Falling At The Surgeon's Feet
Lucy Ryder
It started in an elevator… After a traumatic accident, Dr. Holly Buchanan made a plan: become the world's best plastic and reconstruction surgeon. What wasn't in her plan? Tumbling into an elevator and sprawling at the feet of sinfully sexy new colleague Dr. Gabriel Alexander!For Gabe, getting involved with someone from Manhattan's social elite can only lead to heartbreak. But he's intrigued by Holly's shy charm and intelligent passion. And with Holly bumping into him with every turn she takes, he won't be able to resist her sizzling touch forever!
NEW YORK CITY DOCS
Hot-shot surgeons, taking the world by storm…by day and by night!
In the heart of New York City, four friends sharing an apartment in Brooklyn are on their way to becoming the best there is at the prestigious West Manhattan Saints Hospital—and these driven docs will let nothing stand in their way!
Meet Tessa, Kimberlyn, Holly and Sam as they strive to save lives and become top-notch surgeons in the Big Apple. Trained by world-class experts, these young docs are the future—and they’re taking the medical world by storm.
But with all their time dedicated to patients, late nights and long shifts, the last thing they expect is to meet the loves of their lives!
For fast-paced drama and sizzling romance, check out the
New York City Docs quartet:
Hot Doc from Her Past Tina Beckett
Surgeons, Rivals…Lovers Amalie Berlin
Falling at the Surgeon’s Feet Lucy Ryder
One Night in New York Amy Ruttan
Available now!
After trying out everything from acting in musicals, singing opera, travelling and writing for a business newspaper, LUCY RYDER finally settled down to have a family and teach at a local community college, where she currently teaches English and Communication. However, she insists that writing is her first love, and time spent on it is more pleasure than work. She currently lives in South Africa, with her crazy dogs and two beautiful teenage daughters. When she’s not driving her daughters around to their afternoon activities, cooking endless meals or officiating at swim meets, she can be found tapping away at her keyboard, weaving her wild imagination into hot romantic scenes.
Falling at the
Surgeon’s Feet
Lucy Ryder
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader (#ulink_d74fa364-b5df-546a-9df1-55e3b1be2e90),
I have a feeling that when grace and beauty were handed out I was either trying to sneak another serving of humour or I was off somewhere with my head in the clouds. Probably daydreaming about being swept off my feet by a hot hero… I’ve been swept off my feet, all right—by a dozen huge figurative and literal waves that I haven’t seen coming simply because I’m a dreamer.
My heroine, Holly, is a dreamer too. She’s grown up an awkward ugly duckling in a family of beautiful, graceful swans and has had to learn to control her inner klutz. It hasn’t been easy, and she tends to regress when she’s flustered. And, boy, does Gabriel Alexander fluster her. So much so that it’s pretty much a disaster waiting to happen—because Holly’s about to go down for the count.
Gabriel’s wrestling with his own demons. He recently lost the only family that mattered, and has just left a lucrative cosmetic surgery career in Hollywood to join the staff of a Manhattan teaching hospital. With his family’s dysfunctional history, he’s convinced that committed relationships aren’t his thing. In fact families aren’t his thing. He’s better off alone.
But then the adorably klutzy Holly Buchanan literally falls at his feet, and soon it’s Gabe who finds himself falling—hard and fast. She sends him reeling, tilting his world on its axis. But maybe he’s always been off-centre and Holly has finally righted his world.
Since I’m a little klutzy myself, I must confess to having a soft spot for Holly. I hope you do too.
Happy reading!
Lucy
This book is dedicated to Kathryn Cheshire, whose encouragement and understanding got me through an incredibly difficult year. I simply could not have done this book without your support and guidance.
You’re awesome.
Also to my bestie, Marleine Dicks.
Thanks for all the reading you had to do of my earlier—and really bad—manuscripts. I eventually got it right, but I appreciate all the loving support and encouragement.
Thanks too for all the laughter you bring into my life.
I just wish we could spend more time laughing.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1e6db109-e62a-55f7-bbcd-6c1fd9d20168)
About the Author (#u539b00cd-e67b-5ae4-8fb2-c90ddc8a712d)
Title Page (#ub95698fd-d39a-5e03-a8bf-dc44d168343d)
Dear Reader (#ub6d7c011-d035-5666-9ba8-7e4ccb7e8112)
Dedication (#u74f6e905-5760-58ca-8cec-70aab11a68cf)
CHAPTER ONE (#u22a6670c-8d1b-52c8-950b-a3e6b42724b2)
CHAPTER TWO (#u629870ea-736a-5556-9db4-ad44c286cfce)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua111a500-cb74-5275-9a36-da3b835cf2e4)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ue29b22ab-7189-5b98-a24c-a0aaa847c5ab)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2e2a714a-1525-59fe-9549-14f1474dbd1c)
“HEY, LADY! WATCH IT.”
Dr. Holly Buchanan grimaced and threw a breathless “Sorry!” over her shoulder at the guy she’d nearly trampled as she dashed through the automatic doors into the huge marble lobby of West Manhattan Saints.
She was late. Late, late, late, damn it. And it was the second time this month. She should have suspected the morning would go to hell when she’d slept through her alarm and then broken the heel of her favorite designer pumps—hopping on one foot while trying to find the other shoe.
But nothing could have prepared her for the absolute chaos that greeted her when she’d opened her front door and found furniture and boxes piled up against her door, littering the stairs and sidewalk.
It had taken a few shocked moments to work out that the avalanche was meant for the neighboring brownstone and not hers. Thank God. Unfortunately, it had taken a lot longer to convince the mover—a scary tattooed guy who’d towered over her by at least a foot and a half—that the address he was looking for was right next door. Not hers.
He’d folded his huge tattooed arms across an even huger chest and stared at her with a level don’t-even-think-of-messing-with-me-lady look that had made her quail in her strappy heels. And because he’d startled her, she’d blurted out the first thing that had come into her head: “Did you know that prison inmates in Russia use melted boot heels mixed with blood and urine to make tattoo ink?”
His answer, when it had come, had been accompanied by raised eyebrows and a wry twist of his lips. “Marine corps,” he’d drawled in a voice that had seemed to come from his large booted feet. “One tattoo for every skirmish survived.” And Holly had sucked in a mortified breath.
“Oh, my g-gosh, I’m s-sorry,” she’d stammered, wanting the earth to open up and swallow her. “Th-thank you for your service.”
He’d quirked an eyebrow and replied with a dry “You’re welcome. Now, where should I put all this stuff?”
It had taken her time she hadn’t had to convince him to call the moving company, which he did while guarding her door like a bouncer at a shady nightclub. After what had seemed like an age—during which Holly had bounced from foot to foot in extreme impatience—he’d finally apologized for the mistake. Then he’d reached over a box almost as tall as she was and gallantly lifted her as easily as if she were a child. To her shock he’d carried her down the box-littered steps and gently deposited her on the sidewalk with a cheerful “Wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle in those shoes.”
She’d mumbled a breathless “Thank you” and had risked more than a twisted ankle running for the subway.
Setting off across the huge lobby toward the bank of elevators, Holly dodged people heading in the same direction and tried to tell herself that elevators were mostly safe and that the hospital had a rigorous maintenance schedule.
She growled and skirted a crowd of nurses gathered around a large board the hospital used to announce upcoming events, lectures by visiting experts, and new staff appointments. She usually took an interest in any new announcements as she hoped her name would soon be featured when the plastic and reconstruction surgical fellowship was announced.
This morning, however, she barely gave it, or the oohing and aahing women, a cursory glance as she streaked past, heels clicking on the slick marble floor. She hated being late for meetings with the chief of surgery. He wasn’t exactly the kind of man you wanted to annoy—especially if you were a surgical resident hoping for that fellowship.
