MIKE ROLLED OVER IN THE DOCTOR’S LOUNGE AND almost fell off the Naugahyde couch he’d crashed on less than two hours before. Rubbing his tired eyes, he stretched. It had been five long days since that night he’d left Annabelle’s bed when he was called to the hospital. She’d been half asleep, blinded by the light when he’d needed to find his socks, and all he could do was apologize and give her a peck good-bye before running out.
His shift ended in an hour, and he didn’t have patients to see until after noon. He pulled his cell phone off his belt and dialed Annabelle. He’d be too tired by the time dinner rolled around, but lunch would be good. It would also be safe.
“Hello?”
Shit, he’d woken her up again. Great way to score points. “I’m sorry I called so early.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah. I just got up myself. I caught a couple hours of shut-eye here at the hospital, and I thought I’d call before it got crazy again.”
“Rough night?”
“Yeah. About as rough as they get.” He thought about the patient he’d lost, and that feeling of failure, sadness, and pain crushed him again. Unfortunately, knowing he’d done everything possible didn’t make him feel any better.
There was silence on the other side of the phone. “Annabelle?”
“Yes. I’m here. I’m sorry you had a bad night.”
“Thanks. Um, I was thinking. I don’t have to go to the office until two. Are you free for lunch?”
He sensed a hesitation, but then he heard a deep breath, almost as if she were about to jump off a cliff.
“Yes, lunch would be nice.”
“Great, I’ll pick you up at noon. What’s the name of the gallery?”
“The Benjamin Walsh Gallery, but it’s okay, I’ll meet you.”
“No, I don’t mind. Besides, I’d love to see where you work.”
Mike heard a page to ICU at the same time his beeper went off.
“I’m sorry, Annabelle. I have to run. I’m being paged.” He grabbed his stethoscope. “Bye.” He disconnected the call as he ran out the door.
Annabelle got off the subway and walked the half block to the Benjamin Walsh Gallery. She looked forward to getting back to work since taking a week off after the wedding. She took the time off since she had canceled her honeymoon and hadn’t had a vacation in over a year.
No matter how depressed she felt, her mood always lifted when she walked through those plate-glass doors and took in the sheer brilliance of the kaleidoscope of color that surrounded her. She studied the collection and admired the talent that produced such thought-provoking, insightful, and arresting works. Whether they emoted pain or happiness, the beauty acted as a catharsis.
“Ah, there’s my Annabelle. Right on time as usual.”
Annabelle jumped at the sound of her boss’s voice. “You’re still here!” She ran up to Ben and gave him a big hug, holding him a little longer than necessary. God, it was good to have him back. She thought since she canceled her wedding, Ben would have already left.
“I had planned to stay while you were on your honeymoon, and no, don’t put a frown on your beautiful face. You’ll start looking like your aunt Rose.” Ben lifted her chin with his pointer finger. “This isn’t the only business I have on the right coast.”
“As opposed to the wrong coast… or is it the left coast?”
“Contrary to popular belief, there is life west of the Hudson River. Besides, you know I can’t stay away from you for long.”
Annabelle smiled. “Tell me, do the women out west actually buy your bullshit?”
“Is that any way to talk to your boss?”
She thought about it for a nanosecond and nodded. “Yes, it works for me. Now answer the question.”
“I’ll have you know, women find me irresistible no matter what state, country, or even hemisphere I’m in.”
“Sure, you’re a regular legend in your own mind. And I don’t suppose your irresistibility would have anything to do with the yachts, planes, and other toys you play with, would it, Ben?”
He put his hand over his heart and gave her his patented pained look. “Ah, you wound me.”
Ben was the best-looking man she’d seen in, well, forever. He stood tall and lean. The kind of lean only world-class triathletes achieved—with a sense of style only the well-moneyed could pull off. He had a dry wit that the richest, most famous, and most beautiful people sought.
“I thought you’d be off to Italy with that Russian model to sail the Mediterranean.”
