Книга - Expecting The Doctor’s Baby

Expecting The Doctor's Baby
Teresa Southwick








“Are you still sorry about missing dessert?”


Mitch’s slow, sexy grin was a wicked challenge.

Sam shook her head. “That was twice as good with none of the calories.”

“Good answer.” He wrapped an afghan around her naked shoulders and looked down at her, all satisfied male. “Next time I’ll make sure there’s a bed.”

She blinked up at him. “Next time?”

“I’m a confident guy.”

“There can’t be a next time.” The problem with losing control and rational thought was that when both returned, everything came back into focus in a rush. Sam couldn’t regret what they’d done, but…

Why did there always have to be a but?


Dear Reader,

Have you ever heard this expression—if you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always got? It came to my attention in the ongoing struggle to maintain my weight and resonated with me, because at just under five feet tall, every pound is lurking, ready to attach to my thighs. But not doing what I’d always done meant my favorite chips, cookies and candy would be rare treats and not staples of my daily diet. Unfortunately, the expression “old habits die hard” is also true. Change is never easy. And the hero of Expecting the Doctor’s Baby finds this especially true.

Dr. Mitch Tenney is a gifted emergency room doctor who cares too much. He has zero tolerance for waste and doesn’t hesitate to call ’em like he sees ’em, be it about a patient or hospital employee on his trauma team. Because making nice is not his specialty, a management counseling company is hired to train him in conflict resolution techniques and save his job. Mitch agrees under protest until he meets sweet, sassy Samantha Ryan and wants her as his relationship coach—among other things.

Mitch Tenney and Sam Ryan were fun characters and getting them to talk to each other was never difficult. They remind me of a lyric from the song “Beauty and the Beast”—barely even friends, then somebody bends unexpectedly. That’s what change for the better is all about. I hope you enjoy reading their story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

All the best,

Teresa Southwick




Expecting The Doctor’s Baby

Teresa Southwick











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




TERESA SOUTHWICK


lives with her husband in Las Vegas, the city that reinvents itself every day. An avid fan of romance novels, she is delighted to be living out her dream of writing for Silhouette Books.


I’d like to thank Marty Morrow and my husband, Tom, both dedicated health-care professionals who save lives every day. Your help on this project was invaluable.

Thanks, guys.




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 One


He was getting ready to face death.

Samantha Ryan watched Dr. Mitch Tenney’s expression change from bored and barely tolerant to fiercely intense when the call came in: drowning victim. ETA, five minutes.

He snapped out orders to the nurses behind the desk. “Page everyone. Get the trauma team down here. Paramedics are rolling with a kid. Pulled out of a pool. Not breathing. They’ve got an airway but couldn’t get an IV. That means we need a cut-down tray. Get the crash cart and intubation tray—everything open and ready to go. I want respiratory and a ventilator. And the lab. We’ll need blood gases stat.” Intensity simmered in his dark blue eyes as he leveled a glare at everyone within glaring distance. “Move, people. This kid is two years old.”

Sam felt her heart catch, followed by an adrenaline spike as he moved in her direction. She wanted to jump into action and do something even though she had no useful medical skills whatsoever. Besides, he hadn’t been talking to her. She was there to observe him. Her job was to shadow him and take notes.

The E.R. manager had been notified that someone from Marshall Management Consultants would be there, and she had a temporary badge that kept her from being thrown out by security. But Dr. Tenney hadn’t acknowledged her until now when he brushed past and ordered her to get the hell out of his way. She felt less useful than the fern at the nurses’ station and just about as noticeable. But everyone noticed the dynamic doctor. Partly because of his looks.

The man could get work as a model or movie star if he walked away from medicine. Unlikely, since by all accounts he was brilliant—followed closely by the adjectives abrasive, condescending and belligerent. There were more, but those were the top vote-getters that were fit to print. He’d ticked off one too many people and his job here at Mercy Medical Center was in jeopardy. Her consulting company had been hired to salvage it with an attitude intervention ordered by his medical group and hospital administration.

Then the double doors whooshed open. Sam pressed her back into the wall, making herself as small as possible to keep out of the way as paramedics wheeled in a gurney and updated the E.R. staff. They rattled off numbers and words that didn’t mean anything to her. The child was secured to a back board and a paramedic beside him was intermittently squeezing a bag. Sam had seen enough E.R. episodes to know that was to help him breathe. Mostly all she could see was matted brown hair that framed an impossibly small, frighteningly pale face. Then the glass doors closed off the trauma room and the child was surrounded by the platoon of professionals, led by Dr. Tenney, in the battle for his life.

Everyone was in blue scrubs and she had no idea who was who except Mitch. She couldn’t hear anything, but it was like E. F. Hutton on crack. When he talked, they didn’t just listen, someone jumped into action.

Sam wasn’t sure how much time passed before he came out. And with staff still surrounding him, she couldn’t see the boy.

Mitch walked up to the desk. “Is the family here yet, Rhonda?”

The buxom, blond E.R. nurse/manager looked up. “Mom’s on the way, stuck in traffic on the Fifteen coming across the Strip. The teenage brother’s here. He was babysitting.”

Mitch’s already grim expression tightened more as he nodded. “Okay.”

Sam followed him through the double doors that separated the E.R. waiting area from trauma rooms. The brother wasn’t hard to identify. He was the one in wet jeans and a white T-shirt with elbows braced on his knees and head bowed. He had a light blanket draped around his hunched shoulders. When she saw the doctor, the teenage girl beside him put her hand on his arm and he looked up.

He stood when Mitch stopped in front of him, feet set wide. There was another battle looming. Sam didn’t want to see it, but she had no choice. Part of the reason she was here was to see how the doctor handled confrontation, then her boss could work out strategies to help him change the offending behavior. She moved off to the side where she could observe without being intrusive.

“How’s my brother?”

“I stabilized him and he’s on a ventilator to help him breathe.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Looks like it. The paramedics got to him in time.”

“I pulled him out of the pool.”

The teenage girl moved beside him. “He did CPR. I called 9-1-1.”

“Notify the mayor,” Mitch snapped. “They’ll throw a parade in your honor.”

“What’s your problem?” she demanded.

Mitch studied both teens before saying, “What are you on?”

“Nothing, dude.” The boy looked away and shuffled his feet.

Sam knew the doctor was right when the kid didn’t even ask what he meant. Drugs were involved in whatever happened.

“Right. Your pupils always look that big when the sun’s up,” Mitch said sarcastically. “Your brother had no head or body trauma. What happened to him?”

“Ty was there one minute, then he was gone.”

“Basic common sense. You never turn your back on a child, especially near a pool.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“You can say that again.”

“Lighten up.” The boy pushed shaky fingers through hair the same shade as his brother’s, but wouldn’t look up.

“Reactions sluggish. What were you smoking? Grass? Crack?” When they started to protest Mitch cut them off with a curt, “Sell it somewhere else. It’s my job to know this stuff. And I’m really good at my job. So are the cops. They’re on the way.”

“Cops? What for? We just went inside for a minute—the phone rang,” she defended.

“It takes two to answer it?” He shook his head as he fisted his hands on his hips. “Even if I believed you, no phone call is so damn important that you had to take your eyes off a two-year-old by a pool. Ever.”

“Hold on, dude—”

“Don’t call me ‘dude.’ It’s ‘doctor’ to you. And you hold on. Think about this. That child should be playing with toys and watching cartoons.” He pointed an accusing finger at both of them. “You were supposed to protect him. You screwed up.”

“But you said he’ll be okay,” the girl said, looking less defiant.

