Читать книгу Dr. Holt And The Texan - Suzannah Davis, Suzannah Davis - Страница 7

One

“Hello, darlin’.”

The sexy rumble of a deep masculine voice brought Dr. Mercedes Lee Holt up short in the emergency room cubicle of Ft. Worth’s John Peter Smith Hospital. The man propped on the gurney in front of her had a devilish gleam in his dark eyes and a red-soaked bandage pressed to his temple.

She took in raven hair, an ebony Western shirt with pearl snaps, opened to reveal a swath of spectacular masculine chest, and a championship belt buckle the size of a pancake. Dust-coated cowboy boots, complete with—God help her!—roweled silver spurs, hung off the end of the examination table. Grime and blood obscured the patient’s features, except for a wide, come-hither grin beneath his thick black mustache.

Oh, Lord, it was going to be one of those nights!

She mentally kicked herself for failing to take the time to tuck her honey-colored curls into her usual severe topknot. Though the grueling pace of an E.R. physician often made her feel she looked twice her thirty-three years, there was inevitably some macho smart aleck who thought it would be amusing to try to make time while the pretty lady doc patched him up.

Make it the day before Halloween, a Saturday night to boot, then top that with a full moon, and what you got was a harried staff trying to deal with a waiting room overflowing with a multitude of wackos and every conceivable type of emergency.

What she didn’t need right now was a wise guy with an attitude.

“I’m Dr. Holt,” she said, her voice crisp. She caught the eye of the brunette nurse who’d accompanied her into the cubicle. In keeping with the season, the nurse sported a green-faced Dracula pin on her pink scrubs. “Lila, what have we got?”

“Scalp lacerations, contusions, possible concussion—”

“Aw, come on now, darlin’,” the man drawled. “I know it’s been a long time, but how about a kiss for an old friend?”

“Nice try, buddy.” Dr. Holt pulled a pen light out of the pocket of her white doctor’s coat. “Did you get the license of the eighteen-wheeler that did this to you?”

“Don’t blame Sidewinder. That old bull was just doing his job.” He shrugged. “Got my eight seconds out of that twister before he popped me a good one, though.”

Stepping closer, she waved the light in his irises. Her lip curled. “Stockyards Rodeo, huh?”

A large, tanned hand clamped around her wrist, and his megawatt grin was back. “Lordy, Miss Mercy, you’re contrary. Once upon a time there was nothing you loved better than a good rodeo.”

She tugged her wrist, her tone frosty. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. I—”

Mercy. She blinked. No one had called her that in years. She was Dr. Holt, or Lee to her peers, not that she had time or inclination to be on a first-name basis with more than a handful, anyway. But Mercy was her hometown name, an appellation she’d left behind in Flat Fork, Texas, a long time and several heartaches ago....

Mercy looked into the cowboy’s laughing, coffee-colored eyes. The world tilted suddenly, and vertigo sent her spinning back fifteen years in space and time. She recognized him now, even under the coating of dirt and lingering blood. His strong features had matured and changed into something devastatingly handsome, yet still familiar, still dear.

She gasped. “Travis?”

Releasing her, he settled back, his tone satisfied. “’Bout time, blue eyes.”

“How...why...?” Spluttering, her heart pounding in her chest, she could only repeat the obvious. “Travis King. Oh, my God.”

“Would you like the suture tray now, Doctor?” Lila asked.

Dragging her gaze away from her patient, Mercy shook her head, dazed. “What? Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Mr. King is an old friend from home. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Travis?”

“Too long, darlin’.”

There wasn’t any of his easy teasing in those husky words, and that startled her. Rattled, she let her gaze slide away from his, afraid of what she might see. Long ago she’d counted on Travis King for just about everything, back when she’d been Flat Fork’s pampered darling, and she and Travis’s best friend, Kenny Preston, had been in love.

But that was before everything changed.

Before the memories could overwhelm her, she forced them down, making herself brisk again, carefully peeling off the soaked bandage. “Let me see what you’ve done to yourself, cowboy.”