The doors of one lone elevator slid open with a ding and she sent up a quick prayer and dashed into the car just as a group of noisy teens emerged. As they shoved past, one sneakered foot caught Holly’s ankle and sent her flying. She valiantly tried to halt her forward momentum by grabbing for the aluminum frame and forgot that she was carrying her briefcase. It went flying one way and she went the other, landing awkwardly on her hands and knees. She heard a muffled grunt and the next thing she knew the contents of her handbag and briefcase were exploding all over the floor.
The doors swished closed and there was a moment of stunned silence during which Holly thought, You have got to be freaking kidding me!
She sucked in air and snarled a few choice words that would turn her mother’s hair gray. But, jeez, it had brought back memories she didn’t like to think about. Memories of a wildly tilting elevator and frightened screams as it plummeted and then exploded on impact.
For a couple of beats she struggled with control before remembering having heard a grunt. She lifted her head, hoping Monday madness was giving her auditory hallucinations on top of everything else. The last thing she needed was someone having witnessed her graceless flight.
Please, let me be alone. Please, let me be alone.
Holly blew a few escaped strands of hair out of her eyes and froze when her vision cleared. Bare inches from her nose was a pair of large scuffed sneakers attached to the bottom of faded, soft-as-butter jeans. She blinked and followed the long length of denim up endless muscular legs to something that made her eyes widen and her mouth drop open. And before she could register that she was checking out some guy’s impressive package, the man dropped to his haunches and Holly found herself staring into a pair of concerned blue-green eyes surrounded by a heavy fringe of sun-tipped lashes—on her hands and knees.
Sucking in a shocked breath, she wondered if she was more embarrassed by her position or the direction she’d been looking then promptly forgot everything when she felt the sensation of falling. Right into a swirl of gold-flecked blue and green. It was only when he opened his mouth and “You okay?” emerged in a voice as deep and dark as sin that she realized she’d been staring into his eyes as though she was submerged in the waters of the Caribbean and had forgotten how to breathe.
Her skin prickled and heated in premonition—of what, she wasn’t entirely sure. But it felt like something monumental had just happened. Then, realizing what she was thinking, Holly gave a silent snort. Yeah, right. More like monumentally embarrassing.
His light eyes were startling in a tanned face that was both brain-ambushingly handsome and rugged. Like one of those naturally hot guys they used for advertising extreme sportswear. The kind of man who got his tan in the great outdoors—like standing on the prow of a pirate ship—and not from a tanning salon.
“Just peachy,” she squeaked, swallowing her mortification at having sprawled at the feet of the hottest guy in Manhattan—maybe even America—and being caught eyeing his package then staring into his eyes like she’d been hypnotized.
Her belly quivered and for a second she wondered if the disrespectful little twerps had done her a favor. At least she now wouldn’t have to suffer the additional indignity of swooning at his feet.
“You sure?”
“I’m f-fine,” Holly croaked, her eyes dropping momentarily to his mouth, where the sight of well-sculpted lips tipped up in an almost-smile had her tongue swelling in her mouth like she was fifteen and crushing on a hot lifeguard. Her face flamed and she pushed back to sit on her heels. “Just incredibly embarrassed,” she mumbled, brushing her hands together. “So, please… just ignore me and let me die with my dignity intact.”
Crinkles appeared beside his amazing eyes and the corner of his mouth curled up even more, revealing—horror of horrors—a dimple. She caught herself staring at the shallow dent in his tanned cheek and gulped. Darn. He just had to have a dimple, didn’t he? It was the one thing that could turn her into an awkward ninth-grader.
“I…er…” He cleared his throat and Holly looked up sharply, catching his attempts to suppress amusement. “I think it’s a bit late for that.”
She squeezed her eyes closed and gave a low moan of embarrassment. “G-great. Now I’m….” She sucked in a shaky breath and waved her hand in a quick dismissive gesture. “You know what, never mind.”
Abruptly turning away, she looked around for her purse and briefcase. And there—in freaking plain sight for everyone to see—was her emergency stash of tampons, littering the floor like white bullets. And for just an instant she wished they were so she could just lock, load and pull the trigger to end her misery.
They reached for the closest tampon at the exact same moment and Holly squeaked, “I’ll get that,” quickly snatching it up and stuffing it into the bottom of her purse. She then pounced on the remaining cartridges, hoping he hadn’t seen—but when she sent him a quick glance out of the corner of her eye and saw his teeth flash, she realized he had.
Oh, boy.
Pushing out her bottom lip, she huffed out a breath and lifted a wrist to shove aside tendrils of hair obscuring her vision. Could her day get any worse? Then a hand reached for hers and she forgot all about her crappy day when a snap of electricity bolted up her arm the instant their skins touched.
He too must have felt that audible little zap because he grunted softly and his eyes narrowed speculatively before he gingerly turned her hand over to inspect her scraped palm. She barely heard him rasp, “You’re hurt,” over the blood rushing through her ears.
The hand engulfing hers was large and tanned with long, surprisingly elegant fingers that drew her fascinated gaze even as they sent tingles rolling over her skin. Then his thumb was brushing gently over her scraped palm and the tingles became a raging firestorm of sensation that shot directly to her breasts and…well…further south.
Her eyes widened. Oh…oh, wow. What the heck was that? “It’s n-nothing,” she managed to croak, both to herself and him, before sliding her hand from his when she realized her mouth had dropped open and she was on the verge of babbling. She scooted back a little and sucked in a shaky breath, averting her face in the hope that he couldn’t read her turmoil. Because, well…darn…The last time she’d been this flustered had been in the seventh grade when Jimmy Richards had caught her drawing hearts and flowers around his name.
Absently rubbing her tingling palm against her thigh, she stared at the jumble of her belongings and wondered what the heck she was supposed to be doing. It was only when she saw a half-eaten candy bar that she snapped to attention and began stuffing everything she could lay her hands on into her purse.
Holy cow. Where had all this stuff come from? She couldn’t even remember having seen half of it before. Certainly not the gold pen or the roll of mints. And how many hairbrushes did one person need, anyway?
She left him to gather up her textbooks, study notes and stethoscope, thinking there was nothing in her briefcase that could embarrass her—until she remembered the old before-and-after photographs of herself that she kept as a reminder of why she was doing P&R.
Whipping around, Holly was relieved to see that the photos were nowhere in sight, but the guy was holding aloft a small foil square she hadn’t even known she had. And if it was hers, it had to be at least two years old. Maybe even older.
Holly tried to look innocent, but it seemed the guy had an evil streak because he lifted a brow over gleaming blue-green eyes and drawled, “Medium?”
Oh, God, really? He was going to comment on the size?
“Keep it,” she croaked. “Most condoms have a shelf life of four years, anyway. As long as you keep them in a cool, dry place.” And nothing could be cooler or drier than the bottom of her briefcase, especially the past couple of years when she’d been focusing on the P&R fellowship and not relationships.
His grin turned wicked, deepening that dimple in his cheek. “Way too small,” he said innocently, as though they were discussing a pair of shoes and not a freaking condom. He tilted his head and squinted at the printing on the back. “Besides, I think this one’s already a year and a half past that four-year shelf-life date you were talking about.”
Her face heated and she mentally rolled her eyes. Way to let a hot guy know your sex life is non-existent, Holly. She groaned silently and reached out with a growled “Just give it here,” before tossing the package in the wall-mounted trash bin. For a couple of beats he stared at the stainless-steel receptacle then turned to her with a level look.
“You know someone is going to find that and use it, don’t you?” He shook his head at her. “How do you think you’ll feel knowing you had a hand—even unwittingly—in an unplanned pregnancy?”
“Ohmigod,” Holly burst out, wondering if the torture of this day would ever end and what she’d done to deserve it. “Fine!” She opened the lid and fished it out, shuddering when her fingers encountered something sticky. She shoved the errant condom into her pocket and glared at him challengingly. The unspoken words Are you happy now? vibrated in the air between them.
