The Texan's Royal M.D.
Merline Lovelace
Is this a royal doc’s holiday fling…or the real thing? Find out in this story from USA TODAY bestselling author Merline Lovelace!Texas is the perfect place for holiday heat—exactly what Dr. Anastazia St. Sebastian needs before making the biggest decision of her career. Enter hunky shipping billionaire Mike Brennan, who insists on buying her dinner after she saves his nephew. But one night leads to more. And even three days of fun in the sun—and in Mike’s bedroom—aren’t enough. This doc of royal descent wants to fall in love…but how can she when what Mike wants is the one thing she can never give?
“I hope you’ll let Davy and me show our appreciation by buying you breakfast, Dr St. Sebastian.”
“Thanks, but I’ve already had breakfast.”
No way Mike was letting this gorgeous creature get away. “Dinner, then.”
“I’m, uh, I’m here with my family.”
“I am, too. Unfortunately.” He made a face at his nephew, who giggled and returned the exaggerated grimace. “I’d be even more grateful if you give me an excuse to get away from them for a while.”
“Well …”
He didn’t miss her brief hesitation. Or her quick glance at his left hand. The white imprint of his wedding ring had long since faded. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for the inner scars. Shoving the disaster of his marriage into the dark hole where it belonged, Mike overrode her apparent doubts.
“Where are you staying?”
She took her time replying. Those exotic eyes looked him up and down.
“We’re at the Camino del Ray,” she said finally, almost reluctantly. “It’s about a half mile up the beach.”
Mike suppressed a smile. “I know where it is. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”
* * *
The Texan’s Royal M.D. is part of the Duchess Diaries series—Two royal granddaughters on their way to happily ever after!
The Texan’s Royal M.D.
Merline Lovelace
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A career Air Force officer, MERLINE LOVELACE served at bases all over the world. When she hung up her uniform for the last time she decided to combine her love of adventure with a flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her own experiences in uniform. Since then she’s produced more than ninety action-packed sizzlers, many of which have made the USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. Over eleven million copies of her books are available in some thirty countries.
When she’s not tied to her keyboard, Merline enjoys reading, chasing little white balls around the fairways of Oklahoma and traveling to new and exotic locales with her handsome husband, Al. Check her website, merlinelovelace.com (http://merlinelovelace.com), or friend her on Facebook for news and information about her latest releases.
To Neta and Dave: friends, traveling buds and the source of all kinds of fodder for my books. Thanks for the inside info on research grants and nasty bugs, Neta!
Contents
Cover (#u62905950-6f04-503b-94f6-7dfa018c062a)
Introduction (#u90159fc5-93b1-51b5-b96a-d713acafbea5)
Title Page (#ue4be51f0-4b06-5cf4-8a5d-5ea1ef72dc1f)
About the Author (#u059d41aa-3e1b-5294-b558-f4e77fedc7e7)
Dedication (#u492a2264-cc2d-568b-991f-37a23b59d47d)
Prologue (#ud9722de7-ace0-501e-b83c-f96325081ff3)
One (#ua6a52915-c15e-5b72-b6fb-2f13bace2198)
Two (#uaf147159-f626-5da7-a26c-cd9d7df1f71b)
Three (#uc9fe66f5-db51-511a-853b-29b592834e12)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
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Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_33a80541-1514-5b5a-9e5c-1767ad2e89d9)
I seem to have come full circle. For so many years my life centered on my darling granddaughters. Now they’re grown and are busy with lives of their own. Quiet, elegant Sarah has an adoring husband, a blossoming career as an author and her first child on the way. And Eugenia, my carefree, high-spirited Eugenia, is the wife of a United Nations diplomat and the mother of twins. She fills both roles so joyously, so effortlessly.
I do wish I could say the same of Dominic, my impossibly handsome great-nephew. Dom still hasn’t adjusted to the fact that he now carries the title of Grand Duke of Karlenburgh. I’ve caught him rolling his shoulders as though he itches for his previous life as an undercover agent. Then his glance strays to his wife and his restlessness fades instantly. Natalie’s so demure, so sweet and so startlingly intelligent!
She quite astonishes us all with the depth of her knowledge of the most arcane subjects—including the history of my beloved Karlenburgh.
These days I live vicariously through Dom’s sister, Anastazia. I’ll admit I played shamelessly on our distant kinship to convince Zia to reside with me during her pediatric residency in New York City. She’s only a few short months away from finishing the grueling three-year program. She should be feeling nothing but elation that the end is in sight. Yet I sense that something’s troubling her. Something she doesn’t wish to talk about, even with me. I shan’t force the issue. I don’t condone unwelcome intrusiveness, even by the most concerned and well-meaning. I do hope, however, that the vacation I’ve engineered for the family over the coming holidays eases some of the worry Zia hides behind her so bright, so lovely smile.
From the diary of Charlotte,
Grand Duchess of Karlenburgh
One (#ulink_71784960-861d-5ac2-b6a4-63702ee853f2)
Zia almost didn’t hear the shout over the roar of the waves. Preoccupied with the decision hanging over her like an executioner’s ax, she’d slipped away for an early-morning jog along the glistening silver shoreline of Galveston Island, Texas. Although the Gulf of Mexico offered a glorious symphony of green water and lacy surf, Zia barely noticed the ever-changing seascape. She needed time and the endless, empty shore to think. Solitude to wrestle with her private demons.
She loved her family—her adored older brother, Dominic; her great-aunt Charlotte, who’d practically adopted her; the cousins she’d grown so close to in the past few years; their spouses and lively offspring. But spending the Christmas holidays in Galveston with the entire St. Sebastian clan hadn’t allowed much time for soul-searching. Zia only had three more days to decide. Three days before she returned to New York and...
“Go get it, Buster!”
Sunk in thought, she might have blocked out the gleeful shout if she hadn’t spent the past two and a half years as a pediatric resident at Kravis Children’s Hospital, part of the Mount Sinai hospital network in New York City. All those rewarding, gut-wrenching hours working with infants and young kids had fine-tuned Zia’s instincts to the point that her mind tagged the voice instantly as belonging to a five-or six-year-old male with a healthy set of lungs.
A smile formed as she angled toward the sound. Her sneakers slapping the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge, she jogged backward a few paces and watched the child who raced through the shallows about thirty yards behind her. Red haired and freckle faced, he was in hot pursuit of a stubby brown-and-white terrier. The dog, in turn, chased a soaring Frisbee. Boy and pet plunged joyously through the shallow surf, oblivious to everything but the purple plastic disc.
Zia’s smile widened at their antics but took a quick downward turn when she scanned the shore behind them and failed to spot an adult. Where were the boy’s parents? Or his nanny, given that this stretch of beach included several glitzy, high-dollar resorts? Or even an older sibling? The boy was too young to be cavorting in the surf unsupervised.
Anger sliced into her, swift and icy hot. She’d had to deal with the results of parental negligence far too often to view it with complacency. She was feeling the heat of that anger, the sick disgust she had to swallow while treating abused or neglected children, when another cry wrenched her attention back to the boy. This one was high and reedy and tinged with panic.
Her heart stuttering, Zia saw he’d lunged into waves to meet the terrier paddling toward shore with the Frisbee clenched between his jaws. She knew the bank dropped off steeply at that point. Too steeply! And the undertow when the tide went out was strong enough to drag down full-grown adult.
She was already racing back to the boy when he disappeared. She locked her frantic gaze on the spot where his red hair sank below the waves, crashed into the water and made a flying dive.