“Just a little knot on the old noggin.” He dismissed his injury with a shrug, but he couldn’t suppress an involuntary grimace as he favored his side. “Tried to tell those medics over at the arena, but they wouldn’t listen. Had a hell of a time convincing them I didn’t need a damned ambulance.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“I’m not complaining.” He grinned. “In fact, I ought to send them a gilt-edged thank-you note. Not only did I get my share of prize money, but now I’ve ended up in the hands of the most beautiful woman ever to come out of Flat Fork. All in all, I’d say this was my lucky day.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Are you by any chance flirting with me, Travis King?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled with an irresistible little-boy mischief. “Now, darlin’...”

“Can it, Casanova. I can see you haven’t changed a lick. And my days as a buckle bunny are long gone.” She frowned over the ragged laceration that ran from his temple up into his hairline, now slowly oozing blood. “You took quite a blow. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Fingers? What fingers?”

Mercy turned to the nurse. “Order X rays for Mr. King. Full head series.”

“Hey, I was just kidding!” he protested, dodging and swearing under his breath as the efficient nurse swabbed his face and cleaned the tender scalp wound.

“I don’t play around with this kind of injury, Travis,” Mercy said severely. “Head ache?”

“Some,” he admitted.

“I’ll order a painkiller. Slip out of your shirt and let me have a look at that side. Did you get stepped on?”

“It’s just bruised,” he muttered, defensive.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Travis gave Mercy a baleful look. “My, my, my. Look at Miss Mercy, all grown up and throwing her weight around. Who’d have thought?”

“Hey, you. Don’t mess with me,” she replied lightly. “I run with the big dogs now.”

With a show of reluctance, he slid his arms out of the garment and handed it over. Mercy tossed it into a nearby chair where a well-worn black felt cowboy hat rested crown down, a position dictated, she knew, by cowboy superstition so the luck in the hat wouldn’t run out. And bull riders needed all the luck they could get.

Turning back, Mercy caught her breath. While she dealt with human bodies all the time, she was female enough to acknowledge that bare-chested, clad only in black jeans and well-worn Western boots, Travis King was a magnificent male specimen who could turn any woman’s head.

Lean and rangy from years of hard physical activity, at thirty-six he still had the broad shoulders, tapering to a washboard stomach, that would be the envy of many a younger man. A light sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest in an inverted triangle, disappearing below the dimple of his navel. In the old days he’d never lacked for female company, and now, even bruised and battered, he radiated masculinity in potent waves. Mercy noted that Lila was certainly an appreciative and receptive audience for all that male magnetism.

But that was a line of thought she shouldn’t be pursuing. Instead she drew her attention to the business at hand and pressed Travis’s side. “Does this hurt?”

“Uh-uh. Well, not too bad.”

“Hmm.” Swiftly she continued her examination—arms, legs, ribs—then took her stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. His skin felt warm and velvety to the touch, stretched over well-honed muscles with the tensile strength of steel in their fibers. Beneath the pungent odor of antiseptic that permeated the hospital, she could smell the musk of his scent, clean and masculine and subtly arousing.

Appalled, Mercy clamped down on her involuntary response. What was the matter with her? Just because her love life was nonexistent, she was still a professional, for goodness sake, not some first-year student with overactive hormones. And this was Travis—confidant of her youth, part-time Cupid and general good guy. How many times had he helped her meet Kenny when her parents had forbidden it? How many times had she cried on his shoulder when the path of true love ran crooked?

It was the shock of seeing him again after all this time that was making her so jittery, that was all. That and the knowledge that they hadn’t spoken since Kenny’s funeral. An unexpected resurgence of long-dormant hurt and resentment produced a wince of pain, quickly and fiercely squelched. No, she wouldn’t go down that path again. She was over all that, and she had a job to do.

A breathless nurse appeared at the door, hesitated just long enough to give the bare-chested cowboy a wide-eyed once-over, then blurted, “Dr. Holt, there’s a possible gastric ulcer in room four and an OB in five. Can you come?”