“We’ll get an EEG to make sure. And he’s still at risk for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. I want to know when his mother gets here.” He glared at them one more time, then shook his head and disappeared back through the doors.

Sam let out a long breath. So that was the infamous Mitch Tenney in action, she thought. The hospital had a “three strikes and you’re out” policy. Two complaints had already been filed and she may have just witnessed number three. It was a lousy situation and she was on his side, but he’d have been wiser to keep his opinions to himself and let the police handle it.

It was a relief that Darlyn Marshall, her boss, would be Mitch Tenney’s counselor of record. Sam was a newbie at the up-and-coming company and he was the first client from Mercy Medical. With over two thousand hospital employees, it could be a lucrative contract. She didn’t want to be responsible for blowing the situation because she had a mild case of hero worship.

He’d cheated death. In less gifted hands that child might not have been saved. Now it was up to Marshall Management Consultants to save him.



Mitch looked at the name plate on her desk—Samantha Ryan. He remembered her from the E.R., the day he’d worked on the kid, the drowning victim he’d almost lost. The memory tightened and twisted inside him. Stuff happened. He knew that. But some stuff didn’t have to happen and his tolerance for stupidity was at an all-time low.

He met her gaze. Somehow the name fit her. Samantha—Sam—had sun-streaked brown hair and warm brown eyes that oozed optimism. When his gaze lowered to her mouth, a shot of lust went straight through him. Somewhere he’d heard the term “Cupid’s bow” to describe a woman’s mouth and he’d never quite gotten what that meant. Until now. Until looking at Sam Ryan.

He had the most absurd desire to see what her Cupid’s bow mouth felt like, tasted like. If it was half as good and sweet as he was imagining, it could be a kiss of biblical proportions. Since biblical and kiss smacked of being an oxymoron, he figured his attention could be better concentrated elsewhere. Like messing with Ms. Ryan.

Or continuing to mess with her head. He’d just walked into her office and they’d been staring at each other across her desk, and the moment was stretching into awkward territory. He and awkward were old friends so he could keep it up indefinitely. But she looked tense and ill at ease. The question was how long before she folded under the pressure of needing to fill the silence with words. When she cleared her throat and swallowed, then shifted in her chair, he knew the wait was almost over.

“So, Dr. Tenney—”

“Call me Mitch.”

She hesitated, then said, “Would you be more comfortable if I do?”

“Do you really care whether or not I’m comfortable?”

“Are you always so challenging?”

He folded his arms over his chest and looked down at her. “You think this is challenging?”

“I’m simply trying to learn more about you and your management style.”

“Is that so?”

One corner of that fantasy mouth curved up. “If you insist on answering every question with a question, this process could be less productive than everyone hopes.”

Good. Everyone was wasting his time. This appointment had been scheduled with top consultant Darlyn Marshall, but apparently she’d gone home sick. That worked for him. He didn’t want to be here anyway, but the receptionist had shown him into this office. Looking at Sam Ryan was a hell of an entertaining way to spend this waste of time.

If he had to guess, he’d say she didn’t share his sentiment. The phrase acutely uncomfortable came to mind and she was doing her level best not to show it.

“Have you been in the executive coaching business long, Ms. Ryan?”

“Why don’t you call me Samantha?”

The question made him want to smile, but he held back. He suspected she was pretty green at this whole consulting thing, but she caught on to the game quick.

“How about Sam?” he asked.

“Would you be more comfortable with that?”

“Yes.”

“Then Sam it is. Won’t you sit down?” She held out her hand and indicated the chair in front of her desk.

“Thank you,” he said politely. Politeness would confuse her, he thought. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to be a son of a bitch, but that’s the way it was.

He glanced around the small office, located in a large building on Horizon Ridge Parkway, which was practically around the corner from Mercy Medical Center. There was no window in this glorified cubicle. She had an L-shaped desk with a computer to her right and a spindly tree struggling to survive in a pot in the corner. Mahogany frames lined the walls, but instead of pictures they contained motivational sayings. One boldly proclaimed Success is the Intelligent Use of Mistakes.

He couldn’t afford to make mistakes. If he did someone died. Beside it was another one that read Obstacles Are Those Frightful Things You See When You Take Your Eyes Off Your Goals.

His goals weren’t that complicated. Keep patients alive and don’t get personal—with patients or anyone else. It worked for him.

On the wall behind her was a large picture of a suspension bridge at sundown. Underneath were the words Be a Bridge. Problems Become Opportunities When the Right People Join Together.

She looked up and saw him studying the print. “What do you think about that?”

He was going to hell for sure, but the kind of joining he imagined when he looked at her mouth had nothing to do with success in the workplace.

He shrugged. “It’s a swell idea with no relevance in the real world.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve come here with a completely open mind. How’s that working for you?”

“Sarcasm,” he said. “I like that in a woman.”

Her lips pressed tight for a moment and she pulled nervously at the gold turtleneck sweater beneath her suede blazer. Her eyes now could only be described as brown because the optimism switch was turned off. He must have touched a major nerve.

“It’s irrelevant whether or not you like me, Mitch. You need to focus on the goal.”

“If keeping my eyes on you will get me there, I’m all for it.”

When he grinned, she shifted her gaze from his and picked up a pair of black, square-framed glasses. After settling them on her nose she glanced at the paperwork in front of her. “All right then. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

Her lips compressed for a moment before she asked, “Are you familiar with the hospital’s three-strikes policy?”

“You mean the one where it’s three strikes and you’re out? As in don’t let the door hit you in the backside when you leave the building?”

She nodded. “That would be the one, yes.”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“Are you aware that you’re halfway out that door and it’s just about to…” Her gaze lowered and if his back was turned, he knew what part of his anatomy she’d be looking at. Her cheeks flushed pink. “Hit you in the hiney.”

The blush made his view even better. This was starting to be less a waste of time and more fun by the minute. “Why, Ms. Ryan—Sam—I’m shocked and appalled. Is hiney official consulting terminology?”

“You’re the doctor, Doctor. Is it the anatomically correct term for ‘if you don’t start taking this seriously your ass is grass’?”

He laughed. “Touché.”

“The thing is you have two strikes. But you’re in a class by yourself because you have two strikes in two different categories—patient complaints and employee complaints.” She removed her glasses and met his gaze. “You already know that because your signature is on the paperwork, a clear indication that you’ve been apprised of the deep doo-doo you’re in.”

“Tough talk, Sam.”

She shrugged. “It seems the only way to get your attention.”

“You’ve got it.” And how. She was beautiful and smart, a dynamite combination. “Now that you’ve got me what are you going to do with me?”

“Save your job.”

“As goals go, it’s a good one,” he agreed.

“You remember me from the hospital,” she reminded him. “It was my job to observe you.”

“I see.”

“The little boy who almost drowned? I’d like to talk about how you handled his caregiver.”

His hands, resting flat on his thighs, curled into fists. “You mean the teenager who was so high his kid brother nearly died?”

“Unless you had results of a drug test, that was a guess on your part.”

“Educated guess.” He’d seen more than his share in the E.R. And he’d found his own brother high so many times recognizing drugged-out was second nature to him.

“Still, you didn’t know for sure.”

Yeah, he did. But this wasn’t a hill he planned to die on. “What’s your point?”

“The E.R. waiting room was full of people. Very public. Do you think that discussion would have been better conducted in private?”

Was she kidding? He’d just put a tube down a two-year-old’s throat and hooked him up to a ventilator to breathe for him. Then he stood by while they checked electrical activity in his brain to see whether or not he’d be a vegetable for the rest of his life. In this case he wouldn’t be, no thanks to the brother. Did he think? Hell, no. He’d reacted.