“That’s not until July. And as for the Russian, she might be losing her shine.” He wrapped his arm around her and drew her farther into her gallery. The gallery was his, but Annabelle had made it one of the top galleries on the West Side. It was her vision. Her assistants handled the bookwork. Lord knew she was no good with numbers or correspondence. But Annabelle did what she did best—she displayed the art, schmoozed the clientele and artists, and kept the place looking like a million bucks. When she discovered artists she thought would fit in the Walsh Gallery family, she contacted Ben and sold him on their work. She succeeded more often than not.
“Come with me, little girl. I have a surprise for you.”
“Aw Ben, you’re not going to try pulling that trick again, are you? I used to paint nudes. Nothing on your body would surprise me.” She put her hand in front of her mouth to cover an exaggerated yawn.
He crossed his arms, his feet shoulder-width apart. If it weren’t for the sparkle in his stunning blue eyes, she’d wonder if she’d gone too far with her teasing. But no, he was enjoying himself.
“I’ve heard all about those nudes you used to paint, but I’ve yet to see one.”
She shrugged. “They’re in storage.”
He cocked his head. “For two years? Maybe now that you have your own place, I’ll get to see them. I’ve always wondered what kind of artist you were before you packed away your brushes.”
“I’m not an artist.”
“That’s not what your professors at the Art Institute said. A couple of them asked if I wanted your work for the gallery.”
“You never said you checked my references.”
“I check everyone’s references. You don’t think I’d allow just anyone to run my gallery, do you?”
“Look, Ben, I’m good at what I do. I love my job. That other part of my life—it’s over. I’m not an artist. Not anymore.”
“One doesn’t stop being an artist. Either you are, or you’re not.”
“Then I’m not. Can we drop it? I have work to do.”
“I guess you don’t want your present then?”
“What’s the present for? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. It started out as a wedding gift, but now it’s a disengagement present.”
He shrugged and rolled up his sleeves.
“Okay, fine. Where’s my disengagement present? Will it match my disengagement ring?”
Ben took her hand and pulled her into the elevator that led to his apartment above the gallery. When the elevator stopped, he dragged her along behind him, not to his apartment, but to the space where they’d always stored the seasonal items like Christmas and Hanukkah decorations. He opened the door and turned, blocking her view. “Now close your eyes.”
“I don’t trust you. What are you up to?”
“Fine, be difficult. I can handle it. I’m bigger than you.” He spun her around, put both hands over her eyes, and then walked her into the room. “Are you ready?”
Annabelle pried his hands from her eyes and blinked a few times. She couldn’t believe it. Incredible. He’d turned the old storage room into a fully stocked art studio. She’d have given her firstborn to have a space like this available to her when she was painting. She stood before the easel where a large naked canvas silently screamed for paint and touched the brushes neatly arranged on the taboret to its right. Boxes of oil paints, pastels, water-colors, and acrylics filled the low bookshelves beneath the large windows that lined the north wall. She looked at the once-leaky skylights, noting that they’d been replaced. She was stunned speechless.
“All the lighting is full spectrum, so you can paint whenever you want. If it gets too late, you can always crash at my place. You have the keys and know where everything is. I’m hardly ever in town.”
“You did this for me? Why?”
He looked like a cat that had brought a dead mouse to the door—he wondered why she wasn’t jumping for joy. “Do you like it?”
“I told you. I don’t paint anymore. You’ve wasted your money.” Maybe she could rent it out to a struggling artist. Then she saw the disappointment on his face. Christ. She gentled her tone. “Why did you do this?”
“You’re my best friend…”
“Ha, I’m the only woman you know under the age of thirty-five you haven’t seen naked. And since we discussed the difference between friends and bed buddies, I know I’m your only female friend.”
“You’re an artist. It shows in everything you do—how you dress, how you look at life, how you choose and display the art in my gallery. I don’t pretend to know what happened that made you give up your passion, but it’s my job, as someone who would give his left arm to have half the talent I see in you, to make you realize you’re wasting a precious, God-given gift. It’s a sin. And it’s time you stop hiding from whatever it was that made you walk away from the one thing I know you love.”
