Falling At The Surgeon's Feet

It’s not him, Holly. It can’t be.

Besides, where was the thousand-dollar suit, the eight-hundred-dollar, hand-stitched loafers and hundred-dollar haircut? She sneaked another peek at him and ran her gaze over all that tanned skin, sun-streaked hair and languid grace and decided she could see him gracing the cover of an extreme sports magazine—or maybe Surf’s Up—more readily than a fancy Beverly Hills fundraiser.

But then Langley said, “I’d like to formally introduce Dr. Gabriel Alexander and welcome him to the West Manhattan family,” and Holly realized with an unpleasant shock that the hot guy who’d made her knees wobble and her breath hitch in her chest was the very same man who’d been linked to rumors of new procedures and extreme body-sculpting of many Hollywood A-listers and supermodels. Including her famous sister.

What the heck was he doing in Manhattan?

He even had a dimple, darn it!

CHAPTER TWO

DR. GABRIEL ALEXANDER sighed and wedged himself into the movie-house-style chair, scooching down so he could tip his head back and finally close his eyes. It seemed like months instead of days since he’d shared a very interesting elevator ride with a certain surgical resident and he was exhausted—no thanks to said resident.

Crossing one ankle over the other on a backrest a few chairs down probably made him look like a long-legged spider squashed into a matchbox, but Gabe just needed some quiet time out from his hectic schedule. Besides, as a resident he’d slept anywhere; his favorite being observation rooms where it was usually quiet—especially after eight at night.

Popping his earphones in his ears, he sighed as rock music washed over him. It had only been four days since he’d been welcomed to West Manhattan Saints by a stunning briefcase-wielding assailant, but he kind of liked the vibe of being back in a large medical facility. Seems selling his partnership to some entitled young punk hungry for the Hollywood lifestyle had been the right decision after all.

For the past six years he’d been attached to a small private clinic that was so exclusive very few people even knew of its existence—except if you were famous, ultra-wealthy or both. Now, just thinking about what he’d left behind made Gabe shudder with an odd mix of pride, distaste and shame. And if that didn’t make him a candidate for the psych ward, nothing would. Not even his screwed-up childhood.

He’d had a mansion in Beverly Hills, a house in Santa Monica, a yacht and several luxury vehicles in his multiple-car garage and he’d been the most sought-after plastic surgeon on the West Coast. For a kid who’d spent his childhood believing he wasn’t good enough, it had been a dream come true.

Looking back, he realized it had been a symbolic gesture to his rich and powerful grandfather. A man who’d used his connections to forcibly end the marriage of his son to a fellow student. A girl he’d deemed unworthy to carry the Alexander name—or the Alexander heir.

Only it had been too late for that. Third-year journalism student Rachel Parker had already been pregnant. When the old man had found out, he’d paid her a visit and along with thinly veiled threats told her to stay away from his family. Or else.

Afraid for her unborn child, Rachel had agreed. She’d moved across the country to ensure they never bumped into each other and Caspar Alexander had made sure that his son had been too busy—with his new wife and family—to be bothered with looking up his college flame. It hadn’t stopped Rachel from telling her son all about his father and it hadn’t stopped Gabe from dreaming—until he’d turned twelve—that his father would one day come to claim him. It had never happened. Both his father and his grandfather had conveniently gone back to their entitled lives as though nothing had happened.

Until about two years ago when the old man had decided he needed someone to take over the family business. It seemed Caspar’s son and legitimate grandchildren were a huge disappointment and couldn’t be trusted not to squander everything he’d spent a lifetime building.

The old man had told him how proud he was of Gabe’s achievements and that it was clear he was a chip off the old block.

Gabe had not so politely told him what he could do with his offer.

For a long time he’d been angry—at his mother and father—but especially the ruthless Caspar Alexander. And when he’d been invited to join the clinic he’d seen it as his ticket to the big league. Look, Gabe was saying to the old man. I didn’t need you or your family’s money to become someone. I did it all by myself.

