“There’s something I’m dying to find out…”

They stood face-to-face in the crowded restaurant, and when someone walked past, Layla was forced to step closer to Sam to make room. He watched her green eyes dilate in a telltale sign of arousal. “Oh? And what’s that?” she asked lightly.

A slight upturning of her lush lips made his stomach crave something other than food. Continuing to play the game, he answered, “Whether or not you taste as good as you look.”

Before she could respond, Sam closed the few inches separating his mouth from Layla’s, giving her plenty of time to pull back. She didn’t. In fact, she leaned forward.

Her mouth tasted like a juicy peach just begging to be devoured. He flicked his tongue out, licking the rim of her lips, then dipping it inside. He’d never tasted anything sweeter, hotter, more addictive…

Desire hit, strong and hard. And Sam suddenly realized just how hungry he really was….

Dear Reader,

Sugar ’n spice and everything…naughty. That description fits the three heroines in our KISS & TELL miniseries to a T. Especially Layla Hollister, no matter how much she’d like to have you believe otherwise. Especially when fellow physician and resident hottie Sam Lovejoy comes onto the scene.

In Night Fever, general practitioner Dr. Layla Hollister literally shivers whenever she hears plastic surgeon Dr. Sam Lovejoy’s name. The truth is she would never have been attracted to him if she’d known who he was when they met. But she didn’t know. And attracted? Well, that doesn’t begin to cover how she feels about the notorious Dr. Lovejoy. The problem is once he catches on to her feverish condition, he relishes challenging her on all she’s come to believe about life and love…and about hot, sticky sex!

We hope Layla and Sam’s sizzling journey leaves you running for a cold shower! We’d love to hear what you think. Write to us at P.O. Box 12271, Toledo, OH 43612 (we’ll respond with a signed bookplate, newsletter and bookmark), or visit us on the Web at www.BlazeAuthors.com and www.toricarrington.com for fun drawings.

Here’s wishing you love, romance and hot reading!

Lori & Tony Karayianni

aka Tori Carrington

Night Fever
Tori Carrington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This one’s for the incomparable Kathryn Falk, Lady of Barrow, the extraordinary Carol Stacy, the gifted Giselle Hirtenfeld/Goldfeder and the entire staff at Romantic Times BookCLUB. You all are the stuff of which heroines are made!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

1

Hollywood Confidential—October 13, 2003

A casting call went out for an actress with natural breasts to perform a love scene with heart-throb Ben Damon. Not a single candidate has stepped forward, leaving this reporter to wonder if there’s a pair of natural breasts left in all of Tinseltown….

DOCTOR LAYLA HOLLISTER closed the latest edition of the gossip rag she’d picked up on her way to the restaurant and glanced at her own modest breasts. They were all but nonexistent beneath her high-necked white blouse. She resisted the urge to wave her hand and say, “Me! My breasts are natural!”

Not that it mattered. Of the nearly two million people in L.A. proper, not to mention the ten million in L.A. County, she was one of the ten percent not interested in an acting career. Not in a bit part in a commercial or music video. Not even in a starring role opposite one of the world’s best-looking men. De nada. Add that she was also a third-generation Hollywood native whose family tree didn’t include any actors and, well, she was even more of a rarity. She made a face, peeled off the piece of lime stuck to the side of her glass, and sipped on her club soda.

At any rate, the casting agents would get one look at her small bustline and probably laugh her out of the studio. Yes, they may be fishing for natural, but it was a pretty good bet they were looking for Halle Berry breasts and not her own boobs that essentially hadn’t grown one iota since she was twelve and had bought her first training bra. Her well-endowed mother, Trudy, had told her she must have inherited them from her father’s side of the family. Layla had thought it was God’s idea of a cruel joke. At least until she was twenty and so busy with medical school she’d had little time to think about her breasts beyond the time it took to buy a new bra.

The paper rustled as she put it on the empty stool next to her. She glanced around the packed bar, wondering when her table would be ready. The restaurant she’d chosen had recently hit the trendy list, not because it was new, but rather because some star or another had stopped for a meal there and it had instantly become all the rage. She’d chosen it because it was close to home and she liked the food. So did Reilly, Mallory and Jack.