Annabelle crossed her arms. “I didn’t walk away. I’m here, surrounded by art, and I’m doing what I should be doing—helping other artists achieve their dreams. I discover beauty. I’m happy with that.”
“You can’t tell me that discovering beauty beats creating it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine.” He threw up his hands. “Do what you want. But this is your new office. I’ll have the rest of your things moved today. I’ve already had the place wired for the computer network and phone systems. You’re going to do all your work surrounded by blank canvases and art supplies. Maybe you’ll come to your senses and do something for yourself. You don’t have to show anyone. Maybe by painting again, that part of you that you said died will come back to life. It’s worth a try. Because you’re not living the life you should.”
“No.” She stomped her foot. “I’m not living the life you think I should. Welcome to the club. My family doesn’t think I’m living the life I should either.”
“Hold on now. I won’t be put in the same club with those people who thought you should marry that bottom dweller. That’s an insult.”
“Fine, you’re not as bad, but our friendship doesn’t give you the right to order me around. I know you have the best intentions, but Ben, I can’t.”
“You won’t know until you try. That’s all I’m asking of you. Just try.” He checked his watch, threw his keys up in the air, and neatly caught them before slipping them in his pants pocket. “I have someplace to be, and you”—he turned her around, and with his hands on her shoulders, walked her out the door to the elevator— “have work to do. The keys to this room are on your desk. You’d better get them before the movers come. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Annabelle turned and pouted. “You’re not serious about moving my office, are you? I can’t be that far from the sales floor.”
“I am serious. This area has more space for you to look at artist’s portfolios, slides, or what have you, and it has so much more planning space. Look at all the dry erase boards I put up in here for you.”
Annabelle chewed on her thumbnail. She didn’t like the idea of being so far away, but her old office would still be where it was, and there was nothing saying she couldn’t use it too. “Fine.”
“I hope you know I wasn’t asking your permission. Contrary to popular belief, this is still my art gallery, and I am still your boss.”
She walked into the elevator, turned to face Ben, pushed the Down button, and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah… whatever.”
The door closed on Ben’s too-good-looking face. God it felt good to get the last word.
Mike rounded the corner and saw the Benjamin Walsh Gallery up ahead. Talk about spendy real estate. He checked his watch. He was a little early, so he slowed his pace and turned his face to the sun. He wished he could sneak off to Nick’s beach house for a while with Annabelle. Recharge his batteries and spend some uninterrupted time getting to know her. No beepers. No phones. No brothers. No clothes… other than a bathing suit, and where Nick’s place was, even that was optional—at least on the deck. The last time he’d had two days off in a row, he’d borrowed one of Nick’s cars, drove out to the house on Westhampton Beach, and did nothing but sleep on the sand for forty-eight hours straight before showering and running back to the hospital. Too bad he hadn’t known Annabelle then. He would have done a whole lot more than sleep.
A picture of her lying on the sand popped into his head.
Annabelle was beautiful, intelligent, sexy, fun—and in the arms of another man.
Mike stared into the Benjamin Walsh Gallery and watched a man who looked like the Marlboro Man. No, he was more like the Sundance type. The man reeked of money, even though he looked as if he’d be at home in the saddle, on the range, or having sex in the great outdoors—and not the Brokeback Mountain variety either. The man even wore cowboy boots and literally carried Annabelle.
Mike’s first instinct was to walk away. He was mad as hell, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say he was jealous. Not that he had any right to be, but the thought that some guy had his hands on Annabelle had him seething. Maybe in the five days they’d been apart, she’d moved on to greener pastures with ol’ Quigley minus the mustache.
Oops, too late. She spotted him, and the guilt written all over her face didn’t bode well. He hoped there was a reasonable explanation. Not that she owed him one, but shit, when a man goes to meet a lunch date, was it too much to expect that he be the only guy picking her up, literally and figuratively?