Eyes crinkling at the corners, he rose to his feet and offered her a hand but Holly ignored it and scrambled up—all embarrassing items finally hidden, thank God—before accepting her briefcase from him with a strangled mutter of thanks.
She was careful not to let their hands touch. Her body was buzzing with enough electricity to light up Manhattan for a day—and she hadn’t even had her coffee yet.
Fortunately, the elevator dinged its arrival at her floor and when the doors opened she escaped, hoping she never saw him again. Just before the doors slid closed he called out a friendly “Don’t forget to replace that condom, it’s the responsible thing to do.”
A few people heard and sent her curious looks but Holly ignored them, stomping down the passageway and muttering about not being responsible for her actions when it came to hot smartasses. It was only when she passed a startled nurse pushing a bassinet that she realized she was on the twentieth floor and not the twenty-second.
Muttering to herself, she changed direction and headed for the stairs, resigned to the fact that she was nearly fifteen minutes late for her meeting.
The moment she slipped into the boardroom she felt the eyes of every person in the room turn to watch her entrance, including the laser-blue stare of the chief of surgical residents, Professor Gareth Langley. Flushing, she ducked her head and murmured an apology, and slipped into the only open chair around the huge oval table.
Fortunately, with the day she was having, she wasn’t scheduled for any surgery. She’d probably slice and dice her fingers—or worse.
Without looking up, she drew the nearest folder closer and opened it, knowing she would find the new surgical schedule. There were other pages inside but Holly ignored them and quickly scanned the list, sighing her relief when she saw that she was scheduled for a number of procedures with Dr. Lin Syu and two with the head of plastic surgery, Dr. Geoff Hunt.
She lifted her lashes and caught Lin Syu’s quick smile before she transferred her attention to the head of P&R, who was—oh, joy—looking right at her. She flushed beneath his questioning look and bit her lip but after a brief nod in her direction and a dry “Now that Dr. Buchanan has finally joined us…” Geoff Hunt turned away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his perfectly creased pants as he rocked back on his heels. “Perhaps we can get to the real reason Professor Langley is here this morning.”
Now that the heat was off her, Holly let out a silent breath and relaxed into her chair, only half listening as Langley rose and began talking about the proposed expansion of the P&R department and the upcoming charity ball. It was a subject that he’d brought up before and one that Holly’s mother—as CEO of Chrysalis Foundation—was involved in.
The Chrysalis Foundation worked solely for children and young people who needed plastic or reconstruction surgery but had no way of paying for the expensive procedures. It was also an organization her mother had started after Holly’s own traumatic experiences.
Half listening, she let her gaze slide around the table but it came to an abrupt halt the instant she locked on a pair of amused blue-green eyes that were shockingly familiar. For the second time that morning—and it wasn’t even nine a.m.—Holly felt the breath leave her lungs.
Her head went light, her stomach cramped and she thanked God she was sitting down because there in the chair next to Langley’s was none other than…elevator guy.
Oh, God.
Her tongue emerged to moisten suddenly dry lips, and she wished she could grab the nearby water jug and drown herself before anyone noticed.
One eyebrow rose up his forehead and all Holly could think was… Who the heck is he?
Realizing she was staring at him all wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Holly jerked her gaze away to stare unseeingly at the columns of numbers on the screen, her mind racing with a kaleidoscope of images from the last half-hour. And when she realized she was absently rubbing her tingling palm down the length of her thigh she clenched both hands in her lap and struggled to control her breathing.
Maybe she’d dreamed up the entire episode. Maybe she was still asleep and dreaming.
Or having a nightmare, she snorted silently, and sneaked a peek at him. He was still watching her, his expression a mix of amusement and confusion—as though he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
He wasn’t the only one.
Frowning, she returned her unseeing gaze to Langley, nearly missing the part about the generous donation the hospital had recently received to expand P&R and finance the expensive new procedures they would be developing over the next five years, courtesy of a prominent Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.
It was the “Beverly Hills plastic surgeon” that caught Holly’s attention and her gaze jerked back to elevator guy as a bad feeling landed in the pit of her stomach.
She sucked in a sharp breath at the wicked gleam lighting his changeable eyes and barely heard Langley’s words over the blood thundering in her head.
Oh, God, please let me be wrong.
“I’m sure you all saw the announcement in the foyer this morning,” Langley was saying, and elevator guy must have caught her stunned look because he gave a tiny shrug as though to say, You should have seen that one coming. But she hadn’t. Not even close.
How could she have thought—even if she hadn’t blown through the foyer—that the guy in the battered sneakers and well-washed jeans molded to every inch of his muscular thighs and well…everywhere was some big Hollywood celebrity cosmetic surgeon?
It’s not him, Holly. It can’t be.
Besides, where was the thousand-dollar suit, the eight-hundred-dollar, hand-stitched loafers and hundred-dollar haircut? She sneaked another peek at him and ran her gaze over all that tanned skin, sun-streaked hair and languid grace and decided she could see him gracing the cover of an extreme sports magazine—or maybe Surf’s Up—more readily than a fancy Beverly Hills fundraiser.
But then Langley said, “I’d like to formally introduce Dr. Gabriel Alexander and welcome him to the West Manhattan family,” and Holly realized with an unpleasant shock that the hot guy who’d made her knees wobble and her breath hitch in her chest was the very same man who’d been linked to rumors of new procedures and extreme body-sculpting of many Hollywood A-listers and supermodels. Including her famous sister.
What the heck was he doing in Manhattan?
He even had a dimple, darn it!
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2016d42a-1c8f-532e-aedc-987ed84a0669)
DR. GABRIEL ALEXANDER sighed and wedged himself into the movie-house-style chair, scooching down so he could tip his head back and finally close his eyes. It seemed like months instead of days since he’d shared a very interesting elevator ride with a certain surgical resident and he was exhausted—no thanks to said resident.
Crossing one ankle over the other on a backrest a few chairs down probably made him look like a long-legged spider squashed into a matchbox, but Gabe just needed some quiet time out from his hectic schedule. Besides, as a resident he’d slept anywhere; his favorite being observation rooms where it was usually quiet—especially after eight at night.
Popping his earphones in his ears, he sighed as rock music washed over him. It had only been four days since he’d been welcomed to West Manhattan Saints by a stunning briefcase-wielding assailant, but he kind of liked the vibe of being back in a large medical facility. Seems selling his partnership to some entitled young punk hungry for the Hollywood lifestyle had been the right decision after all.
For the past six years he’d been attached to a small private clinic that was so exclusive very few people even knew of its existence—except if you were famous, ultra-wealthy or both. Now, just thinking about what he’d left behind made Gabe shudder with an odd mix of pride, distaste and shame. And if that didn’t make him a candidate for the psych ward, nothing would. Not even his screwed-up childhood.
He’d had a mansion in Beverly Hills, a house in Santa Monica, a yacht and several luxury vehicles in his multiple-car garage and he’d been the most sought-after plastic surgeon on the West Coast. For a kid who’d spent his childhood believing he wasn’t good enough, it had been a dream come true.
Looking back, he realized it had been a symbolic gesture to his rich and powerful grandfather. A man who’d used his connections to forcibly end the marriage of his son to a fellow student. A girl he’d deemed unworthy to carry the Alexander name—or the Alexander heir.
Only it had been too late for that. Third-year journalism student Rachel Parker had already been pregnant. When the old man had found out, he’d paid her a visit and along with thinly veiled threats told her to stay away from his family. Or else.
Afraid for her unborn child, Rachel had agreed. She’d moved across the country to ensure they never bumped into each other and Caspar Alexander had made sure that his son had been too busy—with his new wife and family—to be bothered with looking up his college flame. It hadn’t stopped Rachel from telling her son all about his father and it hadn’t stopped Gabe from dreaming—until he’d turned twelve—that his father would one day come to claim him. It had never happened. Both his father and his grandfather had conveniently gone back to their entitled lives as though nothing had happened.