Then his mom had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of leukemia and none of his money, contacts, fame or his skill with a scalpel had made a difference. By the time she’d slipped away, he’d realized his mother was right. He’d become the one thing he hated above all else. He’d become just like his grandfather. Ruthless, cold in his personal relationships and interested in only two things—money and status. It had been a rude awakening. One that had spurred him on to make some drastic changes in his life.

Someone bumped against the row of seats, jolting Gabe from the disturbing memories of his childhood and his non-existent relationship with a man who’d pretended most of Gabe’s life that he didn’t exist.

Grateful for the disruption, he cracked open one eye to see that a small crowd had gathered at the observation window overlooking operating room three.

A quick look at the overhead OR screen gave him a close-up of an open torso and disembodied gloved hands wielding stainless-steel instruments with skill and precision. And considering that WMS had some of the best trauma surgeons on the east coast, whoever was on the table was in good hands.

Tugging on one earphone, he tuned into the murmur of voices around him and discovered that someone called Dr. Chang was working on a young woman who had landed beneath a bus during rush hour traffic.

He replaced the earphone and watched the onscreen action for a few more minutes, admiring the dexterity of the leading surgeon’s hands, before letting his eyes drift over the observers.

They were painfully young and even if they hadn’t been dressed in light blue scrubs, he would have pegged them as residents. Their fresh, animated faces reminded him of his own resident days, which meant they were probably not discussing whatever was going on below. Most likely it was about a hot nurse, or complaints about their supervisors.

Hospitals were like small towns where everyone knew everyone else and no one’s personal business remained private for long. People gathered during quiet times to gossip about patients; nurses liked to complain about doctors and doctors liked to complain about everyone, especially Administration.

And Administration? Well, they were the common enemy because they hoarded funds like Scrooge, cutting costs and fighting every requisition from floor wax to MRI maintenance.

And, Gabe thought with a dry laugh, he hadn’t even realized until now just how much he’d missed it. Not so much the gossip but he’d missed the camaraderie of a large medical facility where the haves and have-nots were locked in a daily battle of survival. It wasn’t just a place where the rich and bored came to buy the latest style of face or body—or have a steamy affair with their attending surgeon. This was real.

Sighing, Gabe slid his gaze over the rest of the observation-room occupants before letting his eyes drift shut. He knew he should get up and return to his temporary digs, where a ton of boxes waited to be unpacked, but he just needed to—

Abruptly something he’d seen registered and his eyes snapped open to zero in on a familiar figure standing off to one side.

Dr. Holly Buchanan.

Mouth curving in appreciation, Gabe watched her focus on the overhead screen, her small white teeth nibbling on lush pink lips. A little frown of concentration marred the smooth skin of her forehead. Every so often her slender hands and long, elegant fingers would move in what he recognized was a replica of whatever was happening below—as though she was practicing or maybe committing the action to memory.

He’d spent enough time among the wealthy to recognize that Dr. Buchanan came from money, and lots of it. She even had that cool elegance that seemed to come naturally to the very wealthy. A cool elegance that sometimes hid an ugly belief that people they perceived as inferior were to be exploited and that their money and social status gave them that right.

He didn’t have far to look for examples either. His own gene pool, for one. An old ex, for another. A girl he’d honestly thought had loved him enough to overlook the fact that he had been a half-starving med student from a very modest background.

But instead of standing up to her powerful family, she’d laughed at his declarations of love and told him she’d been using him to get back at her father—and have one final hot fling before she married a man eminently more suitable to their social circle.

Okay, so he’d been a young, foolish hothead, out to prove himself worthy. Prove that his story, at least, would have a happy ending. It had just proved to him that people born into wealth weren’t interested in anything more than a hot fling with someone from the wrong side of town—especially someone they perceived as illegitimate.

But even though he knew Holly Buchanan was from a world whose vanity he’d happily exploited, he couldn’t help watching her. Her appearance was as coolly classy as it had been the last time he’d seen her, scowling across the boardroom table as though he was personally responsible for the national debt.

