Rebel Doc On Her Doorstep

She went to shove her hair out of her face and nearly conked herself on the head with the flashlight. Ty watched her face flush as she swung away.

“I was... I was... I was just about to call for an ambulance,” she ended on a rush, clearly more than a little rattled.

“No!” he yelled, wincing when the sound echoed through his skull and everyone tensed, the cops turning, hands on weapons. He sucked in a deep breath. “No,” he repeated more calmly. “I’m fine.”

“You most definitely are not fine,” she said decisively, waving the flashlight around again. “Look at you. You’re a mess. You need a hospital.”

Insulted, he snarled, “I don’t need a damn hospital. And will someone take that damn flashlight away before she injures herself?” He waited until she slammed it down on the entrance table and turned to him, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Good. Great.” He shifted and winced. “I just need a little help, that’s all. An explanation would be even better.”

“For what?”

“Maybe we’ll start with what the hell you’re doing in my house and then move on to the unprovoked attack.”

“Unprovoked?” she squeaked in outrage. “You looked like the walking dead after my brains. What the heck was I supposed to do?” Three pairs of eyes swung her way and Ty noticed the cops’ similar expressions of male confusion. She must have too because she pushed out her lush lower lip, crossed her eyes and huffed out an exasperated breath. “For your information,” she continued primly, “this is my house.”

“No, it’s not.” And when no one moved or spoke, “Dammit, will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

She made a tsking sound at his language and turned to the cops. “If he won’t go to the hospital, you’ll have to hold him down while I do it here.” Her voice dropped and she whispered...loudly. “It’s going to hurt. We usually strap them to the bed and stick them with a bunch of needles before we try this.”

“Hold me—? Needles? Whoa, you hold it, lady. Right there.” He lifted his good hand in the universal stop gesture and dared them to come any closer. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She studied him silently for a couple of seconds before sharing a look with flirty cop. “I’m going to fix your shoulder.”

Oh, no. No way in hell.

“No offense, babe,” he snorted, gritting his teeth against the agony as he struggled to his feet. Where he completely embarrassed himself by swaying as sweat exploded from his pores. His vision swam and it took supreme self-control to stay upright. Fortunately he hadn’t eaten since the questionable airline food or he’d be totally humiliating himself. “But I’m not letting a bossy faerie commando anywhere near my shoulder.” He jerked his chin behind her. “They can help.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she snorted, stepping close now that she had two burly cops with guns at her back. “I think the bossy faerie commando is more qualified to do this.”

Yeah, right. “I doubt it.” He glared at the cop. “Flirty cop here can help me.”

“It’s Detective Petersen.” Flirty cop arched his brows and looked amused but made no move towards him. Fine. He turned to the younger cop and got a helpless shrug.

“See,” she said smugly. “They know who’s in charge here.” She patted his shoulder. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll let Detective Petersen help. And don’t worry about it,” she soothed, as if she was talking to a frightened kid. “I know what I’m doing. You won’t feel a thing.”

Ty ground his teeth together and sent her a touch me and die glare that she totally disregarded by tugging gently but firmly, clearly wanting him back on the floor.

Which was no way in hell happening. He tried to shrug her off and ended up slapping a hand against the wall when the world spun.

“It’ll be much easier this way,” she soothed in a soft husky voice that had him blinking and scowling at her again.

“Easier for whom?” he slurred woozily.

Unperturbed, she sent him a smile that was so bright and sweet it distracted him from the crafty gleam in her eyes.

“For you, of course,” she murmured, smoothing a hand down his back like he was seven and scared of the dark space under his bed. The move both irritated and pleased him, especially when flirty cop went on hard-eyed alert. Then she added, “This way you won’t get any more injuries when you pass out again and crack the floor with your head,” and his irritation became outright male insult.

“I am not going to pass...” he began, only to suck in a sharp breath when the world tilted woozily and he slid down the wall to the floor. “Okay...okay, so maybe I do need to, um...lie down.”

Clammy and panting, Ty lay on the hard floor, cursing and battling humiliation as the pint-sized tormentor ordered the two cops into position and disappeared upstairs. Dammit, this was usually his gig. If word got out he’d never live it down.