Until about two years ago when the old man had decided he needed someone to take over the family business. It seemed Caspar’s son and legitimate grandchildren were a huge disappointment and couldn’t be trusted not to squander everything he’d spent a lifetime building.
The old man had told him how proud he was of Gabe’s achievements and that it was clear he was a chip off the old block.
Gabe had not so politely told him what he could do with his offer.
For a long time he’d been angry—at his mother and father—but especially the ruthless Caspar Alexander. And when he’d been invited to join the clinic he’d seen it as his ticket to the big league. Look, Gabe was saying to the old man. I didn’t need you or your family’s money to become someone. I did it all by myself.
Then his mom had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of leukemia and none of his money, contacts, fame or his skill with a scalpel had made a difference. By the time she’d slipped away, he’d realized his mother was right. He’d become the one thing he hated above all else. He’d become just like his grandfather. Ruthless, cold in his personal relationships and interested in only two things—money and status. It had been a rude awakening. One that had spurred him on to make some drastic changes in his life.
Someone bumped against the row of seats, jolting Gabe from the disturbing memories of his childhood and his non-existent relationship with a man who’d pretended most of Gabe’s life that he didn’t exist.
Grateful for the disruption, he cracked open one eye to see that a small crowd had gathered at the observation window overlooking operating room three.
A quick look at the overhead OR screen gave him a close-up of an open torso and disembodied gloved hands wielding stainless-steel instruments with skill and precision. And considering that WMS had some of the best trauma surgeons on the east coast, whoever was on the table was in good hands.
Tugging on one earphone, he tuned into the murmur of voices around him and discovered that someone called Dr. Chang was working on a young woman who had landed beneath a bus during rush hour traffic.
He replaced the earphone and watched the onscreen action for a few more minutes, admiring the dexterity of the leading surgeon’s hands, before letting his eyes drift over the observers.
They were painfully young and even if they hadn’t been dressed in light blue scrubs, he would have pegged them as residents. Their fresh, animated faces reminded him of his own resident days, which meant they were probably not discussing whatever was going on below. Most likely it was about a hot nurse, or complaints about their supervisors.
Hospitals were like small towns where everyone knew everyone else and no one’s personal business remained private for long. People gathered during quiet times to gossip about patients; nurses liked to complain about doctors and doctors liked to complain about everyone, especially Administration.
And Administration? Well, they were the common enemy because they hoarded funds like Scrooge, cutting costs and fighting every requisition from floor wax to MRI maintenance.
And, Gabe thought with a dry laugh, he hadn’t even realized until now just how much he’d missed it. Not so much the gossip but he’d missed the camaraderie of a large medical facility where the haves and have-nots were locked in a daily battle of survival. It wasn’t just a place where the rich and bored came to buy the latest style of face or body—or have a steamy affair with their attending surgeon. This was real.
Sighing, Gabe slid his gaze over the rest of the observation-room occupants before letting his eyes drift shut. He knew he should get up and return to his temporary digs, where a ton of boxes waited to be unpacked, but he just needed to—
Abruptly something he’d seen registered and his eyes snapped open to zero in on a familiar figure standing off to one side.
Dr. Holly Buchanan.
Mouth curving in appreciation, Gabe watched her focus on the overhead screen, her small white teeth nibbling on lush pink lips. A little frown of concentration marred the smooth skin of her forehead. Every so often her slender hands and long, elegant fingers would move in what he recognized was a replica of whatever was happening below—as though she was practicing or maybe committing the action to memory.
He’d spent enough time among the wealthy to recognize that Dr. Buchanan came from money, and lots of it. She even had that cool elegance that seemed to come naturally to the very wealthy. A cool elegance that sometimes hid an ugly belief that people they perceived as inferior were to be exploited and that their money and social status gave them that right.
He didn’t have far to look for examples either. His own gene pool, for one. An old ex, for another. A girl he’d honestly thought had loved him enough to overlook the fact that he had been a half-starving med student from a very modest background.
But instead of standing up to her powerful family, she’d laughed at his declarations of love and told him she’d been using him to get back at her father—and have one final hot fling before she married a man eminently more suitable to their social circle.
Okay, so he’d been a young, foolish hothead, out to prove himself worthy. Prove that his story, at least, would have a happy ending. It had just proved to him that people born into wealth weren’t interested in anything more than a hot fling with someone from the wrong side of town—especially someone they perceived as illegitimate.
But even though he knew Holly Buchanan was from a world whose vanity he’d happily exploited, he couldn’t help watching her. Her appearance was as coolly classy as it had been the last time he’d seen her, scowling across the boardroom table as though he was personally responsible for the national debt.
But that’s where the similarities ended. There was nothing cool about those large heavily fringed blue eyes. And knocked to her hands and knees, she’d muttered curses like someone tugging impatiently at the constraints of her upbringing.
Then there were those paper-thin scars that had been expertly covered with a light brush of foundation. Someone had either done a hatchet job on the stunning young surgeon or…or some horrific injuries had been expertly repaired. He wondered which it had been then decided it didn’t matter considering both would explain her interest in plastic surgery.
But it was her eyes—or rather the unguarded expression in them—that had caught his attention. Despite that outer sophistication, Holly Buchanan, it seemed, wasn’t as poised as she would like the world to believe, and he wondered what her story was.
He slid a hand to the bruise on his thigh where her briefcase had whacked him and spared a moment to be thankful that it hadn’t connected higher. Any higher and he would have been on the floor, having an up-close-and-personal view of her tampons.
He chuckled, recalling the way she’d snatched them up and shoved them to the bottom of her purse as though they had been contraband and she’d been afraid he was the secret police. But then he’d found the condom packet and despite the wild color blooming in her cheeks, the ruffled kitten had flexed her tiny claws by insinuating he used a medium.
Gabe closed his eyes to the sight of her nibbling on her thumbnail and frowning at the overhead screen while she ignored the little upstart twerp trying to chat her up. There was something about her that struck a chord of familiarity but he was sure he’d never met or seen her before.
He was just drifting off when something made him open his eyes to see her edging up the stairs, giving him a wide berth as though he was a slumbering tiger she didn’t want to disturb. Suddenly several pagers began beeping and she froze mid-tiptoe, her eyes snapping toward him, widening in alarm when she caught him watching her.
The residents crowded up the stairs, elbowing each other and muttering curses about slave-driver supervisors as they bolted for the door. In the ensuing scuffle, Dr. Buchanan was roughly jostled aside and Gabe had a brief glimpse of one sexy heel catching on the stair runner. Her arms windmilled in a frantic attempt at regaining her balance…and the next moment she was toppling onto Gabe with a muffled shriek.
His hands shot out to catch her but she landed with a startled “Oomph” right in Gabe’s lap—and hard enough to have him seeing stars. When his vision cleared he had an armful of curvy, fragrant female squirming around like she was giving him a lap dance to end all lap dances. And because he was a red-blooded guy who hadn’t been anywhere near a woman in way too long, his body instantly reacted, waking up to the fact that a beautiful, sexy woman was butt-planted over his groin. He gave a low groan and she whipped around to gape at him like he’d zapped her with his shock stick.
Hey, not his fault. Innocently minding my own business here, lady.
One look into her mortified blue eyes and he realized that she was trying to get away and not turn him on but, damn…sue him, it had been a long time since he’d had sex, let alone been close enough to a woman to catch the heady scent of her skin.
Their gazes connected and she froze; her eyes wide on his. As though realizing her mouth was barely an inch from his, she gave a distressed bleat and tried again to free herself, shoving at him at the same time as she tried to get her feet on the floor.