Tex finally put her down but still held her close to his side and looked smug. Mike had never felt the need to wipe a smirk off the face of a competitor with his fist, but he did now.
No way could he avoid this meeting without looking as if he was running away, so he took a deep breath and opened the door to the gallery.
“Mike, hi.” Annabelle smacked the man next to her. “Ben, would you let me go already?”
Ben, as in Benjamin Walsh Gallery? Not that it mattered.
The man chuckled. “Annabelle, darlin’, I’d let you go, but I don’t think you can stand on your own.”
Annabelle hopped on her right foot toward Mike, which, he had to admit was one of the most interesting shows he’d seen since the one where she wore nothing but a blue garter.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
Ben laughed again. “It’s exactly what it looks like. You missed a step on the ladder. You fell. I caught you. Now, are you all right?”
“Annabelle.” Mike shoved his shoulder under her left arm, taking her weight. He tried to find a place for her to sit. Ben was paying very close attention to Annabelle, and Mike didn’t like it one bit. He wanted to get her away from Ben—as far away as possible. “Where’s there someplace for her to lie down?”
She blew her hair away from her face. “I can speak, you know. I’ll be fine in just a minute.”
“You need to lie down so I can check you out.”
Ben nodded and tossed his keys to Mike. “There’s a couch in her new office upstairs, and there’s ice in my apartment, which is upstairs as well. The elevator’s in back. Help yourself.”
When she went to hop away, Mike grabbed her up in his arms and carried her. She didn’t seem any happier to be carried by him than she was when Ben had her.
Annabelle felt like a hot potato the way she was passed from one man to the other. “Would you please let me down?” She tried to push away from Mike.
“Be still. You might have broken something.”
“Look, Doc, I’m gonna break something all right if you don’t put me down right this minute.”
“That’s not what you said the other night.”
She let out a frustrated breath. Sure, he’d carried her the other night, but just a few yards. This was different. Every step he took shot pain through her ankle. It was all she could do not to cry.
Ben followed and pressed the elevator button for them. She shot him her best death-ray glare, wishing she had supernatural powers. The doors swooshed open, and without a word, Mike carried her in and turned. Ben, the jerk, instead of melting like the Wicked Warlock of the West that he was, had the nerve to press the button for the second floor and give Mike the nod. She really wished she had the CliffsNotes to Alpha-Male Communication for Dummies. She growled.
“You know, you’re really cute when you’re mad. That’s good because it’s probably better for you to concentrate on anger than pain. You’re going to have one hell of a bruise.”
She cursed under her breath. The whole side of her leg had begun to turn colors and was beginning to match the tie-dyed dress she wore—yellow with splashes of crimson, purple, and green. When she saw the plain silk dress and pictured how great it would look after she painted or tie-dyed it, she had no idea she’d end up making an entirely new fashion statement. Her ankle, which had taken the brunt of the damage, was already swelling. It was her own fault. She had no business climbing a ladder in high heels and a tight dress. Okay, scratch that, it was Ben’s fault for coming to hold the ladder when she suspected he only wanted to look up her dress. She was so busy making sure he didn’t get an eyeful, she hadn’t paid much attention to her footing, or lack thereof.
The thin silk did nothing to protect her from the heat of Mike’s body and hands. The square neckline when viewed at a normal level wasn’t at all revealing. She suspected it changed when viewed from Mike’s position; he was able to see right down the front. The dress was short, not indecently short, but with him holding her, she just hoped half her ass wasn’t hanging out. The elevator doors swooshed open, and she directed Mike to her new and hated office. He unlocked it without putting her down and, ever so carefully, got her through the doorway and onto the leather couch. He sat beside her, removed her shoe, and did a great impression of an orthopedist.
“I thought you were a lung doctor. What are you doing?”
“Trying to see if you’ve broken anything. I specialize in lungs, but I did study the whole body, you know. I even did a rotation in orthopedics during my internship, and believe me, I’ve spent enough time in the ER to know when an ankle needs an X ray.”
