“HEY, LADY! WATCH IT.”
Dr. Holly Buchanan grimaced and threw a breathless “Sorry!” over her shoulder at the guy she’d nearly trampled as she dashed through the automatic doors into the huge marble lobby of West Manhattan Saints.
She was late. Late, late, late, damn it. And it was the second time this month. She should have suspected the morning would go to hell when she’d slept through her alarm and then broken the heel of her favorite designer pumps—hopping on one foot while trying to find the other shoe.
But nothing could have prepared her for the absolute chaos that greeted her when she’d opened her front door and found furniture and boxes piled up against her door, littering the stairs and sidewalk.
It had taken a few shocked moments to work out that the avalanche was meant for the neighboring brownstone and not hers. Thank God. Unfortunately, it had taken a lot longer to convince the mover—a scary tattooed guy who’d towered over her by at least a foot and a half—that the address he was looking for was right next door. Not hers.
He’d folded his huge tattooed arms across an even huger chest and stared at her with a level don’t-even-think-of-messing-with-me-lady look that had made her quail in her strappy heels. And because he’d startled her, she’d blurted out the first thing that had come into her head: “Did you know that prison inmates in Russia use melted boot heels mixed with blood and urine to make tattoo ink?”
His answer, when it had come, had been accompanied by raised eyebrows and a wry twist of his lips. “Marine corps,” he’d drawled in a voice that had seemed to come from his large booted feet. “One tattoo for every skirmish survived.” And Holly had sucked in a mortified breath.
“Oh, my g-gosh, I’m s-sorry,” she’d stammered, wanting the earth to open up and swallow her. “Th-thank you for your service.”
He’d quirked an eyebrow and replied with a dry “You’re welcome. Now, where should I put all this stuff?”
It had taken her time she hadn’t had to convince him to call the moving company, which he did while guarding her door like a bouncer at a shady nightclub. After what had seemed like an age—during which Holly had bounced from foot to foot in extreme impatience—he’d finally apologized for the mistake. Then he’d reached over a box almost as tall as she was and gallantly lifted her as easily as if she were a child. To her shock he’d carried her down the box-littered steps and gently deposited her on the sidewalk with a cheerful “Wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle in those shoes.”
She’d mumbled a breathless “Thank you” and had risked more than a twisted ankle running for the subway.
Setting off across the huge lobby toward the bank of elevators, Holly dodged people heading in the same direction and tried to tell herself that elevators were mostly safe and that the hospital had a rigorous maintenance schedule.
She growled and skirted a crowd of nurses gathered around a large board the hospital used to announce upcoming events, lectures by visiting experts, and new staff appointments. She usually took an interest in any new announcements as she hoped her name would soon be featured when the plastic and reconstruction surgical fellowship was announced.
This morning, however, she barely gave it, or the oohing and aahing women, a cursory glance as she streaked past, heels clicking on the slick marble floor. She hated being late for meetings with the chief of surgery. He wasn’t exactly the kind of man you wanted to annoy—especially if you were a surgical resident hoping for that fellowship.
The doors of one lone elevator slid open with a ding and she sent up a quick prayer and dashed into the car just as a group of noisy teens emerged. As they shoved past, one sneakered foot caught Holly’s ankle and sent her flying. She valiantly tried to halt her forward momentum by grabbing for the aluminum frame and forgot that she was carrying her briefcase. It went flying one way and she went the other, landing awkwardly on her hands and knees. She heard a muffled grunt and the next thing she knew the contents of her handbag and briefcase were exploding all over the floor.
The doors swished closed and there was a moment of stunned silence during which Holly thought, You have got to be freaking kidding me!
She sucked in air and snarled a few choice words that would turn her mother’s hair gray. But, jeez, it had brought back memories she didn’t like to think about. Memories of a wildly tilting elevator and frightened screams as it plummeted and then exploded on impact.
For a couple of beats she struggled with control before remembering having heard a grunt. She lifted her head, hoping Monday madness was giving her auditory hallucinations on top of everything else. The last thing she needed was someone having witnessed her graceless flight.
Please, let me be alone. Please, let me be alone.
Holly blew a few escaped strands of hair out of her eyes and froze when her vision cleared. Bare inches from her nose was a pair of large scuffed sneakers attached to the bottom of faded, soft-as-butter jeans. She blinked and followed the long length of denim up endless muscular legs to something that made her eyes widen and her mouth drop open. And before she could register that she was checking out some guy’s impressive package, the man dropped to his haunches and Holly found herself staring into a pair of concerned blue-green eyes surrounded by a heavy fringe of sun-tipped lashes—on her hands and knees.
Sucking in a shocked breath, she wondered if she was more embarrassed by her position or the direction she’d been looking then promptly forgot everything when she felt the sensation of falling. Right into a swirl of gold-flecked blue and green. It was only when he opened his mouth and “You okay?” emerged in a voice as deep and dark as sin that she realized she’d been staring into his eyes as though she was submerged in the waters of the Caribbean and had forgotten how to breathe.
Her skin prickled and heated in premonition—of what, she wasn’t entirely sure. But it felt like something monumental had just happened. Then, realizing what she was thinking, Holly gave a silent snort. Yeah, right. More like monumentally embarrassing.
His light eyes were startling in a tanned face that was both brain-ambushingly handsome and rugged. Like one of those naturally hot guys they used for advertising extreme sportswear. The kind of man who got his tan in the great outdoors—like standing on the prow of a pirate ship—and not from a tanning salon.
“Just peachy,” she squeaked, swallowing her mortification at having sprawled at the feet of the hottest guy in Manhattan—maybe even America—and being caught eyeing his package then staring into his eyes like she’d been hypnotized.
Her belly quivered and for a second she wondered if the disrespectful little twerps had done her a favor. At least she now wouldn’t have to suffer the additional indignity of swooning at his feet.
“You sure?”
“I’m f-fine,” Holly croaked, her eyes dropping momentarily to his mouth, where the sight of well-sculpted lips tipped up in an almost-smile had her tongue swelling in her mouth like she was fifteen and crushing on a hot lifeguard. Her face flamed and she pushed back to sit on her heels. “Just incredibly embarrassed,” she mumbled, brushing her hands together. “So, please… just ignore me and let me die with my dignity intact.”
Crinkles appeared beside his amazing eyes and the corner of his mouth curled up even more, revealing—horror of horrors—a dimple. She caught herself staring at the shallow dent in his tanned cheek and gulped. Darn. He just