Dr. Dangerous. KRISTI GOLD

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СКАЧАТЬ the awkwardness. “Looks like you’ve gotten to know every pizza deliveryman in the county. Pepperoni or the works?” She smiled over one shoulder and found him staring at her, his blue eyes sharp and intense.

      “Neither. Just the plain stuff for me.”

      “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s that whole doctor persona. I’ve always believed that most medical men have a predilection for the exotic. You know, fast cars. Faster women.”

      “That’s the problem with stereotypes. People get too bogged down in them.”

      She rimmed one glass with the cloth, over and over, until it squeaked. “So that’s not the case with you?”

      “Depends. Which one are you referring to? Cars, pizza or women?”

      Boy, oh, boy, did she want to know about the latter. Why, she couldn’t say. But she did. “All of the above.”

      “I like my old truck, which on a warm day can actually top fifty-five if I get a running start. I like my pizza with double cheese and sometimes sausage. And what was that last one?” he asked, amusement in his tone.

      “Women.”

      A chuckle rumbled low in his chest, lifting Brooke’s spirits a notch. “I like to know that they don’t have to have a running start to reach the speed limit, and covered in cheese is just fine by me.”

      My goodness. The doctor had a sense of humor. And she had a bad case of pleasant chills. “Well, those are certainly impeccable standards.”

      “What about you? What are your requirements in a man?”

      “A man?” She sounded as though she didn’t know the meaning of the word.

      “Yeah. What’s your boyfriend like?”

      She released a sharp humorless laugh. “Nonexistent.”

      “I’m surprised. Seems to me a woman as attractive as you would have a significant other.”

      The glass she’d been washing for a ridiculous amount of time slipped from her grasp and fell back into the sink, sending a fountain of water onto the front of her lab coat. She ignored the dampness but couldn’t seem to ignore his compliment or her pulse’s pitter-patter rhythm. Yet she had to if she wanted to keep her head on straight. “Nope, no significant other. I don’t really have the inclination at this point in my career.” Or the strength of will to investigate that possibility. Not after her one terrible experience with a man who’d used her, then discarded as easily as she’d just discarded the trash in Jared Granger’s kitchen.

      “Your career is the most important thing to you.” He posed it as a straightforward statement of fact, not a question.

      “Yes, you could say that. One day I plan to start my own clinic.”

      The chair creaked behind her, indicating he shifted in his seat. “So you have it all mapped out, huh? How long it will take to reach this goal, then the next, until it all comes together. Then the next thing you know, everything’s on course, just the way you planned it, not believing for a minute it can all come apart at the seams in a matter of moments.”

      Setting the last of the glasses aside, she faced him, knowing he spoke of his own life as much as he spoke of hers. “Sure. But I guess nothing’s guaranteed, right?”

      “Yeah. And that’s a damned bitter pill to swallow.”

      The familiar pain slid across his taut features once again. Brooke held on tightly to a thin rein of control. She couldn’t keep playing into the sympathy. She needed to stay focused. Remain objective.

      She retrieved the hot pack, wrapped it in another dish towel and applied it to his hand before going back to the dishes. She finished her chores while the allotted twenty minutes passed, enough time for the heat to relax his tendons, and all the excuse she needed to get back to the business at hand—helping him put his life back on track.

      “Did washing my dirty dishes give you some kind of thrill?” he asked as she took his hand into hers to begin the therapy.

      She stared up at him, surprised to find amusement in his eyes. “Nope, just dishpan hands. Why?”

      “You were whistling, like you really enjoyed it.”

      If the truth were known, it had given her a little boost. Because of her mother’s penchant for cleaning on a weekly basis to prevent aggravating Brooke’s asthma, she rarely did anything in the way of housekeeping, and she kind of liked the independence of not having someone standing over her shoulder, telling her she wasn’t doing it right. Not that she’d reveal that to the physician. She didn’t want him to erroneously assume that cleaning up after him would be a common occurrence. She hadn’t enjoyed it that much. And it wasn’t in her job description, either.

      “Believe me, Dr. Granger,” she said, “I’ll send you a bill for my KP duties.”

      “No problem.”

      She looked up from working his fingers and met his compelling blue eyes once again. “How much do you think I should charge?”

      “Whatever’s fair.”

      “How much do you charge for, let’s say, a quadruple bypass?”

      He smiled again, but only part way. “Are you making a comparison here?”

      “I think it’s only fair, don’t you? It took me over a half hour to consult with your dishes.”

      “At least they didn’t talk back. And they sure as hell can’t sue you if you happen to break one.”

      Another glimpse of wry humor. “Good point,” she said, pleased by the fact that his tension over her presence had seemed to ease. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for his stiff, injured fingers, especially his pointer finger. She had her suspicions what the problem could be.

      She curled her own fingers into his palm. “Can you grip my hand?”

      With his brows drawn down in concentration, he moved his appendages somewhat. Not much, but enough to heighten Brooke’s optimism. And heighten her awareness of the size of his hand. Hers looked small resting in the well of his large palm. Vulnerable. She could imagine how skilled his hand once was, in various undertakings that had nothing to do with surgery.

      “Great,” she said, pulling her hand away, pushing the questionable thoughts from her brain. “You need to really tackle the home therapy more often. Your second digit is the worst, and I’d hate to think you might develop a contracture.”

      He frowned. “You really think that’s going to happen?”

      “Hopefully not, but that’s why you need to really work hard so we can prevent that from happening.”

      “I’ll try.”

      At least that was some semblance of a commitment, Brooke decided.

      After Brooke finished the treatment, СКАЧАТЬ