But that’s where the similarities ended. There was nothing cool about those large heavily fringed blue eyes. And knocked to her hands and knees, she’d muttered curses like someone tugging impatiently at the constraints of her upbringing.

Then there were those paper-thin scars that had been expertly covered with a light brush of foundation. Someone had either done a hatchet job on the stunning young surgeon or…or some horrific injuries had been expertly repaired. He wondered which it had been then decided it didn’t matter considering both would explain her interest in plastic surgery.

But it was her eyes—or rather the unguarded expression in them—that had caught his attention. Despite that outer sophistication, Holly Buchanan, it seemed, wasn’t as poised as she would like the world to believe, and he wondered what her story was.

He slid a hand to the bruise on his thigh where her briefcase had whacked him and spared a moment to be thankful that it hadn’t connected higher. Any higher and he would have been on the floor, having an up-close-and-personal view of her tampons.

He chuckled, recalling the way she’d snatched them up and shoved them to the bottom of her purse as though they had been contraband and she’d been afraid he was the secret police. But then he’d found the condom packet and despite the wild color blooming in her cheeks, the ruffled kitten had flexed her tiny claws by insinuating he used a medium.

Gabe closed his eyes to the sight of her nibbling on her thumbnail and frowning at the overhead screen while she ignored the little upstart twerp trying to chat her up. There was something about her that struck a chord of familiarity but he was sure he’d never met or seen her before.

He was just drifting off when something made him open his eyes to see her edging up the stairs, giving him a wide berth as though he was a slumbering tiger she didn’t want to disturb. Suddenly several pagers began beeping and she froze mid-tiptoe, her eyes snapping toward him, widening in alarm when she caught him watching her.

The residents crowded up the stairs, elbowing each other and muttering curses about slave-driver supervisors as they bolted for the door. In the ensuing scuffle, Dr. Buchanan was roughly jostled aside and Gabe had a brief glimpse of one sexy heel catching on the stair runner. Her arms windmilled in a frantic attempt at regaining her balance…and the next moment she was toppling onto Gabe with a muffled shriek.

His hands shot out to catch her but she landed with a startled “Oomph” right in Gabe’s lap—and hard enough to have him seeing stars. When his vision cleared he had an armful of curvy, fragrant female squirming around like she was giving him a lap dance to end all lap dances. And because he was a red-blooded guy who hadn’t been anywhere near a woman in way too long, his body instantly reacted, waking up to the fact that a beautiful, sexy woman was butt-planted over his groin. He gave a low groan and she whipped around to gape at him like he’d zapped her with his shock stick.

Hey, not his fault. Innocently minding my own business here, lady.

One look into her mortified blue eyes and he realized that she was trying to get away and not turn him on but, damn…sue him, it had been a long time since he’d had sex, let alone been close enough to a woman to catch the heady scent of her skin.

Their gazes connected and she froze; her eyes wide on his. As though realizing her mouth was barely an inch from his, she gave a distressed bleat and tried again to free herself, shoving at him at the same time as she tried to get her feet on the floor.

But the angle was wrong and the more she struggled, the more his eyes crossed and the more mortified she looked until he finally took pity on them both and rose to his feet in one swift move. She gasped at the abrupt change of elevation and clutched at him as though she anticipated being dumped on her ass.

It was probably that unflattering assumption that prompted his next action.

Instead of releasing her and stepping away like a gentleman would have, he kept one arm wrapped tightly around her waist and let her slowly slide down the full length of his body until her feet touched the floor.

He knew by the flicker of her lashes and the wild flush in her cheeks that she could feel more than the hard planes of his chest and thighs. The instant she got her feet under her, she sucked in air and shoved away from him, stumbling back a couple of steps. She would have fallen into the row of seats across the aisle if he hadn’t shot out a hand and yanked her back.

