When Staci Takes Charge (Leave Your Shoes On 2)

“I will. Love you.”

“Yeah, love you, too.” Staci hung up.

While she kept up her vigil, her toe tapped out an insistent rhythm on the tile floor and her anxiety mounted—yet there was still no sign of Dr. Hart. She hoped like hell to catch him. It was already nearing three o’clock. She’d wait all night if she had to, though she suspected security wouldn’t be too keen on that and they’d kick her out. Probably within the next two hours, damn it.

She tossed aside the magazine she’d been perusing with one eye and reached for another. She could practically hear the clock ticking away the minutes, another chance to speak with the mysterious, impossible-to-pin-down surgeon coming to a close.

How difficult did he intend to make this? And what a huge pain in the ass he’d become with his—

“An extreme case of neuromas requiring the removal of the growths of nerves that could have been prevented years ago, with proper care and early intervention.”

Staci heard Evan’s stirring, rumbling voice in the hallway.

And damn, why’d it make her think of Nick again? At the most inopportune time!

She set aside Wired magazine and got to her feet, straightening her chic midnight-blue suit, the jacket of which featured an asymmetrical hem and brushed-silver buttons. She had a dyed-to-match clutch that she tucked under her arm. Her platforms featured a bold blue-and-white houndstooth pattern.

She pulled in a deep breath. Mentally prepared herself for this golden opportunity.

A trio of men rounded the corner, the dark-haired man in the middle still discussing a particular procedure. Dr. Hart? It was difficult to tell because he was flanked, his head down as he studied a chart.

As they approached, Staci cleared her throat to grab their attention, then said, “Dr. Hart. I’m Staci Kay. I was hoping—”

“Not this afternoon, Miss Kay.” He kept walking. Didn’t even look up—or at her!

She was taken aback yet again. Did the man have no manners whatsoever?

Was he the great and powerful Wizard of Mount Sinai everyone revered, and he therefore didn’t deign to speak with anyone until they’d been properly vetted, spit-shined, and stamped with his seal of approval?

Or did he just consider her beneath him?

Her steely resolve kicked into high gear, and she trailed behind the men, having to take double time steps to keep up—ironically wishing for her flats, but feeling infinitely more confident in her heels.

“Please, Dr. Hart,” she said, interrupting one of the other doctors, who was speaking. “I won’t take up much of your time, I promise. Twenty minutes, that’s all.”

He kept walking. Staci quickly amended her statement. “Fifteen minutes.”

No response.

“Ten.” She pleaded, “Please. This has nothing to do with anything related to the media—well, except for the fact that the press would probably hail you as a genius in yet another area of podiatry if you were to partner with me to help—”

“I’m sorry…” Evan came to an abrupt halt—and Staci plowed right into him.

“Umph!” she grumbled as her body slammed into his.

And good Lord was he a solid, commanding, immovable force. She literally bounced off him and stumbled backward.

Fortunately, Evan Hart had lightning-quick reflexes and reached for her, gripping her upper arms, pulling her a bit too close to him for comfort, and steadying her.

That was when she got her first good look at him. Full-on.

The hair. She’d plowed her fingers through it before.

The electric-blue eyes behind the glasses—not the thick-lensed ones from the photo, but much more stylish this time. They’d stared deep into her own eyes.

The chiseled cheeks she’d admired. The six feet three inches of virility she’d gotten lost in…

The breath left her on one hard rush of air.