She sighed; just thinking of her three friends made her smile. She hadn’t had many friends growing up. Okay, she’d had none—unless you counted Dirtbag Della who’d come to her house a couple of times back in second grade. Della had been the only person willing to hang out with the gangly geek in bottle-bottom glasses, at least until Della’s mother had moved into a house where the shower worked and Dirtbag Della had suddenly qualified for Clique Three status. Then when Della had gotten a nose job at age eleven, she’d quickly moved up to Clique One and forgotten Layla existed altogether.

She found herself shrugging her shoulders even now, pretending not to care. And at twenty-seven, she really shouldn’t. But she was only human and every now and again memories of her childhood in a town where looks were valued over everything else sometimes got to her.

She nudged her watch around her wrist. Where were Reilly, Mallory and Jack anyway? She was usually the one running late. As if on cue, her cell phone vibrated in the purse in her lap. She extracted the palm-size receiver, then answered when she saw the number was Reilly’s.

“Can’t make it, Lay. Sorry,” her friend said without so much as a hello. “Last-minute order came in for three batches of Big Fat Greek Baklava and, well…you know.”

Layla did know. The only thing worse than being an ugly kid in Hollywood was being a fat kid. And she sometimes thought that Reilly Chudowski—once known as Chubby Chuddy—had had it worse than Layla had. Reilly had long since taken off the weight, but she seemed determined to keep upsetting the status quo by opening a pastry shop called Sugar ’n’ Spice smack-dab in the middle of healthy diet country. Surprisingly Reilly had turned a modest profit the first year. Now her goal was to corrupt the whole of L.A. with Sugar ’n’ Spice.

“Give Mallory and Jack a kiss for me, will ya?” Reilly requested.

“We still on for next Saturday night?” Layla asked.

“Your place, right? Definitely still on. And I’ve got something special in mind just for the occasion.” Reilly made kissing noises then rang off.

Well, that stank. Next Saturday was a good ten days away and she hadn’t seen Reilly for at least as long. She’d hoped her day would improve with dinner. Instead it seemed to be taking an even sharper nosedive.

Layla slid her phone back into her purse, catching an envelope before it could fall to the floor. She flipped it over to read the return address. Her quarterly student loan statement. How long had it been since she’d actually paid any attention to her financial affairs? Her paychecks from both the Center and the clinic were deposited directly into her savings and checking accounts, and her loan payments automatically taken out. She had the same overhead every month—what with rent, utilities and car insurance—so there wasn’t really much need to balance her accounts on a monthly basis. The problem was she was pretty sure a year or so had passed since she’d last sat down and gone over everything. All her bank and loan statements sat on her foyer table unopened. Or she temporarily stuck them into her purse with the intention of opening them—which she never did.

She made a face. Wasn’t that how people got into trouble? So she didn’t like doing that sort of stuff. Who did, other than a boring accountant?

She slid her short thumbnail into the corner of the envelope and opened the statement. A quick glance told her that everything was going like a well-oiled machine. No flags to say that she’d missed a payment or that she was being penalized for anything. She stuffed the envelope back into her purse, figuring that’s all she really needed to know.

“This seat taken?”

Layla blinked up into a pair of cappuccino-colored brown eyes a woman could easily fall into. A man who looked better than anything any menu could offer up was gesturing toward where she’d put the gossip magazine on the next stool. The seat was just about the only one in the place. Layla gestured at him. “It’s all yours.”

She covertly eyed the drop-dead-gorgeous guy; he had dirty blond hair and an even dirtier grin. Maybe her day had just gotten a whole lot better….

A MODEL. She had to be.

And Sam Lovejoy definitely liked models.

He grinned again at the tall, slender brunette as he took the stool next to her. He was at least twenty minutes early for dinner with the Trident Medical Center’s senior board member. Hey, you couldn’t be too careful in L.A. While the term “fashionably late” had likely come as a result of the rotten L.A. traffic, he prided himself on always being punctual. Even if that meant getting somewhere way too early.

Tonight it looked as though luck was on his side, though. As far as he could tell, the hottie next to him wasn’t with anyone. And the way she kept sliding him glances told him she was open for any suggestion he might like to make.

He gave himself a mental thumbs-up and ordered a club soda.

“Twelve step?”