“Be right there, Sandy. Lila, go help.” The two nurses rushed to the next patient.

Feeling the surge of exhilarating pressure that made her both love and hate her work, Mercy swiftly completed the exam, asking questions, checking reflexes. Frowning, she stepped back and scribbled on Travis’s chart.

“What’s the verdict, Doc?” he asked.

“I want to see X rays before I say for sure. But no cracked ribs, although you’re going to have a dandy of a bruise.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I can imagine. We probably need to get a plastic surgeon to stitch your head.”

“Oh, hell, no.” He waved the suggestion away. “Can’t you do it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then go ahead. I got no inclination to hang around this joint all night.” His mustache twitched. “I guess I trust you not to mess up my pretty face.”

Mercy gave him a sour look. “Thanks for that vote of confidence.”

“Hey, for a former Flat Fork High homecoming queen, you’ve come a long way. It’s the least I can do.”

His words touched a raw nerve of insecurity that she’d thought had healed. Apparently she’d been mistaken. She lifted her chin. “That’s quite a recommendation, coming from you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the twice National Bull Riding Champion must be an expert on getting himself stitched up—since it happens so often to the damn fools who ride bulls for a living.”

He lifted his brows at both her indictment and the fact that she was aware of his accomplishments on the rodeo circuit.

“Well,” he drawled, “we all know the real question is not when a bull rider is going to get hurt, but how bad.”

Her lips clamped down in a thin line of disapproval. “Not funny, cowboy.”

“You weren’t always so lily-livered, darlin’.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of things have changed, haven’t they?” She was surprised at how hard her voice sounded, sharp with an unexpected surge of anger. “But maybe you’re right, Travis. Maybe it is your lucky day. This time.”

Pulling on gloves, she settled him into position, reached for instruments and a hypo of anesthetic and began repairing the damage.

Stoically he watched her face as she worked. “If that’s the way you feel, I’m surprised you still keep up with the circuit.”

“Who says I do? Mother keeps me informed about Flat Fork’s favorite son.”

Holding still under her ministrations, he nevertheless managed to look astonished that Joycelyn Holt, Flat Fork’s preeminent society matron and wife of the Honorable Judge Jonathan Holt, might deign to notice a lowly cowboy. “You don’t say?”

“Certainly. You’re a bona fide celebrity. By all accounts, you lead quite a life.”

“Yeah, I’ve got the world by the tail, all right.” Somehow his answer seemed too hearty. “The traveling is murder, though. You know what they say—if the rodeo doesn’t kill you, the commute will.”

Mercy frowned over the last series of knots. To a healer like her, Travis’s jocularity was disturbing. She had proof right before her eyes of the hazards he faced every time he entered a rodeo chute. Not to mention certain other questions that had her professional intuition raising red flags where Travis King was concerned.

“Travis, have you ever had problems with—?”

Sandy, even more breathless than before, burst into the cubicle, cutting off the question. “Dr. Holt, we need you now. This mother isn’t going to make it to Maternity!”

“Oh, Lord. Finish up for me, will you?” She passed needle and clamp to the nurse. Mercy was peeling off her gloves, already halfway to the door, throwing an apology over her shoulder. “Sorry, Travis. Sandy will take good care of you. And don’t you go anywhere until I see you again. You got that?”

“No, ma’am, I won’t.” Flat on his back, waiting for the nurse to finish, Travis’s voice was grim. “You can bet on it.”

Mercy hesitated at the door, already regretting her unaccustomed sharpness, regretting... everything. “For what it’s worth, Travis, it is good to see you again. I’ll be back.”

One ulcer, a broken arm, a set of twins and a case of pneumonia later, Mercy snatched up Travis’s X rays from the pile on the admitting desk and hurried toward his cubicle.

Weariness sat on her shoulders like a heavy overcoat. Thankfully it was nearing the end of her shift, but she doubted that she’d be allowed to get away on schedule. Not that she was in any rush to get home to an empty apartment. She felt restless, unsettled; and the thought of facing another frozen dinner and then falling into her unmade bed, as was her routine, held no appeal.

