Simon’s temperature was definitely on the rise….

Along with other parts of him. How could he be walking wounded one minute and hyperaware of a beautiful woman the next?

The answer was simple, a five-letter word. Megan.

Insanity was the only explanation for his sudden, powerful urge to pull the nurse into his arms.

If she took his pulse, he wouldn’t be able to hide his reaction to her. His heart was pounding, and she’d know it, too, as soon as she put her fingers on his wrist to take the reading. This whole thing was a bad idea. What had he been thinking to ask for her? He obviously hadn’t been thinking. At least not with his head.

Why now? Why did he feel something? She’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him, which was fine and dandy because he didn’t want anything to do with her, either—or did he?

Midnight, Moonlight & Miracles
Teresa Southwick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my editor, Karen Taylor Richman.

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to tell this story. I hope I’ve done it well.

TERESA SOUTHWICK

is a native Californian. Having lived with her husband of twenty-five-plus years and two handsome sons, she has been surrounded by heroes for a long time. Reading has been her passion since she was a girl. She couldn’t be more delighted that her dream of writing full-time has come true. Her favorite things include: holding a baby, the fragrance of jasmine, walks on the beach, the patter of rain on the roof and, above all, happy endings.

Teresa has also written historical romance novels under the same name.

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled to be part of Silhouette Special Edition. The books in this line have always been among my favorites, bringing me countless hours of laughter, tears and emotion-packed entertainment. It is with pleasure and a great sense of accomplishment that I join the ranks of these wonderful authors with the release of my first full-length Special Edition novel. It’s a dream come true.

There are several people I’d like to thank for helping me turn my fantasy into fact. First, Susan Mallery, a talented and generous writer who also happens to be a dear friend. Susan always gives her support, encouragement and, especially, honesty. Second, my agent, Linda Kruger, for her organization, enthusiasm and determination. Third, Karen Taylor Richman, a terrific editor, who gave me this opportunity and also gives great ideas and expert guidance.

Finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader. In the end, your opinion matters most. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. May you find Midnight, Moonlight & Miracles filled with laughter, tears and emotion.

Happy reading,

Teresa Southwick

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

Chapter One

Trauma team to the ER. Code three—ETA. Five minutes.

Megan Brightwell read the message on her beeper. Adrenaline pumped through her even as she looked at the turkey sandwich she’d just purchased from the hospital cafeteria. Code three meant paramedics were bringing someone in with lights and sirens—a possible life-threatening emergency. She grabbed the sandwich and raced from the cafeteria, turning right toward the emergency room.

Five minutes gave her three to wolf down food and one for indigestion. That left her just enough time to put on her I’m-too-cool-to-be-excited-about-being-on-the-trauma-team face.

Right on time the paramedics wheeled the patient in.

“Put him in trauma two,” she said, glancing at the patient. A man. His eyes were closed, shirt torn and bloody, ditto the jeans.

The two EMTs did as instructed and, on her count, the three of them grabbed the sheet and transferred him to the hospital gurney.

“What have we got?” she asked.

“Motorcycle accident. Male. Mid-thirties. Normal vitals. Unconscious when we got to the scene. Witnesses said he tried to get up and his leg buckled. He woke up en route but keeps drifting in and out. Superficial scrapes, one nasty gash left shoulder. Bump on the head. Facial abrasions. We started an IV.”

“Did he have ID on him?” she asked.

The paramedic handed over a wallet. “Simon Reynolds.”

“Mr. Reynolds? Can you hear me?” She glanced at the man. His eyelids flickered and he groaned but didn’t look at her. “Where’s his helmet?”

“Wasn’t wearing one,” the EMT responded.

Shaking her head in disgust, she yanked her bandage scissors from her pocket. The blunt, angled end made it easier to cut away his tattered shirt and the bottom part of his pants. She grabbed a disposable razor and shaved five circular spots on his chest, then attached stickies for the leads that would hook him up to the heart monitor. The machine would take constant pulse, respiration and blood pressure.

“What have we got, Megan?” Dr. Sullivan hurried into the room and stood on the other side of the gurney, surveying the victim. He palpated the belly and then prodded, searching for evidence of internal injuries.

She filled him in on what the EMT had said.

“Take him to X-ray for a CT scan. We’ll see what shows up. His vitals are normal, and it doesn’t look like there’s any bleeding in the belly. He just looks like hamburger.”

“So he’s not toast,” she agreed, going with ER-speak for he looked a lot worse than he was.

“Probably not.”

“Mr. Reynolds, I’m taking you to X-ray.” His eyes flickered, but he didn’t say anything.

Megan tugged on the end of the gurney, wheeling it out of the room and through the double doors for the short trip to radiology. Looking down at him, she sighed. “His guardian angel was working overtime tonight.”

“Can you hear me, Mr. Reynolds? I want you to open your eyes now.”

Simon decided maybe he would open his eyes if only to silence that bossy female voice. He wanted to tell her not to waste any more time and energy on him. He’d been aware of her—and other people—moving around him, doing X rays and bloodwork, beeping and poking and prodding. All their efforts were wasted on him, and it was time to tell her so. But when he looked up, a blond, blue-eyed knockout of an angel was staring back at him.

If he was dead, she was slumming. He’d already been living in hell. Dying would only make it official.

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” she said.

“Isn’t that the one where the wake-up call is a kiss?” He forced the words past what felt like gravel in his throat.

“I’m a nurse, not the fairy-tale police.”

“Not an angel?” He remembered hearing something about a guardian angel.

She shook her head. “Not even close.”

“Then I’m not dead?” A purely rhetorical question. The pain knifing through him was clear evidence that he was alive.

“You’re still a member of the human race,” she confirmed.

Maybe a member of the race. He wasn’t so sure about the human part.

“Where am I?” He knew it was a hospital, but details were fuzzy.

“You’re in the ER at Saint Joseph’s. You’re on a heart monitor, standard procedure for trauma patients.” She glanced at the beeping machine beside him and the screen with lines spiking across it. “Next time you decide to give Evel Knievel a run for his money, I suggest you wear a helmet. Didn’t you get the memo that protective headgear is the law? And it’s designed for the purpose of preventing nasty goose eggs like the one you’ve got there.”

Pain roared through his head like an Amtrak train. But still he lifted his arm to touch his forehead, and winced when he found a good-sized lump that confirmed her words. He noticed thin, clear tubing connected to his arm. An IV?

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Megan Brightwell. Do you know who you are?”

“Simon Reynolds.”

“Good. Do you know what day this is?”

He thought for a moment. When he remembered the date, consuming pain roared through him again, but this time it wasn’t physical.

“Yeah. I know.” He looked at her, wishing the protective haze hadn’t cleared so fast. “You’re a nurse? Then I guess goose egg is the correct medical terminology?”

“Actually, that would be contusion, but I didn’t want to get too technical with a man who just scrambled his brains.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Nothing except riding the bike.” He shook his head, wincing as he instantly regretted the motion.

“I guess I don’t have to tell you to lie still.” In spite of her teasing words and tone, there was a sympathetic expression in her eyes.

The last thing he wanted, needed or deserved was her pity.