“I was updating the family on the patient’s condition.”

Her right eyebrow rose. “Is it possible that you were venting frustration? Perhaps less diplomatic than you could have been? Might you have been better off waiting for the police? And the boy’s mother?”

Again with the questions designed to make him see the light. She might catch on quick, but she was still new at the game. He’d been doing it a lot longer.

“So, did you have a good time in the E.R.?” he asked.

“I tried to stay out of the way,” she hedged. “I didn’t want to be noticeable.”

“Then you failed miserably. You’re pretty hard to miss, Sam.”

“You’re saying I didn’t blend?”

“Not even a little. The nurses were talking.”

“Really?”

Her way of asking what they said. “On a scale of one to ten, they said you’re a fifteen.”

Actually, that was his scale, his assessment. His secret.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged. “Just stating the obvious.”

“No. You’re changing the subject.”

“Trying.” He leaned back in his chair. “Nothing succeeds like the truth. And it worked for a minute there.”

She referred to her notes. “Back on task—”

“Speaking of that. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

When she met his gaze, her expression was wry. “I was planning to eat.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like company?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Very.” She shuffled the papers. “Now, as I was saying. After the trauma—”

She was kind of a pit bull. A pretty one. He was telling the truth about that scale thing. But apparently she wasn’t going to let him distract her. “What about it?”

“First it should be acknowledged that there was a positive outcome.”

“Yeah. The kid’s alive, no thanks to his brother.” Every time he thought about what could have happened he wanted to put his fist through a wall. That kid was a baby and should never have had to go through something like that. No matter how young when it occurred, trauma changed a person. He should know. Trauma was his middle name, and not just because it was his job.

“Life is about as positive as it gets,” he said.

“And it’s thanks to you.”

“And a lot of other people,” he said.

“Absolutely. Thank you for bringing that up. Saving lives is a cooperative effort.”

He’d given her the segue and she ran with it. Really smart girl. This was where she gave him the pitch for harmony equals effectiveness in a group situation. He had news for her.

“Have you ever been in a life-and-death situation, Sam?”

“Everyone struggles with issues—”

“Don’t give me that touchy/feely crap. I’m talking about bleeding out, last breath, heart’s got one beat left kind of trauma. Have you ever seen that?”

“No.” She shifted in her chair.

“Then don’t tell me that ‘please and thank you’ get the job done. It’s messy in the trenches. You study, go through the training until gut instinct takes over and reaction is automatic. After that you keep your head up and focus. Sometimes even all of that’s not enough.”

She swallowed. “You cheat death.”

“Every damn day. Every chance I get.” He couldn’t believe she got it.

“But you’re here to talk about what happens when the trauma’s over,” she reminded him.

“You wait for the next one. You hold your breath for the next person who comes in because of something stupid. The car accident involving multiple vehicles because someone was text messaging. Or changing the radio. Spilled hot coffee—” He stopped, clenching his jaw. “Then the shift is over.”

“I can see there’s a lot of room for discussion. But speaking of over…” She looked at her watch. “Time’s up, doctor—Mitch.”

“It flies when you’re having fun.”

And he had. Mostly. Which was the surprise of the century. In his experience good surprises were few and far between. “So when can we do this again?”

“Stop at the front desk on your way out to make an appointment. Darlyn should be back in the office in a day or so. You can schedule your next meeting with her.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

She leaned forward and folded her hands on her desk. “You don’t have a choice, Mitch. It’s either executive coaching or administrative leave followed by door hitting hiney.”

“So there is a choice.”

“Have it your way.”

“I usually do,” he said.

She looked at him and her eyes widened as if she was on his wavelength. “In the unlikely event you’re implying what I think you are, I need to make my position clear. Now that we’ve talked one on one, I’m absolutely certain that we wouldn’t be a good professional fit.”

He stood and rested a hip on the desk, satisfaction settling in when she leaned backward in the chair. It was a subtle movement, but definitely away from him without actually running for the hills.

“I couldn’t disagree more, Sam. It’s my professional opinion as a doctor, but more importantly as a man, that you and I would be an exceptionally good fit. I think I should have some say in who my coach is.”

“That decision has already been made.”

“Not by me.” He had a pretty good idea what she saw in his face and didn’t care. “You’re the one I want.”




Chapter Two


“What did you do wrong, Samantha?”

Sam fidgeted from one spiked heel to the other as she stood in front of her father’s desk. She’d been summoned to his office at Mercy Medical Center to defend herself. It didn’t matter that she was a grown woman, she felt like that motherless six-year-old again.

“I promise you I did nothing to undermine the relationship, Dad.”

Unless she’d violated some unwritten Arnold Ryan moral code because she wasn’t woman enough to make her fiancé want her more than that woman she’d caught him boinking. Unlike Mitch Tenney, who had said out loud and with great determination and conviction that he did want her.

The memory sent a shiver of lust skidding through her, which was worse than stupid because he’d meant he wanted her to be his relationship coach. And he only said that because he thought she was an inexperienced pushover who would give him credit for the time without making him do any of the work. Because he was too close to the mark for comfort, she’d stubborned up and refused his request. He hadn’t been a happy client when he’d left her office yesterday.

Her father cleared his throat. Loudly. “Samantha? Are you paying attention to me?”

Sam started. “Of course, Dad.”

Arnold Ryan was the hospital’s administrator and chief executive officer. In his late fifties, he was still strikingly handsome, tall and fit, with ice-blue eyes and silver-streaked black hair. The man who’d run out on her mother before Sam was old enough to remember had never been more than a sperm donor. The one sitting behind his desk in the office where he managed the largest hospital corporation in Las Vegas was the only father she’d ever known. She was still trying her best to make him proud of her. That’s why she’d come running on her lunch hour.

“I had to find out from Jax that the two of you are no longer engaged to be married. And haven’t been for several weeks.”

Subtext: once again she’d messed up. It was too much to hope she could avoid this scene. How to put a positive spin on procrastinating. “You’re involved with union negotiations, Dad, and I didn’t want to distract you. I was waiting for the right time.”

“When a decision is bad, there is no right time. He’s an up-and-comer in the hospital corporation. You could do worse. What is the problem, Samantha? Why did you break off the engagement?”

How did she phrase this to avoid telling him that Jax Warner, the man her father had enthusiastically endorsed, was not the man of her dreams? “It was a mutual, amicable decision,” she said.

“That tells me absolutely nothing.” Her father rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers as he nailed her with a look.

She plucked nonexistent lint from her navy blue skirt, then tugged the hem of the matching jacket to smooth the line. Since he’d handpicked the man, there was no way she’d tell him the whole truth. Somehow he would twist it around and make it her fault.

What she needed was a distraction, something positive to take his mind off the broken engagement. “I can tell you that my company snagged the hospital’s employee counseling contract.”

He glanced up and irony mixed with disdain in his expression. “I had nothing to do with that decision.”

“Of course not,” she protested. “That’s not what I was implying. The triumph is all the sweeter because Marshall Management Consultants obtained it entirely on merit.”

“I was against designating any funds for something so frivolous, but the director of human resources felt it was important to salvage employees in a personnel-scarce market.”

“It’s a good decision, Dad. We can help—”

“Oh?” One jet-black eyebrow rose as a sardonic expression suffused his face. “Face it, Samantha. You couldn’t save your engagement. It’s time you got a real job.” He pointed at her. “Or, better yet, do a better job. Be a relationship coach. Apologize for whatever you did to Jax. I’m certain he’ll forgive you and the wedding will be back on.”

