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