Night Fever

Unfortunately, Mallory’s driving—speeding, really—without directions usually left her facing a dead end.

A documentary producer by trade, a…what was she privately? Layla wondered. Chaos on wheels?

She smiled. No. Mallory was a great friend.

“I told him I have to work at the clinic tonight,” she finally answered.

“Oh, Layla, you didn’t!”

She leaned back in her chair, enjoying Mall’s indignant reaction. “I most certainly did. Because it’s the truth. Being short one doctor…”

“Screw the clinic,” Mallory said then cursed up a blue streak. Good thing Layla also heard her car horn or she’d have thought Mallory was reaming her out. “You need to start looking after yourself for a change, Layla.”

“Funny, that’s what Sam said.”

“Smart man, Sam. I like him already.”

“Then you don’t recognize his name.”

“No. Why? Should I?”

“Remember that documentary you did, oh, about eighteen months ago?”

“The one on the elephant man’s remains?”

“Close. The one on Hollywood’s obsession with plastic surgery.”

“Plastic surgery…Sam…oh my god! He’s not the Dr. Lovejoy, is he?”

Even said in the elongated, condescending way Mallory uttered his name, Layla shivered. “The one and only.”

“Kill him now. Before it’s too late.”

Layla laughed.

Mallory released a long breath. “Only you, Lay. Only you could be attracted to the one man in all of L.A. you shouldn’t be attracted to.”

“Who said I’m attracted to him?”

“You did, idiot. Just by mentioning him.”

Layla made a face and toyed with the foil top of her yogurt container. Leave it to Mallory to sum things up within five seconds when she’d been trying to figure them out for the past three hours.

“So when are you guys going out?”

Layla raised her brows. “I didn’t say we were.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t, either. When?”

Layla sat up and tossed the half-eaten yogurt into the trash bin under her desk. “He invited me to his place for a late dinner tonight. You know, after I knock off at the clinic.”

“Late-night nookie is more like it.”

“Mall! I didn’t say I was going. I just said that he offered the invite. He said something about it giving me an easy out if I needed it. You know, come, don’t come. The ball’s in my court.” She coughed. “I, of course, turned him down.”

“And he, of course, told you to think about it, that the invitation would remain open.”

“How did…”

“A man of his stature is not known for giving up easily, Layla.”

The sentence hung in the air before Layla’s eyes in bright-blue neon letters. She heard the whoosh of traffic from the receiver and the sound of voices passing in the hall outside her office door, but all she could think about was what Mallory meant.

She rested her hand against her neck, noticing the heat there, the elevation of her pulse. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Sam Lovejoy was a plastic surgeon, he was also rumored to be one of the biggest playboys on the Pacific coast.

He was also a great kisser. Just remembering his mouth against hers made her body tingle in response.

Mallory said, “Go.”

“What?” Layla barely breathed the word.

“I said, go. I don’t care how tired you are when you finish up at the clinic. You march right over to his place, strip out of your clothes before you’re even through the door, and indulge in some meaningless, mindless sex.” She sighed almost wistfully. “Lord knows, everyone else does.”

“You don’t.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because I’m probably one of the most uptight liberals this side of the equator.” Layla heard the smile in her voice. “But I would want to go if I were in your shoes. I guess the question here is, do you want to go?”

Yes, she did. With every clench of her thighs. “No.”

“Liar. Go. Then call me tomorrow with all the details.”

“Now that I would never do.”

“I know. Bummer.”

A brief rap on her door, then the receptionist was motioning to her watch, letting her know her lunch break was over. Layla waved her acknowledgement. “Look, Mall, I’ve got to go. Good luck with the shoot this afternoon.”

“I need more than luck—I need a miracle. But I’m still not letting you go until you tell me what you’ve decided.”

Layla smiled. “Bye, Mall.”

She slowly hung up the phone then sat there quietly for a long moment before moving on with her afternoon, no closer to a decision on the situation than she’d been at nine that morning.

It wasn’t all that long ago that she’d vowed never to date a fellow physician again.

What was the saying? Once bitten, twice shy?

But she’d also gotten wiser. This time around she’d know the score going in. Sam wasn’t married—she’d checked—but she knew he was a womanizer with a capital W. So if she did go tonight…if she did give herself over to this incredible desire…she’d do so knowing there could never be anything beyond great sex.

