Chapter 9

I leaped away from Ryan as if he'd given me C. diff which, if you don't know it, is not bacteria you want to get up close and personal with.

Not that Ryan and I were doing anything wrong, but guilt seared my gut anyway. Ryan reached for my arm, but I stepped away and shook my head.

"Hope?" said Ryan.

"Not now."

Ryan turned his head to follow mine. We both watched Tucker push through the hospital doors and stride right over to us, his brown eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.

Tucker wasted no time. "Hey, Hope, how's it going?"

"Okay—"

"Hi, I'm Tucker, who are you?" His hand shot out between me and Ryan.

Ryan glanced at me. Who is this guy?

"John Tucker's one of the residents in my year and, um...a good friend."

Ryan nodded and shook the hand, stepping forward and forcing Tucker's arm back. "Ryan Wu." Both of them squeezed hard enough for their knuckles to blanch.

Ryan paused. I realized he was waiting to see if his name registered with Tucker, but of course, why would I mention my ex-boyfriend? Tucker already had enough problems with Alex, who fell more into the enemy with benefits category.

I felt obligated to add, "Ryan and I did undergrad together and, mm—" We used to love each other, in every sense of the word.

Tucker rocked back on his heels, surveying Ryan. "Oh, an ex-boyfriend?" He placed a slight emphasis on the ex.

I knew I should cut out the testosterone fest, but I was curious how Ryan would bury that one.

Ryan didn't disappoint. He looked straight at Tucker and said, "I'm not into labels."

Tucker's lips tightened, but before he could say anything, Ryan raised an eyebrow at me. Thanks to our old telepathy, I realized he was signaling me to give him the key to my apartment.

Yeah, right. I've heard of suicide by cop, where you want to die so you pull a move in front of a police officer, just begging him or her to blow you away. But I had no desire to hand over my key to Ryan just so we could commit suicide by potential lover.

I looked from one lickable guy to the other, and I'll tell you the truth, I wanted both of them. Ryan, who could represent my past, present and future; Tucker, who had just met me last month and had witnessed the worst of me, but somehow still understood me. Not to mention that I could happily spend the rest of my life underneath (or on top, or beside, or astride) either of them.

Both of them.

For the first time, I wondered why I had to choose.

I'd already picked the bad apple the last time with Alex. My judgment was obviously impaired, to use a psych term. So the best thing I could do was delay my decision.

I started to smile. Both guys looked at me like I was crazy, then edged closer, certain I would pick him.

Since I still wanted Ryan to help me with Mrs. Lee, I needed to give him my key without triggering either of them to think he was the master of my universe.

First, I turned to Tucker. "Hey, I'm glad you to see you." He looked smug until I said, "I wanted to talk to you about some psych stuff. If you have a minute, I'll join you in the bookstore." St. Joseph's has a teeny used bookstore where battered children's books can go for a quarter. Tucker usually poked around in the mystery section while I debated over Lois Duncan or Ellen Emerson White.

Tucker folded his arms. "That's okay, I'll wait."

I couldn't help admiring his forearms again. His skin was a bit pale for my tastes, but I liked his definition.

"If you'd just give us a minute," said Ryan, with a hard stare.

Damn. I'd never seen Ryan facing another guy down, and he did it well. I might have assumed he'd be all cheery and Christian about it, but he didn't give a millimetre. Also, I already knew the feel of Ryan's body, which could be classified as a lethal weapon. I liked that, too.

I had to bite my lip. For a girl who spent high school dances dreading the slow songs because guys almost never asked me to dance, revenge sure tasted sweet.

Tucker turned to me. "Are you ready, Hope?"

I waved my hand in front of my face in my best imitation of a Southern belle. "Fellas, I'm about to pass out from the testosterone."

Tucker snorted. Ryan looked confused, but my bad accent did break the tension a tad.

"T-man, I'll be with you in two shakes. Could you give us a sec? I'll bet they've got another Jeffrey Deaver in for you."

Tucker shook his head, but he sort of laughed. "I'll check on my bike." He stalked about two feet away, to the bike racks, and bent over a silver one. I hadn't known he biked to work. I had to give him points for that and for the fact that he knew how to give me some space without giving up.

Ryan grinned and held out his hand for the key.

I handed him the sunflower while I scribbled down my address and worked my key off its chain. I'd almost forgotten the flower, what with all the vying for my attention. "Thanks for helping Mrs. Lee. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. Sorry, I haven't gone shopping lately."

"De nada," he said. He paused and leaned his face over me for a second. I knew he wanted to kiss me goodbye. In Montreal, it's normal to kiss both cheeks hello and goodbye, but in Ottawa, you usually just wave or hug. Ryan was sending me a clear signal.

I ducked out from under him without trying to make it too obvious. "Thanks again."

Tucker called, "Ready?"

Ryan nodded slowly. "Ready." He wasn't talking about computer modeling.

I held my finger up at Tucker, signaling that I needed another minute. Neither of these guys were boy toys. This was going to be tougher than I thought.

"Want to grab dinner after?" Ryan asked.

I shook my head. "I'm on call. It's home call, so I'm not sleeping at the hospital, but I don't know when I'll be back."

Ryan squinted at me. "Sometime in the evening?"

"Probably."

He shrugged. "I'm not picky."

I almost laughed. Ryan wasn't a foodie like me. He could get wrapped up in a problem set and forget to eat until he ordered a pizza at two a.m.

"Let's play it by ear, okay?"

"Sure. I have to get this key back to you, anyway."

"Yeah. The concierge has an extra if I really need one, though."