She stifled a tired sigh. Well, it was her life. She’d chosen it, worked damned hard to get it, and she wasn’t complaining. No, she loved the work, the challenges, the rush of adrenaline that dealing with a multitude of life-and-death decisions every night entailed. Only the rigors of it left precious little time for anything or anyone else.

She thought briefly about losing Kenny, her first love, and about her disastrous marriage a year later. Despite the society wedding of the season, Rick Hulen hadn’t wasted much time before he’d left for greener pastures in the arms of another woman. Just as well she’d concentrated on her profession since then. Relationships obviously weren’t her thing.

Mercy shook her head. She wasn’t usually so morose. It had to be seeing Travis again that had brought on this melancholy. But before she could go home and put this mood behind her, she had to deal with this visitor from her past. It wasn’t as though they had anything in common any longer. For all his success, Travis was still a Texas tumbleweed, risking his life blowing around the rodeo circuit. Considering everything, the sooner the devilish wind that had blown him into her E.R. tonight blew him back out again, the better.

Drawing the X rays from their manila folder, she bumped open the cubicle door with her hip. Travis had pulled on his shirt again and was sprawled in a chair, brawny arms across his chest, long legs outstretched in loose-limbed elegance, black hat tipped over his face.

Mercy couldn’t repress a smile. During their early rodeo days, she’d contended that he and Kenny could nap anywhere, even on a bale of barbed wire. Both sons of ranchers, it was a part of the rodeo life they loved, weekend to weekend, hitting every competition they could, earning points toward the big time. They’d put thousands of miles on Kenny’s old truck before that fateful night.... Her smile faded.

Travis stirred, tilting his hat back to reveal the neat white bandage gracing his temple, watching her as she shoved the films into the viewer. “Back so soon, blue eyes?”

“Sorry about the delay.” Chewing her lip, she studied the X rays. “This looks okay.”

“Great.” Stretching, he stood. “I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

“Not so fast. I’m going to admit you overnight for observation.”

He scowled darkly. “The hell you will! I feel fine.”

“From what I can see, you aren’t fine.”

“Hey, my head’s harder than it looks—”

“It’s not your head I’m worried about. It’s the area of numbness in your leg and back that concerns me.” She rattled off a technical explanation about nerve injury and spinal compression. “I’ll schedule some tests first thing in the morning and then—”

“Forget it, Mercy.”

She exhaled slowly, fighting exasperation. “Who’s the doctor here? Be reasonable.”

Travis hooked a thumb in his belt loop and gave her a wry look. “The only thing’s the matter with me is I’ve got a hole in my belly that only a twenty-ounce sirloin can plug. When do you check out of this place ? We can get you one, too.”

“I rarely eat red meat anymore.”

“Maybe you should. You could use a little padding on those bones.” His grin under his mustache was persuasive, tempting. “I know this terrific little place out on Rosemont. Great steaks, mushrooms in wine sauce, the works.”

“Travis, this is important. These tests—”

“Can wait, can’t they?”

She hesitated. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

“I mean, I’m not liable to keel over on the sidewalk, am I?”

“No, but—”

He nodded. “There you have it.”

Feeling frustrated, she tried again. “I can’t emphasize enough the need to follow up on this as soon as possible. I don’t want to alarm you, but the ramifications could be serious.”

“Darlin’ I’m not spending the night in this hospital, for one very good reason.”

“And that is?”

With a conspiratorial glance from side to side, he leaned close, whispering in her ear. “Those little gowns they give you. Too drafty.”

She shivered at the warmth of his breath and the faintest touch of velvety mustache brushing her earlobe, then stepped back to glare at him. “This isn’t a joking matter.”

He inspected the fatigue in the set of her shoulders and his smile died. “Maybe not. Look, I’ll make you a deal. You let me buy you some dinner tonight, and we’ll discuss it further.”