Shoots and scores, Sam thought. Sometimes she forgot that lectures were best endured silently. Any attempt at conversation simply tacked on an opportunity for him to make her feel more inadequate. Thirty minutes later, after her father reminded her again of the time he would pick her up for the hospital’s fund-raiser on Saturday at Caesar’s Palace, she left the office.

“There should be an expectation of fidelity in an engagement,” she muttered, marching down the hall in a haze of anger. “What am I, thirteen? He should not quit his day job to be a matchmaker. Dr. Phil couldn’t salvage that jerk—”

“Sam—”

Some part of her brain registered the familiar, deep voice, but a larger part was still focused on her hostility. “How is this my fault? What is this? The Middle Ages—”

“Hey, Sunshine. Who rained on your parade?”

She stopped and turned. Mitch Tenney stood just behind her in the hall, leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms folded over an impressively broad chest. Stubble darkened his jaw in the sexiest possible way and the spark of humor in his eyes enhanced the effect. Not to mention that he certainly knew how to fill out a pair of blue scrubs. How could that be? They were shapeless cotton with a drawstring in the pants—glorified pajamas—but he made them look good. The sight of Mercy Medical’s resident troublemaker sent a jolt through her like she’d never felt from Jax the jerk.

“Mitch. What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

She smacked her forehead. “Right. The pajamas were a clue.”

“Pajamas?” One corner of his mouth curved up.

“I meant scrubs.” If only the earth would open and swallow her whole.

“What’s your excuse?” he asked. “For being here, I mean.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Okay. But a word to the wise. If you’re not careful, trash-talking in the hall will get you sent to the principal’s office for detention.”

If he was one of the bad boys she’d get to hang out with it would be worth the risk. As opposed to the unacceptable risk of counseling him. Her reaction just now was proof that her female instincts were firing on all cylinders. She was far too attracted, which cancelled out her objectivity, making it impossible for her to work with him.

“Thanks for the advice. See you around.” She started to walk away.

“Wait.”

She sighed and turned back. “What?”

“Have lunch with me.” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m on my way to the doctors’ dining room.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Have you already eaten?”

She’d eaten crow in her father’s office, but that’s not what he meant. “I’ll grab a bite on the way back to the office.”

“I’m buying,” he offered.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but doctors don’t pay. Hence the name, doctors’ dining room. Free food is a perk. I don’t belong.”

She settled the strap of her purse more securely on her shoulder, wincing at how pathetic that sounded. But he knew nothing about her and had no reason to paint her words with the pity brush.

“I can get you in. If you’re with me no one will question you.” He angled his head in that direction. “The food is pretty good.”

“It doesn’t feel right—” For so many reasons, not the least of which was professional.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to throw caution to the wind and break the rules?”

Not until now, she thought. “It never works for a girl like me. We always get caught.”

“Live dangerously.”

Just standing here this close to him felt dangerous. Sam didn’t want to think about the fallout of sharing a meal with him. “Mitch, I really don’t think I should—”

He held up his hand. “Before you finish that statement, you should know that I don’t take no for an answer.”

Was he talking about lunch? Or her refusal to be his counselor? Because if that was what he meant, he was doomed to disappointment.

“Sometimes we don’t have a choice,” she said.

“Maybe. But now isn’t one of those times. Have lunch with me, Sam.” He grinned, then took her arm and guided her down the hall. “Another happy by-product of being with me is that no one can accuse you of talking to yourself.”

He really didn’t take no for an answer, she thought, letting him lead her into the dining room. The smell of food assaulted her and made her stomach growl. She’d entered the inner sanctum.

“So this is where they feed the medical gods,” she said.

“Pretty impressive, huh?”

She looked around at groupings of tables covered with white cloths, matching napkins and tweed chairs scattered throughout the room. There was a steam table for hot food and a cold one filled with greens, fruits and creamy-based salads. Waiters in white jackets delivered drinks to several people, then cleared used plates.

Sam glanced up at him. “I’ve been to the cafeteria and we’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

“Stick with me, Sunshine. I’ll take you to all the good places.”

Following Mitch’s example she picked up a tray, plate and utensils then chose small portions of seafood, salad, fruit and a sugar cookie for dessert. On second thought, she picked up another one because she needed the comfort food after seeing her father. The room was still nearly empty but Mitch headed for a quiet spot in the far corner and she followed him.

After settling, the waiter walked over and took their drink orders—coffee for him, iced tea for her. When the liquids were delivered, they ate in silence for a few moments. Because of a deeply ingrained personal aversion to long silences, Sam felt the need to fill this one.

“So you’re working today?” she asked.

“What was your first clue?”

“The fact that you’re here, for one. And dressed in scrubs. That’s two clues. Have you been busy?”

“You mean have I offended anyone today?” he asked.

“I actually didn’t mean that, but…Have you?”

He shook his head. “It’s clear, however, that someone offended you.”

“What was your first clue?” She put down her fork and picked up a cookie.

“Besides looking like you wanted to rip someone’s head off?” He sipped his coffee. Black. “So, who’s the jerk?”

“I have to pick one?” she asked.

His eyebrows rose as he set his cup back on the saucer. “A plethora of jerks? You are having a bad day. Tell me about it.”

There was no reason not to and it would fill that pesky silence. “For starters there’s my fiancé—ex-fiancé,” she amended.

“What did he do to become an ex?”

“I found him in bed with someone he wasn’t engaged to.” She chewed thoughtfully. “Although they were engaged in—Never mind.”

“That definitely qualifies him for jerk status.”

“Not according to my father. Stepfather, actually,” she clarified.

“Did you tell him the jerk cheated on you?”

She picked up cookie number two. “Not exactly.”

“What exactly did you tell him?”

“That we had a mutual parting of the ways.” She saw his skeptical expression and hurriedly added, “It was just easier than the truth. I didn’t want to make Dad feel bad. He introduced us and thought we’d be the perfect couple.”

“And what did Arnie say?” he asked, the sarcastic tone hinting at his less than positive opinion of her father.

“He said that I should try to patch things up. After that he indicated that if I was any good at what I do, I could salvage the relationship. For thirty minutes I silently listened to how inadequate I am. How I should get a real job. Something I’m good at. If I can’t do that, then finding a man to marry me—make that take care of me—would be the best solution.”

“That would imply you’re a problem.”

She shrugged. “It’s just that he doesn’t have a lot of respect for my profession or just about anything else I do, for that matter.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Mitch stared at her.

“If only.”

And now that her pity party was over she wanted the invitation back. It wasn’t her habit to talk to a relative stranger, not to mention a client of her firm, about her personal problems. She could only blame anger and a healthy dose of nerves for spilling her guts like that. Mitch Tenney made her nervous in a stomach-fluttering, weak-knees kind of way. And he used silence like a scalpel to open her up. She’d felt an obsessive need to put words in the void and said whatever came to mind. Since she’d just seen her father, all that stuff came out of her mouth.

Mitch’s fork clattered on the plate and he stared at her. “I’m waiting for the part where you told the arrogant ass to take a flying leap. And I mean Arnie, not the ex.”

“You’d be waiting for a long time.” She sighed.

“You didn’t say anything.”

How could she explain this to a man who was so straightforward he said what was on his mind and let the chips fall anywhere? “My father isn’t perfect.”

“You can say that again.” He stared at her. “It seems to me you dodged a bullet with the ex and father jerk should be doing the dance of joy instead of calling you on the carpet.”

Her heart did a fluttery, pounding thing in her chest. He barely knew her, yet he was on her side. It was new; it was nice. But Mitch was reacting to what she’d told him in anger. It wasn’t the whole truth.

