Night Fever

“There’s something I’m dying to find out…”

They stood face-to-face in the crowded restaurant, and when someone walked past, Layla was forced to step closer to Sam to make room. He watched her green eyes dilate in a telltale sign of arousal. “Oh? And what’s that?” she asked lightly.

A slight upturning of her lush lips made his stomach crave something other than food. Continuing to play the game, he answered, “Whether or not you taste as good as you look.”

Before she could respond, Sam closed the few inches separating his mouth from Layla’s, giving her plenty of time to pull back. She didn’t. In fact, she leaned forward.

Her mouth tasted like a juicy peach just begging to be devoured. He flicked his tongue out, licking the rim of her lips, then dipping it inside. He’d never tasted anything sweeter, hotter, more addictive…

Desire hit, strong and hard. And Sam suddenly realized just how hungry he really was….

Dear Reader,

Sugar ’n spice and everything…naughty. That description fits the three heroines in our KISS & TELL miniseries to a T. Especially Layla Hollister, no matter how much she’d like to have you believe otherwise. Especially when fellow physician and resident hottie Sam Lovejoy comes onto the scene.

In Night Fever, general practitioner Dr. Layla Hollister literally shivers whenever she hears plastic surgeon Dr. Sam Lovejoy’s name. The truth is she would never have been attracted to him if she’d known who he was when they met. But she didn’t know. And attracted? Well, that doesn’t begin to cover how she feels about the notorious Dr. Lovejoy. The problem is once he catches on to her feverish condition, he relishes challenging her on all she’s come to believe about life and love…and about hot, sticky sex!

We hope Layla and Sam’s sizzling journey leaves you running for a cold shower! We’d love to hear what you think. Write to us at P.O. Box 12271, Toledo, OH 43612 (we’ll respond with a signed bookplate, newsletter and bookmark), or visit us on the Web at www.BlazeAuthors.com and www.toricarrington.com for fun drawings.

Here’s wishing you love, romance and hot reading!

Lori & Tony Karayianni

aka Tori Carrington

Night Fever

Tori Carrington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This one’s for the incomparable Kathryn Falk, Lady of Barrow, the extraordinary Carol Stacy, the gifted Giselle Hirtenfeld/Goldfeder and the entire staff at Romantic Times BookCLUB. You all are the stuff of which heroines are made!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

1

Hollywood Confidential—October 13, 2003

A casting call went out for an actress with natural breasts to perform a love scene with heart-throb Ben Damon. Not a single candidate has stepped forward, leaving this reporter to wonder if there’s a pair of natural breasts left in all of Tinseltown….

DOCTOR LAYLA HOLLISTER closed the latest edition of the gossip rag she’d picked up on her way to the restaurant and glanced at her own modest breasts. They were all but nonexistent beneath her high-necked white blouse. She resisted the urge to wave her hand and say, “Me! My breasts are natural!”

Not that it mattered. Of the nearly two million people in L.A. proper, not to mention the ten million in L.A. County, she was one of the ten percent not interested in an acting career. Not in a bit part in a commercial or music video. Not even in a starring role opposite one of the world’s best-looking men. De nada. Add that she was also a third-generation Hollywood native whose family tree didn’t include any actors and, well, she was even more of a rarity. She made a face, peeled off the piece of lime stuck to the side of her glass, and sipped on her club soda.

At any rate, the casting agents would get one look at her small bustline and probably laugh her out of the studio. Yes, they may be fishing for natural, but it was a pretty good bet they were looking for Halle Berry breasts and not her own boobs that essentially hadn’t grown one iota since she was twelve and had bought her first training bra. Her well-endowed mother, Trudy, had told her she must have inherited them from her father’s side of the family. Layla had thought it was God’s idea of a cruel joke. At least until she was twenty and so busy with medical school she’d had little time to think about her breasts beyond the time it took to buy a new bra.