But the angle was wrong and the more she struggled, the more his eyes crossed and the more mortified she looked until he finally took pity on them both and rose to his feet in one swift move. She gasped at the abrupt change of elevation and clutched at him as though she anticipated being dumped on her ass.
It was probably that unflattering assumption that prompted his next action.
Instead of releasing her and stepping away like a gentleman would have, he kept one arm wrapped tightly around her waist and let her slowly slide down the full length of his body until her feet touched the floor.
He knew by the flicker of her lashes and the wild flush in her cheeks that she could feel more than the hard planes of his chest and thighs. The instant she got her feet under her, she sucked in air and shoved away from him, stumbling back a couple of steps. She would have fallen into the row of seats across the aisle if he hadn’t shot out a hand and yanked her back.
Their bodies collided hard enough to momentarily knock the breath from his lungs and he wrapped an arm around her to keep her from flying off down the stairs. Okay, and maybe because he liked having all those soft curves pressed up against him.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t want any more bruises to add to the ones you already have.”
She froze and stared into his eyes, alarmed to find herself in the exact position she’d tried to escape from a couple seconds earlier.
“Who…who told you I have bruises?” she demanded in a breathless rush that made him wonder about things that he had no business thinking about. Like how she’d sound in the throes of passion. And where else she had a bruise that he could kiss better.
It was an entirely inappropriate thought—not to mention stupid given that his body clearly liked the visuals that popped fully formed into his head—to have about a younger colleague working toward a fellowship in the same department.
Realizing they were still plastered together like glue on paper, she made a sound of distress and eased out of his arms, this time careful not to make any sudden moves that might result in him having to save her.
She cleared her throat. “I mean, how do you know about the bruises?”
Gabe arched a brow and folded his arms across his chest, letting his gaze roam over the delicate creaminess of her face and neck. “You winced when you sat down at Monday’s meeting and I’m guessing that creamy skin bruises easily.”
She continued staring at him warily for a moment longer before she said, “Oh,” as though she’d suspected him of following her into the ladies bathroom and spying on her as she’d checked out her smarting bottom and knees.
Gabe felt his mouth curve. He’d never met a woman whose every thought flashed across her face louder than Dr. Buchanan’s. That they were hardly complimentary was an added bonus to a man who’d spent the last eight years of his life being wooed by women all wanting something from him.
“I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep,” she said in that low, husky voice that seemed to reach out and stroke his flesh in places that hadn’t been stroked in way too long. And when he lifted a brow she hastened to add, “And for…well, nearly flattening you.”
“You hardly flattened me,” he drawled. “Besides, I wasn’t asleep, just resting my eyes. You learn a lot about people when they think you’re comatose. Take the guy trying to get your attention.” He could see she knew exactly who he was talking about when she bit her lip and looked away. “I overheard him bragging about his performance and wondered if he was talking about the OR, ER or someplace more private.” Heat bloomed beneath her skin. “He’s the kind of guy that gives surgeons a bad name.”
Her eyes snapped to his and her face settled into a remote coolness that surprised him but not as much as her words. “The only surgeons who give us a bad name,” she observed coolly, “are those arrogant enough to think they know better than God how to improve beauty.”
Gabe was smart enough to know she was referring to him. He opened his mouth to defend himself but the anger and accusation filling her huge blue eyes stunned him into silence.
What the hell?
He wasn’t to blame for her scars. Was he? He would certainly have remembered if she’d been a patient and there was no way he would have forgotten if he’d ever dated her—even briefly. Firstly, she wasn’t his type and, secondly…well, secondly, he didn’t think any man would be able to forget those big blue eyes or that lush wide mouth. Not in ten lifetimes.
Then he thought about her accusation and his anger died. She was right. For a long time he’d aggressively participated in the Hollywood pursuit of perfection until he’d reveled in the challenge of improving on Mother Nature’s handiwork. A nip here, a tuck there and maybe even a complete body-sculpt to anyone who could afford it.
Thinking about it brought back the shame and disgust at the knowledge that he’d been as culpable as any one of his patients in their futile pursuit of perfection. But that didn’t mean he was going to let her get away with her accusation—or her attitude, which, now that he came to think about it, had changed right about the time Langley had introduced him.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Want to know what I learned about you?”
“No,” she said quickly, and took a step toward him, only to stop abruptly when he didn’t move aside because for some idiotic reason he didn’t want to let her go. “I’m sure your insights are simply fascinating,” she continued, frowning at her watch as though she was very busy and couldn’t spare the time. “But I’m not that interesting.”
Gabe smiled, because in the few days—encounters— that he’d known her, Holly Buchanan had been anything but uninteresting. He lifted a hand to scratch his jaw and paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully when she sucked in a tiny breath as though the rasp of beard-roughened skin was somehow too intimate in the quiet room.
“You’re intensely focused, keep to yourself and practice with your hands without realizing it. You bite your thumbnail when you’re concentrating and hate being the center of attention. In fact, you mostly present only one side of your face to people you’re talking to.”
She bit her lip and looked away. Zeroing in on the move, he was suddenly tempted to lean forward and bite that plump lip too. But she was carrying her briefcase again and he didn’t want to tempt her to use it as a weapon. This time her aim might just reach ground zero.
“How am I doing so far?”
He was rewarded when she rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together as though her silence would discourage him. He’d spent enough time strutting around California beaches during his adolescence to know when a woman was disinterested. He’d bet his entire surfboard collection that Holly Buchanan had been just as affected by their little skirmish as he had. Her dilated pupils, wild rosy flush and that soft gasp she’d given when she’d realized how close he was—and how hard—were as telling as the shiver that had gone through her.
She was attracted but determined to fight it. The question was why. What had he done to offend her?
“Okay,” he mused, studying her through narrowed eyes. “My guess is you did all the girly-girl stuff, like ballet, piano and deportment. You probably feel like you have to excel at everything you do…maybe to make someone happy. Mother? Father? Boyfriend?” Her mouth dropped open and he grunted with displeasure at the notion. “Is it a boyfriend?”
“As if!” she practically squawked, and he smirked, strangely pleased by her reaction. Seeming embarrassed by her outburst, Holly pressed her lips together and tried to look bored.
He scratched his jaw again before sliding his gaze over her face, touching briefly on those silvery white scars. “I’d say your interest in plastic surgery stems from your own experiences or maybe some deep-seated need to fix other people’s mistakes.”
Her hand rose swiftly and then froze in mid-air, as though she was fighting an instinctive reaction to hide her face, and Gabe felt his gut clench as though he’d been carelessly insensitive.
Fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and pull her into the safety of his arms—which was shocking enough—he let his gaze slide over her classically classy outfit, lingering overly long on her breasts, covered but not hidden by the expert fit of her jacket. He suddenly knew exactly how to put that spark of rebellion in her eyes and get the stubborn tilt back to that Irish chin.
“Or maybe I’ve got it completely wrong,” he drawled smoothly, making no secret of the direction of his gaze. “Maybe I’m not the only one into cosmetic surgery?”
For a moment she stared at him like he’d uttered an obscenity before she huffed out a breath and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, making Gabe wonder if it was to hide from his gaze or keep from taking a swing at him.
“That’s just insulting,” she snapped, and Gabe grinned. He kind of liked the idea that she was struggling with some pretty intense feelings and he didn’t mind the idea of getting into a tussle with her if she did take a swing at him.
In fact, he would enjoy it. Probably more than he should.
He expected a scathing response—or maybe a request for him to get the hell out of her way. What he didn’t expect was for her to open her mouth and say, “Did you know that women with breast implants are three times more likely to commit suicide or develop drug- and alcohol-related dependencies?”
Gabe tore his attention from her breasts with a “Huh?” and wondered if he’d heard correctly. She flushed and sucked in air before continuing and he struggled to connect the random facts with what they’d been discussing.
“Two-thirds are repeat clients.”
“O-o-okay….” Well, he could certainly attest to that fact. But what the hell did that have to do with—?