“Arnold Ryan is the only father I’ve ever known. He adopted me and, after my mother died, he raised me with his own children. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He’s my family and he’s been good to me.”

“Define good to you. Because from where I’m sitting putting down your profession and ordering you to apologize to a cheater who doesn’t deserve you doesn’t sound like good.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds—”

“Way wrong?”

Yes, but she wouldn’t admit that. “My father said what he did because he wants what’s best for me,” she explained.

“Put-downs, recriminations and bad advice?” Mitch met her gaze. “How’s that working for you?”

When he said it like that, not so well. It made her a hypocrite who coached others to confront conflict in a productive way when she couldn’t follow the same advice. It made her a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do kind of person.

It made her a doormat. A man like Mitch had no use for a doormat. There was no reason on earth she should care whether or not he had a use for her, but she did.



“Mitch? Are you paying attention?”

He looked up from the doodles on his legal pad and found his partners’ attention fixed on him. Dr. Jake Andrews and Dr. Cal Westen were his best friends. The three of them had done their residency in trauma medicine at the county hospital in Las Vegas. Rumor had it they were known as the axis of attraction as well as the trifecta of heart trauma.

After completing training, they decided to open the group and contract with Mercy Medical Center to provide trauma specialists for the E.R. In this small office they had a clerical staff for billing and conducted monthly status meetings. This was one of those and his presence had been mandatory, but no one had said anything about paying attention.

“Sorry. My mind was wandering.” He’d been distracted by a pair of brown eyes that were several units low on optimism.

“Listen up.” Six-foot-tall, dark-haired, gray-eyed Jake had taken on the business side of the practice and fell into the role of leader. “You’re on the agenda.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Cal folded his arms on the table. His sandy hair and blue eyes gave him a boyish look. It attracted women in droves, the ones who didn’t know about or were misguided enough to believe they could change his love-’ em-and-leave-’em style. “You got the memo about today’s topics. You’re on it.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Cal held up his hand. “This isn’t a barroom brawl we’re taking into the alley. It’s a medical practice.”

“What’s your point?” Mitch asked.

“I’ll get to it. When it’s time.”

“I think it’s time now.” Mitch sat up straight and looked across the mahogany table at his partners. This felt a lot like an ambush.

Jake met his gaze for several moments, then finally nodded. “No reason we can’t take it out of order. Let’s talk about what’s going on with you.”

“I’m doing great.”

“I meant the mandated counseling,” Jake clarified.

“About that,” Mitch said. “Can we discuss why you guys threw me under the bus and jumped in bed with that HR guy at the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Cal said. “We can start with why you reprimanded a nurse simply for doing her job.”

“If that were the case,” Mitch said, “I probably wouldn’t have said anything.”

“You got on her case for not hanging an IV fast enough,” Cal said. “Her complaint states that the E.R. was nuts and she was following her training to triage doctor’s orders.”

“The problem was it never got done and someone who came in for help fell through the cracks,” Mitch defended. “I don’t write orders unless they’re important and if I write it, I want it done.”

“The incident is under review with the E.R. director and human resources. If she files a grievance with the union, in addition to patient complaints about your abusive attitude, there will be hell to pay.”

“That’s part of my specialty,” Mitch said.

He’d shaken hands with the devil more than once. It held no fear for him.

Cal shook his head in exasperation. “That’s just one of a laundry list from the hospital staff. Now let’s talk about how you told off a doctor.”

Mitch remembered the incident. The guy blew off his patient’s symptoms during an office appointment forcing an E.R. visit that made the situation more traumatic than it should have been. “He didn’t do his job.”

“It’s not your job to make that judgment—especially in front of the patient.” Jake’s voice was lower than normal, meaning he was ticked off. “There are numerous ways to handle something like that.”

Sam had said something similar. He liked it better coming from her. “I didn’t think it could wait.”

“The bottom line is that you didn’t think,” Jake snapped. “This guy is threatening to go to the medical executive committee. If he pushes for a peer review we could be in a world of hurt.”

“If it goes that far I’ll get to tell my side. There won’t be a problem,” Mitch soothed.

“Look, Mitch,” Cal said, his tone conciliatory, “we just have to do damage control. Your counseling is part of it. You need to be tolerant—”

“Not happening. I never understand losing a patient.” Mitch had seen too much of stupidity, indifference and playing the game. Too much life thrown away. He’d had it up to here with keeping his mouth shut. “I call that a waste.”

“We all feel that way,” Jake said. “But Mercy Medical is expanding. They’re getting ready to break ground on a new campus with a level-two trauma center. Our contract is up soon. We need to renegotiate and we’re talking a lot of money. This is the worst possible time for an incident. You have to demonstrate a willingness to learn how to play nice with others.”

The only person he’d met that he wanted to play nice with was Sam Ryan, and she’d refused to play at all.

“How’s the relationship counseling going?” Cal asked, a little too close to the mark.

“I think it’s a waste of time.”

“Good attitude,” Jake said.

Mitch shrugged. “I’m not in to that touchy/feely stuff.”

“Your style is more shoot-from-the-hip,” Jake agreed. “Consider this people skills triage.”

“And what if I don’t?” Mitch asked.

Cal’s blue eyes were troubled. “We won’t let you take down the whole practice.”

“You’re going to throw me out?” Mitch said.

“Let’s not go there.” Jake held up his hands, gesturing for peace. “Marshall Management Consultants comes highly recommended. You did keep the appointment?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“It’s too soon to say.” Mitch leaned back in his chair.

He didn’t want to get their hopes up because he was pretty sure no one could help him. He had the history to back up that assessment. He hadn’t been a good brother, son, or husband. The opportunity to be a father had been ripped away from him without his say so and he’d never had the chance to try. He was only good at saying what was on his mind and being an E.R. doc.

“But I’ll do my time,” he agreed.

“Fair enough.” Cal looked down at the notes in front of him. “Next item on the agenda—”

Mitch half listened to more specifics on expansion and hiring while the rest of his concentration was taken up with Sam Ryan. Doing his time would be more pleasant if he could spend it with her. When she’d said they wouldn’t be a good fit, his thoughts had gone to where they were horizontal on the handiest flat surface and fitting together the way God intended a man and woman to fit. Running into her at the hospital earlier today had convinced him that his first impression had been dead on.

She was like sunshine on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, she’s the month of May. If Jake and Cal could hear his thoughts, they’d start humming the tune. But it was true.

In his opinion, her excuse for refusing to work with him was nothing more than spin for the fact that she didn’t like him. There was a lot of that going around and he had a file full of grievances to prove it.

Except that didn’t hold water considering the way she’d opened up to him about the run-in with her father. Would she have done that if she hated his guts? More to the point, why had he requested her counseling services in the first place?

Because he liked baiting her. He liked how her full mouth compressed when she was annoyed. He liked the way her brown eyes warmed when she was pleased. And he especially liked when she asked him if he’d offended anyone today. The prospect of working with her was more exciting than he would have thought when he’d been forced into it. When life gives you lemons, and all that…

“So Mitch will be representing us at the black-tie fund-raiser for the hospital,” Cal said, interrupting his thoughts.

Mitch heard his name, fund-raiser and black tie—all of which got his attention. “Say again.”

Cal grinned. “We paid twenty-five hundred dollars for the privilege of attending a fund-raising event put on by Mercy Medical Center at Caesar’s Palace. You drew the short straw.”

“Since when?” Mitch demanded.