The paper rustled as she put it on the empty stool next to her. She glanced around the packed bar, wondering when her table would be ready. The restaurant she’d chosen had recently hit the trendy list, not because it was new, but rather because some star or another had stopped for a meal there and it had instantly become all the rage. She’d chosen it because it was close to home and she liked the food. So did Reilly, Mallory and Jack.

She sighed; just thinking of her three friends made her smile. She hadn’t had many friends growing up. Okay, she’d had none—unless you counted Dirtbag Della who’d come to her house a couple of times back in second grade. Della had been the only person willing to hang out with the gangly geek in bottle-bottom glasses, at least until Della’s mother had moved into a house where the shower worked and Dirtbag Della had suddenly qualified for Clique Three status. Then when Della had gotten a nose job at age eleven, she’d quickly moved up to Clique One and forgotten Layla existed altogether.

She found herself shrugging her shoulders even now, pretending not to care. And at twenty-seven, she really shouldn’t. But she was only human and every now and again memories of her childhood in a town where looks were valued over everything else sometimes got to her.

She nudged her watch around her wrist. Where were Reilly, Mallory and Jack anyway? She was usually the one running late. As if on cue, her cell phone vibrated in the purse in her lap. She extracted the palm-size receiver, then answered when she saw the number was Reilly’s.

“Can’t make it, Lay. Sorry,” her friend said without so much as a hello. “Last-minute order came in for three batches of Big Fat Greek Baklava and, well…you know.”

Layla did know. The only thing worse than being an ugly kid in Hollywood was being a fat kid. And she sometimes thought that Reilly Chudowski—once known as Chubby Chuddy—had had it worse than Layla had. Reilly had long since taken off the weight, but she seemed determined to keep upsetting the status quo by opening a pastry shop called Sugar ’n’ Spice smack-dab in the middle of healthy diet country. Surprisingly Reilly had turned a modest profit the first year. Now her goal was to corrupt the whole of L.A. with Sugar ’n’ Spice.

“Give Mallory and Jack a kiss for me, will ya?” Reilly requested.

“We still on for next Saturday night?” Layla asked.

“Your place, right? Definitely still on. And I’ve got something special in mind just for the occasion.” Reilly made kissing noises then rang off.

Well, that stank. Next Saturday was a good ten days away and she hadn’t seen Reilly for at least as long. She’d hoped her day would improve with dinner. Instead it seemed to be taking an even sharper nosedive.

Layla slid her phone back into her purse, catching an envelope before it could fall to the floor. She flipped it over to read the return address. Her quarterly student loan statement. How long had it been since she’d actually paid any attention to her financial affairs? Her paychecks from both the Center and the clinic were deposited directly into her savings and checking accounts, and her loan payments automatically taken out. She had the same overhead every month—what with rent, utilities and car insurance—so there wasn’t really much need to balance her accounts on a monthly basis. The problem was she was pretty sure a year or so had passed since she’d last sat down and gone over everything. All her bank and loan statements sat on her foyer table unopened. Or she temporarily stuck them into her purse with the intention of opening them—which she never did.

She made a face. Wasn’t that how people got into trouble? So she didn’t like doing that sort of stuff. Who did, other than a boring accountant?

She slid her short thumbnail into the corner of the envelope and opened the statement. A quick glance told her that everything was going like a well-oiled machine. No flags to say that she’d missed a payment or that she was being penalized for anything. She stuffed the envelope back into her purse, figuring that’s all she really needed to know.

“This seat taken?”

Layla blinked up into a pair of cappuccino-colored brown eyes a woman could easily fall into. A man who looked better than anything any menu could offer up was gesturing toward where she’d put the gossip magazine on the next stool. The seat was just about the only one in the place. Layla gestured at him. “It’s all yours.”

She covertly eyed the drop-dead-gorgeous guy; he had dirty blond hair and an even dirtier grin. Maybe her day had just gotten a whole lot better….

A MODEL. She had to be.