She couldn’t see him! The receding tide had churned up too much sand. Grit stung her eyes. The ocean hissed and boiled in her ears. She flung out her arms, thrashed them blindly. Her lungs on fire, she thrust out of the water like a dolphin spooked by a killer whale and arced back in.
Just before she went under she caught a glimpse of the terrier’s rear end pointed at the sky. The dog dove down at the same instant Zia did and led her to the child being dragged along by the undertow. She shot past the dog. Grabbed the boy’s wrist. Propelled upward with fast, hard scissor kicks. She had to swim parallel to the shore for several desperate moments before the vicious current loosened its grip enough for her to cut toward dry land.
He wasn’t breathing when she turned him on his back and started CPR. Her head told her he hadn’t been in the water long enough to suffer severe oxygen deprivation, but his lips were tinged with blue. Completely focused, Zia ignored the dog that whined and pawed frantic trenches in the sand by the boy’s head. Ignored as well the thud of running feet, the offers of help, the deep shout that was half panic, half prayer.
“Davy! Jesus!”
The small chest twitched under Zia’s palms. A moment later, the boy’s back arched and seawater spewed from his mouth. With a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Stephen, patron saint of her native Hungary, Zia rolled him onto his side and held his head while he hacked up most of what he’d swallowed. When he was done, she eased him down again. His nose ran in twin streams and tears spurted from his eyes but, amazingly, he gulped back his sobs.
“Wh...? What happened?”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “You went out too far and got dragged in by the undertow.”
“Did I...? Did I get drowned?”
“Almost.”
He hooked an arm around his anxious pet’s neck while a slowly dawning excitement edged out the confusion and fear in his brown eyes. “Wait till I tell Mommy and Kevin and abuelita and...” His gaze shifted right and latched on to something just over Zia’s shoulder. “Uncle Mickey! Uncle Mickey! Did you hear that? I almost got drowned!”
“Yeah, brat, I heard.”
It was the same deep baritone that had barely registered with Zia a moment ago. The panic was gone, though, replaced by relief colored with what sounded like reluctant amusement.
Jézus, Mária és József! Didn’t this idiot appreciate how close a call his nephew had just had? Incensed, Zia shoved to her feet and spun toward him. She was just about to let loose with both barrels when she realized his amused drawl had been show for the boy’s sake. Despite the seemingly laconic reply, his hands were balled into fists and his faded University of Texas T-shirt stretched across taut shoulders.
Very wide shoulders, she couldn’t help but note, topped by a tree trunk of a neck and a square chin showing just a hint of a dimple. With her trained clinician’s eye for detail, Zia also noted that his nose looked as though it had gotten crosswise of a fist sometime in his past and his eyes gleamed as deep a green as the ocean. His hair was a rich, dark sorrel and cut rigorously short.
The rest of him wasn’t bad, either. She formed a fleeting impression of a broad chest, muscular thighs emerging from ragged cutoffs, and bare feet sporting worn leather flip-flops. Then those sea-green eyes flashed her a grateful look and he went down on one knee beside his nephew.
“You, young man,” he said as he helped the boy sit up, “are in deep doo-doo. You know darn well you’re not allowed to come down to the beach alone.”
“Buster needed to go out.”
“I repeat, you are not allowed to come down to beach alone.”
Zia shrugged off the remnants of the rage that had hit her when she’d thought the boy was allowed to roam unsupervised. She also had to hide a smile at the pitiful note that crept into Davy’s voice. Like all five-or six-year olds, he had the whine down pat.
“You said Buster was my ’sponsibility when you gave him to me, Uncle Mickey. You said I had to walk him ’n feed him ’n pick up his poop ’n...”
“We’ll continue this discussion later.”
Whoa! Even Zia blinked at the that’s enough finality in the uncle’s voice.
“How do you feel?” he asked the boy.
“’Kay.”
“Good enough to stand up?”
“Sure.”
With the youthful resilience that never failed to amaze Zia, the kid flashed a cheeky grin and scrambled to his feet. His pet woofed encouragement, and both boy and dog would have scampered off if the uncle hadn’t laid a restraining hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
“Don’t you have something you want to say to this lady?”
“Thanks for not letting me get drowned.”
“You’re welcome.”
His uncle kept him in place by a firm grip on his wet T-shirt and held out his other hand to Zia. “I’m Mike Brennan. I can’t thank you enough for what you did for Davy.”
She took the offered hand, registered its strength and warmth as it folded around hers. “Anastazia St. Sebastian. I’m glad I got to him in time.”
* * *
The sheer terror that had rocked Mike’s world when he’d spotted this woman hauling Davy’s limp body out of the sea had receded enough now for him to focus on her for the first time. Closer inspection damn near rocked him back on his flip-flops again.
Her wet, glistening black hair hung to just below her shoulders. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair and had just the suggestion of a slant to them. And any supermodel on the planet would have killed for those high, slashing cheekbones. The slender body outlined to perfection by her pink spandex tank and black Lycra running shorts was just icing on the cake. That, and the fact that she wasn’t wearing a wedding or engagement ring.
“I think he’ll be all right,” she was saying with another glance at now fidgeting Davy, “but you might want to keep an eye on him for the next few hours. Watch for signs of rapid breathing, a fast heart rate or low-grade fever. All are common the first few hours after a near drowning.”
Her accent was as intriguing as the rest of her. The faint lilt gave her words a different cadence. Eastern European, Mike thought, but it was too slight to pin down.
“You appear to know a lot about this kind of situation. Are you an EMT or first responder?”
“I’m a physician.”
Okay, now he was doubly impressed. The woman possessed the mysterious eyes of an odalisque, the body of a temptress and the smarts of a doc. He’d hit the jackpot here. Nodding toward the colorful umbrellas just popping up at the restaurant across the highway from the beach, he made his move.
“I hope you’ll let Davy and me show our appreciation by buying you breakfast, Dr. St. Sebastian.”
“Thanks, but I’ve already had breakfast.”
No way Mike was letting this gorgeous creature get away. “Dinner, then.”
“I’m, uh, I’m here with my family.”
“I am, too. Unfortunately.” He made a face at his nephew, who giggled and returned the exaggerated grimace. “I’d be even more grateful if you give me an excuse to get away from them for a while.”
“Well...”
He didn’t miss her brief hesitation. Or her quick glance at his left hand. The white imprint of his wedding ring had long since faded. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for the inner scars. Shoving the disaster of his marriage into the dark hole where it belonged, Mike overrode her apparent doubts.
“Where are you staying?”
She took her time replying. Those exotic eyes looked him up and down. Lingered for a moment on his faded T-shirt, his ragged cutoffs, his worn leather flip-flops.
“We’re at the Camino del Rey,” she said finally, almost reluctantly. “It’s about a half mile up the beach.”
Mike suppressed a smile. “I know where it is. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.” He gave his increasingly impatient nephew’s shoulder a squeeze. “Say goodbye to Dr. St. Sebastian, brat.”
“Bye, Dr. S’baston.”
“Bye, Davy.”
“See you later, Anastazia.”
“Zia,” she said. “I go by Zia.”
“Zia. Got it.”
Tipping two fingers in a farewell salute, Mike used his grip on his nephew’s T-shirt to frog-walk him up the beach.
* * *
Zia tracked them as far as the row of houses on stilts fronting the beach. She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to dinner with the uncle. As if she didn’t have enough on her mind right now without having to make small talk with a complete stranger!
Arms folded, she watched the terrier jump and cavort alongside them. The dog’s exuberance reminded her all too forcefully of the racing hound her sister-in-law had hauled down to Texas with her. Natalie was nutso over the whip-thin Magyar Agár and insisted on calling the hound Duke—much to the chagrin of Zia’s brother, Dominic, who still hadn’t completely adjusted to his transition from Interpol agent to Grand Duke of Karlenburgh.