“For one thing, it’s your punishment for shooting your mouth off too many times,” Jake answered. “And it’s what you get for not paying attention just now.”

That part was all Sam Ryan’s fault, he thought. If he’d come up with a strategy to convince her to work with him, the punishment would have been worth it. All he’d gotten was monkey suit duty.

He’d have to bring up the matter the next time he saw her. And there would be a next time.




Chapter Three


“Samantha, you look beautiful tonight.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

The approval in her father’s eyes was worth all the trouble and expense. She wanted him to be proud of her, but she was also representing Marshall Management tonight. Projecting an aura of professionalism and confidence required the right dress and she’d blown her budget on this stunner.

The white, one-shouldered, sequined Grecian gown hugged her body in a sophisticated, yet demure way. Silver high-heeled sandals and a small matching clutch bag completed her outfit. After she put highlights in her mousy brown hair, the stylist swept it away from her face and fashioned a bun of curls to the side, behind her ear. Silver eye shadow made her eyes look enormous and subtle body glitter made her exposed skin shimmer.

“You’re pretty awesome yourself,” she said, admiring how handsome and distinguished her father looked in his traditional black tuxedo.

He smiled down at her. “I have to meet some people for a drink. You’ll be all right on your own?”

“Of course.” She nodded. “I have to network, too.”

“I’ll see you later then.”

She watched him disappear into the crowd of people already gathered for cocktails in the reception area outside the room where dinner would be served. Several bars were set up and signs directed guests to a private corner displaying items donated for a silent auction. Sam had contributed three counseling sessions on behalf of Marshall Management.

Darlyn was supposed to be here, too, but was still not feeling well. She’d given Sam a list of contacts to touch base with and directed her to dazzle them with her charm. She wasn’t sure about the charm part, but if she could find a particularly magnificent chandelier and stand under it, dazzling wouldn’t be a problem.

There would be a lot of hospital management types here. Like her father, they were old school and skeptical about the benefits of corporate counseling. Her company had a foot in the door now, an opportunity to prove their services were money well spent. She spotted one of her must-sees. After snagging a glass of white wine from the tray of a circulating waiter, Sam wove her way through the crowd.

“Amanda Jones,” she said. The tall, black-haired woman turned at the sound of her name. She was in her fifties and was the director of a large staff of physical therapists. Sam held out her hand. “Samantha Ryan.”

The woman smiled. “From Marshall Management.”

Sam nodded. “Darlyn wanted me to make it a point to say hello for her.”

“She’s not here?”

“No. Her cold is hanging on and she didn’t want to spread the joy.”

“And we’re all grateful,” Amanda said. “How long have you been with her?”

“About six months. I’m excited for the opportunity to work with Darlyn.”

“She’s very good at what she does. I understand she did some pretty fast talking and convinced the powers that be at Mercy Medical to send problematic employees in for counseling?”

Sam nodded. “I don’t have to tell you how costly it is to train someone, then lose them when they’re finally productive over something that could be avoided with intervention.”

“Finding and retaining qualified personnel can also make a difference for the patients in an ongoing situation,” Amanda agreed.

Sam took a sip of wine. “The hospital’s human resources director was instrumental in securing the contract with Marshall Management.”

And tonight was all about taking the connection out for a spin with the possibility of bringing in future business.

Her job was to put a face with a name and get it out there.

“How’s that working out?” Amanda asked.

“I’ve had several sessions with one of the respiratory therapists who is wonderful with kids, but not so much the adults. She’s very receptive to learning techniques to deal with conflict in a less confrontational manner.”

“I see.”

Sam glanced at the doorway and her heart stuttered when she recognized another high-profile and infamous client weaving his way through the crowd. Mitch Tenney was taller than most, so it wasn’t difficult to spot him. Avoiding him was another issue entirely.

Part of her job was public relations and this was too public for Mitch to miss her unless she ducked behind a marble column and hid for the rest of the night.

“Amanda, it’s been a pleasure talking with you. If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone over there I need to…” She pointed to a place on the opposite side of the room from where Mitch was standing.

“Thanks for the information, Sam. Good to meet you.”

“You, too.” Sam smiled then slid through the crowd of people.

What the heck was he doing here?

But she knew the answer. This was a fund-raiser. The hospital had a mutually beneficial relationship with all the physicians who had privileges there. For all his flaws, her father had a noble goal and had put the pressure on everyone to make this fund-raiser a success. He was determined to build a cancer treatment center at Mercy Medical and dedicate it to the memory of her mother, who had died of the disease. He had loved her very much. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t love her daughter.

Sam made her way to the other side of the room but couldn’t shake the sensation of awareness. She felt like the princess and the pea—she couldn’t see him but she knew he was there.

And then it happened. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and he spotted her. It was too much to hope he would simply wave and walk away. That wasn’t the Tenney technique. He grinned and headed for her like a magnet to true north. His long legs put him in front of her before the static in her brain cleared.

“Sam, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello.” Clever comeback, she thought.

“And just like that, an evening I thought would be boring is anything but.”

Based on what the sight of him in a tuxedo was doing to her insides, boring was the last word that came to her mind. The first word would be sex and if all his harnessed intensity was aimed at her, she’d be in his bed, no questions asked.

“So what brings you here?” he asked.

“I’m working, actually. Networking. Darlyn was supposed to be here also, but she’s still under the weather. So I’m on my own representing the firm.” She was babbling and took a sip of wine to stop herself. “How are you, Mitch?”

“Better now.” His gaze boldly checked her out from head to toe. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” She decided to mimic his bold appraisal and looked him up and down. “You clean up pretty good yourself. Quite a change from the pajamas.”

He glanced down. “Speaking of monkey suits…It’s your fault I’m here.”

How did she interpret that comment and respond appropriately? He didn’t look annoyed. More like a predator on the prowl.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. At our monthly status meeting my associates drafted me to represent them when I was preoccupied with figuring out how to convince you that we would work well together.”

The glitter in his blue eyes made her heart hammer against the inside of her chest. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the huge room, which made a witty comeback something of a challenge.

“Oh?”

“I promised myself that I’d bring it up the next time I saw you, but never expected I’d have the pleasure so soon.” He took her elbow and steered her to the bar, where he ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

For someone who relied on talking to put food on the table and a roof over her head, being around Mitch was an incredibly humbling experience. Which was a good portion of the reason she could never work with him. She emptied her wineglass and set it on the bar.

“So, you don’t like dressing up?” she said, watching him take his drink, then slip five dollars into the bartender’s tip glass.

“I’m much more comfortable in my pajamas,” he answered, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Warmth crept into her cheeks. As far as his attire went, the pajamas were a good look. But in black tie and jacket he was a tall, dark, handsome fantasy come to life. How could she not fantasize about being in his arms with his lips pressed to hers?

Good grief. She needed to get away. “It’s nice to see you again. But if you’ll excuse me, I’m going over there to check out the silent auction items.”

“Great idea,” he said, falling into step beside her.

The man couldn’t take a hint if she pressed it into his hand. He was the perverse type who would stick like glue if she asked him to get lost. She simply turned away and felt his gaze on her as he followed.

They browsed the items on display—jewelry, paintings, pricey glass art, spa packages—and stopped by the large sign that read Marshall Management Consultants. After reading the fine print, he set his drink down and filled out a bid, then stuck it in the box.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a picture or a weekend spa getaway?” she asked.

He drained the contents of his glass and the ice clinked when he lowered it. “No.”

She folded her arms over her chest and blushed when the movement drew his gaze there. He made no effort to hide his positive reaction.

“Since when did you change your mind about what I do?”

