Hollywood Temptation

“Ms. Harris.”

She jumped. Colt Travers was leaning over her. He’d changed out of the suit and was wearing a pair of those sexy scrubs he’d worn in the brochure, along with the same sexy grin. She could see a few dark, curly hairs at the V in the scrubs. He wouldn’t exactly be the worst thing in the world to wake up to.

He looked a bit like that TV doctor. The one women fainted at on the way past in that over the top TV series. Thank goodness she was lying down, because who knew how her legs would react?

“I’m sorry I’ve been a little longer than expected. I was called to help in surgery.”

The smile was still firmly in place. She couldn’t really say anything to that excuse.

“Oh, and while you were sleeping, we moved your car around to the parking lot.” He nodded. “We do actually have valet parking here.” He washed his hands. “Are you feeling okay? I had a look at your head and everything appears fine. The swelling has gone down enough for me to stitch. I think it probably needs around seven or eight for the best cosmetic result.”

The slight grogginess she’d been feeling left. “Seven or eight? It sounds like a lot. Will I have a big scar?”

He turned the glass vial upside down and stuck a syringe into it—a big syringe—drawing up some liquid.

Her heart fluttered a little. “What are you doing? Is that for me? You’re not sticking me with that.”

He laughed and walked over, handing her a mirror. “No, Selena. I’m not ‘sticking’ you with that.” The way he said her name sent a shudder down her spine. “This needle is for the local anesthetic. I’ll use a much smaller needle now. I need to numb the area around your wound so it doesn’t hurt while I stitch it.” He lifted the wound pad off her head. “Take a look. It’s a deep gash. The swelling is down, but I need to pull the edges together. Don’t worry, I’m an expert. After a few weeks, the scar will be virtually invisible.”

“Scar. I’m going to have a scar?” He wasn’t looking quite so handsome now. And looking at the gaping hole in her head made her feel nauseous.

He touched her arm. “It won’t be anything to worry about. It will be absolutely minimal. And once it has healed we can give you some special oil to rub into the area. Have you had any operations before?”

She nodded. “When I was a child. I had appendicitis.”

“Do you mind if I have a look at your wound site?”

“What? Is that really necessary?” She would have to lift her blouse and pull her skirt down. It didn’t matter this man was a surgeon and spent his life looking at bodies. This was her body.

There it was again. A smile she couldn’t figure out. He’d had it most of the time he’d been talking to her. Part-amused, part-sarcastic. “I need to see how your body deals with scar tissue. Some people develop keloid scarring. It’s when the wound overgrows, usually more common in people with darker skin.” His gaze met hers. “It’s just a precaution.”

She hesitated. He was a doctor; she could trust him. But there was a hint in his eyes that made her suspicious—a glint of something. Doctors weren’t allowed to flirt with patients, were they? “I don’t think you need to look. My appendix scar is entirely normal.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s your professional opinion?”

He was being facetious. And while she wanted to smack him over the head, most women probably found him charming.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, yes. I’m sure.”

He turned his back. “If you say so. Now, close your eyes.”

“Why?” She shifted nervously.

He turned around, keeping one hand behind his back. “Because I’m about to stick you with a needle.”

“Oh, okay.” She leaned back against the pillows, gripping the mirror tightly with her fingers. Best to get this over with.

“You’ll feel a tiny prick.” How many times had she heard that? She stifled her laugh. He leaned over her, his breath warming her skin.

She didn’t feel the needle enter. What she did feel was a thousand little jolts all at once invading her surrounding skin. Millions of electric shocks. And it was anything but painless.

“Ouch!” She opened her eyes and sat upright, staring at him accusingly. “You said it wouldn’t hurt!”

…

Colt tried not to smile. She was furious. “Some people react differently to local anesthetics than others.”

“You don’t say. That hurt.”

“Worse than getting a heel in the head?” He couldn’t resist.

“Just as much.” She flopped back against the pillow.

“Is it starting to go numb yet?”

Her angry eyes were practically shooting darts at him. “Do you mean am I still being electrocuted?”