Metal scraped on metal as she dragged a privacy curtain halfway around the space where he was lying. Beyond it, he heard a phone ring and muted voices. Pretty quiet. The last time he’d been here all hell had broken loose. Must be a slow night. Good. Someone would look at him before his injuries had time to heal. He wanted the hell out of here.

“According to the paramedics who brought you in, one minute you were riding that motorcycle. The next you were playing slip and slide on the street—without the plastic mat.”

“The roads were slick.”

“Yeah,” she allowed. “Rain does that. And you just proved what everyone says—Southern Californians don’t know how to drive on wet roads.”

“You’re not going to cut me any slack, are you?”

“That’s not my plan. Do the words ‘slow down’ mean anything to you?”

“And miss slip and slide?”

“Silly me. What was I thinking?” she asked, her tone rife with sarcasm.

In spite of the stinging, throbbing and aching that encompassed every single cell and nerve ending of his body, he registered a flicker of respect for this woman’s shoot-from-the-hip, call-a-spade-a-spade style.

He shifted on the hard gurney, then wished he hadn’t. “I think I took a solid bounce or two.”

“You have some nasty yet colorful lacerations and abrasions,” she confirmed.

“Anything life threatening?”

“You almost sound like you’re hoping.” A frown puckered her smooth brow.

He shrugged and caught his breath at the pain that zinged him. “I just want to know when I can get out of here.”

Except for that spot of worry between her brows, her skin was smooth and creamy. She was pretty. He couldn’t be hurt too bad if he noticed.

“Is there someone we can call to let them know you’re here? Your wife maybe?”

His chest tightened. “No.”

“What about friends? Family?”

“My brother lives in Phoenix. Since I’m not dead, there’s no reason to call him—or anyone else. Except maybe the doc so I can split.”

“I’ll let him know you’re awake. He’ll be in to talk to you as soon as he can.”

“Can’t you tell me what’s up?”

“No. That’s the doctor’s job.”

“Where is he? Playing golf?”

“After evaluating your vital signs, he ordered labs and X rays. While waiting for those, he went to see the other patient.”

He remembered going through the tests. Then her words sank in.

“Other patient?” He frowned. “I didn’t hit—I mean when I went down—was it just me?”

“As far as I know,” she said, “that patient is medical as opposed to accident trauma. When we triaged the two of you, he drew the short straw. Doctor’s been working on him for a while.”

“If I came in second, I guess that means I’m going to live.”

“You sound disappointed.”

Maybe he was. She might look like an angel, but she didn’t act like one. But then, how would he know? No self-respecting angel would or should give him the time of day. Even if he believed in them, which he didn’t. Not anymore. Not since Marcus—

Suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes.

“Stay with me, sleeping beauty.” Her voice was sharp. “Mr. Reynolds? Can you hear me?”

Megan gently patted her patient’s face and squeezed his hand, because it was one of the few places without abrasions. Probably because he’d worn leather gloves. What kind of idiot would protect his hands and not his head?

“An idiot with a death wish,” she whispered to no one in particular. She gently patted his face again. “Oh, no you don’t. Not on my watch.”

“I’m not asleep. Who’s an idiot?” he asked, opening his eyes.

She let out a relieved breath, grateful she’d easily roused him and he hadn’t slipped into unconsciousness. “So you were playing possum.”

“I don’t play anything—”

Anymore.

The word hung in the air between them as clearly as if he’d said it out loud. She studied him. He wasn’t hard on the eyes. In spite of the fact that he looked like the loser in a close encounter of the pavement kind, he was incredibly good-looking. But she couldn’t help thinking he was in pain.

Duh. Of course he was. The man probably had a concussion. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she couldn’t see where he was hurting the most. And since when did psychoanalyzing become part of emergency room protocol?

“No more pretending to be asleep, Mr. Reynolds.”

“I wasn’t pretending. And the name’s Simon.”

“It’s going to be mud if you scare me like that again.”

He grinned unexpectedly, chasing the shadows from his face, making him even more attractive. Her heart skipped, and she thought it was a good thing she wasn’t hooked up to a monitor. With no evidence to the contrary, she could pretend she’d had no reaction to his smile.

Megan checked the machine and noted that his vital signs were all good. But the shadows in his eyes and the tension in his square jaw told her he was pretty uncomfortable. Unfortunately, because of the head injury, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Until the doctor assessed his tests and the extent of the damage, she couldn’t give him pain meds.

But he was stoic. She couldn’t help admiring that. And he was edgy. The cc or two of humor he’d injected into their short conversation gave her hope that his tests would come back negative, proving what she’d already observed. Simon Reynolds was strong and healthy. And handsome in a rough-and-tumble, rugged sort of way.

That was not a professional observation. It was purely personal, and she couldn’t help it. She was a woman; she was breathing.

Short, wavy dark hair framed his face. His eyes were a vivid blue, a shade more intense than she’d ever seen before on anyone—man or woman. The thick, dark lashes were sinfully long and totally wasted on a man.

He looked like a fighter—lean and muscular. Now that he’d passed the golden hour, that precious sixty minutes when medical intervention made the difference between life and death, she could observe more details about him. Her haphazard surgery on his clothes had revealed a pretty impressive chest and strong legs dusted with a masculine covering of hair.

“So you think I’m an idiot, Nurse Nancy?”

She met his gaze, which, surprisingly, held humor. “I told you—my name is Megan. And while you weren’t supposed to hear what I said, yes, I think you’re an idiot. Kids know better than to ride a bike without a helmet. Unless you’re a superhero I have to conclude that you don’t have the common sense of a gnat.”

“I hate helmet hair.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “So you’re a vain idiot.”

“Is it part of your job to insult your patients?”

“Nope. Just one of the perks.”

“Are all the ER nurses like you?”

“Nope. They’re worse. But then I’m fresh out of school. A newbie just filling in. I do four or five shifts a month to keep up my emergency room certification.”

“Why’s that?”

“I work for a home health-care company while I’m getting experience and waiting for a full-time position to open up here in the ER.”

“Why?”

“I have a child. Emergency room nursing is highly skilled. The pay is better.”

He flinched, then his face froze into an expressionless mask. As she observed him, the feeling hit her again that, in addition to his physical pain, he was stoic about his emotions.

Why did she keep doing that? Emotions had no place in ER medicine. Feelings were part of long-term recovery. For that matter, why had she just shared so many details about herself? She usually chatted with patients when she could, but didn’t share personal information. What was so different about this particular patient?

“Megan?”

She looked over her shoulder and saw the ER unit secretary in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Dr. Sullivan said to show you this.” The tall, thin, mid-fortyish woman handed her a computer printout. “He said to put it in the chart,” she added before hurrying from the room.

Megan’s eyebrows went up as she scanned the information. “Well, this is interesting.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s procedure to check the computer for previous data on every admit.”

“So I’m an admit.” His gaze narrowed on her. “Would you like to share the information with me?”

“I suspect you already know what it says.” She met his gaze squarely. “We saw you the first time a year and a half ago.”

His forehead furrowed. “Broken ankle?”

“Skydiving,” she confirmed. “Next was a shoulder separation.”