“In fact,” she continued peevishly, as though she held him personally responsible for women’s dissatisfaction with their bodies, “more than five million Americans are addicted to plastic surgery, spending about thirteen billion dollars annually on a variety of procedures. That’s enough to rival the national debt of a small country.”
She stared at him as though waiting for his response but he wasn’t sure what he would say if he did. Instead, he studied her silently for a couple of beats, his mouth slowly curling up at one corner. “Uh-huh. That’s quite fascinating but doesn’t really answer my question.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded like “Never mind,” before taking a bold step toward him, no doubt hoping good manners would prompt him to move out of her way.
“I have mace,” she announced when he remained blocking her escape.
“No, you don’t,” he disputed, his grin growing into a chuckle when she blew out a frustrated breath. Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits and her hand tightened on her briefcase as though she contemplated whacking him with it. “I know exactly what you have in there, remember,” he said, angling his shoulders just enough for her to slip past but not enough that she could avoid touching him.
But Holly Buchanan was obviously no pushover because just before she stomped from the room she sent him a level stare all women seemed to develop in the womb that said he was lower than slime for behaving like a jerk.
But, really, he didn’t know of one guy who wouldn’t have.
For a long moment he admired the straight spine, slender, curvy hips twitching with annoyance as she headed down the passage. The strappy heels that had caused at least one of her accidents this week tapped out an irritated beat on the tiled floor that for some odd reason he found damn sexy.
“By the way,” he called out, “did you know that the world’s largest condom is two hundred and sixty feet long with a base circumference of three hundred and sixty feet?” And when she paused in her stride and sent him a what-the-heck? look over her shoulder, he shrugged. “I’m just saying. Mediums are only good as water bombs.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bdd81b3c-5fca-563f-9905-f71c36ae666d)
HOLLY ROLLED HER eyes and set off down the passage at a fast clip, muttering to herself about men never growing up. While it was mostly true and not worth losing sleep over, it certainly beat thinking about her humiliating tumble into the lap of the one man she wanted to avoid. Or his physical reaction to her squirming around on his lap like a second-rate stripper hoping for a big tip.
Her face burned. And, boy, had she been given the biggest tip of her life. Before she could stop it, her skin prickled and heated and her heart set off like a vampire bat scenting warm blood. Oh, God. And to think that humiliating little incident had actually turned her on. Maybe this all-work-and-no-play plan of hers was making her a little crazy. Maybe all she needed was a few hours of hot, sweaty, heart-pumping exercise—at the gym, she added hastily—and she could get back to focusing on her plan to get the fellowship.
Besides, she was so close that she couldn’t let herself get distracted. Not now and certainly not by a guy who either nipped and tucked women into physical perfection or made the backs of their knees sweat.
Groaning inwardly, Holly increased her pace, as though she could outrun the memory of hard thigh and belly muscles pressed firmly against her bottom and then from chest to knee—and everything between—as she’d slid down the front of his hard frame.
She got a full-body tingle just thinking about it. A gasp of horror burst out. Full-body tingle? Oh, God.
Absolutely no freaking way. And not with him.
Focus on the plan, Buchanan, and not on the way he makes your knees wobble or the fact that medium was too small. No. Not too small, she corrected a little hysterically. Waa-aay too small.
Oh, boy. And since she’d inadvertently stared at his package, she would probably agree. She got another full-body shiver and muttered a curse when it slid down her spine like a delicious thrill.
Stop that, Holly, she ordered sternly, he’s the guy that turned Paige’s respectable B-cups into C pods. And for what? So he could make a few thousand bucks? So her sister could flash a bigger cleavage to all her adoring “fans” when she appeared on the latest magazine cover? Or went topless on Bimini?
Big deal. Especially when there were people out there scarred by life-altering events who didn’t have access to even basic medical care, let alone cutting-edge plastic surgery.
Weren’t there enough butchers willing to slice and dice in the name of vanity that West Manhattan could focus on building the best P&R center in the world? Besides, everyone knew that most women would never be satisfied with their looks, no matter what.
She was trying so hard to convince herself that there were no redeeming qualities about Dr. Hotshot from Beverly Hills that she failed to realize the man himself had caught up with her until a flash of movement drew her attention.
Her stride wobbled for an instant but she sucked in a fortifying breath and marched on, determined to ignore him. Besides, she needed all her concentration to keep upright or she might end up breaking something the next time she took a tumble.
She grimaced. She’d seen him a total of three times and managed to embarrass herself each time. Despite her klutzy childhood, it was probably a new record.
She clenched her jaw and sent him a narrow-eyed look out the corner of her eye but he appeared oblivious to her presence, loping along beside her with an easy, loose-limbed stride that was deceptively indolent, as though he was alone and liked it that way.
Holly rolled her eyes and ignored the pinch in her chest. Yep, story of my life. The hot guys always ignored her—especially when they discovered she wasn’t perfect, like the rest of her family. That she wasn’t as outgoing as her famous sister or as warm and beautiful as her mother.
Not that she wanted him to notice her, she amended quickly, especially if it meant she didn’t have to make conversation.
“Are you following me?” she asked coolly, rolling her eyes at the faint huskiness in her voice.
So much for not wanting conversation.
He turned his head and their eyes met for a couple of beats until Holly felt the soles of her feet tingle. “I’m headed home,” he said mildly. “Although… I could probably be talked into dinner somewhere dark and smoky.”
She caught his harmlessly hopeful smile, which did absolutely nothing to reassure her—especially when his eyes gleamed all wickedly amused and challenging. But it was the smoldering heat in them that stole all her bones right along with her breath and common sense.
Gabriel Alexander was about as harmless as a tiger in a supermarket and had most likely perfected the art of seduction before he could walk.
“No? Coffee, then?” he suggested in that deep hypnotic voice that invited women to do things they wouldn’t normally do. Things she wouldn’t normally do, but was suddenly tempted to try. “Besides being starving, I thought I might be useful.”
Useful? Holly licked her lips. Completely against her wishes, her thoughts turned recklessly to just how useful he could be—to her exercise plan, of course—and then wondered if she was advertising her thoughts like a neon sign in the desert when his teeth flashed white in his handsome, tanned face. And because the notion flustered her, she blurted out, “Did you know that silicone is a better choice than rubber for medical purposes because it is more heat- and UV-resistant?”
Realizing what she’d said, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for death. Ohmigod. Wouldn’t it be easier to just walk into the nearest wall? Or maybe step out into traffic? Because clearly the man just had to look at her and her mouth disconnected from her brain.
“It’s also better at resisting chemical and fungal attacks, which makes it more durable,” she finished miserably and when he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle she glared at him, only to find him looking back at her with polite interest—as if blurting out random stuff was normal.
“Now, that I do know,” he revealed, hitching a shoulder in a smooth, boneless move that she envied. “I spent most of the eighth grade water-bombing the girls’ locker room. The fact that latex is so flexible means it’s more prone to breaking when stretched beyond its limits.” His teeth flashed. “But don’t worry, you’re safe. I’ve grown out of the urge to hear girls scream at the sight of latex.”
Yeah, right, Holly thought a little hysterically. Safe, my eye. He was probably still making women scream—before wreaking havoc with their hearts.
And when she felt queasy at the thought of him making some faceless woman scream, she turned away from his appealing smile before she gave in to the urge to return it—or maybe smack him for making her forget her plan.
Just then the automatic doors opened to reveal a uniformed porter and Holly could have kissed the older man in sheer relief.
On seeing her, the porter’s face broke into a wide, craggy smile. “Evening, Doc,” he greeted her in his heavy Brooklyn accent. “No big date tonight?” Holly shook her head as she did every time he asked and he clicked his tongue, sending the man beside her a reproving look. “It’s a sad day when a beautiful girl doesn’t have someone to wine and dine her at one of those fancy downtown restaurants. What is the world coming to?”
