Callie usually enjoyed the quiet privacy of her small apartment, located on the second floor of a renovated turn-of-the-century house just a few blocks from the medical center complex. It was quite a contrast to the noisy rowhouse in the old neighborhood where she’d grown up and had lived until getting her own place nearly two years ago.
But now, sitting on the sofa in her combined living and dining room, the TV tuned to Headline News reporting one complicated world mess after another, the solitude seemed oppressive. Depressing. She couldn’t sit still.
Though the area wasn’t very conducive to pacing, she did it anyway, walking over to the tiny kitchen tucked into one corner of the big wide room, into the small bedroom off to the right, the even smaller bathroom to the left. And around her small table for two, where she ate her meals in front of the old bay window.
Her stomach was churning, her heart pounding. If she were the type to suffer anxiety attacks, this would come close to qualifying as one.
She’d quit her job!
Callie mentally reviewed her race to the director of nursing’s office an hour earlier. While Ellen McCann was always accessible to the nurses, some advance notice was usually required. But as fate would have it, the director had been free to see Callie the moment she appeared in the office. To look on as Callie wrote out her resignation with a shaking hand.
Callie requested to be reassigned to the general OR staff, listing “personal reasons” for leaving Dr. Weldon’s team. When Mrs. McCann asked if she would like to discuss it, Callie said no and mumbled an excuse as to why not.
The rapid turn of events still stunned her, even though she’d set them in motion herself. She’d impulsively quit her job after insulting her boss…after making out with him in the stairwell! And now she was left with a sinking feeling that her behavior in the director of nursing’s office had been—well, maybe a bit rash.
Callie pictured the impassive expression on the director’s face as she babbled that she had to quit the Weldon team right now but couldn’t talk about it. That she had to go home right now. Because she had a family emergency that she wasn’t able to discuss at this time.
Callie cringed, just thinking about it. She was unable to discuss the faux emergency because she couldn’t dream one up on the spur of the moment. She had the feeling Ellen McCann knew it, too.
Even now she couldn’t think of a family emergency which would require her to leave work but could not be revealed to her boss. Why had she said such a dumb thing? It made no sense, especially following her unexplained resignation.
She was no good at lying, and it showed.
She had been even worse than rash, Callie decided glumly. Her behavior had been downright irrational. Demented also came to mind. She imagined the note Mrs. McCann must be writing in her personnel file. Flake, air-head… Did they use those terms in personnel files?
After torturing herself awhile, Callie’s characteristic practical side began to emerge. Ruminating over what had already taken place was useless. She needed an alternative to staying here, grimly pacing and driving herself crazy. She would go home. There was always something there to distract her, and she needed the diversion. Badly.
Callie drove to the old neighborhood, which, like so many in Pittsburgh, was bound by a hill and a river, the streets steep and narrow and lined with houses so close that if someone sneezed in one kitchen, neighbors on either side called out, “Bless you.”
The neighborhood also had a sprawling cemetery on the third side, isolating the area even more. Since there was no playground, and the schoolyard was nearly two miles away, generations of kids had played in the cemetery among the towering oaks and gravestones, including the current batch.
Callie literally ran into her sister, Bonnie, as she entered the house, and Bonnie was making a hasty exit.
“Callie, want to come to the Big Bang with me?” invited Bonnie. “It’s Leather Night and women get free drinks till midnight.”
Callie noticed that Bonnie was wearing various items of black leather clothing and a pair of handcuffs as a bracelet. “Uh, thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”
Bonnie clambered down the wooden steps, then stopped abruptly at the bottom and looked up. “I almost forgot. That doctor called, you know, your surgery boss. He said if I saw you I’m supposed to tell you to call him.”
Callie’s eyes widened. “Trey called here?”
“Trey?” repeated Bonnie. “So now it’s Trey and not Dr. Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is? Wheeler or something?”
“Weldon. And why would he call here? Where did he get the number?” Her voice rose with every word.
“Duh, Callie. We’re listed in the phone book.” Bonnie jangled her handcuff bracelet. “What’s going on? Something interesting?”