The duchy of Karlenburgh had once been part of the vast Austro-Hungarian Empire but had long since ceased to exist anywhere except in history books. That hadn’t stopped the paparazzi from hounding Europe’s newest royal out of the shadows of undercover work. And Dom had retaliated by sweeping the woman who’d discovered he was heir to the title off her feet and into the ranks of the ever-growing St. Sebastian clan. Now Zia’s family included an affectionate, übersmart sister-in-law as well as the two thoroughly delightful cousins she and Dom had met for the first time three years ago.
And, of course, Great-Aunt Charlotte. The regal, iron-spined matriarch of the St. Sebastian family and the woman who’d welcomed Zia into her home and her heart. Zia couldn’t imagine how she would have made it this far in her pediatric residency without the duchess’s support and encouragement.
Two and a half years, she thought as she abandoned the rest of her morning run to head back to the condo. Twenty-eight months of rounds and call rotations and team meetings and chart prep and discharge conferences. Endless days and nights agonizing over her patients. Heartbreaking hours grieving with parents while burying her own aching loss so deep it rarely crept out to haunt her anymore.
Except at moments like this. When she had to decide whether she should continue to work with sick children for the next thirty or forty years...or whether she should accept the offer from Dr. Roger Wilbanks, Chief of the Pediatrics Advanced Research Center, to join his team. Could she abandon the challenges and stress of hands-on medicine for the regular hours and seductive income of a world-class, state-of-the-art research facility?
That question churned like battery acid in her gut as she headed for the resort where the St. Sebastian clan was staying. With the morning sun now burning bright in an achingly blue Texas sky, the holiday sun worshippers had begun to flock down to the beach. Umbrellas had flowered open above rows of lounge chairs. Colorful towels were spread on the sand, occupied by bathers with no intention of getting wet. Patches of dead white epidermis just waiting to be crisped showed above skimpy bikini bottoms, along with more than one grossly distended male belly.
Without warning, Zia’s mind zinged back to Mike Brennan. No distended belly there. No distended anything. Just muscled shoulders and roped thighs and that killer smile. His worn flip-flops and ragged cutoffs suggested a man comfortable with himself in these high-dollar environs. Zia liked that about him.
And now that she thought about it, she actually liked the idea of having dinner with him. Maybe he offered just what she needed. A leisurely evening away from her boisterous family. A few hours with all decisions put on hold. A casual fling...
Whoa! Where had that come from?
She didn’t indulge in casual flings. Aside from the fact that her long hours and demanding schedule took so much out of her, she was too careful, too responsible—all right, just too fastidious. Except for one lamentable lapse in judgment, that is. Grimacing, she shrugged aside the memory of the handsome orthopedic surgeon who’d somehow neglected to mention that his divorce was several light-years from being final.
She was still kicking herself for that sorry mistake when she keyed the door to the two-story, six-bedroom penthouse. Although it was still early morning, the noise level had already inched toward the top of the decibel scale. Most of that was due to her cousin Gina’s almost-three-year-old twins. The lively, blue-eyed blondes acted like miniatures of their laughing, effervescent mother...most of the time. This, Zia could tell as shrieks of delight emanated from the living room, was most definitely one of those times.
An answering smile tugged at her lips as she followed the squeals to the living area. Its glass wall offered an eye-boggling panorama of the Gulf of Mexico. Not that any of the occupants of the spacious living room appeared the least interested in the view. They were totally absorbed with the twins’ attempts to add blinking red Rudolph noses to the fuzzy reindeer antlers and jingle-bell halters already adorning their uncles. Dominic and Devon sat cross-legged on the floor within easy reach of the twins, while their dad, Jack, watched with diabolical delight.
“What’s going on here?” Zia asked.
“Thanta’s coming,” curly-haired Amalia lisped excitedly. “And...
“Uncle Dom and Dev are gonna help pull his sled,” little Charlotte finished.
The girls were named for the duchess, whose full name and title filled several lines of print. Sarah’s and Gina’s were almost as long. Zia’s, too. Try squeezing Anastazia Amalia Julianna St. Sebastian onto a computer form, she thought as she paused in the doorway to enjoy the merry scene.
No three men could be more dissimilar in appearance yet so similar in character, she decided. Jack Harris, the twins’ father and the current United States Ambassador to the United Nations, was tall, tawny haired and aristocratic. Devon Hunter’s hard-fought rise from aircraft cargo handler to self-made billionaire showed in his lean face and clever eyes. And Dominic...
Ahh. Was there anyone as handsome and charismatic as the brother who’d assumed legal guardianship of Zia after their parents died? The friend and advisor who’d guided her through her turbulent teens? The highly skilled undercover agent who’d encouraged her all through college and med school, then walked away from his adrenaline-charged career for the woman he loved?
Natalie loved him, too, Zia thought with an inner smile as her glance shifted to her sister-in-law. Completely, unreservedly, joyously. One look at her face was all anyone needed to see the devotion in her warm brown eyes. She occupied one end of a comfortable sofa, her fingers entwined in the collar of the quivering racing hound to prevent him from joining the reindeer brigade.
Zia’s cousins sat next to her. Gina, with a Santa hat perched atop her tumble of silvery blond curls and candy-cane-striped leggings, looked more like a teenager than mother of twins, the wife of a highly respected diplomat and a partner in one of NYC’s most successful event-hosting enterprises. Gina’s older sister, Sarah, occupied the far end of the sofa. Her palms rested lightly on her just-beginning-to-show baby bump and her elegant features showed the quiet joy of impending motherhood.
But it was the woman who sat with her back straight and her hands clasping the ebony head of her cane who caught and held Zia’s eye. The Grand Duchess of Karlenburgh was a role model for any female of any age. As a young bride she’d resided in a string of castles scattered across Europe, including the one that guarded a high mountain pass on the border between Austria and Hungary. Then the Soviets invaded and later brutally suppressed an uprising by Hungarian patriots. Forced to witness her husband’s execution, Charlotte had made a daring escape by trekking over the snow-covered Alps with her newborn infant in her arms and a fortune in jewels hidden inside the baby’s teddy bear. Now, more than sixty years later, she’d lost none of her dignity or courage or regal bearing. White haired and paper skinned, the indomitable duchess ruled her ever-growing family with a velvet-gloved fist.
She was the reason they were all here, spending the holidays in Texas. Charlotte hadn’t complained. She considered whining a deplorable character flaw. But Zia hadn’t failed to note how the vicious cold and record snowfall that blanketed New York City in early December had exacerbated the duchess’s arthritis. And all it took was one mention of Zia’s concern to galvanize the entire St. Sebastian clan.
In short order, Dev and Sarah had leased this six-bedroom condo and set it up as a temporary base for their Los Angeles operations. Jack and Gina had adjusted their busy schedules to enjoy a rare, prolonged holiday in South Texas. Dom and Natalie flew down, too, with the hound in tow. The family had also convinced Maria, the duchess’s longtime housekeeper and companion, to enjoy an all-expenses-paid vacation while the staff here at the resort took care of everyone’s needs.
Zia hadn’t been able to spend quite as much time in Texas as the others. Although Mount Sinai’s second-and third-year residents were allowed a full month of vacation, few if any ever strayed far from the hospital. Zia hadn’t taken off more than three days in a row since she began her residency. And with the decision of whether to accept Dr. Wilbanks’s offer weighing so heavily on her mind, she wouldn’t have dragged herself down to Galveston for a full week if Charlotte hadn’t insisted. Almost as if she’d read her mind, the duchess looked up at that moment. Her gnarled fingers tightened on the head of her cane. One snowy brow lifted in a regal arch.