“I think that was hang gliding. That tree came out of nowhere.”

“Last but not least,” she said, “a ruptured spleen—resulting in surgery.”

“Waterskiing. I took the jump, and I remember soaring through the air with the greatest of ease. After that it gets a little hazy. I think one of the skis torpedoed me.”

“It appears you’re something of a regular here.”

She studied his pupils, watching for classic signs of concussion. The heart monitor would tell her his vitals, but she touched two fingers to the pulse in his wrist. For some reason, she felt the need to touch him.

“You have some dangerous hobbies, Simon.” She met his gaze. “Motorcycles? Hang gliders? Water skis, oh my. I’d say that makes you one of those guys who lives on the edge.”

“It’s not a bad place to be.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only safe place to feel anything.”

The words stunned Megan, but before she could respond, the doctor shoved aside the privacy curtain. The tall, balding, bespectacled physician had X-ray films in his hand.

“I see you’re wide-awake now, Mr. Reynolds.” He stood on the other side of the gurney.

“Thanks to Megan. She’s keeping me on my toes—so to speak.”

Dr. Sullivan nodded knowingly. “Megan’s one of the good guys. I just wish she was full-time staff.” He flipped through the pages of the chart in his hands, then looked at the man in the bed. “Good news. Nothing’s broken. But the paramedics who brought you in said witnesses told them you tried to get up after the accident and had trouble walking.”

“Yeah.” His brow furrowed as he thought. “I stood up and felt pain rip through my leg.”

“Where specifically?”

“Calf and thigh.”

“Since there are no broken bones, that would indicate soft tissue damage.”

“You want to give it to me in English?”

“Sounds like muscles, ligaments or tendons. You’ll wish it was a broken bone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bones knit fast. For everything else, recovery is painful and slow.”

The patient nodded his head and started to sit up. “Okay. Thanks, Doc. Now I’ll get the heck out of here so someone who really needs this bed can have it.”

“Whoa.” The doctor put a hand on Simon’s chest and applied gentle but firm pressure, urging him back onto the bed.

Dr. Sullivan moved from the side to the foot of the gurney. “You’re not seriously planning to walk out of here? And I use the term walk loosely, because if you’ve got the kind of damage I think you do, you’re not going anywhere without crutches for a while. And the CT scan shows a possible concussion.”

“Two-dimensional pictures of the goose egg,” Megan translated, in case he didn’t know the term from his other visits.

“You said possible concussion.” He ignored her and directed the question to the ER doc.

“Yes. We need to watch you for signs of deterioration.” The doctor looked at Megan. “Has he complained of nausea?”

“He hasn’t complained about anything,” she admitted.

Simon glanced back and forth between the two of them. “So we all agree I’m fine. It’s been fun. I appreciate everything.”

Megan slipped into a state of readiness when he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the gurney. He’d regained consciousness quickly, and his snappy verbal responses told her he was firing on all cylinders mentally. But the rest of him had taken a beating. At the very least, he had to be wobbly. If he started to go down, she wanted to be close enough to catch him.

She almost laughed out loud. At five feet two inches, a hundred and five pounds, her catching a big man like him was ridiculous. But at least she could break his fall, slow his descent so he wouldn’t do more damage. She noticed the bright array of bruises, scrapes and one nasty-looking wound on his shoulder.

“You’re in no condition to leave the hospital,” she said.

“If one of you could call me a cab, I’ll just be on my way.” He looked from the doctor back to her.

“You’ve still got abrasions that need cleaning up and the laceration on your shoulder needs a couple of stitches,” the doctor said. “If you’ll just lie back down—”

“Thanks but no thanks.”

Simon tore the leads off either side of his chest and the one in the center. Then he did the same thing to the ones on his legs. The sound of Velcro ripping followed as he forcefully removed the blood pressure cuff from his arm. Megan remembered that she’d had to find an adult large to accommodate his impressive biceps.

Inane thought. And one she didn’t have time to analyze, because the idiot was going to leave without treatment. Before she could decide how to stop him or if she should even try, he removed the medical tape and IV from his arm. Blood dripping down the inside of his forearm mobilized her in a hurry.

She grabbed some gauze squares and pressed them against his skin to stanch the flow. Simon Reynolds must really hate hospitals. But in his condition it was the best place for him. She had a feeling rational arguments wouldn’t get through to him.

“I say we let him go.” She directed her comment to the doctor.

“I knew I liked you,” Simon said with an approving smile.

Dr. Sullivan pushed his glasses farther up on his nose. “Megan, I don’t think—”

“How far can he get? Between the leg and head injuries, it’s just a matter of what takes him down first. The leg will probably buckle—if he can stand at all. He’s pretty alert, but that bump on the head is bound to make him dizzy. Then there’s the blood loss—” She shrugged and bent his arm up toward his chest to maintain pressure that would help stop the bleeding. “I have a dollar that says he bites the dust as soon as he puts weight on the leg.”

“A whole buck?” Amusement chased the traces of pain from Simon’s face. “You’re not very sure of your diagnosis.”

“If I had more money and a sucker around here who’d take the bet, I could clean up,” she retorted. She glanced at the doctor. “We can just stand here and watch him pass out. Or on the off chance he makes it out of here, we can follow the blood trail.”

“I thought nurses were supposed to be angels of mercy.”

She looked back at him. “I told you I’m no angel.”

“What about the mercy part?”

“Any moron who rides a motorcycle without a helmet, then tries to leave the hospital before he’s physically ready doesn’t deserve mercy.”

Simon lifted one dark eyebrow. “She’s tough as nails, Doc,” he said.

“I’m glad she got through to you. Now then, we’ll clean you up and admit you—”

“I didn’t say I’d changed my mind.”

Dr. Sullivan stared in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. A man in your condition—”

“I’m dead serious.” He started to slide off the gurney.

“No,” Megan cried. She hadn’t expected him to call her bluff.

She instantly moved forward, insinuating herself between his legs to keep him on the gurney. For all her bravado, she was afraid he would hurt himself, do more damage than he’d already done.

When he slid down nudging her backward, she wedged her shoulder beneath his armpit and encircled his waist with her arm. He was heavy. She knew muscle weighed more than fat, and he had an abundance of one and no discernible trace of the other.

“Listen to reason,” she ground out.

When he met her gaze, his own snapped with stubbornness. “So it was an act? You’re not going to let me fall or follow the blood trail?”

“Look, if you don’t get the medical attention you need, you’re going to be one gigantic infection and that will probably finish you off.”

“She’s right, Mr. Reynolds.” The doctor went to his other side and helped Megan get him back on the gurney.

“You can’t keep me here if I don’t choose to stay.”

“Of course we can,” Megan said, bluffing again.

“Liar.” Simon’s forehead beaded with perspiration. “I’m a regular. I know the rules.”

She looked at the ER doctor for help. “Do something.”

“You know as well as I do that he’s within his rights to refuse treatment. Is there anyone at home who can look after you?”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t need anyone.”

“You do need medical care.” Dr. Sullivan rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“What kind of care?” Simon asked.

She met his gaze. “Stitches on the shoulder or you’ll have the mother of all scars.”

