Very fit. In more than one sense of the word.
‘This is Logan Connors,’ the manager introduced Kat, the very nature of how this was happening warning her that he was also to be treated as a VIP.
Even his real name had a tinge of superhero about it. Or perhaps that was just her...projecting. There was no doubt about it, the man was attractive.
More than attractive. Even frowning at her, as he was.
‘I don’t need to be looked at.’
There ought to have been a law against any man having such a rich, seductive voice, especially when they looked like this one did. And especially when they were practically growling.
‘I’ll leave him in your capable hands, Kat,’ her manager declared, turning to walk back down the corridor as she mouthed at Kat to convince him.
She had to be kidding.
‘Thanks,’ Kat muttered, instead. ‘Mr Connors...’
‘Logan.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m not being looked at. But if you’re going to call me anything, just call me Logan.’
She swallowed.
‘Okay,’ she began, ‘Logan... You’re going to have to let me check you over.’
Heat zipped thought her. If that didn’t sound like the most cringeworthy come-on, she didn’t know what would.
But how could it not?
He was possibly the most beautiful, most masculine man she’d ever seen in her life, with a strong, square jaw that made her palms itch just to reach out and trace it, and teeth so white that it was impossible not to imagine them against her skin.
It had been impressive enough watching him sail in on that gurney but now, almost face to face, Kat felt a ripple of something else—something she didn’t care to identify—cascade through her.
Fighting to regulate her suddenly erratic breathing, Kat wrested her gaze from him and glanced over his shoulder to the private room where Dr Featherstone and her colleagues were still with the other MVA victim. The man whose life this Logan Connors—Logan—had saved by compressing the older man’s proximal right iliac artery.
Given the extent of the damage, he would have needed to apply upwards of one hundred and twenty pounds of pressure to stop exsanguination within seconds—something a first responder might have needed his entire upper body to manage—yet Logan had managed it simply by ramming his knee onto the critical point.
Ten minutes ago she hadn’t thought it possible. Now, looking at the man standing in front of her, looking for all the world as though he was hewn from granite, she thought maybe she could believe anything of him.
He truly looked as though he could move mountains. Shape worlds.
Ridiculous, fanciful notion, she snorted inwardly.
He was probably just an ex-military guy. He certainly looked like one. And that compression technique was one she thought she remembered hearing military physicians were taught—to plug a main artery like that.
Not that it made any difference who he was, or what he’d done.
‘Your...father...is in good hands,’ she hazarded.
Instinct told her they weren’t father and son, but Logan’s protectiveness of the older man was unmistakable. Even for a hospital accustomed to protecting VIP identities, the secrecy around these patients was unusually high.
And Comic Book God was looking particularly fierce.
She told herself it was the fact that he was standing there, so strong and upright, as though he had just arrived at some posh gala, the most well turned-out man there. As though he wasn’t clearly injured or bloodied, or his clearly expensively tailored suit ripped and sullied with bloodstains.
And, somehow, that only made him look all the more...sexy.