Cursing himself for thinking he could just waltz into town and everything would be okay, Ty opened his mouth to order the cops to help him up but she was back with a large towel. “Relax,” she soothed. “I can’t send you to jail like this.”

She slipped the rope towel beneath his back, under his armpit and across his chest. Completely ignoring his gritted curses, she handed the ends to the cops.

Then she planted her knee on his chest and gripped his arm above his cast. Exotic eyes locked with his, she said, “Ready?” and gave it a sharp, hard yank.

Pain exploded through him as his shoulder popped. He let out a ragged groan and lay sweating and groaning while his mini-tormentor sat back on her heels with a loud sigh of relief.

Looking pleased, she gave his chest a comforting rub and rose, affording Ty an unimpeded view of surprisingly long, shapely legs—right up to a pair of teeny boy shorts beneath the baggy T. Boy shorts that were currently hugging world-class curves.

Huh, he thought woozily. Maybe the view from here wasn’t so bad. Then from down a long tunnel he heard her instructing them to take him to the hospital and his pain fog miraculously cleared.

“No,” he said firmly, sitting up and hugging his arm to his chest, relieved that the excruciating agony was down to an almost bearable throb. “I told you, no hospital.”

“But—”

“No hospital,” he all but snarled, and was awarded with a huff of exasperation. “Besides,” he slurred, “I’m not leaving you in my dad’s house.”

No way was he telling anyone that the thought of going into a hospital made him break out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not when his future as a trauma surgeon looked so grim.

CHAPTER TWO

“FINE,” PETERSEN SAID TIGHTLY, helping a wobbly Ty onto his feet and all but marching him into the living room. “Let’s go. But I warn you, your story had better be good because Dr. Carlyle is here legally. You, not so much.”

Ty wanted to shrug off the support but his legs refused to obey the directives from his brain. A lamp was switched on and he blinked in the sudden bright light as he sank down onto the sofa with a groan. Then the man’s words registered and he stilled. “Hold it. Who the hell is Dr. Carlyle?”

“I am.”

Mini-commando appeared at his side with a huge emergency kit and glass of clear liquid, which she offered. He hoped it was neat vodka and opened his mouth to tell her to just bring the bottle but it emerged instead as a snort of disbelief. “Sure you are,” he drawled, taking the glass and saluting her. “Because they let adolescents practice medicine now.”

Gold flecks hidden in the swirls of her blue and green eyes flashed, reminding him of sunbursts reflecting off water. It distracted him until he realized that he was letting himself be bewitched by a pair of striking eyes.

Annoyed that it was working, he transferred his attention to the contents of the glass and said tersely, “This is water. Don’t you have anything stronger?”

“No. Alcohol exacerbates swelling and internal bleeding.” He looked up to tell her that if he had any internal bleeding she was responsible for it, and got caught in her gaze again.

“But I can give you a shot for the pain if you like,” she announced, wide-eyed innocence totally belied by the laughter in her eyes.

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. Okay, so maybe he’d got ahead of himself there for a moment, but the woman was clearly tougher than she looked. “I have my own meds.”

“So,” Petersen interrupted, impatient with the delay. “Now that you’re all cozy and comfortable, maybe we could see some ID?”

Ty considered telling him what he could do with his request but he was exhausted and knew any argument would just delay their departure.

Collapsing against the back of the sofa, he muttered, “Front pocket.”

Neither cop made a move towards him. In fact, they shared a stone-faced look until bossy faerie said, “I’ll get it,” in a voice that suggested they were all idiots.

He stretched out his leg to give her room and sent Petersen a challenging smirk. He couldn’t exactly reach into his pocket with an injured arm and the other holding a glass. Besides, if letting her stick her hand in his pants annoyed flirty cop and got him to leave sooner rather than later, then Ty was game.

But it had been a long time since he’d let a woman reach for anything in his pocket and much to his shock—and stunned bemusement—his body stirred.

What the—?

No way, Ty thought with a sharp sideways look. No way was he attracted to Little Miss Commando. It just wasn’t possible.

Was it?