Dr. Alexander sent her a silent look and shrugged as if to say, I did offer. Narrowing her eyes, Holly was seriously tempted to lie. Besides, she did have a date. Sort of. That it was probably takeout from the pizza place around the corner from the brownstone she shared with a couple of other surgical residents, along with a bottle of wine and a gallon of ice cream, was beside the point. A date was a date.
Conscious of blue-green eyes watching her, Holly flushed. “Dating isn’t in my plan,” she told the older man. “At least, not right now,” she hastened to add when a soft snort reached her, and she wished she carried a stun gun in her purse because he now also knew that she didn’t date. And found it amusing. The jerk.
“Plans change, Doc. Besides, you’re not getting any younger,” the porter advised, and Holly ground her back teeth together when Dr. Hollywood’s snort turned into a cough. “Want me to call you a cab?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She was tempted to add that she wasn’t entirely opposed to dating. Just not right now, thank you very much. Besides, the last guy she’d been serious about had taken one look at her sister Paige and decided perfection was better for his image than scarred and brainy.
That Holly had thought to surprise Terrence Westfield one night and had found Paige already there—in his bed—was beside the point. The two of them had been discussing Holly like she was a freak and laughing about how naive she was to think a handsome guy like him could be interested in her. It had been even more devastating to discover that Terrence had only dated her to get her father’s attention in the hope that he could get an internship at her father’s law firm.
She could have told him that Harris Buchanan only had time for his son and couldn’t care less whom she dated.
When—if—she found a man who was either blind or could look beyond the surface flaws to the woman deep inside, she might risk it, but she first wanted to prove to herself that she didn’t need to be perfect or beautiful to succeed.
Sighing, she turned to see Dr. I-Can-Make-Women-Scream watching her silently.
“What?”
His mouth turned up at the corners but his gaze was unreadable.
“Wanna share a cab?”
Holly quickly shook her head. She was suddenly eager to get away from him before she made a bigger fool of herself—which would be difficult after…well, everything that had happened.
“No. Thank you.”
He studied her silently for a couple of beats until headlights lit them up like they were on Broadway, signaling the cue for them to launch into a heartrending duet. But this wasn’t a Broadway musical and she couldn’t carry a tune to save her life.
He casually lifted his arm like a born-and-bred New Yorker and like magic the empty cab slid to a stop. Holly ground her teeth together. She usually had to step into traffic and risk serious injury before a cabbie deigned to stop. And then it was mostly to yell abuse at her for being a “crazy chick with a death wish.”
“You sure?”
She swallowed an odd sensation that felt very much like disappointment—but couldn’t possibly be—at his imminent departure, and nodded before she changed her mind. “I’m sure.”
After a moment he shrugged. “Suit yourself.” And leaning forward, he opened the cab door. Half expecting him to move aside so she could get in, Holly was momentarily distracted when he propped his arm on the top of the door and looked back at her, eyes dark and unreadable.
“See ya, Doc,” he said, and slid into the cab, leaving Holly to gape at the departing vehicle.
Chivalry, it seemed, even California celebrity style, was well and truly dead.
The following week Holly had nearly double the number of scheduled procedures and didn’t have a lot of time to brood. Her life was right on track with the plan and her goal was within sight. There wasn’t time—or the inclination, she reminded herself—to be thinking about wicked blue-green eyes, let alone getting the opportunity to scream.
But that was easier said than done, especially when she happened to look up during a breast reduction plasty to see a familiar figure in the observation room. Only this time he wasn’t sprawled bonelessly across the seats, head tipped back and eyes closed as his headphones pumped music into his ears.
With his long legs planted wide and his folded arms testing the seams of his black T-shirt, he looked like a modern-day pirate on the deck of his ship as he challenged the sea. And although his expression and his eyes were in shadow, Holly knew he was looking right at her.
She could feel the weight of that cool, assessing gaze and froze in familiar panic. It was only for an instant and scarcely noticeable by the people around her, but it sent her pulse racing and made her thighs tingle.
“Dr. Buchanan?” The calm voice of Lin Syu made her blink and suck in a fortifying breath. She dropped her gaze briefly to the attending surgeon, who was waiting for Holly’s next move with a raised dark brow.
Altering her grip on the miniature scalpel, Holly prepared to make the inverted T incision that would both lift and reduce the size of the breast once the excess tissue had been removed.
She carefully followed the guidelines already drawn onto the skin. The patient, a thirty-four triple-D, with back, neck and shoulder problems, couldn’t join her sports-crazy fiancé in outdoor pursuits because her heavy breasts caused discomfort, chronic pain and embarrassment. Kerry Gilmore had admitted that she’d spent her entire high-school years hiding her body and being unable to do things other girls did. Normal things like horseriding, swimming or joining the cheerleading squad. But it was the chronic pain that had finally made the decision for her.
She wanted her life back and Holly was preparing to do just that.
Exchanging the scalpel for surgical scissors, Holly carefully began separating the sectioned dermis from the breast tissue. The aim was to maintain a healthy blood supply to the nipple or it would turn necrotic. The drawback to any reduction was that large amounts of tissue were fed by a lot of blood vessels. Each time she nicked one of them, she waited while the OR nurse cauterized it and mopped up the blood.
Once the dermis had been properly detached from the breast tissue, Holly transferred it into the waiting hands of the attending nurse and went to work on excising the glandular and adipose tissue as per Lin Syu’s murmured instructions.
By the time they’d removed five hundred grams of tissue from each breast, Holly was ready for the next stage. She and Dr. Syu made several complicated knots around the areola before gently lifting the nipple into its new position and nudging the remaining parenchyma into place.
She then temporarily closed and stapled the skin flaps so she could assess the size, shape and position of each breast. The specialized operating table lifted the patient into a sitting position while Holly used the sizer to check the positioning before gently removing the staples and peeling back the skin flaps.
She attached strips of acellular mesh to the upper breast substance to strengthen the weakened muscles then patiently reconnected the mass to the dermal layers using a resorbable intradermal suture. This would reduce the pull of gravity and wound tension, speeding up recovery. It would also help keep scarring to a minimum.
She sutured the areola to the surrounding flaps before reaching for the staple gun for the final stage of the dermal resectioning procedure. When it was over she stepped back to allow the nurse to swab the wound sites with iodine in preparation for the daisy strips that would be applied around the areola in widening circles. They would serve a double function of protecting the wound from infection as well as provide additional support while the patient healed.
Five hours after the patient went under; Lin Syu supervised the insertion of the twin drains while Holly stripped off her mask, gloves and headgear.
“Excellent work, Dr. Buchanan,” the older woman said, finally lifting twinkling black eyes to Holly. “We’ll have you doing all our cosmetic procedures before long.”
Holly grimaced, as Dr. Syu had known she would, and moved away from the table—her part of the procedure currently over. She sent a quick look up to the observation-room window and wasn’t surprised to find it empty. Breast reductions weren’t that interesting unless you were considering specializing in plastic surgery. And since Dr. Hot Celebrity was rumored to have done hundreds if not thousands of boob jobs, he had probably only wanted to rattle her.
And succeeded. Darn it.
“As long as the patient is satisfied with her new size,” she said, stretching out cramped back and shoulder muscles as she moved toward the doors. She knew that she would have to perform cosmetic procedures but in this case it helped knowing she could restore someone’s self-confidence while alleviating their pain.
Dr. Syu followed, stripping off her gloves. “You just saved her from a lifetime of pain and discomfort, Holly. That she wants to wear a bikini on her honeymoon doesn’t make cosmetic procedures wrong.”
Holly stifled a yawn. “I know,” she mumbled, feeling somewhat chastened. “Besides being the object of curiosity and ridicule, Kerry Gilmore said she was tired of men making lewd comments about her breasts.”