“Chicks love scars.”

“Says who? And scars aren’t the issue. But a nasty infection could ruin your day. The rest of your boo-boos need debriding.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“You don’t know? With all your experience, I assumed you’d be familiar with the procedure. But I see you’re an equal opportunity catastrophe. Debriding is where I pick the gravel out while you bite on a stick.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Way to make me want to stay,” he said wryly.

“We’ll give you a local anesthetic,” the doctor explained. “But it’s got to be done.”

“Here?”

“Unless you sign yourself out AMA,” Megan said. “Against medical advice,” she translated. Although he probably already knew. “If you leave and fall down, you could hurt yourself even worse. But you’ll have no legal recourse with the hospital.”

“I’ll risk it—”

“Why do you want to?” She put her hands on her hips. “Look, you gave us your insurance card, so I know you’re covered.”

“Money isn’t a problem.”

“Then what is the problem?” she demanded.

“I hate hospitals.”

“There’s a news flash.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere.” The doctor rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Look, Mr. Reynolds, what if you let us clean you up, then you spend the night here? We’d like to keep you twenty-four hours for observation, but we’ll take what we can get. Tomorrow we’ll send you on your way with a home health-care professional.”

“A nurse?” he asked, looking at her.

“Definitely.” The doctor nodded. “You’ll need to have an IV, dressings changed, close observation in case of concussion. We don’t want you passing out all by your lonesome. You’re going to need general care because of the soreness. It’s going to be hard to get around.”

Simon was quiet for several moments. Megan could see he was thinking it over. Still, she wasn’t prepared for his answer.

“Can I have Megan?”

Chapter Two

Simon figured if he hadn’t already had his head examined, he would need to give it serious consideration in the near future. His thinking was crystal clear in spite of the goose egg. Although what he’d just asked sure didn’t prove it. What in the world had possessed him to ask for Megan? The shocked look on her face said she wasn’t keen on the idea, although there was no need to worry. He had no intention of actually going through with this home nursing thing. But her reaction made him damn curious.

She took one step away from the bed. “I’m afraid the home health-care system doesn’t work that way, Mr. Reynolds.”

“It’s Simon, remember? And what way is that?”

“Assignments are handled by the coordinator, Pat Gautreau.”

“What about requests?”

“It’s not a call-in radio show,” she snapped.

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that it was.”

“Time out.” The doctor put his hand up. “I’m going to put in the paperwork requesting a home nurse for you, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll get in touch with Pat and see what she can do to accommodate your personnel preferences. In the meantime, Megan, clean him up. One way or the other he’s going to need that. I’ll do the sutures when I come back.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

After the doc left, Simon watched her move around the small space. It took several moments to register that she never looked at him. She pulled over a stand-up metal tray and put a disposable cloth on it. Paper crackled as she assembled packaged squares, gauze and other mysterious packets. It looked like she was preparing for major surgery. If she pulled out a scalpel, he was outta there, even if he had to crawl.

Finally, she looked at him. “Okay, hero. Lie back down and grit your teeth.”

He complied with her first request, sucking in a breath when every part of his body protested. He slowly let the air out, then said, “So why don’t you want to come home with me?”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“My brains might be scrambled, but I’m not stupid.” He watched her tear open a square white package, then closed his eyes. She was a bundle of energy, and it made his head hurt to watch her.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” The clipped tone said she knew damn well.

“You looked like you’d swallowed a whole bottle of castor oil when I asked for you.”

“Hold still. I’m going to spray on a topical anesthetic for the pain. It might sting a bit.”

He felt something cool on his skin. It stung for an instant, then stopped and there was blessed relief as the throbbing discomfort went down a notch. He opened his eyes. “Come on, Megan. What’s your deal?”

“I don’t have a deal. You’re imagining things. You should have your head examined.”

“I already did. What happened to the straight-talking, take-no-prisoners angel of mercy?”

“I’m still here. Although you might have your doubts about the mercy part when I get through with you. This is going to hurt. I’ll be as quick as I can.” She let out a long breath, then said, “I’m sorry.”

One minute he was thinking that her tone held heartfelt apology and he wasn’t sure why. The next, fire shot through him and it was all he could do to hold it together. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on holding still. Simon gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw to keep from making any sound as she dabbed and prodded, rubbed and poked his skin to clean the scrapes.

Should he tell her not to bother? There was nothing she could do for what really ailed him. The wound was deep inside where no one could reach it.

“There. Done,” she said.

He opened his eyes and saw her toss bloodstained gauze on the tray. “That wasn’t so bad.”

But he’d heard the raw edge to his voice. His scraped skin tingled and throbbed, hurting only slightly more than his throat from his effort to hold back any sound.

One of her eyebrows lifted. “Really? Maybe I missed something. I can check and see. Go through it again—”

“No!”

He met her gaze and saw the shadows in her wide blue eyes. Her lips turned up at the corners, evidence that she was teasing him. But it cost her. Every job had its downside. Hurting a patient, even to help, wasn’t easy for her. Humor was her defense mechanism.

“You’re absolutely sure?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He let out a long breath. “I’m squeaky clean.”

“At least your boo-boos are,” she qualified. “Now I’m going to put on some antibiotic.” She grabbed a packet and ripped off the edge, then squeezed until opaque ointment appeared. After touching a swab to the stuff, she applied it to his scrapes.

She met his gaze. “Okay, just a couple more spots on that pretty face of yours and you’re almost ready for the doctor to suture your shoulder before you go upstairs for the night.”

“You seem awfully cheerful at the prospect of passing me off.”

“Really? And I thought I was being subtle.”

“Why are you so anxious to get rid of me?” he asked, squirming.

“Hold still.” She finished dabbing the ointment at a spot on his jaw, then met his gaze without blinking. “You’re my worst nightmare.”

“Wow. Don’t sugarcoat it, Megan. Tell me how you really feel.”

Her lips compressed into a straight line for a moment and she shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“But you did. So come on. The least you can do is explain.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not going to provoke me into saying anything else.”

“How unfair is that? I should get something for holding still while you tortured me.”

One of her delicate eyebrows rose. “Now there’s a switch. The person being tormented is usually the one who sings like a canary.”

“I think it hurt you more than me. So give.”

“No.”

“Why? Why am I your worst nightmare?”

Still holding the swab, she looked at him, her eyes snapping. “Are you going to drop this?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “You win. Why am I anxious to pass you off? You’re dangerous, a loose cannon. Before you ask how I know this, I’ll tell you. No one in their right mind would try to leave the hospital in your condition. Obviously, you thumb your nose at the rules.”

“I prefer to think of it as marching to my own drum.”

“You didn’t bother to deny it. I have to admire that. But people like you are bad for me.”

“Junk food is bad for you. I’m—”

“The saturated fat in the veins of my life.” She dropped the used swab onto the tray beside her.

“Some son of a bitch dumped you.”

“How did you know?” Her head snapped around so fast whiplash was a real possibility. “Never mind. We’ve already established that you’re not stupid.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It’s probably the nicest thing I will ever say to you.”