And Sam Lovejoy definitely liked models.

He grinned again at the tall, slender brunette as he took the stool next to her. He was at least twenty minutes early for dinner with the Trident Medical Center’s senior board member. Hey, you couldn’t be too careful in L.A. While the term “fashionably late” had likely come as a result of the rotten L.A. traffic, he prided himself on always being punctual. Even if that meant getting somewhere way too early.

Tonight it looked as though luck was on his side, though. As far as he could tell, the hottie next to him wasn’t with anyone. And the way she kept sliding him glances told him she was open for any suggestion he might like to make.

He gave himself a mental thumbs-up and ordered a club soda.

“Twelve step?”

He raised his brows at the soft sound of her voice. She had one of those throaty voices that belonged in a smoky nightclub down on Sunset. “No, business dinner.”

She smiled as she crossed her legs. Sam openly watched the movement, wishing her skirt was just a few inches shorter. “Not from L.A., are you?” she asked.

“That obvious?”

“Natives usually drink their way through meals, business or otherwise. In fact, they’ve been known to forego food altogether. It’s what they call coping.”

He handed her the paper he’d picked up from the stool. “Yours?”

She quickly accepted it. “My one vice.” Her smile was a knockout. “I’m obsessed with these things. Can’t leave a store without picking one up.” She tucked her thick dark hair behind her ear. “How long are you staying?”

“In L.A.? Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been here for eight years and have no immediate plans for departure.”

“Ah. In the business?”

“How do you mean?”

She gestured at the others around the bar, most trying to look important or as if they weren’t scoping the place out for familiar famous faces. “Movie business.”

“Oh, no. Not even close.” Well, for all intents and purposes anyway. He didn’t make movies.

She seemed to relax, and he chuckled.

“How about you?” he asked, plucking the lime from the glass and putting it on the napkin. Something she seemed to take note of. “Model, right?”

Her green eyes narrowed slightly. “Wrong.”

“Then you should be.”

While the comment was true, he got the distinct impression that she hadn’t taken it as a compliment. He held up his hands. “Whoa. That sounded like one of the worst come-on lines on record, didn’t it?”

“Mmm.”

“Give me another chance?”

She stared at him for a long moment then cracked a smile. “To what? Embarrass yourself?”

“I deserved that.”

She slowly sipped on her club soda through the tiny straw and stared thoughtfully ahead. “No, you didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m having a really bad day today and it just got worse, and I guess you’re the closest available target.”

“Apology accepted.”

She toyed with the napkin under her glass. “It’s just that, well, one of my friends just cancelled out on me and my other two are late and…” She trailed off.

“And…?” he prompted, surprised to find he was waiting for what else she was going to say.

She waved her left hand—a hand devoid of jewelry. Her nails short and neat and clean. Most men might not notice something like that, but as a surgeon, Sam did. The expression “cleanliness is next to godliness” undoubtedly came from the medical profession.

“You don’t want to hear this. Really you don’t.”

“You’re right, I probably don’t.”

She stared at him.

“But since I still have…” he glanced at his watch “…at least a good fifteen minutes before my party arrives, listening to you sure beats watching the wallpaper fade.”

Truth was, Sam was in an exceptionally good mood. His grandmother had always called him the Golden Boy, and when a college mate had overheard her calling him that, the tag had followed him throughout medical school and well into his career. Not so much because of his looks, but because of his demeanor. While he experienced black moods like everyone else, the difference was he never let anyone know about them. But that didn’t stop him from being interested in others.

“If I ask you a question, will you promise not to go cold on me?” he said when she fell silent.

“Depends on the question.”

“Spoken like a true woman.”

“You noticed.”

His grin turned decidedly suggestive. Oh, yeah, he’d noticed. And then some.