Their bodies collided hard enough to momentarily knock the breath from his lungs and he wrapped an arm around her to keep her from flying off down the stairs. Okay, and maybe because he liked having all those soft curves pressed up against him.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t want any more bruises to add to the ones you already have.”

She froze and stared into his eyes, alarmed to find herself in the exact position she’d tried to escape from a couple seconds earlier.

“Who…who told you I have bruises?” she demanded in a breathless rush that made him wonder about things that he had no business thinking about. Like how she’d sound in the throes of passion. And where else she had a bruise that he could kiss better.

It was an entirely inappropriate thought—not to mention stupid given that his body clearly liked the visuals that popped fully formed into his head—to have about a younger colleague working toward a fellowship in the same department.

Realizing they were still plastered together like glue on paper, she made a sound of distress and eased out of his arms, this time careful not to make any sudden moves that might result in him having to save her.

She cleared her throat. “I mean, how do you know about the bruises?”

Gabe arched a brow and folded his arms across his chest, letting his gaze roam over the delicate creaminess of her face and neck. “You winced when you sat down at Monday’s meeting and I’m guessing that creamy skin bruises easily.”

She continued staring at him warily for a moment longer before she said, “Oh,” as though she’d suspected him of following her into the ladies bathroom and spying on her as she’d checked out her smarting bottom and knees.

Gabe felt his mouth curve. He’d never met a woman whose every thought flashed across her face louder than Dr. Buchanan’s. That they were hardly complimentary was an added bonus to a man who’d spent the last eight years of his life being wooed by women all wanting something from him.

“I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep,” she said in that low, husky voice that seemed to reach out and stroke his flesh in places that hadn’t been stroked in way too long. And when he lifted a brow she hastened to add, “And for…well, nearly flattening you.”

“You hardly flattened me,” he drawled. “Besides, I wasn’t asleep, just resting my eyes. You learn a lot about people when they think you’re comatose. Take the guy trying to get your attention.” He could see she knew exactly who he was talking about when she bit her lip and looked away. “I overheard him bragging about his performance and wondered if he was talking about the OR, ER or someplace more private.” Heat bloomed beneath her skin. “He’s the kind of guy that gives surgeons a bad name.”

Her eyes snapped to his and her face settled into a remote coolness that surprised him but not as much as her words. “The only surgeons who give us a bad name,” she observed coolly, “are those arrogant enough to think they know better than God how to improve beauty.”

Gabe was smart enough to know she was referring to him. He opened his mouth to defend himself but the anger and accusation filling her huge blue eyes stunned him into silence.

What the hell?

He wasn’t to blame for her scars. Was he? He would certainly have remembered if she’d been a patient and there was no way he would have forgotten if he’d ever dated her—even briefly. Firstly, she wasn’t his type and, secondly…well, secondly, he didn’t think any man would be able to forget those big blue eyes or that lush wide mouth. Not in ten lifetimes.

Then he thought about her accusation and his anger died. She was right. For a long time he’d aggressively participated in the Hollywood pursuit of perfection until he’d reveled in the challenge of improving on Mother Nature’s handiwork. A nip here, a tuck there and maybe even a complete body-sculpt to anyone who could afford it.

Thinking about it brought back the shame and disgust at the knowledge that he’d been as culpable as any one of his patients in their futile pursuit of perfection. But that didn’t mean he was going to let her get away with her accusation—or her attitude, which, now that he came to think about it, had changed right about the time Langley had introduced him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Want to know what I learned about you?”

“No,” she said quickly, and took a step toward him, only to stop abruptly when he didn’t move aside because for some idiotic reason he didn’t want to let her go. “I’m sure your insights are simply fascinating,” she continued, frowning at her watch as though she was very busy and couldn’t spare the time. “But I’m not that interesting.”

Gabe smiled, because in the few days—encounters— that he’d known her, Holly Buchanan had been anything but uninteresting. He lifted a hand to scratch his jaw and paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully when she sucked in a tiny breath as though the rasp of beard-roughened skin was somehow too intimate in the quiet room.