Annabelle crossed her arms and tried not to flinch every time he touched her. He dangled Ben’s keys in front of her face.
“Any idea which one is the key to his apartment?”
“Why?”
“You need an ice pack and a trip to the hospital. I’ll get the ice, and then we’ll go to the hospital for a picture of that ankle. I don’t think it’s broken. It’s probably a bad sprain, and I’m concerned about possible torn ligaments and tendons. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t do hospitals.”
“Annabelle, you can’t be serious.”
“Oh yeah, I am.”
Mike studied her for a long moment. It seemed as if he was about to argue, then simply shook his head, pulled his cell phone from his belt, and made a call. The whole time, his other hand never left her foot.
“Hi, this is Dr. Mike Flynn. Is Dr. Doyle available?” There was a pause. “Thanks, I’ll call his cell. Yes, I have the number.”
He gave her an assessing look and made another call. “Dick, it’s Mike Flynn. Good, you? A huh. Well, that’s why I’m calling. Is it okay if I borrow your X-ray machine for a few shots? Yes, I think it’s a sprained ankle, but I want to be sure. The patient has an aversion to hospitals.” Mike checked the time. “About ten minutes. Where are you? Oh. Great. We’ll see you there. Thanks.”
Mike disconnected the call. “I assume you’re okay with an urgent care center?”
Mike knew Annabelle was anything but okay with urgent care centers. She had her arms crossed, her lithe body lying so rigid, he’d seen corpses in rigor mortis that were more flexible. It didn’t help that the look on her face told him they wouldn’t be playing doctor any time soon. If ever again.
Of all the luck. Most women prayed for a doctor to date. He wasn’t sure why, because these days, with malpractice insurance costs and student loans, being a doctor didn’t have nearly the cachet or cash it once had. He figured he wouldn’t be in the black until sometime in the next century. Leave it to him to find the only woman who’d figured that out.
Either that or she was afraid of doctors and hospitals, which again, didn’t bode well. Mike wondered if it ran in the family. Her sister, Rosalie, hated anything having to do with doctors and hospitals. Rosalie was one of his favorite patients, but that didn’t keep her from cursing him in four languages while he examined her. So far, other than the whole fear of doctors and hospitals thing, he hadn’t seen much resemblance between the two sisters, except for maybe the curly black hair and the shape of their faces.
Annabelle was guarded, which intrigued him. Mike had always had a love of puzzles, and Annabelle was the human equivalent. Rosalie was an in-your-face kind of person. Subtle she was not—which made her perfect for Nick.
“Hello. Earth to Mike. Are you going to stare at my ankle all day, or are you going to get me some ice?”
Well, okay, maybe Annabelle had some of the in-your-face trait too. He couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve got beautiful legs, and I’ve got a real nice view here.”
She pushed down the short skirt of her dress and scowled. “I thought you said I needed ice.”
“You do. I’ll get it and be right back.”
Mike leaned forward and kissed her, just a quick one. It had been a long time since he’d kissed her last Sunday night, or was it Monday morning? He hadn’t counted on her wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back. Neither had he counted on her practically pulling him down on top of her, nor the way they fit so well together on the soft leather couch. He’d forgotten how great she smelled, how great she tasted, and how great she felt.
Sunday night had seemed like a dream. Never before had he clicked with someone so immediately. Usually in a relationship, even ones as short as his, there was a learning period. It took time to find out what a woman wanted in bed—her likes and dislikes. With Annabelle, it wasn’t that way. It was as if they had some kind of mental communication. He knew what she wanted, and oh man, right now what she wanted wouldn’t be very good for her ankle, or for Mike’s relationship with Dickey Doyle, who had cut his lunch short to meet them. Christ, never before had Mike’s sense of responsibility been so difficult to heed, and the woman currently wrapped around him knew it.