“Well, that’s just juvenile and typical,” Lin said in disgust. “Anyway, as long as she follows medical advice and wears the support garment, she’ll be wearing her string bikini on her honeymoon come summer.”
She untied Holly’s surgical gown and waited while Holly returned the favor before saying over her shoulder, “You don’t have to like them but you also shouldn’t forget that cosmetics procedures—especially the big-bucks ones—help fund the reconstructions.”
Holly sighed. Dr. Syu was right. Besides, she had first-hand experience of the emotional trauma caused by others’ perceptions to be reminded of why she’d chosen to specialize in plastic and reconstruction surgery.
She’d spent her entire childhood struggling against the stereotype of beauty-versus-brains and was tired of people judging her by her looks or her family’s accomplishments.
As a child she’d often thought she’d been adopted, switched at birth or maybe dumped on their doorstep by a wicked witch. It was only much later that she had accepted she was dark like her father and brother. At the time, though, she’d felt like an alien—a thin, scrawny, ugly duckling that her father couldn’t possibly love.
She’d been clumsy, awkward and—she’d be the first to admit—cripplingly shy, geeky and snotty as hell. She’d hated being compared to her incredibly beautiful, blonde outgoing mother and her famous photographic model sister. And because she couldn’t compete with her brother or sister for their father’s attention, she’d tried to be the smartest so he could be proud of her too. And just when she’d begun filling out and growing into her large eyes, big mouth and long legs, she’d fallen a couple of stories when the cable on a glass elevator had snapped.
She’d been forced to undergo countless surgeries to repair the damage caused by flying glass, once again becoming the object of ridicule and pity. Boys who hadn’t known about her accident had even called her The Scar, like she was some kind of comic-book villain or something.
“So,” Lin Syu said casually, jolting Holly out of disturbing memories of her past. “What do you think of the new guy?”
Holly froze. “The new guy?”
“Yep.” Dr. Syu dropped her soiled surgical gown into the hamper. “Our new celebrity hunk. I hear the nurses are all fighting to get on the surgical roster with him.”
Holly rolled her eyes as heat crept up her neck. “I really hadn’t noticed.” Lin eyed her levelly, expression wry as though she could see right through Holly’s lie. “What?” Holly asked, trying to look innocent. “I’ve been busy.”
“So the looks that day at the meeting were my imagination?”
“What looks?”
“Everyone paying attention saw the looks, Dr. Buchanan.” She grinned and waggled her eyebrows. “I just wondered if you two already knew each other or if it was lust at first sight.”
Holly’s head shot up, eyes wide with shock. “Wha-at? I don’t…Ohmigod!” she spluttered, feeling her face burn with mortification as she thought back to those oddly intimate moments in the elevator and then again when their eyes had met across the boardroom. She hadn’t thought anyone had seen. Clearly she hadn’t been as discreet as she’d thought.
Her body instantly reacted to the memory of that weird sensation of the earth wobbling off its axis and she shivered and huffed out a breath.
“That’s…um…” She gulped and cast around for something intelligent to say but all that emerged from her mouth was a strangled gurgling sound that Dr. Syu seemed to find hilarious.
Struggling to get her emotions under control and stall for time, Holly busied herself by carefully folding her soiled surgical gown and placing it neatly in the hamper.
“It’s n-not what you think,” she finally murmured, huffing out a couple of breaths like she was about to give birth. “But we…um, did meet in the elevator on the way up.”
The surgeon pulled off her mask and cap and waited patiently for Holly to elaborate. When she didn’t, Lin’s brows rose up her forehead. “That must have been some meeting,” she drawled, snorting out a laugh when Holly uttered a sound of distress. “I think he likes you.”
Holly averted her head and wished she could sink through the floor. “That’s…that’s ridiculous,” she denied a little too hastily. “Guys like him aren’t…well…interested in people like um…” She gestured vaguely to her face. “Like me.”
“You’re a beautiful—yes, Holly,” Lin insisted when Holly opened her mouth to argue, “beautiful and graceful woman. Not to mention a skilled and talented surgeon. Why wouldn’t he be interested? He’s a man, isn’t he?”
“I wasn’t always graceful,” Holly admitted dryly, recalling how elegant she must have looked on her hands and knees. “It took a lot of hard work on my mother’s part. Even now when I’m flustered… I, um…” She broke off, flushing when she realized what she was about to reveal.
“You what?
Holly sighed. “My…inner klutz emerges,” she mumbled, then grimaced when Lin snorted. “It’s like I’m fifteen again and have no control over my feet or my mouth.”
“And he flusters you? Hmm.” Lin’s mouth curved and her eyes twinkled with wicked humor. “I sense a story there,” she said, just as her pager went off. “Which will unfortunately have to wait. Damn. Just when I thought I could finally get to know my kids again. They probably think I’m just the woman that comes in at night to sleep with their father before disappearing again in the morning.” She sighed and threw “Great job in there, by the way,” over her shoulder as she hurried off.
Holly took a moment to savor the senior surgeon’s praise and went off in the direction of the locker rooms to change before heading home. She knew she should go to her office and catch up on paperwork but she’d promised her housemates that she’d be home for dinner.
It had been kind of weird since Kimberlyn Davis had moved in after her cousin Caren had left and then Tessa Camara, another surgical resident at WMS, had moved out, leaving Holly in a house of strangers. Okay, Sam Napier wasn’t exactly a stranger but, then, the hot brooding Scot wasn’t all that easy to get to know.
He mostly kept to himself but in a house filled with women she couldn’t really blame him. She’d kind of had a little crush on him when he’d first moved in but he was a bit intimidating and didn’t share himself with others. Thanks to her scars and her incredibly geeky adolescence, she still felt shy and awkward around him.
Tessa, who’d basically moved in with her fiancé, Clay, since she’d dropped the baby bombshell a couple months ago, had promised to join them for dinner. After the week Holly had had she was ready to talk about babies and forget about big bad celebrity doctors who could make women scream.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_b5ceebf5-dc17-5146-b664-c1597a3540ec)
GABE SLID INTO the back of a cab and gave the cabbie his Brooklyn address as he sank back against the seat. He’d been invited to join a few colleagues at a nearby bar but he’d been on call for over two weeks straight and he was exhausted. Besides, he still hadn’t finished unpacking his boxes and he was sick of living out of suitcases and eating out of cardboard cartons.
He wanted real food that he’d cooked himself and he hadn’t even had time to unpack his kitchen stuff.
When he couldn’t swim or surf, cooking relaxed him. He didn’t know if it was growing up in California, where everyone was a health nut or alternative lifestyle guru, but he liked eating freshly prepared food.
What he hated was eating alone. But that was something that couldn’t be helped, especially after the telephone conversation he’d had earlier that day with his grandfather. Talking—if the cold, stilted exchange could be termed talking—with the old man always left him restless and angry.
He wondered how the old man had found out he was in New York then decided he didn’t want to know. The less he knew about Caspar Alexander’s business, the better. Besides, the only thing he had in common with his grandfather—or with his father, for that matter—was their last name and a few bad genes. Everything else he’d got was from his mom. Thank God.
The cabbie turned a corner and hooted at some poor pedestrian who’d had the bad judgment to cross at a green light, jolting Gabe out of his disturbing thoughts. This was a new chapter in his life and he didn’t intend to ruin it by thinking about the sharks in his paternal gene pool. That was about as productive as standing in an observation room, watching a woman do a breast reduction plasty when he had rounds and a ton of paperwork waiting.
He may have been watching the skilled movements of Holly Buchanan’s hands but he’d been thinking about those long, slender fingers on his skin. And when he’d realized that he’d been getting turned on, he’d left before someone in the OR had looked up and noticed his jeans had been a tight fit.
The cabbie pulled up in front of a neatly refurbished brownstone and Gabe got out, bending to glare at the guy through the open passenger window when he called out an outrageous fare.
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