He raised his brows at the soft sound of her voice. She had one of those throaty voices that belonged in a smoky nightclub down on Sunset. “No, business dinner.”

She smiled as she crossed her legs. Sam openly watched the movement, wishing her skirt was just a few inches shorter. “Not from L.A., are you?” she asked.

“That obvious?”

“Natives usually drink their way through meals, business or otherwise. In fact, they’ve been known to forego food altogether. It’s what they call coping.”

He handed her the paper he’d picked up from the stool. “Yours?”

She quickly accepted it. “My one vice.” Her smile was a knockout. “I’m obsessed with these things. Can’t leave a store without picking one up.” She tucked her thick dark hair behind her ear. “How long are you staying?”

“In L.A.? Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been here for eight years and have no immediate plans for departure.”

“Ah. In the business?”

“How do you mean?”

She gestured at the others around the bar, most trying to look important or as if they weren’t scoping the place out for familiar famous faces. “Movie business.”

“Oh, no. Not even close.” Well, for all intents and purposes anyway. He didn’t make movies.

She seemed to relax, and he chuckled.

“How about you?” he asked, plucking the lime from the glass and putting it on the napkin. Something she seemed to take note of. “Model, right?”

Her green eyes narrowed slightly. “Wrong.”

“Then you should be.”

While the comment was true, he got the distinct impression that she hadn’t taken it as a compliment. He held up his hands. “Whoa. That sounded like one of the worst come-on lines on record, didn’t it?”

“Mmm.”

“Give me another chance?”

She stared at him for a long moment then cracked a smile. “To what? Embarrass yourself?”

“I deserved that.”

She slowly sipped on her club soda through the tiny straw and stared thoughtfully ahead. “No, you didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m having a really bad day today and it just got worse, and I guess you’re the closest available target.”

“Apology accepted.”

She toyed with the napkin under her glass. “It’s just that, well, one of my friends just cancelled out on me and my other two are late and…” She trailed off.

“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 me,” she said, fishing the wireless out. Yep, it was Jack. She turned slightly away. “Don’t tell me you’re canceling, too?”

She could hear traffic on Jack’s end of the line. She instantly envisioned him driving his old Chevy with his windows rolled down. “Reilly cancelled?” he asked.

“How did…”

“I know because Mall just called from the 101. Engine trouble. I’m heading over to help her now.”

Layla made a face and looked at her watch. “Sorry to hear that. I was really looking forward to tonight. Oh, well. It’s busy here anyway. Maybe I’ll just get a salad and head home. Give me a call later to let me know everything’s all right?”

“Will do.”

SAM WATCHED the sexy doc clap her phone closed and slip it back into her purse, feeling curiously as if he’d been whacked upside the head and sucker-punched at the same time. The first because he hadn’t felt this strongly attracted to someone in a very long time. The second because, well, he barely knew her and she hated his guts. Not because of something he’d said. But rather because he was the new senior staff administrator at Trident.

Aw, hell. Talk about your small worlds.

Sam pretended to focus on something the guy on the other side of him was saying about the poor service, rather than on the doc’s enticing legs. Meanwhile he considered his dilemma. Either he came clean now with the certainty that the attraction arcing between them would vanish like a flash of lightning. Or he continued to play dumb, pretending that she hadn’t been specific about her information. Then he could try to take things on a bit with her—possibly even take her back to his house in the Hills—then hope that she would forgive him in the morning.

And he would have to face the music in the morning because if memory served him correctly, his first appointment tomorrow morning was with one Doctor Layla Hollister, the center’s only female general practitioner. A getting-acquainted meeting that he’d prefer to conduct right now under present conditions…and without her knowing who he was.

“Your friends cancelled out, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, tucked the grocery-store rag under her arm and started to get up.

“Are you up for dinner with me, then?”

She looked at him, obviously tempted. “I thought you had business to conduct.” She tilted her head. “I never asked what you did, did I?”

“No. And about the business dinner…I can always reschedule.” He grinned at her, having made his decision not to reveal his identity. Not just yet. “This is just too good an opportunity to pass up.”

She laughed. “Unfortunately, I don’t make a habit of picking up strange men in bars.”

“Shame.”

She nodded. “Definitely a shame.” She motioned to the waiter and placed an order for a salad to go. “Hold my chair for me? I’m just going to go freshen up before I leave.”