“A patient with an intracranial aneurysm is scheduled for surgery,” lied Callie. She didn’t want Bonnie to find her or Trey Weldon interesting. “Dr. Weldon probably wants to confirm some preop stats.” Callie ordered herself to stop trembling.
“Oh.” Bonnie’s eyes were already glazing over. “Well, just remember, I gave you the message to call him back. He told me to tell you that at least five times in the three seconds I talked to him. Is he a slave driver or what?”
“Yes,” murmured Callie.
Not that she was going to call Trey Weldon back. The Titanic would reemerge fully intact from the bottom of the sea before she called Trey Weldon. “Uh, have fun tonight, Bonnie.”
“I always have fun,” Bonnie assured her. She tossed her head, artfully swinging her long dark hair, a sexy, tantalizing move she’d practiced and perfected. “You should have some.”
“I am going to have fun, Bonnie.” Her younger sister’s blatantly doubtful look inspired Callie to improvise. “Tonight a group of us from work are going to the Squirrel Den.”
“Really? Well, the Big Bang is more exciting, but the Squirrel Den is a good enough place for you to start having fun,” Bonnie said encouragingly.
“Any advice for a beginning fun seeker?”
“You’re asking me for advice? Wow, this is a first.” Bonnie was incredulous for a full moment. Then she ran back up the steps to give Callie a quick, sisterly squeeze. “Okay, here it is. Tonight, forget you’re perfect. Play it loose—if you know how,” she added, doubt shadowing her face.
“I’m not perfect,” Callie protested, but Bonnie was already headed to her car, laughing off her denial. “And I know how to play,” she added, more to convince herself than Bonnie.
Trey stared at the neon beer signs that illuminated the windows of a seedy-looking bar not far from the hospital. The Squirrel Den was spelled out in red art deco letters. When a young couple came reeling out the door, the sounds of a hundred different conversations plus terrible bleating music and thick clouds of smoke provided a glimpse of the atmosphere within.
Trey recoiled. This was the type of place he hated, the kind he made a point to avoid. He had never seen the charm of stuporous drunks or their habitats. Such people, such places caused misery and he had vowed…
Deliberately he squelched his antipathy. Instead of leaving, he resolutely pushed open the door and went inside. His eyes darted to the jumble of liquor bottles lining the wall behind the horseshoe-shaped bar, then scanned the crowd. The place was packed.
He was wondering if the city’s entire young-adult population had decided to party at the Squirrel Den tonight when he recognized a group of hospital personnel crowded around a couple of tables along the far back wall. And right in the midst of them, talking and laughing, was Callie Sheely.
Trey pushed his way through the crowd, his gaze fixed purposely on his destination. On Callie.
She looked completely unlike herself. Instead of her usual baggy sweatshirt or simian-size scrubs, she wore a bright peacock-blue top that was short and clingy, emphasizing the soft curves of her breasts.
Her hair was different, too, not the practical ponytail she favored during work hours. Tonight her dark hair flowed freely over her shoulders, moving when she did. The effect was eye-catching. Seductive and alluring.
She had beautiful hair. The thought jumped into Trey’s head, astonishing him. He was not given to rhapsodizing over women’s hair; he would have a hard time remembering the styles of past girlfriends if ever pressed to do so.
But something inside him knew he would never forget Callie’s silky black tresses.
As he drew closer to the table, he noticed that her eyes looked even bigger and darker than usual. She was wearing eye makeup, though those bewitching eyes of hers needed no enhancement. She was deliberately taking unfair advantage of her every advantage. Resentment streaked through him, and it didn’t help at all that he knew it was ridiculous.
His gaze lowered to her mouth, and he swallowed hard. There was no use pretending to himself that he hadn’t privately rhapsodized over that mouth of hers, first in his dreams, lately in his waking moments, too. But tonight she’d applied a scarlet lipstick that heightened the sensual allure of those beautiful lips. The color, the full softness, issued an invitation, a promise…
He sounded as if he were composing an ad for a cosmetic company! Trey mocked, disgusted with himself. But if he’d turned trite, Callie Sheely bore a portion of the blame for inspiring such thoughts!