She lifted her hand to her head, and he had to catch it quickly. “Don’t touch.”

“Then how am I supposed to know if it’s gone numb?” She was like a sulky prima donna, and he’d seen enough of those in his time.

He changed his gloves and walked back over and took a few seconds to tap gently around the area. “Can you feel this? No? Good. I’ll have a look, and then I’ll begin.”

He took a swab and pressed around the edges of the wound, squinting at something inside. “Give me a second.” He reached for a pair of tweezers and pulled out a tiny fragment. It glittered brightly.

No. It couldn’t be.

He held it up to the light. He’d seen it all now. “What is this?”

Selena turned her head and let out a squeal. “Oh, yes! It’s one of my crystals. I knew one had fallen off the heel. I thought it was lost. Can you save it for me so I can glue it back on?”

“You want me to give you back a crystal that was embedded in your head, so you can stick it back on your shoe?” He couldn’t hide the disbelief from his voice. Wow. There had been a glimmer of attraction there. But Selena seemed a million miles away from the kind of person he’d want to spend time with. He spent every workday among people who only cared about looks—he didn’t plan on spending any of his free time with the same kind of self-obsessed people.

She looked surprised. “Of course I do. Do you know how much those shoes cost?”

“Obviously not.” He tossed the little fragment into a sample dish and picked up the tiny suture needle and thread. “Now hold still. This will only take a few minutes.” He concentrated hard. But this was something he found easy. His fingers flew, stitching, tying knots, and snipping them. Her skin was in perfect condition like the rest of her. After what she’d told him it was obvious she wasn’t attached anymore. Would it be wrong to ask her out?

Her eyes opened wider and lifted the mirror to watch what he was doing. “Wow. It’s almost as if you’re doing it to someone else. I can’t feel a thing. It still makes me feel sick, though.”

It was strange having someone witness his work. Most surgeries were usually done under general anesthetic. The patients never saw or felt a thing. It had been a few years since he’d stitched a simple head laceration.

He snipped the final stitch. “There we go, all done.” His expertise was good. “I think the scar will be gone in a few weeks.”

He caught her hand as she reached up. “No touching. I’ve still got to put a dressing on it.”

She beamed at him and caught him unaware. There was something completely unguarded about her. Natural. Genuine. She wasn’t here trying to change her body, or her face—like most of his patients. She was here to get patched up. It made him fixate on her pink thong all the more. “You’re finished?”

He nodded. “I’m finished. No swimming. Don’t get your hair wet for a few days. Keep the wound dry.”

“Will the stitches dissolve?”

“No. Not for this type of wound. We tend not to use dissolving stitches on facial injuries. You’ll have to come back in five days. The nurse will take them out for you.”

“Not you?” Her smile vanished.

He was a little disappointed, too. All of a sudden he

started to think of reasons of why he might actually do it himself. Another chance to see this woman was tantalizing. “Sorry, no. It won’t be me. Our nurses always remove patient’s stitches.”

“In that case I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” That got his attention. Or maybe it was the fact she’d moved her legs off the couch and he almost caught a glimpse of…

No. She swayed as she stood. “Ooooooh.”

He grabbed her around the waist to steady her. And the first thing he noticed was that it was a real waist. Not the scraggy collection of sucked out skin between jutting out ribs and hipbones that was the norm around here. It felt nice to have a hold of some flesh for a change. He leaned her back against the couch and stood in front of her, trying to get a look at her pupils.

“Are you dizzy? Do you feel sick?”

Her hand was pressed on her forehead. “No, I think I stood up too quickly. I’ll be fine in a second.”

He pulled open a nearby drawer. “I’m going to check your blood pressure and pupils.” He wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around her arm and pressed a button, then took a penlight from his pocket and shone it in her eyes.

She winced as the cuff inflated. He knew they could get pretty tight. He shone the light in both of her pupils—they were fine, equal and reactive—but she flinched and wrinkled her nose as he did it. That did it. “You’re really not the best patient in the world, are you?”

“I hate being poked and prodded. Who does?”

He started to laugh. “In LA, just about everyone!”