything falls apart.

  “Haddock!” Dr. Dickmaster shouts from halfway down the hall, where the group has moved on—his voice dousing my scorching memories with day-old bathwater. “Would you mind gracing us with your presence or are you going to dawdle there all damn day?”

  I take a second to scowl at the security guard—because this is his fault.

  Then I tear my gaze away and scurry down the hall to catch up.

  * * *

  “Why can’t myyy daddy have a job that gets death threats?”

  Henrietta Hindenburg has the whine of Veruca Salt, the heart of Mother Teresa and the constitution of Keith
Richards—all wrapped in a Rebel Wilson-esque package. Her father’s actual job is an American music producer instrumental in the success of boy bands like New Kids on the Block, Backstreet Boys, Hansen and NSYNC. Having been raised in the ways of boy band mania, the songs still frequently pour from the speakers of her custom baby-pink BMW convertible that her parents gave as a medical school graduation gift.

  Henrietta looks out the glass door to the hall where Tommy Sullivan stands sentry with his back to us. “I swear you are the luckiest duck.”

  Her mother purposely named her after Henry Pembrook, the now Crown Prince of Wessco, as a conversation starter—just in case they ever met. She’ll be specializing in plastic surgery to save her father a boatload of cash on her mother’s procedures. Her words, not mine. We met in our intern year and have been good friends ever since.

  Even though we’re like Felix and Oscar, Bert and Ernie, oil and vinegar that ends up making a very tasty salad dressing.

  “I can’t believe you get to bone him!”

  “I’m not going to bone him, Etta.”

  I make a note of the time on Mrs. Lu’s chart—the carotid endarterectomy patient we’re moving from recovery.

  Etta’s eyes go wide and her head does a little shimmy—like she’s having a seizure.

  “Dear God, Abby, I will literally never speak to you again if you don’t bone him.”

  “I don’t even know him. He’s my security guard for two weeks and that’s all.”

  “Some of the best sex I’ve ever had was with people I didn’t know! And two weeks is plenty of time—have you never seen the Kevin Costner Bodyguard, or the Richard Madden Bodyguard, or The Protector? Boning the bodyguard is a feature, not a bug.”

  She turns to the other third-year in the room, who’s making sure the catheter tube won’t catch on the wheel of the bed when it’s moved.

  “Tell her, Kevin! It would be blasphemy to pass up a prime piece like that.”

  Kevin Atkins is the sort of person who surprises you. He’s quiet, calm, dependable—dull. Once you get to know him you learn that he’s a former army medic, remarkably intelligent, with the steadiest and most precise cutting hand I’ve ever seen. His reserved disposition shouldn’t be mistaken for lack of interest or ambition—he’s like the tortoise in The Tortoise and the Hare—consistent and confident he’ll win the race but determined not to make a misstep along the way. It’s a quality I admire.

  Kevin isn’t close with his family and is protective of the few friends he has. His dark brown eyes cut to the door then back again, and he shrugs. “He’s not that good-looking. Sort of average if you ask me.”

  Etta waves her hand. “Don’t listen to him. He’s American—they drink lite beer and they can’t even spell it right. No taste.”

  Eighty-nine-year-old Mrs. Lu lifts her head from the bed, aims her gaze at the hall and takes her time raking it over the backside of Tommy Sullivan. Then she nods.

  “I vote for boning him. You only live once.”

  “Right on, Mrs. Lu,” Etta cheers, lifting her palm. “Give me some. Hoo-rah!”

  After Mrs. Lu gives a slow-motion high-five, Etta backs up towards the door, grabbing the knob with one hand and pointing at me with the other.

  “And you—listen to the old lady, respect your elders. YOLO, bitch.”

  I roll my eyes. With friends like these . . . life would be so much easier if I just adopted a cat.

  As we guide Mrs. Lu’s bed out the door, Etta gives Tommy Sullivan a sly smile and says in a simpering tone, “Hiiii, Tommy.”

  He dips his chin and waves back.

  Kevin seems to send a suspicious, unfriendly look the security guard’s way, but his expression is so bland it’s hard to be sure.

  Mrs. Lu turns her head towards him as she passes—then she lifts her arm, giving me a mighty thumbs-up.

  Once the lift’s silver doors close with Henrietta, Kevin and Mrs. Lu inside, I take the stairwell, with my dark-suited shadow right on my heels. Though the chant of don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask, wallpaper, wallpaper, wallpaper reverberates in my head, my mouth has a mind of its own.

  “Do you really have reduced hearing capacity on that side?”

  I know an excellent audiologist who could help him.

  If he had any idea what I was talking about, which by his blank expression I realize immediately, he doesn’t.

  Feeling moronic, I gesture to his ear as we move up the steps.

  “Your old war injury?”

  “Aye, right.”

  “What war was that again?”