“I think I can handle that.” Good. At least this wasn’t goodbye. Not yet…

He watched her head toward the restrooms at the back of the bar area. The material of her skirt hugged her high, firm bottom just so. Suddenly the temperature in the place seemed to jump at least twenty degrees. Sam tugged at his tie, emptied his soda, then got up. The bartender glanced at him as he slapped a twenty on the bar. “Hold both seats, will you?”

Sam navigated through the sea of hot, young bodies crowding the restaurant, his mind on one hot, young body in particular. Oh, no, he didn’t intend to let her get away that easily. He stopped outside the ladies’ room and leaned against the wall. An opportunity was an opportunity. And he planned to take complete advantage of it.

The door to the restroom opened to let out a perky blonde. Sam rubbed his chin, then crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring her suggestive look.

The door opened again and Layla came out, stuffing something into her purse and appearing not to notice him. Sam lightly grasped her arm as she began to edge past him.

She blinked up into his eyes and a curious mixture of vanilla and lemon teased his nose. She smiled. A little welcoming, a little nervous. A slight upturning of the edges of her full mouth that made his stomach crave something other than food. “I thought you were holding my chair,” she murmured, her gaze flicking over his features.

“Mmm. I was. But there was something I needed to find out first.”

Someone walked by, forcing her to step closer to him to make room. He watched her swallow thickly and saw her green eyes dilate in a telltale sign of arousal. “Oh? And what’s that?”

Heat surged through Sam’s groin. “Whether or not you taste as good as you look.”

He slowly closed the few inches separating his mouth from hers, giving her plenty of time to pull back. She didn’t. In fact, she leaned forward. Sam made a low sound of satisfaction. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid of taking it.

And, oh boy, she tasted even better than she looked. She might smell like vanilla and lemon, but her mouth was a juicy, fleshy peach just begging to be devoured. He flicked his tongue out, licking the rim of her lips then dipping it inside. So hot, so sweet, so utterly intoxicating.

He felt her hand on his waist, her fingers splaying against the muscles there, boldly probing. Sam snaked his arm around her and tugged her closer yet, feeling every inch of her clothed body against his as he slanted his head and took a deeper taste of her. Damn, but she felt good. Need, sure and swift, swept over him as he slid his hand down her slender back toward the upper curve of her bottom.

Something between them vibrated. For a moment, Sam thought he was feeling the electricity generated by their mutual passion. But then he realized it was her cell phone.

He opened his eyes, surprised that he’d completely forgotten where they were.

He had to give Layla credit. Rather than jerking away from him or displaying surprise, she laughed softly and rested her forehead briefly against his. Then she cleared her throat. “So what’s the verdict?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Sam had to restrain himself from pulling her back to him when she stepped out of his arms. “Oh. You definitely taste as good as you look. Better even.”

He heard that sultry laugh again as she dug into her purse and clicked open her cell phone. “Hello?”

Hello was right. Hello, sunshine.

If only tomorrow’s forecast didn’t call for rain.

She snapped the cell closed. “I have an emergency at the clinic.” She began to walk away, then hesitated. “It was nice meeting you…”

Nice didn’t begin to cover it. “Same here.” He took her hand and shook it, trying to ignore the heat that shot through his body at the contact. The dampness of her palm made him think of all things hot and wet. Now, how should he handle her subtle prompting for his name? “Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”

Her smile widened. “Why not?”

Why not, indeed? Sam thought, watching her walk away. He tried to keep a mental image of that beautiful smile, because he had a feeling that come tomorrow morning, he might never see it again.

2

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….”

3

“WE’RE BOTH consenting adults,” Sam had said when Layla remained silent, more shocked than reticent. “You’re attracted to me, I’m very definitely attracted to you. Let’s see what impact dinner will have.”

Three hours later back in her own office at the Trident Medical Center, Layla caught herself replaying the words. Her immediate reaction was no different now than it had been then. Her thighs dampened and her nipples strained against the front of her blouse as if seeking liberation. Or, more specifically, eagerly seeking the attention Sam Lovejoy appeared to want to give them.

“So don’t leave me hanging. What did you say to him?” her friend Mallory’s voice sounded impatient over the phone as she shouted over the noise of traffic. Sometimes it seemed as if Mallory’s middle name was impatient. Layla was amazed by her rush through life in a take-no-prisoners way that left everyone else coughing in her dust.