* * *
Ha! Charlotte had only to look at Zia to guess what the girl was thinking! That she was so old and decrepit, she needed this bright Texas sunshine to warm her bones. Well, perhaps she did. But she also needed to put some color back into her great-niece’s cheeks. She was too pale. Too thin and tired. She’d worn herself to the bone during the first two years of her residency. And worked even more the past few months. But every time Charlotte tried to probe the shadows lurking behind those weary eyes, the girl smiled and fobbed her off with the excuse that exhaustion just was part of being a third-year resident in one of the country’s most prestigious medical schools.
Charlotte might not see eighty again, but she wasn’t yet senile. Nor was she the least bit hesitant where the well-being of her family was concerned. None of them, Anastazia included, had the least idea that she’d engineered this sojourn in the sun. All it had taken was some not-quite-surreptitious kneading of her arthritic knuckles and one or two few valiantly disguised grimaces. Those, combined with her seemingly offhand comment that New York City felt especially cold and damp this December, had done the trick.
Her family had reacted just as she’d anticipated. Within days they’d sorted through dozens of options from Florida to California and everywhere in between. A villa on the Riviera and over-water bungalows in the South Pacific hadn’t been out of the mix, either. But they’d decided on South Texas as the most convenient for both the East and West Coast family contingents. Within a week, Charlotte and Maria had been ensconced in seaside, sun-drenched luxury with various members of the family joining them for differing lengths of time.
Charlotte had even convinced Zia to take off the whole of Christmas week. The girl was still too thin and tired, but at least her cheeks had gained some color. And, the duchess noted with relief, there was something very close to a sparkle in her eyes. Even more intriguing, her glossy black hair was damp and straggly and threaded with what looked suspiciously like strands of seaweed. Intrigued, she thumped her cane on the floor to get the twins’ attention.
“Charlotte, Amalia, please be quiet for a moment.”
The girls’ high-pitched giggles dropped a few degrees in decibel level, if not in frequency.
“Come sit beside me, Anastazia, and tell me what happened during your run on the beach.”
“How do you know something happened?”
“You have kelp dangling from your ear.”
Zia patted both ears to find the offending strand. “So I do,” she replied, chuckling.
The lighthearted response delighted Charlotte. The girl hadn’t laughed very much lately. So little, in fact, that her rippling merriment snagged the attention of every adult in the room.
“Tell us,” the duchess commanded. “What happened?”
“Let’s see.” Playing to her suddenly attentive audience, Zia pretended to search her memory. “A little boy got sucked in by the undertow and I dove in after him. I dragged him to shore, then administered CPR.”
“Dear God! Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. So is his uncle, by the way. Very fine,” she added with a waggle of her brows. “Which is why I agreed to have dinner with him this evening.”
Two (#ulink_6dcba80d-da43-5de4-92dc-1186bfc9b2f6)
As Zia had anticipated, the announcement that she’d agreed to dinner with a total stranger unleashed a barrage of questions. The fact that she knew nothing about him didn’t sit well with the overprotective males of her family.
As a result, the whole clan just happened to be gathered for pre-dinner cocktails when the doorman buzzed that evening and announced a visitor for Dr. St. Sebastian. Zia briefly considered taking the coward’s way out and slipping down to wait for Brennan in the lobby. But she figured if he couldn’t withstand the combined firepower of her brother, cousins and the duchess, she might as well not waste her time with him.
She was waiting at the front door when he exited the elevator. “Hello.”
“Hi, Doc.”
Wow, Zia thought. Or as some of her younger patients might say, the man was chill! The easy smile was the one she remembered from this morning, but the packaging was completely different. He’d traded his cutoffs and flip-flops for black slacks creased to a knife edge, an open-necked blue oxford shirt and a casually elegant sport coat. The tooled leather boots and black Stetson were a surprise, however.
Like most Europeans, Zia had grown up on the Hollywood image of cowboys. Tom Selleck in Last Stand at Sabre River. Matt Damon in All The Pretty Horses. Kevin Costner in Open Range. Living in New York City for the past two and a half years hadn’t altered her mental stereotype. Nor had she stumbled across many locals here in Galveston who sported the traditional Texas headgear. It looked good on Brennan, though. Natural. As though it was as much a part of him as his air of easy self-assurance and long-legged stride. It also lit a spark of unexpected delight low in her belly. The man was primo in flip-flops or cowboy boots.
She did a mental tongue-swallow and asked about his nephew. “How’s Davy?”
“Sulking because he got cut off from TV and videos for the entire day as punishment for skipping out of the house.”
“No aftereffects?”
“None so far. His mother’s patience is wearing wire thin, though.”
“I can imagine.”
“My family’s having drinks on the terrace. Would you like to say hello?”
“Sure.”
“Be prepared,” she warned. “There are a lot of them.”
“No problem. My Irish grandfather married a Mexican beauty right out of a convent school here on South Padre Island. You haven’t experienced big and noisy until you’ve been to Sunday dinner at my abuelita’s house.”
Now that he’d mentioned his heritage, Zia could see traces of both cultures. The reddish glint in his dark chestnut hair and those emerald-green eyes hinted at the Irish in him. What she’d assumed was a deep Texas tan might well be a gift from his Mexican grandmother. Wherever the source, the combination made for a decidedly potent whole!
As she led him to the terrace that wrapped around two sides of the condo, she was glad she’d decided to dress up a bit, too. She spent most of her days in a lab coat with a stethoscope draped around her neck and her rare evenings off in comfortable sweats. She had to admit it had felt good to slither into a silky red camisole and a pair of Gina’s tight, straight-leg jeans with a sparkling red crystal heart on the right rear pocket. Gina had also supplied the shoes. The lethal stilettos added three inches to Zia’s own five-seven yet still didn’t bring her quite to eye level with Mike Brennan.
She’d clipped her hair up in its usual neat knot, but Sarah had insisted on teasing loose a few strands to frame her face. And Dom’s wife, Natalie, contributed the twisted copper torque she’d found in a London shop specializing in reproductions of ancient Celtic jewelry. Feeling like Cinderella dressed by three doting fairy godmothers, Zia slid back the glass door to the terrace.
The twelve pairs of eyes that locked on the new arrival might have intimidated a lesser man. To Brennan’s credit, his stride barely faltered as he followed Zia onto the wide terrace.
“Hey, everyone,” she announced. “Say hello to Mike—”
“Brennan,” Dev finished on a startled note. “Aka Global Shipping Incorporated.” He pushed to his feet and thrust out his hand. “How’re you doing, Mike?”
“I’m good,” he replied, obviously as surprised as Dev to find a familiar face at this family gathering. “You’re related to Zia?”
“She and my wife, Sarah, are cousins.”
“Five or six times removed,” Zia added with a smile.
“The degree doesn’t matter,” Sarah protested. “Not among the St. Sebastians.” She aimed a quizzical glance at her husband. “How do you two know each other?”
“Mike here is president and CEO of Global Shipping Incorporated, the third largest cargo container fleet in the US,” Dev explained. “We contract for, what? Eight or nine million a year in long-haul shipping with GSI?”
“Closer to ten,” Brennan responded.
Zia listened to the exchange in some surprise. In the space of just a few moments her sun-bronzed beach hottie had morphed to cool cowboy dude and now to corporate exec. She was still trying to adjust to the swift transitions when Dev threw in another zinger.
“And now that I think about it, doesn’t your corporation own this resort? Along with another dozen or so commercial and industrial facilities in the greater Houston area?”