Absolutely not. He didn’t like mouthy, bossy women and he didn’t like women who attacked defenseless people without provocation.

Her gaze caught his and she flushed, yanking his wallet out and tossing it at Petersen as though it was a live grenade.

Not meeting anyone’s eyes, she grabbed the glass out of his hand and downed the contents before shooting off the couch and bolting behind an armchair as if he was contagious.

Amusement vied with insult. So, Ty mused, fascinated by the rosy flush creeping up from the gaping neckline of her T, she handles an intruder without losing her nerve but sticking her hand in a guy’s pocket freaks her out?

She flashed a glare out the corner of her eye when she caught him staring. Her flush deepened and so did her scowl.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Ty wondered what the heck he was thinking. He’d come to Washington to be alone. Yet here he sat—head pounding like a jackhammer—hugely entertained by his attacker while being interrogated by local cops.

Déjà vu.

* * *

Paige slid a sideways glare at the man sprawled on her sofa like he belonged and everyone else were intruders. This was all his fault, she decided huffily. He’d broken into her house, scared her into a new blood group and now he was sitting there looking all impenetrable and imposing, pumping off waves of masculine irritation and blasting testosterone and pheromones around the room like a leaky nuclear reactor.

Silent and deadly.

Especially to unwary females.

Except she was very wary. She’d grown up with three older brothers and knew how the alpha mind worked. Innately confident of their place in the world, they silently and arrogantly challenged the rest of humanity. Like her brothers, he seemed to dominate the room completely and effortlessly. As though he wore an invisible sign that said, “Badass territory, enter at own risk.”

Curious, she took another peek and caught him still studying her like she was a new species of bug he’d just discovered and wasn’t all that impressed by what he saw.

Her face heated and she shifted nervously because she’d caught a glimpse of herself in the foyer mirror and just had to look like a wreck the night a hot, rumpled guy broke into her house.

Paige studied him as light from the nearby lamp cast his features in bold relief, highlighting his fierce beauty and illuminating stark blue eyes made bluer by tanned skin.

A shiver snaked through her, promptly tightening her nipples.

What the—?

Paige quickly crossed her arms over her breasts, rubbing her arms as if she was cold. Stop looking at him, she ordered herself silently. He broke into your house and scared you. He is not yummy and he’s not harmless.

No, he wasn’t harmless, he was trouble, she admitted. The kind of trouble smart women avoided. Fortunately Paige was very smart and could spot trouble at a hundred paces. But even battered and bruised he exuded an almost tangible authority that was pretty darned hard to ignore.

He was one of those seriously hot men—like a Hollywood action hero women sighed over and men secretly wanted to be—with black silky hair tumbling around his lean angular features like a dark halo, highlighting his ice-blue eyes and the unmistakable gleam of intelligence and mockery.

And yet...also unmistakable was a hollow-eyed weariness that made her chest ache. But he wasn’t one of her little patients. More like a hot grumpy warrior angel who’d lost his wings in a recent altercation with dark forces and had found himself stranded on earth.

Paige gave a huge mental eye-roll at the fanciful thoughts and ruthlessly ignored the quiver in her belly. Guys with all that seething testosterone usually didn’t give her a second glance. Instead, they buzzed around the tall popular girls—girls with long legs and big boobs—like flies around a carcass.

Fortunately the detective turned, interrupting Paige’s unwelcome thoughts. He tossed the wallet on the coffee table. “So. What brings a fancy LA doctor to our modest little town?”

Interest caught by his odd tone—kind of confrontational and mocking—she looked at her intruder a little more closely. “LA? Doctor?”

His mouth curled in a slight smirk as he coolly eyed the detective. “Yeah, and I’ve been sitting here wondering how the hell you became a cop, Petersen.”

Petersen’s laugh was more of a snort. “Who’d have thought, huh?” He shoved his hands on his hips, jacket open exposing his gun and shield in a blatantly aggressive move. “Your dad know you’re here?”

“No. I didn’t get a chance to call.”

Bemused by the undercurrents in the room, Paige demanded, “Dad?” Her gaze bounced between the three men, hoping to get some clue about what was going on, but they were all wearing their let’s be macho and inscrutable faces.