She swallowed hard. And there was no doubt in her mind that it would be great.

Another rap at her door. “Dr. Hollister?”

She shook herself out of her reverie and grabbed the chart in front of her. “I’m coming.”

She caught herself up short, then shook her head and headed to see her next patient.

AT TEN-THIRTY that night, Sam opened the front door to his sprawling house in Hollywood Hills and heard the sound of the phone ringing. He waited for his answering machine to pick up. When it didn’t, he strode toward the closest extension and picked up the receiver, loosening his tie at the same time.

“What happened to your answering machine?” It was his sister, Heather.

“Funny, I was just asking myself the same question.” Carrying the cordless with him, he crossed the large sunken living area, then punched the button on the piece of black plastic. He had ninety-nine messages. “I think it’s full.”

“I think it’s broken.”

“A possibility.” He gave a wry smile. Leave it to ever-practical Heather to point out the obvious.

“So what makes you call so late?” He shrugged out of his suit jacket, tossed it across the steps, then headed for the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

“Oh! Sorry. I guess I hadn’t realized it was so late. Is it really after ten already?”

“Brian working the night shift again?” Sam tried to keep his voice casual, but somehow he was never any good at it when it came to his sister’s live-in boyfriend. In the past three years they’d been together—two of them in the same house—Brian had bounced around from job to job, the latest at a national shipping warehouse where he handled stock.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he is,” Heather said, her tone telling him she wasn’t buying the casual question either. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

Sam downed half the contents of the water bottle then ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good, because if it was, I’d have to hang up on you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He screwed the cap back on the bottle and looked at his watch. It had been a long day filled with getting-acquainted meetings with staff personnel that hadn’t been nearly as interesting as his meeting with Layla Hollister. Then he finished up with another dinner with the center director who, it appeared, was in the middle of a divorce and had nothing better to do with his time than schedule long dinner meetings with underlings who might prefer to be doing something else.

“Anyway, I was just thinking that it’s been a while, you know, since you and I had some private time together.”

Sam put the bottle on the counter and took off his tie. “I was just out for dinner with you and Brian the Sunday before last.”

Oh, happy day. Brian had spent the whole time scowling into his beer can while he’d openly belittled the medical community at large and Sam more directly, and Heather had tried to smooth everything over. For her sake, Sam hadn’t hauled off and given Brian a piece of his mind by way of a fist, but he probably would have had he stayed even five minutes longer. So he’d left as quickly as possible without looking back—which he wouldn’t want to do anyway, considering the state of that place. The tract house was little more than a shack that his sister tried her best to make into a comfortable home.

He rubbed his face. “Do you need money?”

Heather laughed. “No, I don’t need money. Thanks for asking. In fact, I’ll have you know that I just started turning a profit.”

“Making pigs?”

“Creating collectable porcelain pigs I sell on the Internet.”

“Good.” Sam massaged his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. With a great deal of assistance from him, his little sister had graduated from UCLA with honors. But after only one year in a promising public relations career, she’d met Brian and all her career ambitions had gone down the drain.

Now she was not only living with a pig, she was making them.

“No, I thought that you and I, you know, could go to our favorite place. Hang out for a while.”

Their favorite place. Just the two of them. Sam grinned. That, he could definitely do. “Sure, name the time.”

She did, three days from now, for lunch.

“Anyway, what are you doing home so early?”

“If you didn’t expect me to be home, why did you call?”

“I expected to get your answering machine.”

“You could have called my cell.”

“I never call your cell.”

“I know.” He glanced at his watch. “Interestingly enough, I have a date tonight.”

A pause. “Have, as in, it has yet to begin?”

“Uh-huh. She’s coming here after she gets off work.”

“And you talk about Brian working strange hours.”

“She’s a doc and puts in time at a free clinic.”

“Same difference.”

Sam bit his tongue to stop himself from saying it wasn’t.

“Is this serious? I mean, you never have anyone at the house.”

“I suggested a restaurant but she didn’t bite. As for the serious part, this is our first date.”