“We do.”
“I’m guessing that’s why we got such a good deal on the lease for this condo.”
“We try to take care of our valued customers,” Brennan acknowledged with a grin.
“Which we certainly appreciate.”
Devon’s positive endorsement might have carried some weight with outsiders. The two other males on the terrace preferred to form their own opinions, however. Skilled diplomat that he was, Gina’s husband, Jack, hid his private assessment behind a cordial nod and handshake. Dominic was less reserved.
“Zia told us your young nephew almost drowned this morning,” her brother said, his dark eyes cool. “Pretty careless of your family to let him go down to the beach alone, wasn’t it?”
Brennan didn’t try to dodge the bullet. A ripple of remembered terror seemed to cross his face as he nodded. “Yes, it was.”
Aiming a behave-yourself glance at her brother, Zia introduced her guest to Gina, Maria and Natalie, who kept a firm hand on the collar of the lean, quivering hound eager to sniff out the new arrival. The twins regarded him from the safety of their mother’s knee, but Brennan won giggles from both girls by hunkering down to their level and asking solemnly if that was a tree sprouting from Charlotte’s head.
A giggling Amalia answered for her sister. “No, thilly. Those are antlers.”
“Oh! I get it. She’s one of Santa’s reindeer.”
“Yes,” Charlotte confirmed as she held up two fingers, “and Santa’s coming to Texas in this many days!”
“Wow, just two days, huh?”
“Yes, ’n it’s our birthday, too!” She uncurled another finger. “We’re going to be this many years.”
“Sounds like you’ve got some busy days ahead. You guys better be good so you’ll get lots of presents.”
“We will!”
With that ringing promise producing wry smiles all around, Zia led Mike to the snowy-haired woman ensconced in a fan-backed rattan chair. He swept off his hat as Zia made the introduction.
“This is my great-aunt, Charlotte St. Sebastian, Grand Duchess of Karlenburgh.”
Charlotte held out a blue-veined hand. Mike took it in a gentle grip and held it for a moment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Duchess. And now I know why Zia’s last name seemed so familiar. Wasn’t there something in the papers a couple of years ago about your family recovering a long-lost painting by Caravaggio?”
“Canaletto,” the duchess corrected.
Her eyelids lowered and her expression turned intensely private, as it always did when talk drifted to the Venetian landscape her husband had given her when she’d become pregnant with their first and only child.
“Would you care for an aperitif?” she asked, emerging from her brief reverie. “We can offer you whatever you wish. Or,” she added blandly, “a taste of one of the finest brandies ever to come out of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”
“Say no and make a polite escape,” Gina warned. “Pálinka is not for the faint of heart.”
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things,” Brennan responded with a crooked grin. “Being faint of heart isn’t one of them.”
Sarah and Gina exchanged quick, amused glances. Downing a swig of the fruity, throat-searing brandy produced only in Hungary had become something of a rite of passage for men introduced into the St. Sebastian clan. Dev and Jack had passed the test but claimed they still bore the scorch marks on their vocal chords.
“Don’t say you weren’t warned,” Zia murmured after she’d splashed some of the amber liquid into a cut-crystal snifter.
Mike accepted the snifter with a smile. His dad and grandfather had both been hardworking, hard-living longshoremen who’d worked the Houston docks all their lives. Mike and his two brothers had skipped school more times than they could count to hang around the waterfront with them. They’d also worked holidays and summers as casuals, lashing cargo containers or spending long, backbreaking hours shoveling cargo into the holds of cavernous bulk carriers. All three Brennan sons had been offered a coveted slot in the International Longshore and Warehouse Union after they’d graduated from college. Colin and Sean had joined, but Mike had opted for a hitch in the navy instead, then used his savings and a hefty bank loan to buy his first ship—a rusty old tub that made milk runs to Central America. Twelve years and a fleet of oceangoing oil tankers and container vessels later, he could still swear and drink with the best of them.
So he tossed back a swallow of the brandy with absolute certainty that it couldn’t pack half the kick of the corrosive rotgut he’d downed in and out of the navy. He knew he was wrong the instant it hit the back of his throat. He managed not to choke, but his eyes leaked like an old bucket and he had to suck air big-time though his nostrils.
“Wow!” Blinking and breathing fire, he gave the brandy a look of profound respect. “What did you say this is?” he asked the duchess between quick gasps.
“Pálinka.”
“And it comes from Austria?”
“From Hungary, actually.”
“Anyone ever tried to convert it to fuel? One gallon of this stuff could propel a turbocharged two-stroke diesel engine.”
The smile that came into the duchess’s faded blue eyes told Mike he’d survived his initial trial by fire. He wasn’t ashamed to grab a ready-made excuse to dodge another test.
“I’ve made reservations at a restaurant just a couple of blocks from here,” he told her. “Would you like to join us for dinner?” He turned to include the rest of the family. “Any of you?”
Charlotte answered for them all. “Thank you, but I’m sure Zia would prefer not to have her family regale you with stories about her misspent youth. We’ll let her do that herself.”
* * *
Once in the elevator, Mike propped his shoulders against the rear of the cage dropping them twenty stories. “Misspent?” he echoed. “I’m intrigued.”
More than intrigued. He was as fascinated by this woman’s stunning beauty as by the dark circles under her eyes. She’d tried to conceal them with makeup but the shadows were still visible, like faint bruises marring the pearly luster of her skin.
“I guess misspent is as good a description as any,” she replied with a laugh. “But in my defense I only tried to operate on the family dog once. My brother, unfortunately, didn’t get off as easily. I subjected him to all kinds of torture in the name of medicine.”
“Looks like he survived okay.”
He also looked decidedly less than friendly. Mike didn’t blame the man. He and his brothers had threatened bodily harm to any male who let his glands get out of control while dating one of their sisters.
God knew Mike’s glands were certainly working overtime. Despite those faint shadows under her eyes, Anastazia St. Sebastian was every man’s secret fantasy come to life. Slender, graceful and so sexy she turned heads as they crossed the marble-tiled lobby and exited into the six acres of lush gardens at the center of the Camino del Rey complex.
The vacation complex was only one of several projects Mike’s ever-expanding corporation had invested in to help restore Galveston after Hurricane Ike roared ashore in September 2008. The costliest hurricane in Texas history, Ike claimed more than a hundred lives and did more than $37 billion in damage all along the Gulf. Parts of Galveston were still recovering, but major investments like this beautifully landscaped luxury resort were helping that process considerably.
A frisky ocean breeze teased Zia’s hair as she and Mike wound past the massive Neptune fountain the landscape architect had made the focal point of the gardens. Beyond the statue were two tall, elaborately designed wrought-iron gates that gave directly onto the beach. On the opposite side of the garden, a set of identical gates exited onto San Luis Pass Road, the main artery that ran the length of Galveston Island.
“I made reservations at Casa Mia,” Mike said as he took her elbow to steer her through the gates. “Hope that’s okay.”
“This is my first trip to Galveston. I’m more than happy to trust the judgment of a local.”
Temperatures in South Texas during the summer could give hell a run for its money. In the dead of winter, however, the balmy days and sixty-five-degree evenings were close to heaven...and perfect for strolling the wide sidewalk that bordered San Luis Pass Road. Smooth operator that he was, Mike casually shifted his hold from Zia’s elbow to her forearm. Her skin was warm under his palm, her muscles firm and well-toned. He used the short walk to fill in the essential blanks. Found out she was born in Hungary. Did her undergraduate work at the University of Budapest. Graduated from medical school in Vienna at the top of her class. Had offers from a half-dozen prestigious pediatric residency programs before opting for Mount Sinai in New York City.