“Phone your father and get this sorted fast, Reese,” Petersen said, before turning away and heading for the door. “Oh, and welcome home.”

“Not arresting me, Detective?” Ty taunted.

The cop paused at the door, his eyes amused as he took in the scene. “Not today. This is your free pass, Reese. Don’t make me regret it.”

Thoroughly confused and annoyed by the baffling man-speak, Paige demanded again, “What? What did I miss? Who is he? And, dammit, why are you leaving?”

Petersen gave a huge sigh and shook his head. “Ask him.”

“What? No,” Paige said, jumping to her feet. “You can’t just leave him here. What am I supposed to do with him? Take him away.”

“He’s harmless,” the cop said with faint mockery. “And it really is his house.”

And before Paige could do more than stutter, “B-but,” the detectives had disappeared down the passage. Through the roaring in her ears she heard the front door closing behind them.

For several long seconds she stood staring open-mouthed at the doorway, before turning and demanding, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” “fancy doc” sighed, rubbing a large hand over his face. “Ancient history. But he’s right, I’m harmless.” And when she opened her mouth to laugh at that big whopper, he drawled, “Believe me, doing anything more strenuous than breathing is currently beyond my capabilities.” He shifted then winced. “I just need a drink and a place to crash. The rest can wait till morning.”

Realizing she was still clutching the emergency kit like her life depended on it, Paige set it down on the coffee table with a little more force than necessary.

“No.”

She didn’t quite know what she was saying no to, the alcohol, him spending the rest of the night in her house or the fact that her life was spinning out of control...and just when she’d thought she was finally getting it together.

“No?”

She caught his expression and nearly laughed at the stunned disbelief on his face. As though people—women most probably—didn’t say no to him very often. She gave a silent snort. They probably didn’t. Not looking the way he did—all simmering male irritation and dark angel looks. Women probably lined up hoping to tease a smile from that mouth...or something that required mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Her spine snapped straight. Well, not this woman. She could resus herself just fine, thank you. And all those yummy pheromones flying around like busy little bees looking for the nearest flower to pollinate could...could...well, they could just buzz off.

There would be no pollinating.

Not this flower. Nuh-uh. No way.

Not that he looked like he wanted to pollinate her flower, she admitted with brutal honesty. He’d called her an adolescent and a bossy faerie commando—which put a big black mark against him as far as she was concerned. He was just like every other alpha guy who thought they were in charge and everyone—women especially—was eager to obey.

“No,” she repeated more firmly. “No alcohol.” Right. Let’s go with that one. “And no crashing on the couch until you tell me who you are and why you broke into my house. You can do that while I strap your shoulder. Besides, I know the owner and you are definitely not him.”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead like she was giving him a headache when the opposite was actually true.

“Look,” he said wearily, “I’m fine. I don’t need doctoring. And before you get all bent out of shape,” he continued curtly when she opened her mouth to argue, “I can handle my own damn injuries.” His ice-blue eyes took a lazy trip from the top of her head to her bare toes. “And as appealing as you are...” his mouth curled up at one corner as though her appearance amused him “... I just want to be alone. I really, really need that.” He closed his eyes. “So...can you wave your magic faerie wand and disappear?”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” she snapped. “If you think I’m about to head off to bed with a stranger on my couch, you can think again.”

The look he sent her most probably sent people running for cover. Paige, who had weathered scarier looks and survived, returned it coolly.

Finally he muttered something that sounded like, “Bossy little smartass,” and gestured to the emergency kit. “Fine,” he said wearily. “Just get a move on so we can both get some sleep before the night is completely shot. And there’s my ID.” He jerked his chin at his wallet on the coffee table. “Knock yourself out. Call Dr. Henry Chapman too if it’ll make you feel better. I might not have seen him in a while but I’m pretty sure he still remembers he has a son.”

* * *

Paige was halfway down the stairs the next morning when she caught sight of her flashlight on the entrance table and remembered her boss and landlord’s grumpy son on her sofa. Or, as she’d dubbed him—after he’d grunted and promptly thrown an arm across his eyes after she’d strapped his shoulder, in a blatant message for her to get lost—Dr. Bad Attitude.