A distant tremor of consternation tickled Mercy’s spine. Travis was a part of her past she’d put behind her a long time ago. It wouldn’t pay to resurrect it. “I don’t need dinner,” she said firmly. “And you do need the tests.”

“Even doctors have to eat.”

“I’m not good company after a busy shift. Besides, it may be another hour or two before I can finish up.”

“I got no place to be.”

“But—”

“Come on, Mercy. Quit giving me a hard time. Unless there’s a boyfriend waiting in the wings?”

“No.”

He gave her a hooded look. “I heard you were married.”

“Old news.” Her words were flat. “It was over a long time ago.”

His voice dropped, became husky and persuading. “Then for old time’s sake.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said honestly, and was surprised at the swift flicker of something almost like pain behind his dark eyes.

“You’re a hard-hearted woman, Mercy Holt,” he said, joking again, whatever she’d witnessed disappearing so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. “All right, you drive a mean bargain. Have pity on a lonesome cowboy tonight, and help me feed the inner man, and I’ll see to those tests in a day or two.”

Her teeth clicked together in annoyance. “That’s blackmail.”

Unrepentant, his expression bland, he said, “It’s up to you.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “You won’t weasel out on me?”

He crossed his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

What harm could it do? She was a grown woman, capable of spending time with an old friend without letting the past jumble up her emotional landscape. She didn’t have to make a federal case out of a simple dinner, even if her nerves were shot and she was as skittish as a newborn filly. At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing her bullheaded patient was going to receive the care he needed.

“All right, then,” she said slowly.

“Gee, such enthusiasm could really go to a guy’s head.” His tone was dry.

“Never satisfied, are you, cowboy?”

His dark eyes gleamed. “Not often, darlin’. That’s what makes me a winner.”

No doubt about it. He was losing his touch.

Travis parked his custom, ebony pickup truck with the World Champion logo on the door and the PRCA—Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association—bumper sticker on the tailgate in front of Mercy’s town house. The building complex sat in an unpretentious neighborhood not far from the Ft. Worth Botanical Gardens. At three o’clock on a cold Halloween morning, there wasn’t much activity anywhere. In fact, nothing stirred, including the blond head resting on his shoulder.

He stifled a rueful grin. Lord, he would take a hell of a ribbing if his rodeo buddies could see him now! “Love‘em and Leave’em” King—who could squire his choice of luscious rodeo groupies, who had them lined up by the eager dozens to take their chances with the champion bull rider and ladies’ man—had bored his companion into a sound sleep. And after all the trouble he’d taken to change his shirt and clean up in the hospital rest room, too!

Of course, Mercy hadn’t drifted off until after he’d plied her with a steak dinner, a little red wine and a lot of cowboy blarney. Sipping his own iced tea—the hardest thing he drank these days—he’d been pleased to watch her across the candlelit table and see the tension in her lovely features melt away.

But what had she thought? That after taking unmerciful advantage of her concern for him, he would insist on plunging into some sort of postmortem of their aborted friendship? He had a greater instinct for self-preservation than that.

So he’d kept it light, and she’d actually laughed a time or two, something Travis had the feeling was all too rare for a gal who worked as hard and saw as much wounded humanity as she obviously did Still, he didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered that she’d dozed off on the way home.

Shifting his weight, he settled Mercy more comfortably under his arm. A wavy cloud of honey-colored hair drifted against his cheek. Her fresh floral scent enveloped him, evoking a deep quiver of something basic and male. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad deal after all. In the plain slacks and cotton shirt she’d worn under her physician’s coat, she looked slight and feminine, not at all the forceful, take-charge doctor who’d bowled him over earlier in the evening. Quite a transformation.

The reflected glow of the streetlights illuminated the interior of the truck. Carefully Travis used a callused fingertip to pull the lock of hair back from Mercy’s face. He could be forgiven if he took this minor advantage to study the heart-shaped countenance, the high cheekbones and delicate nose. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Yes, sir, he’d been thrown caboose over teakettle plenty of times in his career, but never as badly as the spill he’d taken at his first sight of Mercy Holt in fifteen years.