She elicited the same basics from him. “Texas born and bred,” he admitted cheerfully. “I traveled quite a bit during my years in the navy, but this area kept pulling me back. It’s home to four generations of Brennans now. My parents, grandparents, one brother and two of my three sisters all live within a few blocks of each other.”
She eyed the ultraexpensive high-rises crowding the beachfront. “Here on the island?”
“No, they live in Houston. So do I, most of the time. I keep a place here on the island for the family to use, though. The kids all love the beach.”
“And you’re not married.”
It was a statement, not a question, which told Mike she wouldn’t be walking through the soft evening light with him if she had any doubts about the matter.
“I was. Didn’t work out.”
That masterful understatement came nowhere close to describing three months of mind-blowing sex followed by three years of growing restlessness, increasing dissatisfaction, angry complaints and, finally, corrosive bitterness. Hers, not his. By the time the marriage was finally over Mike felt as though he’d been dragged through fifty miles of Texas scrub by his heels. He’d survived, but the experience wasn’t one he wanted to repeat again in this lifetime. Although...
His psyche might still be licking its wounds but his head told him marriage would be different with the right woman. Someone who appreciated the dogged determination required to build a multinational corporation from the ground up. Someone who understood that success in any field often meant seventy-or eighty-hour workweeks, missed vacations, opting out of a spur-of-the-moment junket to Vegas.
Someone like the leggy brunette at his side.
Mike slanted the doc a glance. One of his sisters was a nurse. He knew the demands Kathleen’s career made on her and on the other professionals she worked with. Anastazia St. Sebastian had to have a core of steel to make it as far as she had.
His curiosity about the woman mounted as they turned onto a side street. A few steps later they reached the Spanish-style villa that had recently become one of Galveston’s most exclusive spots. It sat behind tall gates with no sign, no lit menu box, no indication at all that it was a commercial establishment. But the hundreds of flickering votive lights in the courtyard drew a pleased gasp from Zia, and the table tucked in a private corner of the candle-lit patio was the one always made available to the top officers and favored clients of Global Shipping Incorporated.
“Back to subjecting your bother to all kinds of medical torture,” he said when they’d been seated and ordered an iced tea for the doc and Vizcaya on ice for Mike, who sincerely hoped a slug of white rum would kill the lingering aftereffects of pálinka. “Did you always want to be a physician?”
“Always.”
The reply was quick but not quite as light as she’d obviously intended. Mike hadn’t survived all those summers and holidays in the bare-knuckle world of the docks without learning to pick up on every nuance, spoken or not.
“But....?” he prompted.
She flashed him a look that ran the gamut from surprised to guarded to deliberately blasé. “Med school’s been a long and rather grueling slog. I’m in the homestretch now, though.”
“But...?” he said again, the word soft against the clink of cutlery and buzz of conversation from other tables.
The arrival of the server with their drinks saved Zia from having to answer. She hadn’t shared her insidious doubts with anyone in her family. Not even Dominic. Yet as she sipped her iced tea she felt the most absurd urge to spill her guts to this stranger.
So why not confide in him? Odds were she’d never see the man again after tonight. There were only a few days left on her precious vacation. And judging from Dev’s comments about Global Shipping Inc., its president and CEO had a shrewd head on his shoulders. Granted, he couldn’t begin to understand the demands and complexities of the medical world but that might actually be a plus. An outsider could assess her situation objectively, without the baggage of having cheered and supported and encouraged her through six and a half years of med school and residency.
“But,” she said slowly, swirling the ice in her tall glass, “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m truly right for pediatric medicine.”
“Why?”
She could toss out a hundred reasons. Like the overwhelming sense of responsibility for patients too young or too frightened to tell her how they hurt. The aching helplessness when faced with children beyond saving. The struggle to contain her fury at parents or guardians whose carelessness or cruelty inflicted unbelievably grievous injuries.
But the real reason, the one she’d thought she could compensate for by going into pediatric medicine, rose up to haunt her. She’d never talked about it to anyone but Dom. And even he was convinced she’d put it behind her. Yet reluctantly, inexplicably, Zia found herself detailing the old pain to Mike Brennan.
“I developed a uterine cyst my first year at university,” she said, amazed that she could speak so calmly of the submucosal fibroid that had changed her life forever. “It ruptured during winter break, while I was on a ski trip in Slovenia.”
She’d thought at first that she’d started her period early but the pain had become more intense with each hour. And the blood! Dear God, the blood!
“I almost died before they got me to the hospital. At that point the situation was so desperate the surgeons decided the only way to save my life was to perform an emergency hysterectomy.”
She fell silent as the waiter materialized at their table to take their order. Mike sent him away with a quiet, “Give us some time.”
“I love children,” Zia heard herself say into the silence that followed. “I always imagined I’d have a whole brood of happy, gurgling babies. When I accepted that I would never give birth to a child of my own, I decided that at least I could help alleviate the pain and suffering of others.”
“But...”
There it was. That damned “but” that had her hanging from a limb like a bird with a broken wing.
“It’s hard giving so much of myself to others’ children,” she finished, her voice catching despite every attempt to control it. “So much harder than I ever imagined.”
Her doubt and private misery filled the silence that spun out between them. Mike broke it after a moment with a question that cut to the core of her bruising inner conflict.
“What will you do if you don’t practice medicine?”
“I’ll stay in the medical field, but work on another side of the house.”
There! She’d said it out loud for the first time. And not to her brother or Natalie or the duchess or her cousins. To a stranger, who didn’t appear shocked or disappointed that she would trade her lifelong goal of treating the sick for the sterile environment of a lab.
Like all third-year residents at Mount Sinai, she’d been required to participate in a scholarly research project in addition to seeing patients, attending conferences and teaching interns. Worried by the seeming increase in hospital-acquired infections among the premature infants in the neonatal ICU, she’d searched for clues via five years’ worth of medical records. Her extensive database included the infants’ birth weight, ethnic origin, delivery methods, the time lapse to onset of infections, methods of treatment and mortality rates.
Although she wouldn’t brief the results of her study until the much anticipated annual RRP—Residents’ Research Presentation—her preliminary findings had so intrigued the hospital’s director of research that he’d suggested an expanded effort that included more variables and a much larger sample base. He’d also asked Zia to conduct the two-year study under his direct supervision. If the grant came through within the next few months, she could start the research as her spring elective, then join Dr. Wilbanks’s team full-time after completing her residency.
“The director of pediatric research at Mount Sinai has already asked me to join his staff,” she confided to Mike.
“Is that as impressive as it sounds?”
A hint of pride snuck into her voice. “Actually, it is. Dr. Wilbanks seems to think the study I’ve been working on as a resident is worth expanding into a full-fledged team effort. He also thinks it might warrant as much as a million-dollar research grant.”
“That is impressive. What does the study involve?”
Lord, he was easy to talk to. Zia didn’t usually discuss topics such as Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, aka MRSA, with someone not wearing scrubs. Especially during a candlelit dinner.
As the incredibly scrumptious meal progressed, however, Brennan’s interest stimulated her as much as his quick grasp of the essentials of her study.
* * *
She couldn’t blame either his interest or his intellect for what happened when they left the restaurant, however. That was result of a lethal combination of factors. First, their decision to walk back along the beach. Zia had to remove her borrowed stilettos to keep from sinking in the sand, but the feel of it hard and damp beneath bare feet only added to her heightened perceptions. Then there was the three-quarter moon that traced a liquid silver path across the sea. And finally the arm Mike slid around her waist.
