Night Fever. Tori Carrington

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      “And…?” he prompted, surprised to find he was waiting for what else she was going to say.

      She waved her left hand—a hand devoid of jewelry. Her nails short and neat and clean. Most men might not notice something like that, but as a surgeon, Sam did. The expression “cleanliness is next to godliness” undoubtedly came from the medical profession.

      “You don’t want to hear this. Really you don’t.”

      “You’re right, I probably don’t.”

      She stared at him.

      “But since I still have…” he glanced at his watch “…at least a good fifteen minutes before my party arrives, listening to you sure beats watching the wallpaper fade.”

      Truth was, Sam was in an exceptionally good mood. His grandmother had always called him the Golden Boy, and when a college mate had overheard her calling him that, the tag had followed him throughout medical school and well into his career. Not so much because of his looks, but because of his demeanor. While he experienced black moods like everyone else, the difference was he never let anyone know about them. But that didn’t stop him from being interested in others.

      “If I ask you a question, will you promise not to go cold on me?” he said when she fell silent.

      “Depends on the question.”

      “Spoken like a true woman.”

      “You noticed.”

      His grin turned decidedly suggestive. Oh, yeah, he’d noticed. And then some.

      Truth was he was highly attracted to the woman next to him. As far as first meetings went, he felt good about this one. She was elegantly gorgeous and obviously had more than a couple of marbles rolling around in her head. Most women he’d met over the past year would have immediately launched into a tale about a coffee enema gone awry when he asked about their dark mood. And while he still didn’t know the source for her agitation, he’d bet it didn’t have anything to do with coffee or enemas. And that was a refreshing change indeed.

      “Who did your nose?”

      WHO…did…her…nose…?

      Layla absently rubbed the facial feature in question. It wasn’t so bad that he had asked the question. It wasn’t even bad if she had had her nose done. But the fact that an attractive nose—just like attractive breasts—instantly made other people think it was unnatural…well, rankled. The whole Hollywood bunch had made it virtually impossible for anyone outside the business to lead a normal life. She’d once joked that they should have some sort of government certification service that checked your body composition so that you had a certificate of authenticity that you could show to someone whenever they asked a stupid question like this.

      Because no matter how she answered, the status of her nose would still be in question. After all, how many people who’d had cosmetic surgery admitted to it?

      She opened her mouth and turned to give it to him good…but just looking into his handsome, inquisitive face robbed the air from her sails.

      “Uh-oh. I’ve insulted you again, haven’t I?” he asked good-naturedly. “Let me guess. The nose is yours.”

      “One hundred percent. And not in the ‘I bought it so it’s mine’ way either.”

      “I guess I should be the one to apologize now.”

      She propped her elbow up on the bar and leaned her head against her hand. “No. It’s not necessary. In this town it’s a perfectly natural question. If anyone should be immune to L.A.-speak, it’s me.” She twisted her lips. “I don’t know why I’m so touchy tonight. No, wait. Yes, I do. Because today I just found out I have a new boss.”

      “Ah. Someone I take it you don’t like.”

      “Not a lick.”

      Layla picked at her napkin. Actually, she couldn’t even say that, really. After all, she’d never met the guy. But his reputation had definitely preceded him. Known as the ultimate Chop Doc of L.A., he could nip, tuck, enlarge and siphon off whatever it was your li’l ole heart desired. From what she’d heard, wealthy clients and aspiring actresses alike lined up around the block for his services, and he had a waiting list as long as the Declaration of Independence. Except, in his case, the document would be entitled the Declaration of Dependence. Namely, dependence on a doctor to give you what nature hadn’t.

      Of course, it didn’t help that it was rumored the doctor in question dated many of the patients he worked on. A new take on follow-up, she supposed. Nothing like getting a really good squeeze of the breasts you’d enlarged.

      “I think that’s why I’m so sensitive about anything related to plastic surgery tonight. I mean, I could have taken it if he was only another doctor at the Center, but he just signed on as senior staff administrator.”

      The man’s hand knocked against the lip of the wood bar causing the club soda he held to splash out all over his wrist. He shook his hand and blotted his skin with a napkin. “Center?”

      She nodded as she handed him her napkin. “The Trident Medical Center. Heard of it?”

      “Santa Monica, right?”

      “Right.”

      “You’re a doctor?”

      “A general practitioner, more specifically.”

      He motioned for the bartender to bring him another soda. “Not many of those around nowadays, are there?”

      God, he was good-looking. He had breathtaking brown eyes that could put any actor’s to shame. And that jaw…it came in second only to his mouth in items she most wanted to kiss in that one moment.

      He looked at her pointedly, reminding her that he’d asked a question, albeit an indirect one. “No. There aren’t many general practitioners around anymore. Everyone usually specializes in one branch of medicine or another. Me…well, I couldn’t make up my mind.” She smiled, liking the way he appeared to be listening to her. Not many men knew how to do that. “And there really wasn’t any reason to do so. It turns out general practitioners are in high demand. Patients like to have one person to refer to instead of twenty.”

      “Mmm.”

      She pushed her elbow off the bar. “Now I feel as if I’ve said something to insult you.”

      His brows rose. Brows a shade darker than his dark blond hair. “Oh?”

      “Yeah, you got awfully quiet. Change your mind about watching the wallpaper peel?”

      “Fade,” he corrected, then thanked the bartender when he got his drink. “And no,” he said, looking at her, that suggestive glint returning to his eyes. In fact, the invitation in them seemed to go up a couple of notches. “Truth is…I’m very intrigued by what you said.”

      Intrigued?

      Her purse vibrated in her lap again, reminding her that she was still waiting for Mallory and Jack.

      “Pardon СКАЧАТЬ