Rebel Doc On Her Doorstep. Lucy Ryder

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      Thoroughly confused and annoyed by the baffling man-speak, Paige demanded again, “What? What did I miss? Who is he? And, dammit, why are you leaving?”

      Petersen gave a huge sigh and shook his head. “Ask him.”

      “What? No,” Paige said, jumping to her feet. “You can’t just leave him here. What am I supposed to do with him? Take him away.”

      “He’s harmless,” the cop said with faint mockery. “And it really is his house.”

      And before Paige could do more than stutter, “B-but,” the detectives had disappeared down the passage. Through the roaring in her ears she heard the front door closing behind them.

      For several long seconds she stood staring open-mouthed at the doorway, before turning and demanding, “What was that?”

      “Nothing,” “fancy doc” sighed, rubbing a large hand over his face. “Ancient history. But he’s right, I’m harmless.” And when she opened her mouth to laugh at that big whopper, he drawled, “Believe me, doing anything more strenuous than breathing is currently beyond my capabilities.” He shifted then winced. “I just need a drink and a place to crash. The rest can wait till morning.”

      Realizing she was still clutching the emergency kit like her life depended on it, Paige set it down on the coffee table with a little more force than necessary.

      “No.”

      She didn’t quite know what she was saying no to, the alcohol, him spending the rest of the night in her house or the fact that her life was spinning out of control...and just when she’d thought she was finally getting it together.

      “No?”

      She caught his expression and nearly laughed at the stunned disbelief on his face. As though people—women most probably—didn’t say no to him very often. She gave a silent snort. They probably didn’t. Not looking the way he did—all simmering male irritation and dark angel looks. Women probably lined up hoping to tease a smile from that mouth...or something that required mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

      Her spine snapped straight. Well, not this woman. She could resus herself just fine, thank you. And all those yummy pheromones flying around like busy little bees looking for the nearest flower to pollinate could...could...well, they could just buzz off.

      There would be no pollinating.

      Not this flower. Nuh-uh. No way.

      Not that he looked like he wanted to pollinate her flower, she admitted with brutal honesty. He’d called her an adolescent and a bossy faerie commando—which put a big black mark against him as far as she was concerned. He was just like every other alpha guy who thought they were in charge and everyone—women especially—was eager to obey.

      “No,” she repeated more firmly. “No alcohol.” Right. Let’s go with that one. “And no crashing on the couch until you tell me who you are and why you broke into my house. You can do that while I strap your shoulder. Besides, I know the owner and you are definitely not him.”

      He sighed and rubbed his forehead like she was giving him a headache when the opposite was actually true.

      “Look,” he said wearily, “I’m fine. I don’t need doctoring. And before you get all bent out of shape,” he continued curtly when she opened her mouth to argue, “I can handle my own damn injuries.” His ice-blue eyes took a lazy trip from the top of her head to her bare toes. “And as appealing as you are...” his mouth curled up at one corner as though her appearance amused him “... I just want to be alone. I really, really need that.” He closed his eyes. “So...can you wave your magic faerie wand and disappear?”

      “Ha-ha, very funny,” she snapped. “If you think I’m about to head off to bed with a stranger on my couch, you can think again.”

      The look he sent her most probably sent people running for cover. Paige, who had weathered scarier looks and survived, returned it coolly.

      Finally he muttered something that sounded like, “Bossy little smartass,” and gestured to the emergency kit. “Fine,” he said wearily. “Just get a move on so we can both get some sleep before the night is completely shot. And there’s my ID.” He jerked his chin at his wallet on the coffee table. “Knock yourself out. Call Dr. Henry Chapman too if it’ll make you feel better. I might not have seen him in a while but I’m pretty sure he still remembers he has a son.”

      * * *

      Paige was halfway down the stairs the next morning when she caught sight of her flashlight on the entrance table and remembered her boss and landlord’s grumpy son on her sofa. Or, as she’d dubbed him—after he’d grunted and promptly thrown an arm across his eyes after she’d strapped his shoulder, in a blatant message for her to get lost—Dr. Bad Attitude.

      Feeling like a thief in her own house, she tiptoed to the living room and peered around the door to find him still sprawled across her sofa where she’d left him. One long leg hung over the end, the other was foot-planted on the floor, probably to keep him from rolling off the sofa.

      The blankets and pillow were halfway across the room as though he’d flung them there in a fit of temper.

      The breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding escaped in a silent whoosh. So...she hadn’t dreamed him up. Neither had she dreamed up what a very fine specimen of manhood he was, she admitted with dismay.

      But she didn’t need this kind of complication, she told herself firmly. Boss’s son or not, she’d send him on his way the instant he opened his sexy blue eyes.

      Catching herself drooling at the sight of all that taut tanned skin highlighted by neon pink taping, Paige tried schooling her features into a frown. It didn’t work, especially when she recalled his reaction at her liberal application of pink. Instead of making him look ridiculously feminine—which was what she’d intended—all it had done was emphasize his dark smoldering masculinity.

      Covering her mouth to stifle her snickers, Paige yawned and retreated to the kitchen. She needed a hefty dose of caffeine if she was going to get him out of her house.

      She filled the reservoir and measured out ground coffee then pressed the start button and was in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn when she heard ringing. The sound galvanized her into action and she shot out of the kitchen, following the sound because she couldn’t remember where she’d left her phone.

      Muttering frantically, she prayed the ringing would stop before it woke the grizzly camped on her—

      “Oops,” she said breathlessly, rushing into the living room to find the bear, wearing low-slung jeans, a mile of pink tape and a black scowl, with her shoulder bag in his hand, dumping the contents on the coffee table.

      “Hey,” she said when he shoved everything out, presumably looking for her cellphone. When he found it he stabbed at the screen with a long tanned finger, heaving a huge sigh as it went silent.

      “Hey,” she said again, rushing forward to snatch up her phone, glaring at him when she saw that he’d ended the call. But he’d already resumed a horizontal position with one arm slung across his eyes and all she could see of his face was a very nicely sculpted, very grim mouth and a hard jaw covered in a few days’ growth.

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