She turned into his kiss, fully anticipating that it would be pleasant. A satisfying end to an enjoyable evening. She didn’t expect the hunger that balled in her belly when his mouth fused with hers.
He felt the kick, too. Although his hat brim shadowed his eyes when he raised his head, his skin was stretched tight across his cheeks and there was a gruff edge to his voice when he asked if she’d like to stop by his place for coffee or a drink.
Or...?
He didn’t have to say it. Her pulse kicking, Zia knew the invitation was open-ended. “Don’t you have company? Davy and...” She searched her memory. “And Kevin and their mother?”
“Eileen took the kids back to town this afternoon. I suspect she won’t let either of them close to the water for the next five years. She wants to thank you personally, by the way. She told me to be sure and get your phone number.” Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I promised I would.”
Zia hesitated for all of three seconds before digging her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll text my family and tell them not to wait up for me.”
Three (#ulink_1135acff-91c2-51c4-be76-9134e4134cf2)
The brief detour to Mike’s place should have allowed plenty of time for Zia’s common sense to reassert itself. Would have, if he hadn’t taken her arm again to steer her toward a barely discernible path through the dunes. His hand was warm against her skin, his body close—too close!—to hers in the silvery moonlight.
The beach house on stilts he conducted her to was obviously new. Gleaming a pale turquoise in the moonlight, it sat on a high rise that gave it an unobstructed view of both the Gulf of Mexico and the lights of Houston gleaming in the far distance. The thick pilings looked as though they went down a mile, and white-painted storm shutters framed every window.
When Mike ushered her up the stairs to the front landing and keyed the door lock, Zia still had time to defuse the situation. Once inside, she could have drifted to the wall of windows overlooking the Gulf. Could have contemplated the moon’s reflection on the dark, restless sea. Could have accepted his offer of an after-dinner brandy or coffee. Against every increasingly strident warning issued by her clinical, careful self, she ignored the view and declined a drink. Weeks of stress, indecision and near exhaustion got lost in a rush of biological need. For what was left of the night, she didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to do anything but give herself up to the hunger pulsing through her in slow, liquid rolls.
And Brennan didn’t waste time repeating the offer. Tugging off his hat, he skimmed it carelessly toward the nearest chair and cupped her face in his palms.
“You are so gorgeous.”
His thumbs brushed her cheeks, her lower lip. An answering need turned his forest-glade eyes as dark and restless as the sea. Zia felt another wild leap as she sensed the iron control that held him back. He was leaving it to her to dodge the bullet hurtling at them in warp speed...or step in front of it. She chose option B.
Dropping the stilettos she’d carried into the house, she hooked her arms around his neck. “So are you.”
“Me? Gorgeous?” He looked startled, then amused. “Not hardly, darlin’.”
The drawl came slow and rich, and the laughter in his eyes raised goose bumps of delight. That, and the quick, confident way he claimed her mouth. He was much a man, this Michael Brennan.
Very much a man, as she discovered when he lowered his hands to her waist and drew her into him. He hardened against her hip even as his lips moved over hers with dizzying skill. He’d been married, she remembered, and had learned well how to stoke a woman’s fire. She was panting when he raised his head. Eager for his touch when he fumbled the clip from her hair. The heavy mass tumbled free, and Brennan buried his hands in it, holding her steady while he explored her mouth again.
With every nerve in her body alive and clamoring, Zia conducted her own avid exploration. Her palms planed his broad shoulders. Her fingers found the lapels of his sport coat. She peeled it back, forcing him to break contact long enough to wrestle free of it. He reached for her again but felt compelled to offer a gruff caveat.
“Just so you know, I don’t make a habit of trying to finesse women I’ve just met into bed.”
“Nor,” she murmured, her acquired New York twang slipping away a little more with each word, “do I allow myself to be finessed.”
The blood of her Magyar ancestors thrummed hot in her veins. She felt as wild as the steppes they’d swept down from on their fast, tireless ponies. As fierce as winds that howled through the mountains and valleys they’d eventually settled in.
“But tonight I shall make an exception, yes?”
“Hell, yes!”
He scooped her up almost before the words were out of her mouth. Cradling her against his chest, he headed in what she assumed was the direction of the bedroom. She used the short trip to attack the buttons on his crisp blue shirt.
She got the top two open and was nipping at the cords in his neck when he elbowed a door open. She gained a vague impression of wide-plank floorboards, sparse furnishings and framed posters of ships filling one wall. Then he was lowering her to a king-size bed covered in thin, buttery-soft suede.
Mike shed his shirt, boots and jeans with minimal motion and maximum speed. A real trick, considering that every drop of blood had drained from his head and was now pooled below his waist. He couldn’t believe he’d managed to get the exotic, intriguing doc in his bed, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to give her time for second thoughts.
Yet he dredged up enough self-control to strip her slowly, item by tantalizing item. The silky camisole. The thigh-hugging jeans with the sparkly red heart that had drawn his eyes to her butt every time she’d walked in front of him. Her half bra and thong were mere scraps of lace and easily disposed of. Then he made the near fatal mistake of pausing to drink in the sight of her long, slender curves. She gleamed like alabaster against the pearl-gray bedcover. Her hair spilled across the suede, as silky and erotic as the dark triangle at the apex of her thighs. Mike almost lost it then. Probably would have, if he hadn’t gritted his teeth and held back the raging tide with the promise of exploring every slope and hollow of that luscious body.
Thank God he kept an emergency supply of condoms in the nightstand. The cache was a year old. Maybe more. With the demand for super-container ships skyrocketing and his fleet expanding almost faster than he could keep up with it, Mike hadn’t had all that many opportunities to dip into this private stash. He intended to make up for those missed opportunities now, though.
If he could find the damned things! Muttering a curse under his breath, he rifled through the drawer. Where the devil had all this junk come from? With another muffled curse, he finally resorted to dumping the contents on the bed. Two dog-eared paperbacks, a handful of loose change, a spare set of keys, several socks and a plastic fire truck tumbled out.
Zia pushed up on one elbow and eyed the hook and ladder. “I’ve seen all kinds of sex toys during my years in med school,” she said with a grin. “Some were put to rather remarkable use. But that’s a new one.”
“Dammit, I told Kevin and Davy to stay out... Ah! Thank God.” He gave a huff of relief and held up two foil packets. “I caught the boys making water balloons out of them four or five months back but was sure I’d salvaged a few.”
Four or five months back? Zia digested that little tidbit of information as he used his teeth to rip into one of the packets. Brennan must not bring many female friends to his beach house. The thought surprised her. And added another bubble to the cauldron that erupted into a furious boil at the sight of him sheathing himself.
He made quick work of it. A snap, a roll, and he tumbled her back onto the suede. He followed her down, bracing himself on his elbows to kiss her again. And again. And again. Her mouth. Her throat. Her aching breasts. Her quivering belly. When he eased a hand between her thighs, Zia went taut as a bow.
Yes! This was what she needed. What both her mind and her body craved. This wild pleasure. This dizzying spiral of excitement that contracted the muscles low in her belly. With each kiss and stroke of his busy fingers, the spasms got tighter, faster.
“Wait.”
She clenched her jaw, tried to clamp down on the soaring sensations.
“Mike. Wait.” She scrunched deeper into the velvety suede and reached for him. “Let me... Oh!”
Before she could do more than wrap her fingers around his rock-hard length the sensations spun into a white-hot core. Groaning, Zia gave up trying to stop the climax that shot up from her belly. She couldn’t have held back if she’d wanted to. It came at her like an out-of-control freight train.