A light bulb flickered in his mind, which surprised him, considering he wasn’t thinking of much other than Annabelle, her body, the sexy sounds she made when he kissed her neck, and how very nice it was that the straps of her dress slid down enough to reveal the top of her lacy bra. Damn it, of all times for his brain to be firing on all cylinders. He pulled away and focused on her eyes, which were dark and unfocused. Double damn.
“You want to get out of having your ankle x-rayed.”
Annabelle pulled her elbows behind her, pushing her chest toward him and causing his dick to jump. Damn, damn, damn. Sometimes it sucked being him.
“I can’t believe you think I’d make out with you just to get out of an X ray.”
Mike pushed the strand of hair that had fallen over her left eye behind her ear. He had no problem imagining how much she’d gotten away with as a kid with her innocent look and petulant tone. “I’m not insinuating it’s the only reason you kissed me, just an added benefit.” He couldn’t fight the smile pulling at his lips. Her eyes no longer met his. She suddenly found her lap very interesting. She was cute when she was totally busted.
“You’re wrong. Kissing you had absolutely nothing to do with my ankle.”
Mike laughed. “Do you have any idea what a terrible liar you are?”
Annabelle slumped back on the sofa and crossed her arms. “Yes. You’re not the first to mention it—”
“But it doesn’t usually matter, does it? All you have to do is pout those beautiful lips, and guys let you get away with it. Don’t they?”
She seemed hopeful when she grabbed his tie and pulled him back down to her. “Yeah.”
He was sure this would kill him, but he took his Hippocratic Oath seriously. It was the first, do no harm part he couldn’t get around. The other parts were easier to ignore, since Annabelle wasn’t his patient, and never would be. He couldn’t have his girlfriend as his patient, now could he? But he couldn’t convince himself that her ankle wouldn’t be any worse for wear if they made love. No, unfortunately even in his highly aroused state, that wouldn’t fly.
“Too bad it’s not working now. Believe me, no one is more sorry about that than I am. Matter of fact, I’m not so sure it won’t kill me. Now, you need to let me go so I can get an ice pack or two.”
“Why would we need two? I only hurt one ankle.”
Mike stood and pointed at his crotch.
“Oh.” Then Annabelle smiled, way too pleased with herself in Mike’s estimation. “Sorry about that.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “You really are a pathetic liar.”
She shrugged. “I know. But it wouldn’t be kind of me to admit that it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who’s horny and in pain.”
Mike turned toward the door. “I’ve been horny and in pain since the moment I met you.” He couldn’t see it, but he knew she had a diabolical smile on her face. Yeah, misery loves company.
Annabelle lay in bed, her ankle propped up on a pillow, an ice bag covering it, and with strict instructions to keep it elevated. Didn’t Mike understand her life was on her feet? She couldn’t stand to stay in bed, and she wasn’t much for TV. She’d been tucked in for all of a half hour, and she was already going nuts. So, okay, she was always a tiny bit hyper. That’s why she ran on top of running around the gallery all day. Chip used to say the only time she stayed still was when she was in front of her canvases.
There were times when she painted that whole days passed like the blink of an eye. She’d get engrossed in a painting, and she’d forget to eat. Thankfully, Becca and Chip kept her water bottle filled so at least she stayed hydrated. She’d have her music on, and she’d get in a zone, not unlike when she ran. Now she couldn’t run—not for at least six weeks. Annabelle wasn’t sure what she’d do.
She sprained her ankle. Well, okay, it was more than just the average sprain. She looked at the sheet Dr. Dolittle had given her to try to remember the tendons she tore, the superior and interior peroneals. Who named these things anyway? She was still amazed it wasn’t broken because of the amount of pain she’d felt when she’d injured it. Mike had wanted her to go to a specialist and get an MRI, but when push came to shove, he reluctantly agreed to let her hobble around with her foot in a really ugly bootlike thing and crutches. For a guy who made a big show of claiming not to be her doctor, he’d have a hard time proving it. He was the one who insisted on positioning her foot for the X rays, he was the one who read the X rays, and he was the one always telling her what to do. Yup, Mike did a great impression of someone who was her doctor.