Simon found that bantering with her took his mind off the pain. There was no other explanation for the way he was acting, why he was pushing her—provoking her. If he didn’t know better, he would call it flirting. But that was impossible. A guy only flirted to show interest in a woman, and he hadn’t been interested for a really long time. Not in women—or anything else.

“So tell me about him—the jerk who dumped you.”

“It’s none of your business.” She picked up the empty packaging on the tray beside her, then toed open the metal trash can and dropped it in. “I refuse to discuss that with you.”

“Come on, Megan.”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“Isn’t a nurse supposed to help with pain? Talking helps take my mind off it.”

She put a clean paper on the tray. “Okay. We can discuss the weather. Sports. Movies. Books or—”

“I want to know about the creep who hurt you.”

“Why?” She looked over his injuries, then met his gaze and smiled. “Are you planning to beat him up for me?”

“Give me a little time. Seriously, how can I defend myself against being your worst nightmare if you don’t talk to me?”

“For a guy with recent head trauma you’re awfully stubborn, not to mention pushy.”

“And those are my good qualities.” He studied her face, the shadows that chased away the sunshine.

“You remind me of him,” she finally said.

“Go ahead—kick me when I’m down.”

“You insisted. Besides, I’m merely being objective—and truthful. He was a rule-breaker, too—probably still is, wherever he is. Good-looking—”

“You think I’m good-looking?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“On the contrary, you said I remind you of him.”

“I was talking attitude not appearance,” she retorted.

“So you think I’d have to sneak up on a glass of water?”

“I didn’t say that, either.” She positioned a nonstick square bandage on his left elbow. “Hold that.”

He did as she asked. “So what are you saying? Am I good-looking or not?” And since when did he care whether or not a woman liked his looks?

“The average woman would not run screaming from any room you entered. There. I’ve fed your ego. Are you satisfied now?”

“So you would stick around if I came into a room?” He watched her cut strips of tape and place them over the bandage.

“I’m a pretty average woman,” she answered with a shrug.

The backhanded compliment pleased him. He’d thought nothing and no one would ever do that again. “You’re a long way from average, Megan. Which makes any guy who would walk out on you a first-class moron.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “I choose to believe that, even though you don’t know me from a rock.”

“I know enough.” He knew she was carrying around a fair amount of animosity. That had to mean she’d invested a fair amount of time and energy into the relationship. “I’m sorry your husband—”

“No way,” she said vehemently. “Not my husband. I was stupid in so many ways, but at least I was smart enough not to marry him.”

“Where there’s fire, something’s feeding it. What did he do?”

Her blue eyes darkened and her mouth thinned to a straight line before she answered. “When I needed him most, he walked out on me.”

Her statement was simple and straightforward. But her expression told him there was a whole lot she wasn’t saying.

Why had she needed the jerk? No one knew better than he did that bad stuff happened to good people. What bad stuff had turned Megan’s perfect world so upside down that the guy hadn’t stuck around? Whatever had happened was still no excuse. A man didn’t run out on the people who needed him.

He’d made that mistake once and the rest of his life was punishment for it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing the words were inadequate. He’d heard that until he was ready to scream. Sorry—five letters forming a polite response that made people feel better to say it, but hadn’t ever done him a damn bit of good to hear.

“Me, too. But one good thing came out of it. He gave me my daughter.”

A child—a girl. Crushing pain seized his chest. It wasn’t physical, but felt as real as the injuries she’d just tended. From deep inside him, it rippled outward and settled around his heart. Marcus. His son. The best thing in his life. And he was gone.

Simon held still while she secured a bandage on his forearm. She looked at her handiwork and nodded with satisfaction. “Now we wait for the doctor to do your stitches.”

“What do you suppose is keeping him? If he doesn’t get back here soon—”

“What? You’re going to dash out of here? You agreed to spend the night in the hospital and hire a home nurse,” she accused.

“Technically, I never agreed to anything. But if you agree to be my nurse—”

“Even if I wanted to, I’m blocked off the schedule until tomorrow afternoon. If you’re set on getting out of here first thing in the morning, that’s not going to work for you.”

“Sleeping in to get your beauty rest?” If so, she didn’t need it.

“Not a chance, hotshot. Bayleigh has a doctor’s appointment.”

“Who?”

“My daughter.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

She shook her head. “A checkup with her ophthalmologist.”

“Can you reschedule?”

“I could. But I won’t.”

Before he could ask any more questions, the doctor returned.

“How are you doing, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Good as new, Doc.”

“Glad to hear it.” He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses farther up on his nose then looked at Megan. “Pat is on the phone at the desk. She wants to talk to you.”

“Okay. And unless there’s something else, it’s time for me to punch out.”

The doctor shook his head. “I don’t need you for the stitches. Go home.”

She nodded then walked to the foot of the gurney. “Good luck, Simon. Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me.” She started to turn and he said, “Megan? Watch out for saturated fat.”

She smiled, a beautiful wide smile, then she was gone. Instantly, he missed her—correction, he missed her sharp wit. For a while, it had taken the edge off his pain and emptiness. The two joined forces and closed in around him. The doctor talked as he injected a local anesthetic, but Simon didn’t feel the prick or hear the words. He needed to get out of here. Megan was wrong—he was a stupid man.

A stupid man who would sign himself out AMA.

It had been a long night. When the sun finally came up, Simon reluctantly admitted that he’d been more stupid than usual. His body was like an orchestra’s percussion section—throbbing, aching, stinging. And it repeated over and over. The slightest movement was agonizing, and he’d walked out without taking the prescription for pain medication the doctor had tried to give him. So he didn’t move more than necessary. But now even he could see he needed help. He needed a nurse.

So he’d called the number on the card for Home Health that the ER doc had insisted he take with him. They’d sent someone right over. In five minutes he’d sized her up and realized she wouldn’t do. She wasn’t Megan. He’d called back and insisted they send Megan Brightwell—or no one at all. The consequences were theirs. Megan had told him she wasn’t available until afternoon. He glanced at the clock on the living room wall. It was afternoon, and he was still waiting.

Leaning heavily on his crutches, Simon lowered himself onto his sofa. He clenched his jaw against the hammering pain as he carefully hoisted his Velcro-and-canvas-splinted leg up, then carefully swung it around and lowered it to the cushion. After letting out a long breath, he vowed never to take for granted the simple bodily function of going to the bathroom. He also made a mental note to decrease his liquid intake to just this side of dehydration so he wouldn’t have to get up again anytime soon.

When the doorbell rang, he swore. “Come in,” he called out, hoping it was Megan.

He watched the front door open and his visitor step onto the wooden floor in the entryway. “Simon?”

“Hi, Janet.”

The attractive, fiftyish woman wearing designer jeans, tailored T-shirt and matching navy cardigan stood motionless, studying him from across the room. Her short blond hair was neatly arranged around her softly lined face. Her normally warm brown eyes stared at him in horror.

“Good Lord, Simon. What in the world have you done to yourself now? I came over because I was afraid of something like this.” She slammed the door, then walked over to him.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Jan.”

“The fact that you’re a mess from head to toe? Or that Marcus died two years ago yesterday?” She came farther into the room and stood by the couch, studying him. “Or do you not want to talk about the decision I was forced to make after the accident?”