Unfortunately, Mallory’s driving—speeding, really—without directions usually left her facing a dead end.

A documentary producer by trade, a…what was she privately? Layla wondered. Chaos on wheels?

She smiled. No. Mallory was a great friend.

“I told him I have to work at the clinic tonight,” she finally answered.

“Oh, Layla, you didn’t!”

She leaned back in her chair, enjoying Mall’s indignant reaction. “I most certainly did. Because it’s the truth. Being short one doctor…”

“Screw the clinic,” Mallory said then cursed up a blue streak. Good thing Layla also heard her car horn or she’d have thought Mallory was reaming her out. “You need to start looking after yourself for a change, Layla.”

“Funny, that’s what Sam said.”

“Smart man, Sam. I like him already.”

“Then you don’t recognize his name.”

“No. Why? Should I?”

“Remember that documentary you did, oh, about eighteen months ago?”

“The one on the elephant man’s remains?”

“Close. The one on Hollywood’s obsession with plastic surgery.”

“Plastic surgery…Sam…oh my god! He’s not the Dr. Lovejoy, is he?”

Even said in the elongated, condescending way Mallory uttered his name, Layla shivered. “The one and only.”

“Kill him now. Before it’s too late.”

Layla laughed.

Mallory released a long breath. “Only you, Lay. Only you could be attracted to the one man in all of L.A. you shouldn’t be attracted to.”

“Who said I’m attracted to him?”

“You did, idiot. Just by mentioning him.”

Layla made a face and toyed with the foil top of her yogurt container. Leave it to Mallory to sum things up within five seconds when she’d been trying to figure them out for the past three hours.

“So when are you guys going out?”

Layla raised her brows. “I didn’t say we were.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t, either. When?”

Layla sat up and tossed the half-eaten yogurt into the trash bin under her desk. “He invited me to his place for a late dinner tonight. You know, after I knock off at the clinic.”

“Late-night nookie is more like it.”

“Mall! I didn’t say I was going. I just said that he offered the invite. He said something about it giving me an easy out if I needed it. You know, come, don’t come. The ball’s in my court.” She coughed. “I, of course, turned him down.”

“And he, of course, told you to think about it, that the invitation would remain open.”

“How did…”

“A man of his stature is not known for giving up easily, Layla.”

The sentence hung in the air before Layla’s eyes in bright-blue neon letters. She heard the whoosh of traffic from the receiver and the sound of voices passing in the hall outside her office door, but all she could think about was what Mallory meant.

She rested her hand against her neck, noticing the heat there, the elevation of her pulse. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Sam Lovejoy was a plastic surgeon, he was also rumored to be one of the biggest playboys on the Pacific coast.

He was also a great kisser. Just remembering his mouth against hers made her body tingle in response.

Mallory said, “Go.”

“What?” Layla barely breathed the word.

“I said, go. I don’t care how tired you are when you finish up at the clinic. You march right over to his place, strip out of your clothes before you’re even through the door, and indulge in some meaningless, mindless sex.” She sighed almost wistfully. “Lord knows, everyone else does.”

“You don’t.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because I’m probably one of the most uptight liberals this side of the equator.” Layla heard the smile in her voice. “But I would want to go if I were in your shoes. I guess the question here is, do you want to go?”

Yes, she did. With every clench of her thighs. “No.”

“Liar. Go. Then call me tomorrow with all the details.”

“Now that I would never do.”

“I know. Bummer.”

A brief rap on her door, then the receptionist was motioning to her watch, letting her know her lunch break was over. Layla waved her acknowledgement. “Look, Mall, I’ve got to go. Good luck with the shoot this afternoon.”

“I need more than luck—I need a miracle. But I’m still not letting you go until you tell me what you’ve decided.”

Layla smiled. “Bye, Mall.”

She slowly hung up the phone then sat there quietly for a long moment before moving on with her afternoon, no closer to a decision on the situation than she’d been at nine that morning.

It wasn’t all that long ago that she’d vowed never to date a fellow physician again.

What was the saying? Once bitten, twice shy?