And he ached. Not just from the pounding Sidewinder had given him, either. No, it was regret. God help him, he’d give anything if things could have turned out differently.

She gave a little murmured sigh, and he immediately felt lower than a snake’s belly. She’d worked a full shift, plus some, and despite his shearling jacket and her wool cape, the Texas night was getting colder by the minute. As much as he was enjoying the sensation of holding a beautiful woman, he couldn’t take advantage of the situation any longer.

“Mercy? Honey, wake up. We’re home.”

Her lashes fluttered, revealing eyes as indigo as a field of Texas bluebonnets. Languid, sleep flushed, she smiled up at him in the dim light, then ran a fingertip over his mustache.

“I can’t get used to this.”

Her fleeting touch electrified him, and he caught her hand to stop the unexpected pleasure/pain. His voice was rough. “Kinda my trademark now, blue eyes. I’d feel naked without it.”

Something akin to horror widened her eyes, and she jerked upright, blushing in embarrassment. “Oh. What time is it?”

“Late.”

She placed a hand against her burning cheek. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”

“No problem.” He was already out of the truck, walking around to open her door. “Must be past your bedtime. Come on, I’ll walk you in.”

“That’s not necessary.” She dug in her bag for her key. “I’m perfectly all right. But thank you for the meal and everything—”

He arched an eyebrow at her, cutting her off. “No use arguing. You know my mama raised me the old-fashioned way.”

He could see her hesitation, but he took her elbow and lifted the key from her fingers. Within minutes he was standing inside the doorway of her town house as she turned on lamps. Somehow it wasn’t what he’d expected.

The apartment was spacious, but austere. Pale vertical blinds graced the windows, and even paler modular furniture sat on an oatmeal carpet. Stacks of unopened mail and unread magazines littered the tabletops. A laundry basket of scrubs and lab coats perched on an ottoman. A stethoscope dangled over a lamp shade.

The breakfast bar that separated the living area from the kitchen sported a litter of used bowls and teacups and a cellophane-wrapped bunch of supermarket flowers that had never been placed in water and now lay limp and brown and forlorn on the alabaster counter. There were books everywhere, but no personal pictures. Only a wall display of award plaques for distinguished service for several inner city clinics and a home for troubled youth indicated that the person who lived here had an outside life at all.

“Don’t look. The place is a mess,” she said, shoving the laundry basket behind the sofa. “I don’t have much time for housekeeping or anything else but work.”

“Don’t apologize. Considering I spend a lot of my time perusing the inside of motel rooms, it looks okay to me. And I know what you mean. I’m on the road so much, there’s no time to smell the roses, much less for someone special.”

“Don’t tell me you lack for company.” Her voice was skeptical. “I’ve had a sample of that potent cowboy charm of yours tonight, and I won’t believe you.”

He smiled, pleased at her admission. “Glad you enjoyed yourself, darlin’.”

She tugged off her cape, looking willow slender and pale and suddenly uncertain. “Ah, I’d offer you coffee, but it’s so late....”

He twirled his hat between his hands. “I should be going.”

“It’s been wonderful seeing you again. Where are you heading from here?”

“Oklahoma City next week. Got to see a man about a bull.”

She grimaced. “Travis—”

“No, really,” he protested with a deep laugh. “Sam Preston and I are running rodeo stock together now. King & Preston Stock Company.”

“Sam? Kenny’s brother?”

Her astonishment was plain, and he didn’t blame her. He and Sam were unlikely partners.

“Heck of a thing, huh? We’re working hard at it I’m the front man, and Sam runs the operation in Flat Fork. Could pan out pretty well, I guess. You know Sam married Roni Daniels a few months back?”

“No, I hadn’t heard. That’s nice.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Travis went to her, his hand extended. “I’ll say good night.”

She moistened her lips, then slipped her slender hand into his outsize paw. She made a vague gesture at his bandage with her free hand. “You’ll need those stitches out in a few days.”

“I know the drill.”

“And about those tests. If you’ll call me, I’ll be glad to set them up.”