“First date…at your house. Mmm. I was going to ask her name, but I won’t, because I get the feeling her name won’t come up again anyway after tomorrow.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t ‘ouch’ me, Sam. When are you going to stop all this dangerous playing around and get serious about someone?”

“Just as soon as I meet someone I want to get serious about. And what I’m doing is not dangerous. I have plenty of condoms.”

“You should hold stock in the company.”

“Actually, I do.”

She sighed heavily. “You know, one of these days I’m going to give up on you, big brother.”

“No you won’t.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because you love me.”

She laughed. “Yes, you big lug, I do.”

Shortly thereafter Sam pressed the disconnect button on the phone then stood silently in the middle of his kitchen. Heather was ten years younger than him and was indirectly responsible for his having chosen to become a doctor. They were the only two children of Bruce and Louise Lovejoy of Toledo, Ohio, a quiet couple whose own parents before them had emigrated from England when they were young. But it had been Heather’s being born with a cleft palate, and a local doctor’s muck-up of the reconstructive surgery, that had given Sam the idea of becoming a doctor himself. A doctor that wouldn’t make the same kind of mistakes his sister’s doctor had.

He shook his head, wondering what had made his mind go back there. It had been a very long time since he’d thought about the genesis of his interest in the medical field. While Heather’s scars were still visible because she refused to undergo further surgery, he’d spoken to her on the phone, not face-to-face, so seeing her scars hadn’t been the reason for his recollections.

He glanced at his watch again. Layla should be closing the clinic doors right about now. Of course, that didn’t mean she would be heading this way.

He grinned. Nor did it mean that she wouldn’t be.

He placed a call to a local restaurant and ordered up dinner for two to be delivered in fifteen, then headed for his bedroom and the shower beyond, not about to make it easy for her to refuse him if she did make the trip all the way out to his place.

OKAY, so Mallory was right. She did want to go to Sam’s place. More than that, she was sitting in her car outside his house, hesitant about pulling into the driveway of the sloping ranch-style dwelling that could have held five of her cramped apartment.

Of course, she doubted Sam Lovejoy had the student loan debt that she had, either. His house alone stood testament to the fact. Never mind the sleek black Jaguar parked in front of the door.

God, he was home.

She wiped her damp palms on her skirt, not realizing until that moment that she’d secretly hoped he wouldn’t be there. Then she could have placed the blame for their not seeing each other on him.

But he was home and she was there and it would be stupid for her to do anything else but go in. Maybe have a cup of coffee or water or something. Then say something about an early morning and hightail it out of there if she felt the least bit uneasy.

She made a face, backed up then pulled her ten-year-old Pontiac behind his sports car. Who was she kidding? She didn’t want to hightail it out of anywhere. She wanted to see if his mouth was capable of doing all the things she’d dreamed about last night. And, let’s face it, it had been a good long time since she’d had an orgasm that required somebody else being in the room. Much too long.

And if a little voice told her that this might not be such a good idea, sleeping with a fellow doctor, much less a boss of sorts, she ignored it. While Sam Lovejoy might be staff administrator, he was also a man. And while she couldn’t really say she knew him all that well, she got the distinct impression that any indiscretions would be kept between the two of them. Unlike what had passed between her and Jim Colton. It seemed the entire Center knew that she’d had an affair with a married man. The only people who hadn’t had a clue, it appeared, were her…and his wife.

“Turn off the car, Layla,” she quietly ordered herself.

She did, then forced herself to climb out. The lawn on either side of the drive was nicely landscaped. Flowers blooming everywhere. But that didn’t mean anything. All the houses out this way had professional landscapers. It didn’t mean that…

What? That Sam was married?

She stretched her neck. No, she’d been extra careful this time out. If there was one thing she was absolutely positive of, it was that Dr. Lovejoy wasn’t married.

Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t in or hadn’t very recently been in a serious relationship on the verge of marriage.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Layla, get over yourself. Just because you’ve been burned once doesn’t mean you’ll be burned again.”

There were no guarantees that she wouldn’t be, either, she reminded herself.

She walked to the door, straightened her skirt, then raised her hand to knock.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re just here for the sex.”

The door opened midway through her comment to herself and Sam stood there in all his handsome glory, a mile-wide grin on his striking face. “Did I hear somebody say ‘sex’?”

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