Читать книгу Night Fever - Tori Carrington - Страница 9

THREE HOURS LATER Layla was stationed in the cramped room that served as the attending doctor’s office in the San Rafael Free Clinic. She took a deep breath and dared to peek out into the waiting area, which, she saw thankfully, was nearly empty. Just a short time ago it had been overwhelmingly full.

She smoothed back a couple of stray strands of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. While the time she put in at the free clinic was rewarding, it was also exhausting. And often disheartening. So many people. So few doctors willing to help. It was especially disheartening when they’d just lost another attending physician and she’d been called away from a perfectly inviting encounter to fill the void.

Lupe Rodriguez, the clinic’s long-standing head nurse, popped into the doorway and handed her a file. “Room two. Three-year-old with upper respiratory congestion. Room three, Ashanti’s getting into position for her annual pap.”

Layla watched an elderly woman tuck a tattered blanket more snuggly across a frail man’s legs.

“Ola, Layla?”

“Hmm?” She glanced at the Hispanic woman waving a hand in front of her eyes.

“There’s a thirty-something wealthy bachelor in room one looking for a hot night out.”

Layla blinked several times then grimaced at Lupe. “That’s not even funny.”

Especially since the man she’d met at the restaurant bar earlier in the evening kept intruding on her thoughts. Sometimes it would just be a flash of his grin. Other times it would be his suggestive comments. But mostly it was the feel of his mouth sliding against hers. She’d be peering down a teenager’s throat and remember the way he’d invited her to have dinner with him. Running her stethoscope across a patient’s back and recall how wide his shoulders were. Definitely hot.

“How long’s it been since you been out on a date?”

Layla took the patient file from Lupe and reviewed the preliminary information there. It wasn’t that the question was intrusive, really. It was just that she’d been asking herself the same thing all night.

And the answer? Much too much time had passed since she’d sat across a dining table from someone who engaged her on every level. And the man in the bar had appealed to her physically and mentally.

“None of your business,” she said to Lupe, smiling.

Lupe made a tsk sound. “That’s what I thought. Too long.”

Layla scratched her head. “Who’s got time to date? I certainly don’t.”

Lupe crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I work here, what? Fifty, sometimes sixty hours a week for the past fifteen years and I not only dated, I got married, had five kids, and still manage to have a pretty good sex life, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I do mind. What you and your husband do behind closed doors is your business.”

“And you?” Lupe teased. “What do you do behind closed doors, Dr. Hollister?”

“We already established that I don’t date.”

“What’s a man got to do with it?”

Layla stared at her as if antennae had sprouted from her black, over-permed hair.

“Hmmph. That’s what I thought.” Lupe held the door open. “Let’s go help someone who can be helped. You, Layla, are absolutely beyond hope.”

Layla preceded her out of the room, trying to hide her exasperation. It was hard enough to successfully ignore the poor status of her love life without other people showing interest in it. Who else talked about her and her pathetic dating abilities? Oh, sure, she was busy. But as Lupe so adeptly pointed out, time or lack thereof had very little to do with a person’s personal life.

Five kids? Did Lupe really have five kids?

She shook her head then strode to examining room three, opening the patient’s file as she entered.

Ashanti. A nineteen-year-old who had more sex than ten women combined.

Or at least ten Laylas.

The young woman smiled at her from the examining table. “So, Doc, how they hanging?”

“Oh, they’re hanging a little lower each day,” she said automatically.

The problem was that there was no one around to notice…

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Sam repositioned the pothos plant his sister, Heather, had bought him, moving it first one way then another on top of a filing cabinet in his office near the window. But rather than being a gift in the true sense of the word, she’d done it to make a point. Simply that even though he was a doctor, he failed to look after himself. According to her, his days were focused way too much on work and not nearly enough on the small pleasures of life. No pets. No real hobbies—outside serial dating and an hour-long run in the morning. And the only reason he returned to the model of modern architecture in the depths of Hollywood Hills he called home, was to sleep. If pressed under threat of torture, he couldn’t tell you the color of his bedroom walls, much less the makeup of the rest of the place.