“Dr. Weldon!” The blond nurse, Jennifer Olsen, greeted him first when he reached the table. She turned her head to glance at Callie, whose jaw was suddenly agape. “I guess I can’t say this is a surprise,” Jennifer added dryly.
“No, it’s more like a total shock.” A visibly astonished Leo Arkis stood up, extending his hand in welcome. “Please join us, Trey.”
Two second-year pediatric residents, one male, one female, also jumped to their feet, deferentially offering their space to Trey. A somewhat awkward silence descended over the group, so cheerfully raucous only moments ago. Trey felt a bit like a school principal paying a surprise visit to an unruly classroom.
It occurred to him that this was the first time he’d ever socialized with the lower-ranking hospital staff, the residents and the nurses. For a moment his mannerly upbringing surfaced, and he considered putting them all at ease, telling the younger residents to keep their seats, that he would sit elsewhere. But taking their place would put him right beside Callie. Right where he wanted to be.
His sense of noblesse oblige abruptly dissolved.
Trey slid behind the table, into the chair next to Callie’s, which she was sharing with a petite redhead, one of the general-staff OR nurses whose name he couldn’t recall.
“Glad to see you, Doc,” Leo spoke up again, breaking the silence. “But are you sure you’re in the right place? The Squirrel Den doesn’t seem like your kind of scene.”
Trey settled himself in the chair. “What’s not to like about a place with smoke so thick the respiratory systems of the regulars here are probably similar to coal miners suffering from black lung disease?”
Silence fell once more. He’d meant it as a joke, but even to his own ears his tone sounded stern, with a definite judgmental edge. Trey didn’t care. If his presence put a damper on the gang, too bad. They could blame it on Callie Sheely, since it was her fault that he was here.
There were way too many chairs crowded around the small tables, and not enough room to accommodate the group unless they squeezed tightly against each other or doubled up on the chairs. Already several women were sitting on men’s laps. Others, like Callie and the redhead, were sharing chairs.
“It’s certainly crowded,” Trey muttered, purposefully pushing against Callie. “But I suppose the intimacy is part of the charm of this place?”
He pretended he’d been jostled, crowding himself even more tightly against her. Her scent, a tantalizing aroma of spice and powder wafted into his nostrils, displacing the acrid smoky smell of the air. The feminine fragrance seemed to unleash a primitive, aggressive impulse deep within him, spurring him on to primitive, aggressive acts unworthy of a well-bred gentleman. Like pressing hard against Callie.
“You’re practically pushing me out of the chair,” she hissed under her breath.
She hadn’t looked at him since he’d first joined the group, when she had given him that wide-eyed stare of…of what? he wondered. Astonishment? Irritation? Panic? He couldn’t read her at all tonight, and his frustration mounted.
“You chose the battlefield,” he growled. “It’s too late to complain about it now.”
“Me?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “I didn’t—” Her words turned into a gasp as some new arrivals shoved in on the other side of her, tipping the chair she was sitting on. There was a sharp cracking sound as the old chair wobbled precariously, then abruptly collapsed.
If Trey hadn’t caught her around the waist and held her steady, Callie would have landed on the floor, the fate of her red-haired seatmate. One of the burly orthopedic interns lifted the little redhead off the floor and plunked her down on his lap.
“Good plan,” Trey said, and impulsively did the same with Callie, effortlessly transferring her to his lap.
Callie sat absolutely still, rigid with tension. Was she dreaming? No, she was definitely awake, so did this mean she was hallucinating? Because she couldn’t be here in the Squirrel Den sitting on Trey Weldon’s lap!
But that was precisely where she was. The broken chair had already been pushed aside, its space immediately appropriated by other people in chairs. Trapping Callie on Trey’s lap.
His arms went around her, a necessary precaution to keep her safely in place.
It didn’t mean anything…did it? They were simply sharing a chair in a crowded place, as she’d done with her friend Karen, before the wretched thing had collapsed.
Of course, there were a few pronounced differences—which were almost inducing her to hyperventilate. Callie concentrated on regulating her breathing, not an easy task given the circumstances.
From the moment he’d appeared at the tables, she had gone into shock. Trey Weldon here? And looking better than a man had any right to, especially a former boss who also happened to be totally out of reach for ordinary people like her.