Truth was he was highly attracted to the woman next to him. As far as first meetings went, he felt good about this one. She was elegantly gorgeous and obviously had more than a couple of marbles rolling around in her head. Most women he’d met over the past year would have immediately launched into a tale about a coffee enema gone awry when he asked about their dark mood. And while he still didn’t know the source for her agitation, he’d bet it didn’t have anything to do with coffee or enemas. And that was a refreshing change indeed.

“Who did your nose?”

WHO…did…her…nose…?

Layla absently rubbed the facial feature in question. It wasn’t so bad that he had asked the question. It wasn’t even bad if she had had her nose done. But the fact that an attractive nose—just like attractive breasts—instantly made other people think it was unnatural…well, rankled. The whole Hollywood bunch had made it virtually impossible for anyone outside the business to lead a normal life. She’d once joked that they should have some sort of government certification service that checked your body composition so that you had a certificate of authenticity that you could show to someone whenever they asked a stupid question like this.

Because no matter how she answered, the status of her nose would still be in question. After all, how many people who’d had cosmetic surgery admitted to it?

She opened her mouth and turned to give it to him good…but just looking into his handsome, inquisitive face robbed the air from her sails.

“Uh-oh. I’ve insulted you again, haven’t I?” he asked good-naturedly. “Let me guess. The nose is yours.”

“One hundred percent. And not in the ‘I bought it so it’s mine’ way either.”

“I guess I should be the one to apologize now.”

She propped her elbow up on the bar and leaned her head against her hand. “No. It’s not necessary. In this town it’s a perfectly natural question. If anyone should be immune to L.A.-speak, it’s me.” She twisted her lips. “I don’t know why I’m so touchy tonight. No, wait. Yes, I do. Because today I just found out I have a new boss.”

“Ah. Someone I take it you don’t like.”

“Not a lick.”

Layla picked at her napkin. Actually, she couldn’t even say that, really. After all, she’d never met the guy. But his reputation had definitely preceded him. Known as the ultimate Chop Doc of L.A., he could nip, tuck, enlarge and siphon off whatever it was your li’l ole heart desired. From what she’d heard, wealthy clients and aspiring actresses alike lined up around the block for his services, and he had a waiting list as long as the Declaration of Independence. Except, in his case, the document would be entitled the Declaration of Dependence. Namely, dependence on a doctor to give you what nature hadn’t.

Of course, it didn’t help that it was rumored the doctor in question dated many of the patients he worked on. A new take on follow-up, she supposed. Nothing like getting a really good squeeze of the breasts you’d enlarged.

“I think that’s why I’m so sensitive about anything related to plastic surgery tonight. I mean, I could have taken it if he was only another doctor at the Center, but he just signed on as senior staff administrator.”

The man’s hand knocked against the lip of the wood bar causing the club soda he held to splash out all over his wrist. He shook his hand and blotted his skin with a napkin. “Center?”

She nodded as she handed him her napkin. “The Trident Medical Center. Heard of it?”

“Santa Monica, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“A general practitioner, more specifically.”

He motioned for the bartender to bring him another soda. “Not many of those around nowadays, are there?”

God, he was good-looking. He had breathtaking brown eyes that could put any actor’s to shame. And that jaw…it came in second only to his mouth in items she most wanted to kiss in that one moment.

He looked at her pointedly, reminding her that he’d asked a question, albeit an indirect one. “No. There aren’t many general practitioners around anymore. Everyone usually specializes in one branch of medicine or another. Me…well, I couldn’t make up my mind.” She smiled, liking the way he appeared to be listening to her. Not many men knew how to do that. “And there really wasn’t any reason to do so. It turns out general practitioners are in high demand. Patients like to have one person to refer to instead of twenty.”

“Mmm.”

She pushed her elbow off the bar. “Now I feel as if I’ve said something to insult you.”

His brows rose. Brows a shade darker than his dark blond hair. “Oh?”

“Yeah, you got awfully quiet. Change your mind about watching the wallpaper peel?”