“Come on, Porthos, buddy, you’re not making me look good here,” he said to the plant, reluctant to put his finger into the soil to see if it needed more water. Heather had given him the plant two months ago. And over that period it had gone from a lush, green plant to a dry, shriveled-up bunch of leaves. He sometimes wondered if it were still alive. No matter what he did, the plant looked worse. So he’d named it Porthos in honor of the musketeer who was popular among the ladies and had a mysterious suicide wish. Bringing Porthos to the office was a last-ditch effort to save the poor plant.

After picking up his empty coffee cup—another gag gift from his sister, it had a pair of gigantic breasts on the front, and a woman’s arm for a handle—he made his way through the back door leading to what was called the center’s personnel alley. Essentially it was where the doctors and other center employees could move around freely without being seen by patients. Its hub was a coffee-slash-lunchroom containing vending machines of microwaveable meals, your typical snack fare and three coffee machines, along with a cappuccino and an espresso machine. He put his cup under the tap for pure, full-octane coffee then glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes before one very delectable Doctor Layla Hollister found out he was the guy who had made her day so miserable yesterday.

“Hey, if it isn’t Dr. Lovejoy,” a male colleague came into the room from the opposite direction, navigating his way through the half-dozen other physicians already there. Bill Johnson was the center’s top proctologist and got his kicks ribbing Sam. “Good thing you’re not into proctology, huh, Sam?” he said as he put his cup in after Sam had removed his own. “Then again, I don’t know. Dr. Lovejoy, proctologist. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Susan Pollack, a pediatrician, nudged by Sam to get a packet of artificial sweetener. “I don’t know. If your patients knew what some people said about you, Bill, they’d change physicians posthaste.”

Sam lifted a brow. “What do they say?”

Susan smiled at him. “That, for Bill, proctology is ‘been there, done that,”’ she said. “You know, because of the, um, fact that he’s gay.”

Bill made a face. “I prefer homosexual. Gay makes me sound as though I should be performing in a musical on Broadway.” He sipped his coffee. “And it’s not like I hide my sexual preference. Not all homosexuals are queens.”

“No, Bill, you definitely qualify as a king.”

Sam laughed with good humor. “Okay, so is there any word on me yet?”

David Jansen, a cardiac surgeon, leaned back in a metal chair. “Nope. We figure your name is funny enough. Dr. Lovejoy, master of all things lovely and joyful.”

“Or plastic,” Susan made a face.

Sam chuckled. Having grown up with the name, he was used to the teasing—and to the long drawn-out way people had of saying his name, as if they were introducing the star of a porno flick. “Dr. Lovejoy in Loves to Bring Women Joy.”

Bill gestured toward Susan. “She’s Suzie Q.”

“David is Goliath,” Susan shared.

Everyone went around the room quoting another doctor’s nickname. Sam took a long drag from his coffee. “And Hollister? What’s her nickname?”

The room fell silent for a heartbeat.

“You can guess at that one,” Bill said, moving toward the door.

“Have you met her yet?” David asked.

Sam shook his head. “Not officially. But that’ll be fixed in fifteen.”

Susan gave him a level gaze. “Well, given her first name is Layla…”

“And she’s drop-dead gorgeous,” Bill added.

“You can only imagine what we say about her,” David finished.

Sam supported his coffee cup with his other hand. “Fill me in.”

Bill twisted his lips. “Well, there’s ‘Lay-no,’ because she turns every guy in the place down flat. Present company excepted, of course.”

David grinned. “There’s ‘needs-to-get-laid-now.”’

Sam nearly choked on his coffee.

“Then let’s not forget ‘Layl-aye-aye-aye,”’ Bill added. “But of course that was a year or so ago.”

“Oh?”

Susan made a face as she gathered up a chart from the table. “If you believe the gossip mill, she went out with the sleaze down on two, Jim Colton, orthopedic surgeon, for a little while.”

Sam considered that. “Ended badly?”

Susan opened the door. “Never should have begun. Colton’s married,” she told him in a conspiratorial whisper.

The room went quiet as the door closed behind her.

So Lively Layla had gotten burned by a doctor at the Center. That went a long ways toward explaining why she’d earned the later nicknames.

And made him even more intrigued by her.

“I take it none of you actually call her by any of these nicknames?” he asked, topping off his cup.

The five physicians looked at each other, then at him. “No,” Bill said soberly. “We all like the family jewels right where they are, thank you very much.”

Sam was thoughtful. “I’d do well to keep that in mind then, would I?”