Neck arched, spine bowed, she rode it to the last shuddering sigh. When she collapsed onto the covers and opened her eyes, she saw Brennan watching her.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s, ah, been a while.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He was still hard and rampant against her hip. His shoulders were still taut, his tendons tight. Yet his grin contained nothing but smug male satisfaction. “You wouldn’t be sorry if you had any idea how glorious you just looked.”
Zia had studied human sexuality and the reproductive process, of course. She could put a name to each stage of her body’s response. Desire. Arousal. Lubrication. Orgasm. Satisfaction. She also knew the female of the species could generally repeat the cycle faster than the male. Still, she was surprised at how fast. All it took was for Mike to lean down and feather his lips over hers. The kiss was so tender—and such a contrast to the tension still locking his muscles—that Zia kicked into high gear again.
He filled her. Stroked her. Pushed her to another peak. She hung on this time and refused go over the edge without him.
* * *
Gasping and limp with pleasure, Zia knew she should get up, get dressed and go home. Should drifted into later when Mike defied conventional science by proving he could repeat the cycle after only a minimal break.
If the first round was fast and urgent, the second round was exquisitely slow. So slow, Zia had more than enough time to explore his hard, muscled body. The corded tendons, the washboard ribs, the flat belly, the five-inch scar on his left shoulder. She’d set enough stitches during her ER rotation to know a knife wound when she felt one.
“How did you get this?”
“Hmm?”
He shifted, obviously more interested her body than his own
“This scar?” she persisted. “How’d you get it?”
“It was just a slight misunderstanding.”
“Between?”
“Me and a one-eyed, foul-breathed Portuguese. He was a pumper on the tanker I shipped out on the summer before my senior year in high school.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say Joachim didn’t appreciate smart-assed kids pointing out he hadn’t grounded himself before opening the feed nozzle. Now...”
His hands cupped her butt and scooted her up a few inches.
“Let’s get back to more important matters.”
* * *
Zia hadn’t planned to zone out. Grabbing twenty or thirty minutes to recharge in the residents’ lounge had pretty much become a way of life. All she’d intended was a brief catnap between the sheets with her head nestled in the warm angle between Brennan’s neck and shoulder. So when she blinked awake to a blaze of sunlight spilling through the wide windows she gave a small yelp.
“Oh, no!”
She jerked upright and pushed her hair out of her eyes. A quick glance around confirmed her hazy impressions from last night. The flooring was wide oak planking polished to a rich sheen. One wall did sport a collection of framed, poster-size photographs of oceangoing vessels. And she huddled amid a welter of silky cotton sheets topped by a cloud-soft suede cover. Naked. With what felt like a good-size patch of beard burn on her left cheek.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! She was an adult. Responsible and unattached. She had no reason to feel guilty or uncomfortable about explaining a whisker scrape to her family. Or the fact that she’d spent the night with an interesting, attractive man.
A man who evidently knew his way around a kitchen. She discovered that after she’d made a trip to the bathroom, scrambled into her clothes and followed the scent of frying bacon. Mike had a small feast laid out on a glass-topped breakfast table with a breath-knocking view of the Gulf. Her surprised glance slid over the juice, sliced melon and basket of croissants to lock on a tall carafe.
With a melodramatic groan, she made her presence known. “Please tell me that’s coffee,” she begged, nodding to the carafe.
Mike angled around, spatula in hand, and grinned. “It is. Help yourself.”
She did, but one sip had her gasping. “Good Lord!”
“Too strong?”
“Strong doesn’t begin to describe it. This makes the black tar in the resident’s lounge taste good by comparison.”
“Sorry. I try to remember not everyone likes navy swill. Guess I didn’t water it down enough. Why don’t you run another pot?”
“That’s okay. I’ll just doctor this one.”
Several ounces of milk and two heaping spoons of sugar made the coffee marginally more palatable. Sipping cautiously, Zia leaned her hip against the marble-topped island and watched the man work. She couldn’t help noting how his faded University of Texas T-shirt molded his broad shoulders and his chestnut hair showed glints of dark red in the morning sunlight. She also noticed that he wielded the spatula with easy confidence.
The bacon cooked, he drained the grease and swiped the pan with paper towels before offering her a choice. “I’ve got the makings for a Spanish omelet and French toast. We can do either or both.”
“You don’t need to go to all that trouble. I’m fine with just coffee and a roll.”
“I’m not,” he countered, a smile in those sexy green eyes. “We burned up the calories last night. I need sustenance. So...omelet or French toast or both?”
“Omelet. Please.”
Zia settled onto one of the stools lined up at the island, a little surprised she didn’t feel even a trace of morning-after awkwardness. Not that the absence should surprise her. Mike Brennan had proved an easy, attentive companion at dinner last night. She’d opened up to him about doubts and worries she hadn’t even shared with Dom yet.
Which reminded her...
She’d carried her purse into the kitchen with her. She fished out her cell phone, so glad she’d sent that text last night so Dom wouldn’t have the police out searching for her maimed and mutilated body. She skimmed over the list of messages and saved them to be read later before sending a brief text saying she’d be home soon. That done, she refilled her coffee cup and watched a master at work.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked, marveling at his chopping, browning and omelet-flipping skills.
“That one-eyed Portuguese I told you about? Joachim Caldero? He pulled doubled duty as pumper and cook. Bastard jumped ship in Venezuela. Since I was the junior crew dog aboard, the captain stuck me with galley duty.” He slid the first omelet onto a plate and poured the remaining egg mixture into the frying pan. “It was either dish up canned pork and beans all the way back to Galveston or teach myself a few basic skills.”
She admired the perfect half oval. “Looks like you learned more than the basics.”
“I added to my repertoire over the years,” he admitted with a shrug. “My ex-wife wasn’t into cooking.”
Or anything else that didn’t involve exclusive spas and high-end boutiques. Mike didn’t look back often. Nor did he wallow in regrets. But as he added diced peppers and onions to the second omelet, he had to force the memory of his soured marriage out of his head. The outing took surprisingly little effort with this stunning, dark-haired beauty watching him with admiring eyes. Playing to his audience, he flipped the omelet into a perfect crescent and let it firm before sliding it onto a plate.
“Bring your coffee,” he instructed as he added bacon strips to each plate and led the way to the breakfast table.
* * *
Mike already knew he wanted more time with Dr. Anastazia St. Sebastian. Arranging a follow-up assignation turned out to be a challenge, however.
“I need to spend time with my family,” she said when he proposed getting together later. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she added when the significance of the day failed to register with Mike.
“Oh, hell. So it is.”
No way he could duck the mandatory family gathering. With its dense Hispanic concentration, the four-block area of Houston where his grandmother lived still clung to the old ways. The entire Brennan clan would gather at her house this afternoon for food and games. Come dusk, they’d troop outside to watch the traditional posada. Local teenagers had been chosen to portray Mary and Joseph, and the whole parish would follow with lit candles and paper lanterns.
After the procession, it was back to his abuelita’s to hoist the star-shaped piñata. The seven-pointed star held all kinds of religious significance, most of which Mike had forgotten. There were devils in there. He remembered that much. They had to be beaten out with a stick, with the reward being the candy that showered down on shouting, squealing kids. After that came a feast of gargantuan proportions. Tamales, atole,buñuelos, and ponche—the potent hot drink brewed from spiced fruits.
Then the Irish portion of Mike’s heritage would take over. He would accompany his parents and assorted siblings to midnight Mass. Go home with them for the inevitable last-minute toy assembly and gift-wrapping. And crash until the entire clan reconvened at his parents’ house Christmas morning for an orgy of present opening followed by the traditional turkey dinner.
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