“Uh, Mercy?” Eyes locked on their joined hands, he cleared his throat. “I have a confession.”

“You do?”

“I don’t need those tests.”

She jerked, but he didn’t release her hand. “Travis, you promised.”

“I’ve already had them.”

“What?”

“Every one in the book, and a few they made up just for me,” he admitted.

This time she did manage to free her hand, and her voice was cold. “And the results of these tests?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got a bit of problem. Chronic, you know, but nothing I’m not handling.”

“They told you not to ride again,” she stated flatly.

“They told me the risks, but, hell, it’s nothing worse than a thousand other bull riders have to deal with, and I’m a whole lot better than some.”

“So you ride and risk—what? Permanent pain? Complete disability? Or worse?” Her words were clipped, coldly furious. “Why the hell would you do something so completely asinine?”

“It’s what a world champion does, darlin’.” He lifted a placating hand. “Give me a little credit. I know what I’m doing. Besides, it’s all part of the game.”

“Game?” She spit the word. “Was that what this was all about tonight? You lied so I’d agree to come out with you. You used my feelings so you could manipulate me. Well, thank you very much, old friend.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Exasperated, he shoved on his hat. “I just wanted to buy you a meal.”

“What it boils down to is that you and your monumental ego haven’t changed a bit, Travis King. You aren’t a kid anymore. Don’t you realize you could end up crippled, or even dead? Or are you so addicted to the thrill of being champion you don’t care?”

Her caustic words pricked a tender spot, and his temper flared. “Wait a damn minute. Isn’t there something about ‘Physician, heal thyself’?” You’re just as much an adrenaline junkie as I am, traipsing around that E.R., getting high on all that power.”

She gasped in outrage. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? And what have you got to show for it? An anonymous apartment, dead flowers and not a friend or lover in sight.” His mouth twisted. “At least I got a belt buckle.”

“Cold comfort for a womanizing rascal who never grew up,” she said with a sneer.

Travis felt his cheeks heat. “I don’t get many complaints.”

“No, luckily for you all those teenage buckle bunnies shoving their phone numbers down those tight jeans of yours don’t have a lot with which to compare your performance.” Mercy tilted her chin in challenge. “I wonder how you’d stack up against someone your own size.”

Eyes narrowed, he growled. “Let’s see.”

Hooking a hand around her nape, Travis jerked her against his chest, then found her mouth with his. She pushed at him, her hands twisting in the lapels of his jacket. Clamping his arm around her waist, he molded her close from breast to hip and felt her quiver. Her mouth was hot with fury, sweet with her own unique feminine fire, and after a moment he forgot exactly what it was he wanted to prove, forgot everything except that he was a hungry man and she was his only sustenance.

Softening the pressure, he wooed her, seduced her into her own softening, expertly parted her lips with his tongue and swept deeply into the mysteries of her mouth to taste her essence. Now she was clinging to him, her limbs melting, her lips soft and tremulous, and neither of them knew the reason this had begun, only that it ended too soon.

Travis drew back, shaken and breathing hard, looking into Mercy’s face. He instantly regretted what he saw, the pale and stricken features, the swollen lips, the rosy abrasion of his late-day stubble against her tender skin. When she made a little stumbling movement, he released her, and his hands felt empty.

Her eyes were the turbulent shadowed blue of a thunderhead. “You...you’d better go.”

It was the least he could do. “Mercy, I—”

She turned away, her shoulders hunched defensively. “Just get out.”

He let himself out, somehow ending up in his truck without quite knowing how his shaky legs had brought him there. Numb with self-loathing, he stared bleakly out the windshield, then slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

“Dammit! Dammit to hell!”

He’d blown it. He cursed because he was too much of a man to cry, even though that’s what he felt like doing. God help him, one touch of her lips and he was calf sick with love for the little rich gal, Mercy Holt, just like it was yesterday.

Only it had been impossible then, because she’d been his best friend’s girl.

And it was still impossible now, even after all this time, because he’d killed Kenny, and she would never get over that.