“You’re intensely focused, keep to yourself and practice with your hands without realizing it. You bite your thumbnail when you’re concentrating and hate being the center of attention. In fact, you mostly present only one side of your face to people you’re talking to.”

She bit her lip and looked away. Zeroing in on the move, he was suddenly tempted to lean forward and bite that plump lip too. But she was carrying her briefcase again and he didn’t want to tempt her to use it as a weapon. This time her aim might just reach ground zero.

“How am I doing so far?”

He was rewarded when she rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together as though her silence would discourage him. He’d spent enough time strutting around California beaches during his adolescence to know when a woman was disinterested. He’d bet his entire surfboard collection that Holly Buchanan had been just as affected by their little skirmish as he had. Her dilated pupils, wild rosy flush and that soft gasp she’d given when she’d realized how close he was—and how hard—were as telling as the shiver that had gone through her.

She was attracted but determined to fight it. The question was why. What had he done to offend her?

“Okay,” he mused, studying her through narrowed eyes. “My guess is you did all the girly-girl stuff, like ballet, piano and deportment. You probably feel like you have to excel at everything you do…maybe to make someone happy. Mother? Father? Boyfriend?” Her mouth dropped open and he grunted with displeasure at the notion. “Is it a boyfriend?”

“As if!” she practically squawked, and he smirked, strangely pleased by her reaction. Seeming embarrassed by her outburst, Holly pressed her lips together and tried to look bored.

He scratched his jaw again before sliding his gaze over her face, touching briefly on those silvery white scars. “I’d say your interest in plastic surgery stems from your own experiences or maybe some deep-seated need to fix other people’s mistakes.”

Her hand rose swiftly and then froze in mid-air, as though she was fighting an instinctive reaction to hide her face, and Gabe felt his gut clench as though he’d been carelessly insensitive.

Fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and pull her into the safety of his arms—which was shocking enough—he let his gaze slide over her classically classy outfit, lingering overly long on her breasts, covered but not hidden by the expert fit of her jacket. He suddenly knew exactly how to put that spark of rebellion in her eyes and get the stubborn tilt back to that Irish chin.

“Or maybe I’ve got it completely wrong,” he drawled smoothly, making no secret of the direction of his gaze. “Maybe I’m not the only one into cosmetic surgery?”

For a moment she stared at him like he’d uttered an obscenity before she huffed out a breath and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, making Gabe wonder if it was to hide from his gaze or keep from taking a swing at him.

“That’s just insulting,” she snapped, and Gabe grinned. He kind of liked the idea that she was struggling with some pretty intense feelings and he didn’t mind the idea of getting into a tussle with her if she did take a swing at him.

In fact, he would enjoy it. Probably more than he should.

He expected a scathing response—or maybe a request for him to get the hell out of her way. What he didn’t expect was for her to open her mouth and say, “Did you know that women with breast implants are three times more likely to commit suicide or develop drug- and alcohol-related dependencies?”

Gabe tore his attention from her breasts with a “Huh?” and wondered if he’d heard correctly. She flushed and sucked in air before continuing and he struggled to connect the random facts with what they’d been discussing.

“Two-thirds are repeat clients.”

“O-o-okay….” Well, he could certainly attest to that fact. But what the hell did that have to do with—?

“In fact,” she continued peevishly, as though she held him personally responsible for women’s dissatisfaction with their bodies, “more than five million Americans are addicted to plastic surgery, spending about thirteen billion dollars annually on a variety of procedures. That’s enough to rival the national debt of a small country.”

She stared at him as though waiting for his response but he wasn’t sure what he would say if he did. Instead, he studied her silently for a couple of beats, his mouth slowly curling up at one corner. “Uh-huh. That’s quite fascinating but doesn’t really answer my question.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded like “Never mind,” before taking a bold step toward him, no doubt hoping good manners would prompt him to move out of her way.

“I have mace,” she announced when he remained blocking her escape.