“Since a very wise woman pointed out to me that if I don’t, my ass could be grass and in jeopardy of getting hit by the door on my way out.”

“You’re already getting counseling sessions,” she reminded him. “Why would you voluntarily buy more?”

“Let’s just say that I always get what I want.”

Sam didn’t miss the expression in his eyes, the intensity snapping there. She got that familiar, fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach because the look clearly said he wanted her. And not for counseling.

She had a feeling what he wanted didn’t actually involve talking.



Mitch leaned back and slid his left arm across the back of Sam’s chair, noting that his fingers literally itched from the urge to touch her shoulder and explore the shimmery, sexy, mysterious softness of her skin. He took a steadying breath and glanced around the ballroom, lights dimmed for dinner. Flower arrangements in fall colors of orange, gold and brown decorated the tables, garnished with small pumpkins as a salute to Halloween coming in a few weeks. Candles glowed from the center of the array and the flame only made his dinner companion look more captivating.

He leaned closer and said, “I told you to stick with me. Is this a good place, or what?”

“Technically I’m not with you,” she said pleasantly. “My father gave me a ride. And you crashed this table.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t abandon a lady whose date is home sick. Especially a lady who looks so beautiful.”

“Oh, please—”

He touched a finger to her lips, stopping the words, but kicking her pulse into a flutter. If he hadn’t been focused on the fascinating place where clavicle and neck collided, he might have missed it. Tapping gently, he said, “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

“I’d just like to say that if you insinuated yourself next to me in order to continue your campaign to change counselors, you’re wasting your breath.”

“The seat was open,” he said, feigning self-righteous indignation. “I only wanted to keep you company.”

“And I was looking at this as an opportunity to meet strangers.”

“Problems become opportunities when the right people join together,” he said, quoting the words on her wall.

“Exactly,” she agreed.

“How about for tonight we call a truce? You won’t ask if I’ve been playing well with others and I won’t hit you up to be my coach.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”

She looked at it, hesitating.

“What?” he asked, meeting her gaze.

“I’m just trying to find the asterisk in that statement.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“You know, the asterisk. Have you ever noticed that everything has an asterisk—an exception to the rule? Fine print. Excluded under the warranty. Discount applies only when a pregnant ape swings across the freeway at exactly 12:01. Life is an asterisk and one always needs to tread carefully lest they rear up and bite one in the backside.”

“I’m shocked and appalled,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Who knew the poster girl for optimism, voted most likely to be positive, bright and cheery, had such a cynical side.”

“Go figure.”

Her shrug did amazing things to the bare shoulder that was driving him completely nuts.

“All I’m saying is that we agree not to talk shop,” he clarified.

“Okay.”

But before they could talk about anything, the public address system emitted static and then Arnold Ryan was introduced. Since their backs were to the dais, Sam turned her chair around to see. Mitch did the same and managed to get his close enough to brush her arm. The contact left a trail of silver glitter on the black sleeve of his jacket and he thought how characteristic of her to leave a glow on everything she touched.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Arnie greeted the crowd. “Thank you all for coming. We’re gathered here for a cause near and dear to my heart.”

That’s when it hit Mitch that he’d been pressed into service because of being in the doghouse and hadn’t bothered to get any details.

He leaned over to Sam and whispered, “Does he actually have a heart?”

She turned to look at him and their lips were inches apart. Her eyes widened a fraction before she said, “Of course he does.”

“What is he talking about?”

“Did you bother to read your invitation?” she asked.

“No.”

She shook her head in exasperation, but the corners of her mouth curved up as if she would expect this from him. “My father is kicking off a fund-raising drive for the Catherine Mary Ryan Cancer Center. Colon cancer killed my mother and he wants to fund a diagnosis-and-treatment facility dedicated to her memory.”

“The valley certainly needs one.” The dim light underscored the shadows in her eyes and he recalled her saying she’d been raised with Ryan’s children. “How old were you when your mother died?”

“Six.”

His father died because his cop instincts made him intervene in a convenience store robbery. Mitch knew how it felt to lose a parent at a young age, but he’d had his mother. And Robbie for a while. Senseless death made him angry. The guilt and pain that haunted him twisted together and knotted in his gut.

“Mitch?”

He blinked, clearing away visions of the past and focused on Sam. “That must have been tough. Losing your mom so young.”

She nodded. “But every cloud has a silver lining and tonight is all about that. Making something good come out of tragedy.”

In his opinion the two were mutually exclusive, but he wouldn’t tell her that because the sparkle was back in her eyes. He wouldn’t live up to her low expectations and say anything to snuff it out.

“That’s the spirit, Sunshine.”

Before she could respond to that, the room erupted in applause because her father had completed his remarks. Sam stood to turn her chair around and he took care of that like the chivalrous guy he was. When they sat again, he noticed the waitstaff was distributing dessert and coffee while a group of musicians set up behind the lectern at the front of the room.

“Looks like there’s going to be dancing,” he commented.

“On the invitation it was clearly stated that the evening included cocktail hour, dinner and dancing.”

“I like surprises.”

“See. Even boring clouds have a silver lining.”

“Maybe. But only if you’ll take a turn with me on the dance floor.” He was sure she’d turn him down and was already marshaling his arguments.

“I’d love to,” she said.

Strains of a slow song drifted to them and he stood, holding out his hand to her. She slid her fingers into his palm and when she rose, the muted light caught the sequins in her dress and the glitter on her skin.

Speaking of surprises…He’d get to hold the silver lining in his arms.

The wooden floor in the center of the room filled with other couples and Mitch placed Sam’s hand in the crook of his arm as he led her there. He held his breath, anticipating the pleasure of her closeness. Then he pulled her into his arms and found the softness of her pressed against him more intoxicating than his Jack Daniel’s.

He looked down at her. “I was sure you’d tell me to take a hike.”

“I love to dance.”

“So I could be any jerk off the street and you’d have agreed?”

Her alluring mouth curved up when she smiled. “I believe we established that my jerk quota has been filled recently. So, I’d have to say no.”

“Then I’m not on your jerk list?”

“I don’t think that about you. Quite the opposite.”

He found her completely charming and was grateful to be on her good side. “What’s the opposite of a jerk?”

“You’re a guy who saves lives. In my book that makes you a—”

“Here you are, Samantha,” said a voice behind them.

Sam leaned to the side. Even with heels she wasn’t tall enough to see over his shoulder. “Hi, Dad.”

Mitch turned and deliberately left his arm around Sam’s waist. “Ryan.”

“Dr. Tenney. How nice of you to join us this evening.” His tone said he wasn’t actually feeling the love.

“You throw a great party,” Mitch answered politely, if only to prove to Sam that he could be polite.

“Thank you. The turnout is very gratifying.” He looked at Sam. “My remarks were well received.”

“Absolutely,” she answered, tensing.

They’d been too busy talking to listen to the speech. In his opinion Arnold Ryan was a pompous ass who gave his daughter a hard time for no good reason. Mitch tightened his hand on her waist, hoping she felt his support.

“So, Doctor, how are things in the E.R.?” Ryan asked.

Mitch shrugged. “Funny you should ask. Sam was just singing my praises.”

“Samantha is easily impressed,” he said, with a sardonic look at his daughter.

“No,” she said. “When I was there for his precounseling observation he saved a drowning victim the paramedics brought in. A little boy. Two years old.”

Arnold slid his hands into the pockets of his tux trousers. “It’s a good thing he was there.”

The sarcasm in his tone told Mitch he was indeed one slipup away from the door hitting him in the backside on the way out. He wasn’t sure why this guy disliked him, but the feeling was becoming more mutual by the minute.

