One Night with the Doctor. Cindy Kirk

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      “Don’t look at me like that.” Her eyes held an impish gleam. “I’m over you every bit as much as you’re over me.”

      “That’s good to know,” he said in a dry tone that made her chuckle.

      “But you are my friend.” She fluffed her hair with her fingers. “That’s why I stayed late to help see patients. By the way, you’re welcome.”

      Though he’d already expressed his appreciation to her earlier, he smiled. “Thank you, again.”

      “You know, Ben—” she brought a manicured finger to her mouth, tapped it against her lips “—you should check out the Torch Singing competition tonight at the Flying Crane.”

      “Thanks for the offer, Mitz.” He spread his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “But I have no desire to spend the night with you and your new boyfriend. That would be awkward for all concerned.”

      “Well, for starters, Kelvin is my friend, not my boyfriend. And I didn’t invite you to spend the evening with us. Kelvin and I have dinner reservations at the Gun Barrel,” Mitzi said, referring to a place known for their mesquite grilled steaks and wild game. “You’ll like the atmosphere at the Flying Crane. Trust me.”

      “I’ve been there before,” Benedict informed her. “It’s a nice enough place, but I’m not really in the mood to listen to a bunch of schmaltzy love songs.”

      “Even if Poppy Westover is singing?”

      Feeling the weight of Mitzi’s assessing gaze, Benedict deliberately kept his expression bland. “Anna Randall is also competing. Tripp asked me to go with him to support Community Safety Net. I turned him down.”

      Mitzi pointed to the phone on his desk. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

      “Why would I want to do that?” he drawled, even as he considered the possibility.

      “Because you want to do your duty and support this important fund-raiser.” Mitzi’s brightly painted lips lifted in a Cheshire cat smile. “Why else?”

      * * *

      Poppy gazed into the dressing table mirror and added a touch of gloss to her cherry red lips. A stranger stared back at her. Cassidy Kaye, the backstage stylist and former high school classmate, had arranged Poppy’s hair into a “top reverse roll.” Poppy had been apprehensive but had to admit the pompadour-like style suited her face. And she decided the two bright sparkly pins that winked back at her—one from above her temple, the other just behind her ear—added a festive touch.

      Her dress, a 1940s era floral sheath, nipped in at the waist and fell just below her knees. Bending over, Poppy adjusted the seams of her stockings then lifted to straighten the strand of red beads encircling her neck.

      “You’re up next.” The balding stage manager with a walrus mustache motioned Poppy forward. “Break a leg.”

      Offering the man a shaky smile, Poppy smoothed suddenly sweaty palms on the skirt of her dress. What had she been thinking when she agreed to participate?

      Granted, she loved to sing. That was the reason she’d joined the church choir. In fact, it had been after one of the evening rehearsals when Lexi had ambushed—er, pulled her aside—and innocently asked if she wanted to volunteer for a Jaycee fund-raiser. Being civic-minded, Poppy had immediately said yes. When she learned what she’d agreed to do, she’d considered pulling out. It had been years since she’d set foot on a stage.

      How could she possibly perform with only a few weeks to pick her song and practice? But then, she reminded herself to stop setting impossibly high standards. The performance didn’t need to be flawless or perfectly choreographed. This was a fund-raiser, not a Broadway musical.

      From where Poppy stood just offstage she could see that not only were all the tables full, there were people standing in the back. Of course, she reminded herself, more people meant that a community organization, which did a lot of good, could do even more.

      When she heard the applause for Anna Randall and saw the midwife take a bow, Poppy’s stomach quivered. Adrenalin mixed with a healthy dose of fear surged. In less than a minute she’d be the one standing under that spotlight.

      She reminded herself that the only person she might disappoint tonight was herself. Unlike most of her fellow contestants, Poppy didn’t have anyone in the audience who’d come specifically to hear her.

      “Please put your hands together for Poppy Westover.” David Wahl, an emergency medicine physician and emcee for the evening’s event, held out his hand to her.

      Poppy took a deep breath and strode onto the stage to a smattering of applause. She glanced over the crowd and froze. The man whose torrid kiss had never been far from her thoughts the past two weeks sat at a small table in the front row.

      Benedict saw the look of startled surprise in her green eyes before she looked away.

      “She’s happy to see you,” Tripp observed, then took a sip of beer. His lips twitched.

      Shock was closer to the word that had come to Benedict’s mind. Had he been mistaken about the desire he’d seen in her eyes two weeks ago as he’d left the party? Still, she didn’t look angry. That was some consolation. Though he now had to wonder if the gesture he’d made before leaving the office had been a smart move.

      Since it was too late to change anything now, Benedict took a pull from the bottle of Dos Equis and sat back, ready to enjoy the show.

      It took only a few notes for Benedict to realize that Poppy had a voice suited to this style of singing, warm with a bluesy richness. As the song continued he leaned forward, mesmerized.

      She drew out the final note and the crowd rose to their feet. Cheering filled the bar. Even as he clapped, Benedict turned to Tripp. “She’s as good as any professional.”

      “Poppy had the lead in several musicals when we were in school. She’s even better now.” Tripp shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone topping that performance.”

      The words barely registered. Benedict’s entire focus remained on the stage. He gave Poppy a thumbs-up and she blushed.

      When Poppy bowed one last time, Benedict didn’t take his eyes off her. He’d been given a second chance to make an impression.

      This time he wouldn’t blow it.

      Chapter Three

      After her performance, Poppy headed straight to the dressing room. She reached the small table with her name written on a strip of paper taped to the mirror and came to an abrupt halt. The makeup brushes littering the tabletop had been pushed aside. In their place sat a crystal vase holding a dozen long-stemmed burgundy roses.

      She brought a hand to her breast and glanced around. “Are—are these for me?”

      Although she’d spoken to no one in particular, Cassidy Kaye, owner of the Clippety Do-Dah salon, looked up from the supplies and brushes she’d been stuffing into an oversize purple bag.

      The silver sparkles in СКАЧАТЬ