Dr. Dolittle just stood aside and smiled. He seemed nice enough, and he was obviously smart—he stayed out of Mike’s way. All he did was write a prescription for painkillers and fail to sufficiently stifle his laugh every time Annabelle argued. Which was the whole time she was in that blasted place. It would have been a whole lot easier to win the argument if Dr. Dolittle would have left the room. She couldn’t take Mike’s mind off her foot with Dickey Dolittle watching.
Then before she knew it, Mike had her foot in a boot and the two of them, along with a pair of crutches, stuffed in a cab on the way to Brooklyn. When they got to her place, he insisted on carrying her in, bothering Wayne and Henry and enlisting their help to take care of her until he returned after office hours.
Annabelle picked up the phone and dialed Becca’s number.
“Annabelle? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you at work? Are you playing hooky with Dr. Feelgood?”
“No.”
“Okay. Are you so horny you can’t work?”
“I fell off a ladder, sprained my ankle, and tore a few tendons.”
When Annabelle told Becca the story, you’d have thought she was a regular at the Laugh Factory. Okay, it was funny. Especially the way Mike had looked when he saw Ben carrying her. She’d been afraid he’d behave like all the other guys she knew. They’d get jealous and go off half-cocked. He got jealous all right, which she had to admit felt pretty good. But he was man enough to assess the situation and listen to reason before reacting. That made her like him even more than she already did.
“Okay, so all we know about him for sure is that he’s not a hothead. He’s patient—especially considering what your brother did to your seduction plans. He’s helpful in the kitchen—which is a good thing since you’ve already cooked one of the three meals you know how to make without poisoning someone.”
“I didn’t poison you. Maybe it was an allergic reaction.”
“Annabelle—let’s not go there, okay?”
“Fine, but I’m not that bad in the kitchen.”
“Back to Dr. Flynn—he must have some kind of power over you to get your butt into a hospital.”
“He didn’t. He took me to an urgent care center instead. He was okay with me refusing to go to a hospital.”
“Well, you’d better figure out how to get over your irrational fear of hospitals. You know the hospital had nothing to do with Chip’s death, right?”
“Becca. Please. I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Too bad, tootsie pop. You’d better figure out how to deal with Chip’s death, and you’d better do it sooner rather than later. You’re going to screw up this relationship because you haven’t buried Chip, and you know I don’t mean that literally. Besides, you’re dating a doctor. You can’t be afraid of hospitals when you’re dating a guy who practically lives in one.”
“We’re not dating…”
“Reality check here. You invited him for dinner, and he came over and brought wine and flowers. He didn’t so much as say boo when your seduction dinner got interrupted by your not-so-darling brother—”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then he came back later that night because he just had to see you and then picked you up, carried you to the bedroom, and rocked your world.”
“Bec—”
“Hold on, I’m not finished. You gotta admit he scored major points when he didn’t wig out about BOB, the bouncing vibrator incident.”
“Ah, you had to remind me of that?”
“Yes, and after all that, he asked you out to lunch. A lunch that he gave up to drag you to a doctor. Then he carried you home and got the Fairy Godfathers to watch over you. Sounds like you’re dating to me.”
“I didn’t want to date. I wanted to have sex.”
“The two usually go hand in hand. Sorry, Annabelle. It looks like you’ve got yourself a boyfriend.”
“Bad day, Dr. Flynn?”
Mike looked up from the workstation where he’d been dictating notes into patients’ charts and saw Millie, his favorite nurse. She was a no-nonsense nurse—there were no histrionics, no temper tantrums, she was kind to the patients, and she always went the extra mile for him, his patients, and from what he could see, everyone else. She also made the absolute best peanut butter cookies Mike had ever tasted. Millie began making them especially for him after she caught him eating more than his share of the cookies she’d brought in for the office. She said he reminded her of her son who was about his age. According to Millie, they were both too skinny.
“Yeah, my girlfriend sprained her ankle and tore the interior and superior peroneal tendons, which made our lunch date… interesting.”