“None of the above,” he said, throwing his forearm across his eyes. But that didn’t stop him from seeing the memories. “You’ve done your good deed for the day. You’re off the hook.”

“I was never on the hook. But okay.”

For a moment he thought she’d listened and was going to leave him alone. But when she cleared her throat, he knew it was only the beginning.

“We won’t talk about it now,” she said. “But mark my words, the day is coming—soon.”

“No, it’s not. When are you going to give up on me?”

“Never.”

“Why do you bother?” He removed his arm and looked at her. “I made your daughter miserable.”

“It takes two people to make or break a relationship, Simon.” She sighed and sat on the coffee table to face him. “Donna wasn’t blameless. I’m afraid she had expectations that most men couldn’t live up to. Now we’ll never know if she might have found happiness,” she added sadly.

“I still don’t know why you waste your time on me. Surely you’ve got better things to do?”

“You didn’t give up on me after I lost Hank.”

“That was different.”

“Oh? I loved and missed him. How is that different?”

“I don’t have the strength to explain. It just is.”

“You and Donna were divorced. But that didn’t stop you from calling and coming by when I needed some chore or manly thing done around the house. Did you consider it a waste of time when you took me to lunch or dinner, giving me a reason to put on makeup and get out of the house? What about that line you fed me? That I was your son’s grandmother and that made us family.”

“It wasn’t a line. You’re a good person, Jan.”

“And you’re not?”

She knew the answer to that as well as he did. Why did they have to play twenty questions? He lowered his arm and met her sympathetic gaze. He didn’t want or need her to tell him anything. Marcus had dibs on forgiveness, but he was gone and wasn’t coming back.

“Don’t think you’re fooling me. I know what you’re trying to do,” he said.

Her mouth quirked. “What?”

“I invented the innocent act. It won’t work on me. Have you been taking those classes again?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do. Those touchy-feely things you like. You know the ones I mean—Armchair Psychology. Ten Easy Steps to a Better Relationship, even with the former son-in-law who made your daughter’s life a living hell.”

“Oh, please. Don’t be so dramatic. And don’t scoff. Those classes are very informative and have made a big difference in my life.”

“Have they helped you get over losing Marcus and Donna?”

“Nothing on earth can do that.” The light in her eyes flickered, then was extinguished. “We both lost our only child. We share the same pain, Simon.”

“Do we?”

“Maybe not. Mine is compounded. I lost my grandchild, too. It was a shattering loss. And I’m still trying to put myself back together. But we could help each other. I need to talk about it.”

“I don’t. And the last thing I want is help. Nothing will bring them back.”

He wanted to recall the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Her expression made him wince. She didn’t deserve his abuse. He was very fond of her, but he wasn’t fit company. He just didn’t have enough reserves to play nice.

She stood. “Not that you care, but at least I’m trying to move forward with my life. You’re living in perpetual midnight.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Doom and gloom. Your new best friends. As much as I wished it was me who had died, I had to come to grips with the fact that it wasn’t. Every day without them hurts like hell. But I put one foot in front of the other. You taught me that. And it takes courage. But I guess you’ve got more brains than guts. You talk the talk without walking the walk.” She stared at his bum leg, then slung her purse over her shoulder and walked toward the door.

“Janet, I—”

She turned back and held up a finger to stop him. “Don’t say anything. I’m really ticked off. You lashed out on purpose to get rid of me. It worked. You hurt me, and I’m leaving. But that’s not why I’d like to punch your lights out. You’re wasting your life, Simon. I have no patience for waste.”

Maybe this time he’d finally gotten through to her. He wasn’t worth her effort.

She took two steps, then pointed at him. “And don’t think for one minute you’ve gotten rid of me. I’m not through with you yet, buster. If it takes the rest of my life I’ll keep after you. But I’m finished for today. I’ll leave you alone now, since that’s what you seem to want. But if there’s any justice in this world and a god in heaven, each time you haul yourself up off that sofa, every muscle and nerve in your body will hurt like a son of a gun.”

Then she opened the door and slammed it after herself.

Simon let out a long breath. That certainly wasn’t his finest hour. And he’d definitely gotten his wish. He was alone. Although he didn’t feel a whole lot of satisfaction from it. If only the kitchen, the TV remote and everything else he needed could be within arm’s reach.

In spite of the fact that he’d sworn not to consume liquid, he was so thirsty he couldn’t stand it. Steeling himself for the pain, he pushed to a sitting position, then grabbed his crutches and stood. By the time he had accomplished that feat, he was sweating and dizzy. He’d held his breath against the discomfort he knew was coming and had forgotten to breathe.

The doorbell rang. Since he was already standing, he hobbled across the short distance to answer it. Maybe Janet had come back and he could make up for his churlish behavior. She reminded him of one tough, straight-talking ER nurse.

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t his former mother-in-law standing there.

“Megan.”

Chapter Three

Megan stared at the man with a death grip on his crutches and struggled to keep the shock from her expression. He looked terrible. Black, blue, and a rip-roaring case of the tired crankies. No, even more than that—tired clear to the bone. More than anything, she wanted to put her arms around him. The urge came suddenly and with such force it shocked her socks off. If she’d ever seen a soul in need of comfort, it was Simon Reynolds.

Hours had passed since she’d seen him through last night’s emergency, but she still felt that somewhere, somehow, his soul had taken an even bigger hit. And she wanted to hold him and try to make it better. But she didn’t. Gut instinct told her he was proud, stubborn and macho. He wouldn’t take kindly to any comfort offered. Besides, she wouldn’t treat him any differently than her other patients. She didn’t make hugging a habit—unless they were children.

And he was definitely not a child. His wide, bare chest with the masculine sprinkling of hair testified to that. Last night in the ER it had been safe to acknowledge her attraction. She’d never expected to see him again. But here she was. Still attracted. Maybe more so. Her strong reaction to this particular patient convinced her that she needed to proceed with caution.

She retreated behind her trademark sassiness. “Hi, Simon.”

“Megan. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Pat’s my friend. If I can save her the hassle of a nuisance malpractice suit—” She shrugged.

“I wouldn’t have sued.”

“We’ll never know. I’m surprised you answered the door.”

“Because you predicted I’d be flat on my back—if I made it home at all?”

“I thought you’d be out practicing for a world record in the walking-wounded Olympics.”

“You just caught me. Another second or two and I’d have been out the door for a training hobble.” His mouth turned up at the corners.

Unfortunately, it didn’t make him look any less battered. Even more unfortunately, his words picked up where he’d left off last night—charming her.

Coming here was a really bad idea.

But the first nurse Pat had sent hadn’t worked out and Megan had heard about his ultimatum. Her boss had coaxed and cajoled, then when all else failed, she’d brought out the big guns and called in a personal favor. Pat had given Megan a job when she’d desperately needed one. Megan had gratefully told her—if you ever need anything… So here she was, but with great personal misgivings.

She looked up at him—way up. “You’re a tall one,” she commented, the first words that came to mind.

“I’m the same height I was last night.”

“But you were flat on your back then.”