“Dad, it was the most amazing thing to watch the E.R. staff work together to save that child.”

“The E.R. staff is very good at what they do,” Mitch informed her father. “They have to be because we see everything from car accidents to the common cold. But I don’t have to tell you that.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Mercy Medical is lucky to have a doctor with his skills,” Sam said.

“And he definitely has them. Along with a finely tuned abrasive streak. If only rudeness saved lives,” Ryan snapped. “We’re still dealing with the fallout from your confrontation after that particular incident.”

“I hate waste,” Mitch said, anger knotting in his gut. “Makes it hard to be diplomatic.”

“That’s where my profession comes in,” Sam said quickly, looking very uncomfortable. “Smoothing out the rough edges will make him even better at what he does.”

“What he does is take the rules and bend them into oblivion.”

“Just give the counseling time, Dad. Darlyn Marshall is also very good at what she does. Sometimes people don’t realize how they come across and simply need to learn coping techniques to keep the little things from turning into big issues.”

“If I hold my breath waiting for that,” her father said, “I would be in urgent need of emergency services myself. Either someone fits in or they don’t. Talking it to death is an exercise in futility.”

“You do realize you’re referring to your daughter’s profession,” Mitch said, eyes narrowed.

“Indeed I do. More’s the pity for her.”

When Mitch felt her tense, his edges turned rougher and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “If that’s the way you feel, why bother with the program?”

“It wasn’t my idea. Believe me.” Without giving his daughter a look he said, “If it was up to me, you’d be out. And frankly this is all just a waste of time and money, in my estimation. I don’t expect any results and we’ll be back to square one, which is asking for your resignation.”

“What if I prove you wrong?” Mitch asked, barely able to rein in his anger.

“I’m not wrong. And if my daughter would stop wasting her time and take my advice to find a real profession, one worthy of respect, she would be much better off.” His mouth thinned in distaste when he looked at Sam. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I need to talk to. I’ll see you later, Samantha.”

Mitch was about to follow and felt Sam’s hand on his arm. “Don’t,” she whispered.

“Just one good shot,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Please. No—” Her voice caught and abruptly she turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Mitch didn’t realize she was leaving until she stopped at the table, grabbed her purse and wrap, then hurried toward the exit. He followed her out the double doors, down two sets of escalators, through the casino and past the registration desk. For a small woman she went pretty damn fast in her high heels. Before he knew it she was through the front doors and outside. When he caught up with her, he heard her say something to the attendant about a cab.

“Sam—”

“Go away, Mitch.” She wouldn’t look at him.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“It’s not here. I came with him.” Her voice was unsteady and she caught her top lip between her teeth. “I think…it’s better if I take a cab home.”

“Ignore him.”

“Easy for you to say—” She had her back to him.

“Okay. It is easy for me. I’m an objective observer. In spite of the fact that you think I have the sensibility of a water buffalo, I realize that you’re dealing with an emotional component. But, Sam—” He put a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her toward him.

Her eyes were moist with tears and something tightened in his chest.

He’d been susceptible to a woman’s tears a time or two. His ex-wife. His mother when she pleaded with him time and again to help Robbie. Pain sliced through him at the memory. He didn’t trust tears. Female tears were tools of manipulation. Interesting the first syllable of that word was man. He should just walk away and let her get a cab. Let her deal with the real water buffalo in her life on her own terms. The words were on the tip of his tongue until he saw her mouth tremble and her struggle to control it.

Instead of “good night” he said, “I’m taking you home.”




Chapter Four


Mitch was driving on Interstate 15 south and nearing the turnoff to the 215 Beltway before Sam said anything. The only reason she did was to give him transition directions.

“Take the Beltway east. Toward Henderson.”

“Okay. Which exit?” he asked.

“Green Valley Parkway.

She’d been a blubbering idiot; there was no recovery from that. Except that after speaking she felt the lack of conversation.

“Nice car.” It was a two-seater Mercedes. Red. Hot. A chick magnet.

He glanced over. “Thanks.”

She glanced over at him, all sexy in the driver’s seat. He’d taken off his black tie and released the first button on his pleated white shirt. Lights from the freeway danced over the angles of his handsome face and created enigmatic shadows as he aggressively guided the purring machine along the transition curve to the 215 and home.

She couldn’t believe she’d let her father get under her skin like that. He was the same thoughtless man she’d learned to compensate for a long time ago. He hadn’t changed, but she’d lost it, and that hadn’t happened for a very long time. The only variable was Mitch. Something about being criticized in front of him had pushed her over the edge.

Yet Mitch had come to her rescue. Sir Galahad in a hot, red car. She should probably make conversation, but her emotions were still unstable and held together by a thread. The best thing she could do was gut it out until she was alone. Finally, Mitch exited the freeway.

“Turn right. It’s the last apartment complex before Horizon Ridge.”

He did as she directed, then slowed to a stop at the gate. She gave him the number code and the gates swung open, allowing him inside. A few more directions later and he parked in front of her unit.

“I’m sorry about—” Tears welled in her eyes and emotion thickened in her throat. One humiliating incident tonight wasn’t enough? Another meltdown was pathetically close. She was two for two. It was time to give Sir Galahad the night off. “Thanks for the ride,” she whispered.

That was all she could manage without losing it. She slid from the car and shut the door, then hurried to the stairway leading up to her apartment. Grabbing her long skirt in one hand so as not to trip, she quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor. Behind her she heard a car door close and footsteps following. She stopped at Unit 27 and opened her purse, then moisture blurred her vision. But Mitch was there, big and strong and smelling so good, so masculine.

Without a word, he took her bag and easily located her key. After opening the door, he reached in and flipped the light switch on, then rested his warm palm on the small of her back, guiding her inside.

She took a deep breath and met his gaze. “You’ve certainly gone above and beyond the call of duty tonight.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

No, the least would have been to let her take a cab. And she wished he had. “Thank you for everything. Good night—”

“Are you throwing me out, Ms. Ryan?”

“Yes. I’d really like to be alone.”

He set her purse on the sofa table in the entryway, then noticed the decanter of brandy and glasses. Without asking permission, he poured some of the liquor into two snifters and handed one to her.

“No, thanks, I—”

“Doctor’s orders,” he said, touching his glass to hers, before glancing around. “Nice place.”

Following his gaze she took in the beige-and-maroon chenille corner group, the circular oak table and four chairs in the dining area, distressed mahogany buffet with battered copper accessories on top. She’d painted the walls a harvest gold with one wall covered in a bold burnt orange. It was colorful, warm and inviting.

“My father h-hates it,” she said.

Mitch moved closer and the spark of anger in his eyes was clearly visible in the dim light. In spite of the simmering hostility, his touch was gentle when he crooked a finger beneath her glass and urged it to her lips for a sip.

“Your father is a first-class idiot.”

Maybe, but he was the idiot who’d raised her and she loved him for that. She owed him a lot. “Thanks for getting the valet to let my father know not to wait for me.”

His mouth pulled tight for a moment but all he said was, “You’re welcome.”

“And thanks for not giving me too hard a time when I insisted the valet tell him that I wasn’t feeling well.”

“As opposed to you’d rather walk barefoot on glass than get in the car with him?”

“Yes,” she said. “I know you don’t understand—”

“You’re right. I don’t get it. You’re bright and beautiful and witty. I don’t understand why you let him get away with treating you like a ditz.”

“He’s entitled to his opinion about what I do.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to be vicious.”

She took another sip of brandy and felt it warm her inside. The look Mitch was giving her heated her, too, in an entirely different way.





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