Feeling like a thief in her own house, she tiptoed to the living room and peered around the door to find him still sprawled across her sofa where she’d left him. One long leg hung over the end, the other was foot-planted on the floor, probably to keep him from rolling off the sofa.

The blankets and pillow were halfway across the room as though he’d flung them there in a fit of temper.

The breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding escaped in a silent whoosh. So...she hadn’t dreamed him up. Neither had she dreamed up what a very fine specimen of manhood he was, she admitted with dismay.

But she didn’t need this kind of complication, she told herself firmly. Boss’s son or not, she’d send him on his way the instant he opened his sexy blue eyes.

Catching herself drooling at the sight of all that taut tanned skin highlighted by neon pink taping, Paige tried schooling her features into a frown. It didn’t work, especially when she recalled his reaction at her liberal application of pink. Instead of making him look ridiculously feminine—which was what she’d intended—all it had done was emphasize his dark smoldering masculinity.

Covering her mouth to stifle her snickers, Paige yawned and retreated to the kitchen. She needed a hefty dose of caffeine if she was going to get him out of her house.

She filled the reservoir and measured out ground coffee then pressed the start button and was in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn when she heard ringing. The sound galvanized her into action and she shot out of the kitchen, following the sound because she couldn’t remember where she’d left her phone.

Muttering frantically, she prayed the ringing would stop before it woke the grizzly camped on her—

“Oops,” she said breathlessly, rushing into the living room to find the bear, wearing low-slung jeans, a mile of pink tape and a black scowl, with her shoulder bag in his hand, dumping the contents on the coffee table.

“Hey,” she said when he shoved everything out, presumably looking for her cellphone. When he found it he stabbed at the screen with a long tanned finger, heaving a huge sigh as it went silent.

“Hey,” she said again, rushing forward to snatch up her phone, glaring at him when she saw that he’d ended the call. But he’d already resumed a horizontal position with one arm slung across his eyes and all she could see of his face was a very nicely sculpted, very grim mouth and a hard jaw covered in a few days’ growth.

Her own black scowl was completely wasted. “That could have been an emergency.”

He grunted in what he probably thought was a very eloquent reply before adding, “Since when is ‘kick-ass grl’ an emergency?” in a deep rough voice that might have sent shivers up her spine if she hadn’t been annoyed.

“Maybe that’s what I call my boss,” she shot back heatedly, because she’d totally felt the shivers, darn it. When a ping came from her phone, she stabbed the screen bad-temperedly to access the message.

Hrd abt lst nite. Sid’s in 15. I’m buying.

She didn’t question how “kick-ass grl” knew about her midnight visitor. St John’s wasn’t that big and everyone—especially emergency personnel—seemed to know everything that happened within minutes of it happening.

Frankie Bryce was an EMT and seemed to know stuff before it happened. Probably because she had friends in high and not-so-high places.

But it’d been a long week and Paige wasn’t about to turn down free breakfast, especially at Sid’s, which was a hugely popular diner on the boardwalk. It overlooked the harbor where the coastguard did their water training—in skin-tight wetsuits and sometimes jammers—and served the best coffee and pie in town.

That she’d have to cough up details of last night was a given but Frankie had grown up in Port St. John’s and might know about Tyler Reese, hot and grumpy son of Port St. John’s favorite doctor, and fancy LA doctor of who knew what?

She thumbed a quick reply then bent to scoop up all the purse junk Dr. Cranky had exploded all over the coffee table, turning her head in time to see him eyeing her butt. She squeaked out a protest and straightened so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

“Hey,” she accused, slapping her hands over her bottom. “Eyes off, Mr. Cranky, or I might decide not to offer you any coffee before I toss you out.”

* * *

Ty snorted, unconcerned that he’d been caught ogling her posterior. “You had your shot.” He yawned, eyes as gritty as his temper. “The next one’s mine.”

She stomped off muttering about rude unwelcome guests and Ty waited until he was alone before pushing to his feet. He followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen, feeling like he’d been run over by a train.

A train named Paige Carlyle, he thought darkly.