Ryan frowned. "This whole thing doesn't sound very secure to me. Is there some sort of security code I need to get in? Do you have a guard?"

I burst out laughing. The residents' lounge had better locks than my place. "No and no. Wait 'til you see it."

The frown lines deepened. "Why, what sort of security do you have?"

"You'll see." I gave him a gentle shove at the small of his back. "Do you understand my map?"

He rolled his eyes. Engineering boy, naturally gifted at directions. "I'll manage." He handed me the sunflower again. I clenched it between my teeth and grinned at him. He shook his head, smiling, and waved goodbye.

When I walked over to Tucker, unsure of how to approach him, he rang his bike bell. The peal made everyone stare, from pedestrians to an idling taxi driver, even before he said, "'Detective doctor,' incoming!"

"Shh!" I hurried to his side, tucking the flower under my arm.

He smiled at me, looking more like a sunny, blond, surfer dude than a caveman fighting over a woman. "Just trying to help, Buffy."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's a compliment."

"It sounds like I should be prancing around in a miniskirt carrying a dog in a matching outfit."

He pursed his lips. "I could go for that." He offered me the crook of his arm.

I shook my head. Ryan's dark head and lean body was nearly out of sight, but I didn't want to play too many games and lose both of them. Of course, maybe I'd lose both of them anyway. I pushed away that depressing thought and focused on Tucker, who shrugged and waved me ahead of him.

"Where to, Sherlock? You still want to go to the bookstore?"

I shook my head. "I want to talk to you about psych, Watson, but family medicine clinic starts in ten minutes."

His gaze turned from mild to piercing. "Confidential stuff?"

I nodded.

He smiled. "I'll walk you to the FMC."

We weaved through the parking lot, away from the hoi polloi, while I outlined my woes with Reena Schuster. "I guess what I'm wondering is, have you ever had a patient who seemed to hate you so much on spec? As far as I know, I've never done anything to her." I paused between a BMW convertible and a beat-up VW Golf. "Did you ever have her? It would make me feel so much better if she kicked your ass, too."

He shook his head. "The name is familiar, though. I wonder if I saw her as a med student."

"Did you do psych here?" Med students rotate through different teaching hospitals throughout Montreal, unlike residents, who spend most of their time at one "base hospital."

He shook his head. His gelled hair hardly moved, but that was part of his charm.

"Well, that's it, then. She belongs to our sector, so you wouldn't have seen her there, except maybe as a one-off." I'd heard that if you got another sector's patient, you did an assessment and then sent him or her right back to home base. It was unlikely Tucker would remember someone he saw so briefly, unless Reena raised hell back then, too.

"I could've seen her at the Douglas," said Tucker. "I did an elective there."

At a psych hospital? Hard core. "I didn't know that." I almost tripped over a Vespa.

"Yeah." He put his hand over mine and guided me into the next lane, confident and graceful, almost like we were ballroom dancing. I opened my mouth to ask him if he'd ever taken lessons, but his fingers trailed over the fine hairs of my arm.

That one stroke, so light I could barely feel it, electrified my skin and made me clench my teeth together. I pulled away from him.

His hand dropped back to his side, his face innocent.

He knew exactly what kind of effect he'd had on me. I tried to match his expression. I preferred him and Ryan dueling over me from a safe distance.

I stepped up my pace toward the concrete stairs of the Family Medicine Clinic, but he led me to the ramp sloping its way up off the side. "The scenic route," he explained.

I laughed. Tucker was such a weirdo, but I liked it.

He said from behind me, just before we reached the FMC's front doors, "You might not think of it to look at me, but when I was a young grasshopper, I considered psych at one point. That was before I realized the big bucks were in family medicine."

I twisted around to goggle at him. He met my eye with a deadpan expression.

We both burst out laughing. The sun highlighted his jaw and slanted across his eyes, lightening them to golden brown.

He bent forward.

I hesitated, unsure whether to lift my lips toward his, or step aside like I had with Ryan.

He reached past me to grab the latch of the ornate front door and swing it open with a bow. "Milady."

There were so many things I wanted to say to Tucker and couldn't.

He kept talking like the undertow of lust wasn't dragging him under. "I still know some of the psychiatrists at the Douglas. I'll talk to them, tell them I'm on psych here, ask around a bit about your patient."

I stiffened. I couldn't explain why, but goosebumps rose on my arms. "Don't get into trouble."

His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "Pot. Kettle. Black."

"Still." I stepped through the door, into the cool, shadowed foyer of the FMC, away from him. "Thanks. 'Bye, Kettle."

As I walked toward the staircase, I felt conscious of his eyes following me. I spent the next four flights of stairs fantasizing about him. And Ryan. How about him and Ryan at the same time? Why should guys get all the threesomes?

Then I thought of how they'd practically slit each other's throats just saying hello.

That made for an unlikely ménage à trois. Too bad.

Still, I grinned to myself through my first two patient appointments, even while renewing reams of medications and enduring caustic comments from my supervising physician, Dr. Callendar ("You should check her renal function, Dr. Sze, if medical detective work still appeals to you.")

Then Stan started booming on the phone in the conference room.

"No, I'm at my clinic this afternoon. Page Dr. Owens," said Stan. He rolled his eyes at me. I covered a smile. Locating is just hopeless at St. Joe's. Then his voice dropped to seriousness. "It is? Oh. Page him right now, then! Or call the ICU."

Stan Biedelman is not easily rattled, so I lifted my eyebrows at him while I edged past him to grab a bone density sheet from the dusty bookcase in the corner.

He hung up the phone. "It's your patient. Reena Schuster."

"What?"

"She's in a coma. Probably an overdose."