  “The Great Sullivan Pudding Conflict,” he says with a perfectly straight face. “I remember it like it was yesterday. There was only one trifle left on the table—me and my sister Janey went for it at the same time, so we ended up tussling for it. I had the upper hand, until she landed a vicious kick to the side of my head. The ear hasn’t been the same since—a fact I’ve used to guilt her out of her pudding ever since.”

  “That’s awful. Is your sister frequently given to fits of violence?” I ask as we reach the landing outside the door to the sixth floor.

  He laughs. “Yeah—but not really. I mean, it’s all in good fun, you know?”

  I don’t, actually. I can’t imagine my siblings and me “tussling” at all, let alone with each other.

  Mr. Sullivan breathes in slowly and his eyes drift over my face in a savoring sort of way. And I suddenly realize how quiet the stairwell is, how alone we are, how close we’re standing to each other. Close enough that I can count each strand of rough stubble on his chin.

  “There you go with that sweet frown again, Apple Blossom. You keep looking at me like that, I’m going to have to break my vow and kiss you again.”

  I ignore his compliment on my frown, and the silly nickname, and the sweeping, swirly feeling in my stomach at the mention of kissing.

  “You’ve taken a vow?”

  “That’s right. I don’t mess around with clients.” He makes the sign of the cross. “So for as long as you are one I will be a complete professional. It’s probably for the best that we’re discussing it, so you don’t mistake me not trying to get in your pants as me not wanting to get in your pants.” His eyes slide downward, and his voice dips to a whisper. “I definitely want in.”

  My mind goes blank and I have no idea what to say. Because I’m not used to being pursued so directly, honestly—naughtily. And while the logical part of my brain knows it’s a very bad idea, there’s a less used, curious side that thinks being pursued by Tommy Sullivan feels very, very nice.

  The shrill clang of a door closing below us echoes through the stairwell. He takes a step back, clearing his throat. “I also meant to ask, you and that bloke from downstairs—is anything going on between you?”

  “Do you mean Kevin?” I ask. “No, he’s a friend.”

  “You get he wants to fuck you, right?”

  I gape at him.

  “This is your idea of being professional?”

  He lifts one shoulder, shrugging.

  “You’re mistaken. Kevin’s just a good friend—it’s not like that.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No.”

  “Into guys?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s exactly like that.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Sweet Abby—you’re so smart in so many ways, but so clueless in others.”

  He doesn’t say it in an insulting way, more . . . like I’m a riddle to be figured out.

  “But it’s all right. I’m here now—I’ve got you covered, lass.”

  His smile is easy and shameless. And not for the first time, it makes me almost want to smile with him.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tommy

  ON ONE HAND, THE REPORT Stella and Amos compiled on Abigail Haddock was disappointing. It contained no filthy little secrets, no tales of wild naked exploits—or even better, photos—no clandestine memberships to BDSM clubs, or seedy nightclubs . . .
or even a bloody knitting club. Abby’s as good as she appears—an ambitious, focused, studious girl—straitlaced to the point of strangulation.

  On the other hand, her lack of illicit adventures just makes her even more tantalizing. Because nothing is more exciting than discovering sexy black lace hidden beneath bland, plain cotton. And Abby may not be the sort of girl who wears lace or leather now . . . but somewhere inside her, there’s a woman who wants to.

  I wouldn’t know that if I hadn’t kissed her—but I did. So, lucky bastard that I am—I do. I sensed it in her that day, the rowdiness buried deep, just waiting to swim to the surface. And I saw it again at the hospital today—in how she bucked her superiors in tiny ways and gave small kindness to her patients when she wasn’t supposed to.

  She’s a tightly shut door, who just needs the right key to pop her lock. In more ways than one.

  And that key is me.

  But slipping into snug locks is for another time.

  At this moment, I’m standing in the front room of Abby’s third-floor flat after her shift at the hospital. I already know the layout of the place from the floor plan that was included in Amos and Stella’s report. The guard in me automatically scans for anything off or out of place—any sign of attempted entry. Her door is solid with a shiny steel deadbolt that hasn’t been tampered with, and the two large windows that face the street are locked up tight and undisturbed.

  The human being in me looks around the room and thinks something else entirely.

  “It’s so . . . beige.”

  That wasn’t in the report.

  But the walls, drapes, sofa, throw pillows are beige as far as the eye can see. Even the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line one wall and are filled with neat rows of thick textbooks are a painted taupe.

  Abby turns towards the room, as if she’s just noticing it for the first time.

  “Neutral tones are calming—clean.” She crosses her arms defensively. “I suppose you’re going to say that’s dull.”

  “No, not dull.”

  And then I grin.

  “Lifeless. That’s the word I’d go with.”

  Not that I was expecting a décor in a rainbow of fruit flavors, but something besides the color of condensed milk would be nice. And Abby herself is so vibrant—deep red hair, eyes the color of stormy seas, creamy skin, a hot pink flush and lips the shade of a rose in full bloom.