“Until I jumped off the gurney and you propped me up,” he reminded her.

“So I did. Although ‘jump’ is a pretty ambitious description.”

She’d tried to put the encounter out of her mind and couldn’t, which meant she’d probably lost her mind. What she needed to do was look at this as an opportunity to sort out and put to bed the feelings he’d evoked.

Looking past him, she noticed the entryway floor was distressed wood. That suited Simon Reynolds, she thought wryly. She could see a stairway going up and one going down. The town house had three levels. And she knew it was a block from the Pacific Ocean. An expensive piece of real estate. His paperwork from previous admits had said he was an engineer. Apparently, it was a lucrative line of work.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Sorry. I guess last night’s little spill has put me off my manners.” To let her pass in front of him, he started to back up on crutches he was quite obviously unaccustomed to navigating.

“Don’t move,” she cautioned, fearing he would topple backward. “You get points for good intentions, but let’s save the backing up and parallel parking for another lesson. Until you get the hang of it, I suggest you move in a forward direction only.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

“Like I believe that.”

Megan smiled. She couldn’t help it. One minute, she was secure in the knowledge that her defenses were squarely in place; the next, he said something cute. The further she got into this opportunity, the worse it looked.

But she didn’t have a choice so she simply moved past him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body. If she hadn’t been wearing a sweater against the cool November weather, her arm would have touched his—bare skin to bare skin. She was suddenly jittery. The close contact, his disarming grin—so attractive and so unexpected, the sheer masculinity of his unshaven jaw all combined to mobilize her hormones. If there was an antidote to his powerful appeal now was the time to take it. But she couldn’t think of a single course of treatment to slow her reaction.

God help her—she was smack-dab in the devil’s domain.

“Go sit down before you fall down,” she ordered. “If that happens, no way can I scrape you off the floor by myself.”

He winced at the words. “Falling’s not high on my to-do list, either.”

“What are you really doing up?”

She watched him hobble into the living room and slowly, carefully and painfully—if the tight, tension-filled look on his face was anything to go by—lower himself into the corner of his green-and-blue-plaid couch. He rested the crutches beside him, against the coordinating wing chair.

After letting out a long breath, he met her gaze. “I was thirsty.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “This is exactly what the doctor was afraid of.”

“Specifically?”

“Neglect.”

Megan put her bag of medical supplies on the oak coffee table and left him sitting up on the couch. She walked through the town house dining room, past an ornately carved oak table and eight chairs, past the matching hutch and into the sunny kitchen. To her right was a circular dinette with four chairs. Behind it, in the corner, a bottled-water dispenser.

To her left was a long expanse of room with a refrigerator on the left, countertops and cupboards on the right. At the end was the stove and a built-in microwave. After pacing the distance of the room, she looked down the hall that led back to the living room. She noted the pantry and the powder room across from it, then retraced her steps. Taking a glass from the top cupboard closest to the water dispenser, she filled it and walked back to him.

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

He drank greedily, and she watched his Adam’s apple move up and down. When he was finished, she couldn’t help noticing the way drops of water clung to his firm, well-shaped lips. What would they feel like against her own?

Holy cow! Why should the perfectly ordinary sight of a man drinking water make her think about that, then go weak in the knees and steal the breath straight out of her lungs? There was a perfectly reasonable explanation. She was a ninny, of course. If researchers came up with an anti-ninny inoculation, she’d be first in line for human testing.

He held the glass out to her and she took it, mortified to see that her hand was shaking.

“I’ll get you some more,” she said, turning on her heel.

“That’s okay. It was enough. I’ll just have to—”

“Yes, I know. But your body needs hydration. If you were in the hospital, they’d slap an IV on you faster than you could say intravenous saline solution.” She tossed the words over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen.

When she came back, she handed him the glass. “You’d also have a bedpan.”

His intense, blue-eyed gaze captured her own. “Then my decision to leave was definitely the right one.”

“Even though you’d have been more comfortable and better taken care of in the hospital?”

“Comfortable is a relative term. I’d have crawled to the facilities on my hands and knees before using a metal contraption you guys no doubt keep in the freezer.”

“They’re plastic. We haven’t used metal bedpans or kept them in the freezer for years.”

“Uh-huh. A likely story, but one I don’t have to test since you’re on my turf now. And I think my care quotient just went up.”

The look he gave her heated her blood and sent it bubbling through her body. Unfortunately, she felt it in her cheeks, as well as other, more sensitive places. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“Speaking of care, I need to take a look at you.”

“You’re looking at me.”

She shook her head. “I mean I have to check your abrasions for infection. Examine the stitches. Etcetera.”

“I don’t like the sound of etcetera. Will it hurt?”

“No more than and-so-on-and-so-forth.”

His blue eyes narrowed as he fixed her with a skeptical look. “You’re lying. It’s going to hurt. And me without a stick to bite on.”

“I never lie. But I also didn’t define how much discomfort is associated with and-so-on-and-so-forth.”

“Okay. Lay it on me.”

“I need to change the bandages. That will probably hurt some if there was oozing and they stuck. I’ll have to clean the wounds again and put on ointment—as gently as I possibly can. Look on the bright side. I don’t have to dig out the gravel.”

“Lucky me. Do you always look on the bright side?”

“There’s a reason my last name is Brightwell.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re too perky?”

His twitching lips said he was teasing and took the sting from his words as surely as topical anesthetic. She was amused and charmed in equal parts. And there it was again. Heat. It started in her cheeks and gained intensity, turning into a fireball that shot straight to her toes.

She cleared her throat and turned to her bag. “After wound inspection, I need to take your vitals. A veteran like yourself probably already knows that means temperature, pulse and blood pressure.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“If everything checks out, I plan to do some range-of-motion exercises on that injured leg.”

“Whoa. Motion equals pain. No one said anything about intentional infliction of bodily harm. I called for a nurse because it’s hard to flip a burger and stay upright on crutches at the same time.”

She put her hands on her hips. “If you wanted a butler, you should have called Servants R Us. I’m a health-care professional. On my watch, you’ll get expert health care. That includes making sure your nutritional intake is sufficient to support life for a man your size.”

“Does that mean you’ll do double duty as a cook?”

“Yes. But smile when you call me that.” She allowed herself a quick, appreciative study of him and his impressive size. “It’ll take a lot of food to keep you alive. But I will cheerfully provide it since my primary function is to restore your health to pre-trauma status as quickly as possible. No pain, no gain.”

“I’ll take the gain part and pass on the pain.”

“Unfortunately, they sometimes go hand in hand. Don’t be a wimp,” she challenged.

“It’s not the pain I’m worried about.”

“Then what is it?” she asked, unable to keep up the stern tone when his face took on a haggard look. She had a feeling he was no stranger to pain, and she wasn’t thinking the physical kind. What was his story? No, she thought. Don’t go there. Bonding wasn’t her job. Nursing was—his body, not his soul.

But he was quiet for so long, she thought he might just tell her whatever it was that was bothering him. Instead, he looked at her and asked, “How did your daughter’s appointment go?”

“What?”

“You told me last night you weren’t available this morning because she had an ophthalmology appointment.”