But she’d also gotten wiser. This time around she’d know the score going in. Sam wasn’t married—she’d checked—but she knew he was a womanizer with a capital W. So if she did go tonight…if she did give herself over to this incredible desire…she’d do so knowing there could never be anything beyond great sex.

She swallowed hard. And there was no doubt in her mind that it would be great.

Another rap at her door. “Dr. Hollister?”

She shook herself out of her reverie and grabbed the chart in front of her. “I’m coming.”

She caught herself up short, then shook her head and headed to see her next patient.

AT TEN-THIRTY that night, Sam opened the front door to his sprawling house in Hollywood Hills and heard the sound of the phone ringing. He waited for his answering machine to pick up. When it didn’t, he strode toward the closest extension and picked up the receiver, loosening his tie at the same time.

“What happened to your answering machine?” It was his sister, Heather.

“Funny, I was just asking myself the same question.” Carrying the cordless with him, he crossed the large sunken living area, then punched the button on the piece of black plastic. He had ninety-nine messages. “I think it’s full.”

“I think it’s broken.”

“A possibility.” He gave a wry smile. Leave it to ever-practical Heather to point out the obvious.

“So what makes you call so late?” He shrugged out of his suit jacket, tossed it across the steps, then headed for the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

“Oh! Sorry. I guess I hadn’t realized it was so late. Is it really after ten already?”

“Brian working the night shift again?” Sam tried to keep his voice casual, but somehow he was never any good at it when it came to his sister’s live-in boyfriend. In the past three years they’d been together—two of them in the same house—Brian had bounced around from job to job, the latest at a national shipping warehouse where he handled stock.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he is,” Heather said, her tone telling him she wasn’t buying the casual question either. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

Sam downed half the contents of the water bottle then ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good, because if it was, I’d have to hang up on you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He screwed the cap back on the bottle and looked at his watch. It had been a long day filled with getting-acquainted meetings with staff personnel that hadn’t been nearly as interesting as his meeting with Layla Hollister. Then he finished up with another dinner with the center director who, it appeared, was in the middle of a divorce and had nothing better to do with his time than schedule long dinner meetings with underlings who might prefer to be doing something else.

“Anyway, I was just thinking that it’s been a while, you know, since you and I had some private time together.”

Sam put the bottle on the counter and took off his tie. “I was just out for dinner with you and Brian the Sunday before last.”

Oh, happy day. Brian had spent the whole time scowling into his beer can while he’d openly belittled the medical community at large and Sam more directly, and Heather had tried to smooth everything over. For her sake, Sam hadn’t hauled off and given Brian a piece of his mind by way of a fist, but he probably would have had he stayed even five minutes longer. So he’d left as quickly as possible without looking back—which he wouldn’t want to do anyway, considering the state of that place. The tract house was little more than a shack that his sister tried her best to make into a comfortable home.

He rubbed his face. “Do you need money?”

Heather laughed. “No, I don’t need money. Thanks for asking. In fact, I’ll have you know that I just started turning a profit.”

“Making pigs?”

“Creating collectable porcelain pigs I sell on the Internet.”

“Good.” Sam massaged his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. With a great deal of assistance from him, his little sister had graduated from UCLA with honors. But after only one year in a promising public relations career, she’d met Brian and all her career ambitions had gone down the drain.

Now she was not only living with a pig, she was making them.

“No, I thought that you and I, you know, could go to our favorite place. Hang out for a while.”

Their favorite place. Just the two of them. Sam grinned. That, he could definitely do. “Sure, name the time.”

She did, three days from now, for lunch.

“Anyway, what are you doing home so early?”

“If you didn’t expect me to be home, why did you call?”

“I expected to get your answering machine.”

“You could have called my cell.”

“I never call your cell.”

“I know.” He glanced at his watch. “Interestingly enough, I have a date tonight.”

A pause. “Have, as in, it has yet to begin?”

“Uh-huh. She’s coming here after she gets off work.”

“And you talk about Brian working strange hours.”

“She’s a doc and puts in time at a free clinic.”

“Same difference.”

Sam bit his tongue to stop himself from saying it wasn’t.

“Is this serious? I mean, you never have anyone at the house.”

“I suggested a restaurant but she didn’t bite. As for the serious part, this is our first date.”