He made his way back to his office, the comments moving around in his head. So Layla had a history at the center. Not unusual. Most doctors didn’t have time to shop outside their immediate environs. He absently rubbed his neck. Judging by the little he’d gotten to know her the night before, however, he would have thought her smarter than to get involved with a married man. How long had the relationship lasted? A couple of dates? A month? Longer?

He made a mental note to check into this guy Colton. If he made a habit of preying on fellow physicians, he’d have to call him in for review.

He closed his office door and stood staring at the damn plant again. He’d half hoped the simple change in location would have made it perk right back up. His hopes were dashed. The thing looked even worse than it had five minutes ago.

“Pothos don’t like direct sunlight,” his medical assistant said as she came in from the other door. He glanced at Nancy Pullman, the woman he’d brought over with him from his private practice when he’d taken on the role of staff administrator.

“It’s a plant. All plants like sunlight.”

“Not pothos. It likes bright, diffused light, but not direct sunlight.”

“We’re in L.A. All light is diffused—by pollution.”

She ignored his comment as she arranged files in his in-box, took items out of his out-box, then went through those items, putting half of them back on top of his desk. “You forgot to sign the follow-up release on the Golan woman. And I need you to rewrite your comments on the Fitzpatrick evaluation. I’ve warned you about your chicken scratches. If I can’t read them, no one else can.”

He grinned at her, not about to admit that he often had a hard time making out his own handwriting.

“What, do they teach that in How to Write Like a Doctor 101?” she asked, finally standing in one place long enough for him to get a look at her that didn’t include a blur.

“Yeah, and I aced the course.”

“Of course you did. Your sister says you aced all your courses.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No. Just, after four years as your assistant I’m still looking for signs that you’re human, that’s all. Now are you going to move that plant, or shall I?”

He held up his hand. “I’ll get it. Heather would never forgive me if she found out you helped me in any way whatsoever with this damn thing.”

“Ah, Heather. That explains it. Another point she’s trying to make, I take it?”

“Yeah. She said she’d wanted to get me a dog, but she thought a plant might be a better bet right now.”

They both stared at the dying plant for a long moment, the comment settling in.

“Yeah, well, anyway.” He put his coffee down on his desk then moved the sorry excuse for a plant from the window to his desk, just out of the sunlight.

Nancy held the documents to her chest. “Your nine o’clock is outside.”

A good ten minutes early, Sam estimated. He liked punctuality in a woman.

Then he remembered that rather than looking forward to this meeting, Layla Hollister was dreading it.

“Well, we don’t want to keep Dr. Hollister waiting now, do we?” He motioned toward Nancy while, at the same time, he signed the documents she indicated. “Send her in.”

Two minutes later Sam forgot all about the conversation he’d had in the coffee room and remembered only how attracted he’d been to the woman the night before. Even in her plain white lab coat, she looked better than any woman had a right to. Last night she’d had her dark hair down. It was now in a French braid, exposing her nicely curved neck.

Well, at least the little of her neck that was visible above the white, chin-high collar.

Hadn’t anyone told her this was L.A., not North Dakota, which was the only place it would be cold enough to wear such a shirt in October?

Layla’s gasp told Sam he’d forgotten something else. Namely, that he’d purposely withheld his name from her the night before.

And, right now, seeing the look of horror on her face, he almost wished he had a different name.

EARTHQUAKE? Aftershock? Pre-shock? Layla fought to keep her balance as she matched the strikingly handsome face of the man standing in front of her with the face of the man who had haunted her dreams last night.

Her stomach bottomed out as she remembered just how very vivid those dreams had been. And just how many naughty things she’d had him do with that sexy mouth of his.

Unfortunately, her loss of equilibrium had little to do with the San Andreas Fault. Rather, it was shock due to the fact that this man had just reinforced her latest lesson in regards to men: they were all lying, cheating pigs who—if not for the temporary sexual relief they brought, or their procreative abilities—could line the bottom of the Pacific for all she cared.

“Dr. Hollister,” he said, rounding his desk and reminding her just how very tall he was. She had to look up at him, something she wasn’t used to since she was five foot eleven in heels. “Officially we meet.”

He extended his hand. Layla curved hers against her leg to wipe the dampness away before stretching it out. “And last night would have been…”

“Unofficial.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” She tilted her head. “Which would make your not introducing yourself a simple omission rather than an out-and-out deception.”