She’d never seen him dressed like this, either, in faded old blue jeans—Jeans! Who would’ve dreamed he even owned a pair? But he did, and he wore them well, the worn denim accentuating his masculine attributes in a way baggy scrub pants never could.
He’d also donned a white cotton T-shirt, another radical departure for him. She could have sworn that Trey’s off-duty casual wardrobe consisted of nothing but traditional khaki slacks and polo shirts—only in classically conservative colors, of course. His small beeper, which he was never without, was the only familiar item on his body and was looped around his belt.
He was certainly acting out of character, as well.
One of Trey’s hands curved over her hip, the other grasped her thigh. She could feel the warmth of his palms, the strength of his fingers through the cotton-lycra material of her black pants.
This was more physical contact than she and Trey had ever had. Well, it was, if you didn’t count their kiss in the stairwell that should never have happened…and that Trey deeply regretted—a fact he’d made painfully clear.
Remembering the way he’d recoiled, his abject horror at kissing her, was like being doused with a bucket of ice water. Callie stole a quick, bitter glance at Trey.
He was the picture of cool composure, but she knew him well enough to understand that beneath his calm exterior was an alert intensity, an awareness of everything relevant to the situation. He was that way in the OR as he performed an intricate operation, focused and vigilant, ready to act instantaneously if need be. But in the OR she pretty much knew what he was going to do next. Right now she hadn’t a clue.
Why was he here? Callie wondered, cross and confused, and more than a little panicky.
You chose the battleground, he’d said. And right now his expression definitely could be described as warlike. Which meant she was the enemy? An enemy he held captive on his lap….
The scene had become almost too surreal to comprehend.
“Hey, Trey, have a beer cooler,” Leo suggested. “They’re a Pittsburgh tavern tradition.” He slid a mug big enough to substitute for a pitcher across the table to Trey.
Callie saw Trey glare at her own beer cooler, which she had nervously wrapped both her hands around. What else could she do with her hands while sitting on Trey’s lap? Draping her arm around his neck was definitely not an option. And holding hands with him, as several other lap-sitting couples were doing, was also out.
So Callie clutched her enormous mug.
Trey noticed. “You came here tonight to get drunk!” His voice was low and accusing in her ear.
“I came to have some fun with some friends.” She sounded sassy and fearless though she felt neither. But emboldened by her tone, she dared to ask, “Why are you here?”
She felt him clench his fingers around her, as if chaining her to him. Callie shivered.
“You know damn well why I’m here. And I’m infuriated that you dragged me into this dive.”
“I didn’t drag you here!” she exclaimed indignantly, loudly enough to be overheard, had anyone been paying attention. But no one seemed to be. And then it struck her. “How did you know I was here, anyway?”
“I called your parents’ house, and your brother beeped your sister who knew where you were. Why does your sister carry a beeper? Is she a doctor or—”
“Bonnie’s beeper is mainly a fashion accessory,” Callie cut in, momentarily diverted by the image of a Dr. Bonnie. “You tracked me down? Why?” Sitting on his lap, the heat of his hard, muscular thighs pervading her skin, was clouding her mind, her judgment, more than any quart-size beer cooler ever could.
Trey clenched his jaw, and his blue eyes were stormy. “Are you going to insist on staying here, or will you consider going somewhere more conducive to serious conversation?” he asked tersely.
“Serious conversation? About what?”
“As if you didn’t know.” He was grim.
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Are you going to enlighten me, or am I supposed to guess?”
He heaved an impatient, exasperated sigh that rumbled through Callie; their bodies were so close, they almost seemed to be connected.
“I don’t mind enlightening you,” Trey growled. “This afternoon—you do remember this afternoon, don’t you? Well, I—”
“We’ve said everything there is to say about that,” Callie cut in. Her face flushed crimson, and her words ran together in a rush. One conversation she never wanted to rehash was the humiliating one in the stairwell this afternoon. “You’re…insensitive…to bring it up,” she added.
“Insensitive,” he repeated caustically. “Is that the reason you gave the director of nursing for quitting my team? That I was insensitive?”