The man might have scrambled his brains less than twenty-four hours ago, but his powers of recall were annoyingly impressive.

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. You’re not fooling me, mister. You’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

“What do you think?” She half turned and reached into her medical bag for the blood pressure cuff and her stethoscope.

“I think I’m on a roll.”

“Since when are you a glass-is-half-full kind of guy?”

“Since I’m interested in what the doctor had to say about Bayleigh’s eyes.”

“He said they’re progressing normally.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

A slip of the tongue. She hadn’t meant to phrase it like that. Because she had no intention of telling him her daughter was a walking, talking, seeing medical miracle. That she’d had a cornea transplant and her progress was more than anyone had hoped for. That there was always the chance of rejection and every successful checkup was a blessed gift and a result of another family’s devastating loss and incredibly generous, courageous sacrifice.

Simon Reynolds had his own demons to wrestle. He didn’t need, or really want, she suspected, to know the latent anxiety Megan and Bayleigh lived with on a daily basis.

“The doctor said that everything is fine.”

“Isn’t she a little young for eye doctor exams?”

Megan shook her head. “She started kindergarten this year. It’s for my peace of mind. I wear contacts and struggled with seeing the board in school and too shy to say anything.”

“You? Shy?” The corners of his mouth curved up.

“What can I say? I’ve blossomed. Anyway, I wanted her to have a baseline guide so that if she begins to have problems in school, we can eliminate vision as the culprit.”

“What a dedicated mom.”

“And how would you know that she’s on the young side for an eye exam?”

“I know a little something about kids.”

Which was all Simon intended to say on the subject. Anything more would open up a painful wound that all her cleaning and ointment and taking vitals wouldn’t help.

How he envied her. He also knew there was more to her story. Her phrasing, quick backpedaling and the shadows in her blue eyes told him so. He guessed something about her daughter’s health had sent her bonehead boyfriend running for cover. The idiot didn’t know what he’d given up.

Simon would trade his own life if it would bring Marcus back. He would face health challenges or anything else for another chance to look into his son’s smiling face, his sparkling, intelligent blue eyes.

But at the moment, another pair of big, beautiful blue eyes regarded him seriously. Megan. She was wearing shapeless pink cotton pants and a matching top that he knew were called scrubs. They looked more like pajamas. The idea gave him thoughts an injured man shouldn’t be entertaining. How could she make the shapeless, sexless outfit look so damn sexy?

Megan cleared her throat. He’d noticed that was a habit of hers to get his attention. And a good thing for him that she did it. His train of thought was not only counterproductive, it was dangerous. He didn’t want to care about anyone again. Caring and loss hurt more than anything he’d endured at the business end of Megan’s healing hands.

“I’m going to take your temperature.”

She sat down beside him and he could smell the sweet perfume of flowers, the innocence of a blooming meadow. Her hair was up, twisted into some sort of complicated braid. That left her long graceful neck bare. It was a beautiful neck.

“Open wide.” She stuck the thermometer into his mouth. “Keep it under your tongue. It has to stay there for about a minute.” She gave him a wry look. “In the hospital, they’ve got fancy gizmos that can do this in the blink of an eye.”

He wasn’t worried about time or inconvenience as much as he was that the darned thing would shoot off the scale. Because his temperature was definitely on the rise. Along with other parts of him. How could he be walking wounded one minute and hyperaware of a beautiful woman the next?

The answer was a simple five-letter word. Megan. Suddenly, he wanted to see another side of her, something besides the sensible, sarcastic smart aleck.

She pulled the thing out and read it. “Ninety-eight point six. What do you know? Right on the button. Completely normal.”

“Don’t I get points for that?”

“Let’s do the blood pressure and pulse before we start negotiating for pats on the back, hotshot.”

She wrapped the black cuff around his upper arm and pressed the Velcro together to hold it in place. Pumping on the bulb, she inflated the contraption, then put the stethoscope in her ears with the flat, circular part on the inside of his elbow. The feel of her small, delicate fingers burned into his arm. He heard the slow whoosh of air as she released the pressure, and he watched her study the gauge.

When it was completely deflated, she ripped off the cuff and met his gaze. “Hmm.”

“What is it?”

“One-twenty over eighty.”

“I’ve watched enough medical dramas to know that’s right on the money.”

And he was relieved that it hadn’t gone off the scale. The warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume, the sight of her soft skin combined to make him feel that the reading might blow the hell out of the indicator gauge. Insanity was the only explanation for his sudden, powerful urge to pull her into his arms.

“Let’s not do the dance of joy just yet,” she cautioned. “There’s still your pulse.”

Uh-oh. If she took that, he wouldn’t be able to hide his reaction to her. His heart was pounding, and she’d know it, too, as soon as she put her fingers on his wrist to take the reading. This whole thing was a bad idea. What had he been thinking to ask for her? Answer: he obviously hadn’t been thinking. At least not with his head.

She took his forearm in her small hands and pressed two fingers to his wrist. He pulled back.

Meeting his gaze, she said, “You lose points for that.”

“I’ll chance it. As you can see, everything is in working order.” And then some, he thought ruefully.

Why now? Why did he feel something? He’d trained himself when, where and how to let loose his feelings—when he was on the edge. And she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him, which was fine and dandy, because he didn’t want anything to do with her, either. His mistake had been not settling for another nurse. He had to get rid of her.

And he knew just how to do it.

Simon reached over and took her small, pointed chin in his hand. Leaning forward, he noted the startled look in her eyes, just before he lowered his mouth to hers. He tasted shock and surprise. Then, for several heart-stopping seconds, her full lips softened and he swore he heard the barest hint of a sigh. Obviously, he was wrong, because she broke the contact and jumped up.

She backed away several steps, as if he was fire and she was underbrush that hadn’t seen rain in months.

“What in the world are you doing?” she asked, brushing the back of her hand across her mouth.

“I think that was pretty obvious.”

“Why did you do that?”

“You’re a beautiful woman. I lost my head.”

“Not yet. But it can be arranged,” she said, breathing hard.

“Look, Megan—”

Accusingly she pointed a finger at him. “No, you look. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not playing.”

“It was no big deal.”

“You’re right about that. But it was also completely inappropriate.”

“Nothing personal,” he said.

“Doggone right. And I was right about you, too. Big-time rule-breaker.”

“Don’t get your stethoscope in a twist. I was just trying to shake you up.”

“Is that so?” She glared at him. “It certainly confirms my assessment of you.”

“That I’m the saturated fat in the veins of your life?”

“Right on, buster. But in case I didn’t make myself clear, I don’t play games. I came here to do a job and you just made it impossible for me to do that. I don’t see signs of concussion—there’s an understatement,” she muttered.

“No, I’m pretty alert—”

“And your temp is normal,” she said, ignoring his comment. She gathered up her medical paraphernalia and stuffed it into her leather bag. “I don’t think there’s any infection. At least not in your most recent wounds. And if you’ve got one somewhere else, there’s not a darn thing I can do about it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I hope for your sake the abrasions are clean because I’m outta here. I’ll have the agency send someone else.”

She turned on her heel and walked out the door.

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