He feigned a wince. “Ouch.” He seemed reluctant to take his hand back. And Layla realized with a jolt she was reluctant to have him take his hand back.

“Sam Lovejoy,” he said casually, leaning against the edge of his desk. “And, yes, while it would probably be easier to pretend I didn’t know who you were last night after you mentioned your…dislike of your new boss…” He let his words trail off. “Well, honesty is always the best policy, as they say.”

“A little honesty probably would have gone a long way last night.”

He rubbed his chin as if trying to erase his grin. It wasn’t working. And neither was Layla’s instinctive desire to respond with a smile.

“I probably would have told you at some point last night,” he said. “You know, had you stuck around.”

She crossed her arms. “Before or after we’d slept together?”

“Oh, after,” he said without hesitation. “Definitely after.” His gaze traversed her leisurely, making little shivers scoot all over her.

His cockiness, in addition to his bold honesty, made her feel hot all over. It was rare that a man could make Layla feel…small, somehow. No, not so much small, but vulnerable. If she threw up her hands right that minute and feigned a fainting spell, she imagined Sam Lovejoy would not only catch her, but would take complete advantage of the situation.

“Oh, I like that expression you’re wearing right now. What are you thinking?” Sam asked.

Layla’s smile widened. “None of your business.”

“I’m your boss, in a manner of speaking, so everything that happens here at the Center is my business. Give.”

Oh, he was good. “Well, let’s just say that my thoughts were inappropriate, given our professional surroundings. Allow me to apologize for my insubordination.”

The gleam in his eyes told her he was impressed and intrigued by her daring comeback.

She held up her hand. “Let me get one thing straight, Dr. Lovejoy.” She cleared her throat, suddenly unable to say his name without shivering. Funny, just the day before she couldn’t say his name without feeling disdain. “If you haven’t heard already, I made the mistake once before of becoming…intimately involved with a professional colleague.”

He nodded. “I’ve heard.”

“Fast worker.”

“You have no idea.”

She cleared her throat again. “Well, then, let me say point-blank that following that experience, I have no intention of getting involved with another colleague.”

His brows rose, nearly meeting the hair that swept across his forehead. “Never?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Never.”

Layla could hardly believe she was saying these words. She didn’t play coy. She didn’t indulge in verbal tit for tats. She didn’t flirt the way she was doing with the handsome but very off-limits Dr. Lovejoy. This time her shiver nearly shook her from her sensible shoes.

And if ever there was proof that sometimes no meant yes, she’d just provided herself with exhibit one. Because if Sam put on the brakes and stopped flirting with her, she didn’t know what she would do. She rested her hand against her neck, finding her skin burning. Well, she didn’t know what she would do short of shoving him against the tall filing cabinets to her right and having her way with him.

“Point taken,” Sam said, pushing off the desk and rounding it so he could sit down.

Two can play at this game, Sam thought as he tried to wipe the grin from his face and motioned for Layla to have a seat opposite him.

She seemed inordinately preoccupied with his filing cabinet. He wondered why as he watched her carefully sit down in the soft leather guest chair, her shapely knees together, her legs crossed at the ankles.

He couldn’t recall a time when he’d enjoyed flirting with a woman more. Her initial disappointment at his deception pushed aside, she gave as good as she got. He fought the sudden urge to pull at his collar, knowing she’d be the same way in bed. Competitive. Bold. And so very, very naughty.

“It says here in your file that you volunteer at a free clinic,” he launched into his official getting acquainted session.

“Ah, down to business,” she said, finally meeting his gaze again. Was it him, or were her pupils a little large? “Actually, the clinic started paying me last year when the staff physician retired and moved back to St. Louis, and I essentially took over the role.”

He made the notation on a pad. “This was the clinic you went to last night?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“How many hours do you put in a week?”

“Right now, since they’re short of staff…about forty.”

He raised his brows. “And you put in forty here.”

“That’s right.”

Sam sat back in his chair. “That doesn’t leave much time for a personal life.”

The smile returned. “No, it doesn’t.”

He pretended to go through the file. “Is there a husband or significant other around to complain?”

“No.”

He seemed to consider that, then he grinned at her suggestively. “Good. Then there’s no reason for you not to have that dinner with me tonight….”