“You don’t have to worry about your precious reputation being tarnished.” Callie tossed her head, and her dark hair swirled just like Bonnie’s in those much-practiced flirtatious moves, she realized. Except Callie’s movements were not premeditated to achieve an effect.
Trey appeared affected, though. As if unable not to, he reached up to touch a strand of her silky hair.
Crossly she batted his hand away. “I didn’t give Mrs. McCann a specific reason for quitting. I just quit.”
“Yes, you just quit.”
His nostrils flared, and for a moment Callie stared, transfixed. She’d thought flaring nostrils were strictly a literary device, not a real indicator of controlled anger. Now she knew differently and realized how tightly controlled Trey’s anger was.
Well, he wasn’t the only one who was angry, she reminded herself. “Yes, I just quit,” she echoed, defiant.
“You acted irrationally and impulsively,” Trey said in a pompous, dictatorial voice she’d never heard him use before. “Your behavior was completely unprofessional.”
Callie had spent too much time accusing herself of exactly that, but his thoroughly obnoxious tone fueled her ire.
“So was yours,” she retorted. “And you acted just as irrationally and impulsively as I did.”
“That is patently untrue. I did not quit my job in a fit of pique.”
“I was talking about this afternoon in the stairwell.”
The words were out before she could stop them, before it had fully dawned on her that he’d been referring only to her quitting her job, conveniently ignoring their little interlude in the stairwell.
“Are you aware of how extremely inconsistent you are tonight? I had no intention of mentioning an incident that is best forgotten, but you did exactly that—after accusing me of being insensitive for bringing it up!”
His voice was stilted and strained, and somehow that irritated her even more than his imperious tone. Callie frowned. Never mind that mere moments before, she couldn’t bear the thought of discussing their unprofessional, irrational and impulsive tryst in the stairwell. His oh-so-obvious regret about kissing her was too insulting to let pass.
“Naturally, you’re taking up residence in the state of denial. How typical! Isn’t that what all lords of the manor do when accused of fooling around with the hired help?”
“I am not— You aren’t— It isn’t—” Trey broke off, shaking his head. “I’m spluttering like an incoherent fool. And it’s—”
“Let me guess…it’s all my fault,” Callie finished for him. “It’s my fault you’re slumming in this dive with your lessers tonight, my fault you’re acting like an idiot. I’m clearly a toxic presence, so do yourself a favor and go home.”
She shifted restlessly on his lap, too nervous and edgy and just plain mad to be able to stay still.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I won’t. And for godsakes, stop doing that.”
Callie heard his sharp intake of breath as she was squirming. Beneath her bottom, she felt…
Was that what she thought it was? Just to rule out his beeper, she brushed her hand over the small black plastic device clipped to the side of his belt. No, what she felt throbbing in his lap was definitely not his beeper. But could it really be…?
Driven by a combination of erotic curiosity and instinct, she moved again.
“Don’t,” Trey commanded in a whisper, insistent and urgent.
His breath was warm against her neck. A sensual shudder racked Callie’s body, and she knew he had to be aware of it, just as she was aware of his very obvious arousal, hard and hot against her.
She wriggled again, knowing it was provocative—even inflammatory—but doing it, anyway. Would this qualify as “playing it loose,” as recommended by Bonnie?
“Stop it, Callie,” he ordered huskily.
His use of her name only spurred her on. “And if I don’t?” Callie taunted. Baiting him. Once again she slowly, erotically moved her hips against him.
Yes, Callie decided, she was most certainly playing it loose. And what complicated everything was how very good it felt. All of it—fighting with him, teasing him, arousing him.
She heard his breath catch once more in the back of his throat, and a syrupy warmth flowed through her. That burgeoning bulge in his jeans had been inspired by her, and knowing it, feeling it, evoked her own urgent responses.
“Callie, if you don’t…don’t behave—”
“You’ll fire me? Too late, I resigned, remember?”
“This isn’t working.” Suddenly, abruptly, the desperation left Trey’s voice and he snapped to action. “We’re leaving.”
His voice rose as he stood up, bringing Callie to her feet as well. “We’re leaving now.”