“Fade,” he corrected, then thanked the bartender when he got his drink. “And no,” he said, looking at her, that suggestive glint returning to his eyes. In fact, the invitation in them seemed to go up a couple of notches. “Truth is…I’m very intrigued by what you said.”

Intrigued?

Her purse vibrated in her lap again, reminding her that she was still waiting for Mallory and Jack.

“Pardon me,” she said, fishing the wireless out. Yep, it was Jack. She turned slightly away. “Don’t tell me you’re canceling, too?”

She could hear traffic on Jack’s end of the line. She instantly envisioned him driving his old Chevy with his windows rolled down. “Reilly cancelled?” he asked.

“How did…”

“I know because Mall just called from the 101. Engine trouble. I’m heading over to help her now.”

Layla made a face and looked at her watch. “Sorry to hear that. I was really looking forward to tonight. Oh, well. It’s busy here anyway. Maybe I’ll just get a salad and head home. Give me a call later to let me know everything’s all right?”

“Will do.”

SAM WATCHED the sexy doc clap her phone closed and slip it back into her purse, feeling curiously as if he’d been whacked upside the head and sucker-punched at the same time. The first because he hadn’t felt this strongly attracted to someone in a very long time. The second because, well, he barely knew her and she hated his guts. Not because of something he’d said. But rather because he was the new senior staff administrator at Trident.

Aw, hell. Talk about your small worlds.

Sam pretended to focus on something the guy on the other side of him was saying about the poor service, rather than on the doc’s enticing legs. Meanwhile he considered his dilemma. Either he came clean now with the certainty that the attraction arcing between them would vanish like a flash of lightning. Or he continued to play dumb, pretending that she hadn’t been specific about her information. Then he could try to take things on a bit with her—possibly even take her back to his house in the Hills—then hope that she would forgive him in the morning.

And he would have to face the music in the morning because if memory served him correctly, his first appointment tomorrow morning was with one Doctor Layla Hollister, the center’s only female general practitioner. A getting-acquainted meeting that he’d prefer to conduct right now under present conditions…and without her knowing who he was.

“Your friends cancelled out, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, tucked the grocery-store rag under her arm and started to get up.

“Are you up for dinner with me, then?”

She looked at him, obviously tempted. “I thought you had business to conduct.” She tilted her head. “I never asked what you did, did I?”

“No. And about the business dinner…I can always reschedule.” He grinned at her, having made his decision not to reveal his identity. Not just yet. “This is just too good an opportunity to pass up.”

She laughed. “Unfortunately, I don’t make a habit of picking up strange men in bars.”

“Shame.”

She nodded. “Definitely a shame.” She motioned to the waiter and placed an order for a salad to go. “Hold my chair for me? I’m just going to go freshen up before I leave.”

“I think I can handle that.” Good. At least this wasn’t goodbye. Not yet…

He watched her head toward the restrooms at the back of the bar area. The material of her skirt hugged her high, firm bottom just so. Suddenly the temperature in the place seemed to jump at least twenty degrees. Sam tugged at his tie, emptied his soda, then got up. The bartender glanced at him as he slapped a twenty on the bar. “Hold both seats, will you?”

Sam navigated through the sea of hot, young bodies crowding the restaurant, his mind on one hot, young body in particular. Oh, no, he didn’t intend to let her get away that easily. He stopped outside the ladies’ room and leaned against the wall. An opportunity was an opportunity. And he planned to take complete advantage of it.

The door to the restroom opened to let out a perky blonde. Sam rubbed his chin, then crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring her suggestive look.

The door opened again and Layla came out, stuffing something into her purse and appearing not to notice him. Sam lightly grasped her arm as she began to edge past him.

She blinked up into his eyes and a curious mixture of vanilla and lemon teased his nose. She smiled. A little welcoming, a little nervous. A slight upturning of the edges of her full mouth that made his stomach crave something other than food. “I thought you were holding my chair,” she murmured, her gaze flicking over his features.