“How many lunches have you eaten in the ER?”
“Too many, but she wouldn’t go to the ER. I had to take her to an urgent care center. I think she’s afraid of hospitals.” He couldn’t help but wonder if by forcing her to seek medical care, he’d put the last nail in the coffin that was their relationship. He sure hoped not. Lately, she was the only thing in his life that seemed to be going well.
Millie laughed. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
He shrugged. “Don’t rub it in.” The office was deserted. “Did Dr. Meyer leave? I didn’t see him dictate his notes.”
“His last patient was at four, and you know him, he can’t wait to get out of here. I jotted some notes in the files with the patients I saw. I’m not sure if his other nurse did the same.”
Mike bit his tongue to keep from cursing. He hated working with Dr. Meyer. The old man was a malpractice suit waiting to happen. Dr. Meyer’s age wasn’t what he had a problem with. What was unacceptable was the fact that the man was a bumbling fool.
Mike suspected she shared his opinion. Millie had already brought more than one of Dr. Meyer’s mistakes to his attention. Luckily, she’d done it before following his orders. Sure, a few of them could be explained away by claiming different treatment methods—methods that didn’t take into account the advances made in the medical profession over the last twenty years. Medicine had come a long way since the Dark Ages. Unfortunately, Dr. Meyer missed most of it.
Millie took off her stethoscope. “How did your talk with the partners about Dr. Meyer go?”
“You know about that?”
Millie nodded. “Are you kidding? Tabitha had her stethoscope to the door and took shorthand at the same time. But she didn’t feel it necessary to share the information.”
“It didn’t go well. The partners circled their wagons as soon as I mentioned him. They made it abundantly clear I’m still an outsider.”
Millie put her stethoscope in her locker. “You might be an outsider, but you’re the bravest one here. No one else had the guts to say anything. All the other doctors are checking up on him, but when it comes down to it, someone’s going to miss something, and a patient is going to suffer because of it.”
“Yeah, I’m going to have to do something, and it might just get my ass fired. I’m not a partner, and the way it’s looking, I never will be.”
“That’s not fair. You’ve put in so much time, and I don’t know how much they’re paying you, but I’ve been working here for eight years and know enough about them to know it can’t be much.”
He was buying his way into the practice with what they called an investment in the six-figure range and less than 50 percent salary for five years. Two of which he’d already served. He would not make partner until he’d put in his five years at slave wages. And, even after his investment of time and cash, all the partners would have to vote him into the partnership. Right now, that was starting to look like a long shot. Even if Dr. Meyer retired and the problem went away, a few of the partners still wouldn’t be happy giving Mike a seat at the grownups’ table.
“No, it’s not. And I figure when it comes down to it, I’m not interested in partnering up with a doctor I wouldn’t trust to care for my patients, or any doctor who would put his patients in the hands of a doctor like Meyer. Since I have no say about what goes on in the practice and won’t until they make me a partner, I’m nothing but a peon. A peon who’s causing problems.”
Millie got her pocketbook out and put on a sweater. “As much as I hate to admit it, you might be better off somewhere else, Dr. Flynn.”
“Yeah, I agree. I wish I knew how to do what’s right without flushing my entire career down the toilet. I can live with the fact I’ve lost a ton of money, but I’m not sure I can live with a death on my conscience because I protected my career.”
Mike threw on his suit jacket and grabbed his messenger bag as he followed Millie, who turned off all the lights as they left. They locked up the office and walked to the subway.
He should go home and get some sleep, but he’d never get to sleep unless he made sure Annabelle was all right. The rational part of his brain told him she was fine. After all, it was only a bad sprain and a few torn tendons he knew would heal if she followed instructions to stay off it. It was nothing life threatening. But the other part of him had really hated leaving her alone that afternoon. It didn’t help he’d been tempted to call her a hundred times since he walked out of her bedroom. Sure, he’d told her she could page him if she needed him. But Annabelle had made it clear she didn’t need anyone. Especially him.