“First date…at your house. Mmm. I was going to ask her name, but I won’t, because I get the feeling her name won’t come up again anyway after tomorrow.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t ‘ouch’ me, Sam. When are you going to stop all this dangerous playing around and get serious about someone?”

“Just as soon as I meet someone I want to get serious about. And what I’m doing is not dangerous. I have plenty of condoms.”

“You should hold stock in the company.”

“Actually, I do.”

She sighed heavily. “You know, one of these days I’m going to give up on you, big brother.”

“No you won’t.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because you love me.”

She laughed. “Yes, you big lug, I do.”

Shortly thereafter Sam pressed the disconnect button on the phone then stood silently in the middle of his kitchen. Heather was ten years younger than him and was indirectly responsible for his having chosen to become a doctor. They were the only two children of Bruce and Louise Lovejoy of Toledo, Ohio, a quiet couple whose own parents before them had emigrated from England when they were young. But it had been Heather’s being born with a cleft palate, and a local doctor’s muck-up of the reconstructive surgery, that had given Sam the idea of becoming a doctor himself. A doctor that wouldn’t make the same kind of mistakes his sister’s doctor had.

He shook his head, wondering what had made his mind go back there. It had been a very long time since he’d thought about the genesis of his interest in the medical field. While Heather’s scars were still visible because she refused to undergo further surgery, he’d spoken to her on the phone, not face-to-face, so seeing her scars hadn’t been the reason for his recollections.

He glanced at his watch again. Layla should be closing the clinic doors right about now. Of course, that didn’t mean she would be heading this way.

He grinned. Nor did it mean that she wouldn’t be.

He placed a call to a local restaurant and ordered up dinner for two to be delivered in fifteen, then headed for his bedroom and the shower beyond, not about to make it easy for her to refuse him if she did make the trip all the way out to his place.

OKAY, so Mallory was right. She did want to go to Sam’s place. More than that, she was sitting in her car outside his house, hesitant about pulling into the driveway of the sloping ranch-style dwelling that could have held five of her cramped apartment.

Of course, she doubted Sam Lovejoy had the student loan debt that she had, either. His house alone stood testament to the fact. Never mind the sleek black Jaguar parked in front of the door.

God, he was home.

She wiped her damp palms on her skirt, not realizing until that moment that she’d secretly hoped he wouldn’t be there. Then she could have placed the blame for their not seeing each other on him.

But he was home and she was there and it would be stupid for her to do anything else but go in. Maybe have a cup of coffee or water or something. Then say something about an early morning and hightail it out of there if she felt the least bit uneasy.

She made a face, backed up then pulled her ten-year-old Pontiac behind his sports car. Who was she kidding? She didn’t want to hightail it out of anywhere. She wanted to see if his mouth was capable of doing all the things she’d dreamed about last night. And, let’s face it, it had been a good long time since she’d had an orgasm that required somebody else being in the room. Much too long.

And if a little voice told her that this might not be such a good idea, sleeping with a fellow doctor, much less a boss of sorts, she ignored it. While Sam Lovejoy might be staff administrator, he was also a man. And while she couldn’t really say she knew him all that well, she got the distinct impression that any indiscretions would be kept between the two of them. Unlike what had passed between her and Jim Colton. It seemed the entire Center knew that she’d had an affair with a married man. The only people who hadn’t had a clue, it appeared, were her…and his wife.

“Turn off the car, Layla,” she quietly ordered herself.

She did, then forced herself to climb out. The lawn on either side of the drive was nicely landscaped. Flowers blooming everywhere. But that didn’t mean anything. All the houses out this way had professional landscapers. It didn’t mean that…

What? That Sam was married?

She stretched her neck. No, she’d been extra careful this time out. If there was one thing she was absolutely positive of, it was that Dr. Lovejoy wasn’t married.

Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t in or hadn’t very recently been in a serious relationship on the verge of marriage.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Layla, get over yourself. Just because you’ve been burned once doesn’t mean you’ll be burned again.”

There were no guarantees that she wouldn’t be, either, she reminded herself.

She walked to the door, straightened her skirt, then raised her hand to knock.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re just here for the sex.”

The door opened midway through her comment to herself and Sam stood there in all his handsome glory, a mile-wide grin on his striking face. “Did I hear somebody say ‘sex’?”

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