Falling At The Surgeon's Feet

Her face heated and she mentally rolled her eyes. Way to let a hot guy know your sex life is non-existent, Holly. She groaned silently and reached out with a growled “Just give it here,” before tossing the package in the wall-mounted trash bin. For a couple of beats he stared at the stainless-steel receptacle then turned to her with a level look.

“You know someone is going to find that and use it, don’t you?” He shook his head at her. “How do you think you’ll feel knowing you had a hand—even unwittingly—in an unplanned pregnancy?”

“Ohmigod,” Holly burst out, wondering if the torture of this day would ever end and what she’d done to deserve it. “Fine!” She opened the lid and fished it out, shuddering when her fingers encountered something sticky. She shoved the errant condom into her pocket and glared at him challengingly. The unspoken words Are you happy now? vibrated in the air between them.

Eyes crinkling at the corners, he rose to his feet and offered her a hand but Holly ignored it and scrambled up—all embarrassing items finally hidden, thank God—before accepting her briefcase from him with a strangled mutter of thanks.

She was careful not to let their hands touch. Her body was buzzing with enough electricity to light up Manhattan for a day—and she hadn’t even had her coffee yet.

Fortunately, the elevator dinged its arrival at her floor and when the doors opened she escaped, hoping she never saw him again. Just before the doors slid closed he called out a friendly “Don’t forget to replace that condom, it’s the responsible thing to do.”

A few people heard and sent her curious looks but Holly ignored them, stomping down the passageway and muttering about not being responsible for her actions when it came to hot smartasses. It was only when she passed a startled nurse pushing a bassinet that she realized she was on the twentieth floor and not the twenty-second.

Muttering to herself, she changed direction and headed for the stairs, resigned to the fact that she was nearly fifteen minutes late for her meeting.

The moment she slipped into the boardroom she felt the eyes of every person in the room turn to watch her entrance, including the laser-blue stare of the chief of surgical residents, Professor Gareth Langley. Flushing, she ducked her head and murmured an apology, and slipped into the only open chair around the huge oval table.

Fortunately, with the day she was having, she wasn’t scheduled for any surgery. She’d probably slice and dice her fingers—or worse.

Without looking up, she drew the nearest folder closer and opened it, knowing she would find the new surgical schedule. There were other pages inside but Holly ignored them and quickly scanned the list, sighing her relief when she saw that she was scheduled for a number of procedures with Dr. Lin Syu and two with the head of plastic surgery, Dr. Geoff Hunt.

She lifted her lashes and caught Lin Syu’s quick smile before she transferred her attention to the head of P&R, who was—oh, joy—looking right at her. She flushed beneath his questioning look and bit her lip but after a brief nod in her direction and a dry “Now that Dr. Buchanan has finally joined us…” Geoff Hunt turned away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his perfectly creased pants as he rocked back on his heels. “Perhaps we can get to the real reason Professor Langley is here this morning.”

Now that the heat was off her, Holly let out a silent breath and relaxed into her chair, only half listening as Langley rose and began talking about the proposed expansion of the P&R department and the upcoming charity ball. It was a subject that he’d brought up before and one that Holly’s mother—as CEO of Chrysalis Foundation—was involved in.

The Chrysalis Foundation worked solely for children and young people who needed plastic or reconstruction surgery but had no way of paying for the expensive procedures. It was also an organization her mother had started after Holly’s own traumatic experiences.

Half listening, she let her gaze slide around the table but it came to an abrupt halt the instant she locked on a pair of amused blue-green eyes that were shockingly familiar. For the second time that morning—and it wasn’t even nine a.m.—Holly felt the breath leave her lungs.

Her head went light, her stomach cramped and she thanked God she was sitting down because there in the chair next to Langley’s was none other than…elevator guy.

Oh, God.

Her tongue emerged to moisten suddenly dry lips, and she wished she could grab the nearby water jug and drown herself before anyone noticed.

One eyebrow rose up his forehead and all Holly could think was… Who the heck is he?

Realizing she was staring at him all wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Holly jerked her gaze away to stare unseeingly at the columns of numbers on the screen, her mind racing with a kaleidoscope of images from the last half-hour. And when she realized she was absently rubbing her tingling palm down the length of her thigh she clenched both hands in her lap and struggled to control her breathing.

Maybe she’d dreamed up the entire episode. Maybe she was still asleep and dreaming.

Or having a nightmare, she snorted silently, and sneaked a peek at him. He was still watching her, his expression a mix of amusement and confusion—as though he didn’t quite know what to make of her.

He wasn’t the only one.

Frowning, she returned her unseeing gaze to Langley, nearly missing the part about the generous donation the hospital had recently received to expand P&R and finance the expensive new procedures they would be developing over the next five years, courtesy of a prominent Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.

It was the “Beverly Hills plastic surgeon” that caught Holly’s attention and her gaze jerked back to elevator guy as a bad feeling landed in the pit of her stomach.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the wicked gleam lighting his changeable eyes and barely heard Langley’s words over the blood thundering in her head.

Oh, God, please let me be wrong.

“I’m sure you all saw the announcement in the foyer this morning,” Langley was saying, and elevator guy must have caught her stunned look because he gave a tiny shrug as though to say, You should have seen that one coming. But she hadn’t. Not even close.

How could she have thought—even if she hadn’t blown through the foyer—that the guy in the battered sneakers and well-washed jeans molded to every inch of his muscular thighs and well…everywhere was some big Hollywood celebrity cosmetic surgeon?

It’s not him, Holly. It can’t be.

Besides, where was the thousand-dollar suit, the eight-hundred-dollar, hand-stitched loafers and hundred-dollar haircut? She sneaked another peek at him and ran her gaze over all that tanned skin, sun-streaked hair and languid grace and decided she could see him gracing the cover of an extreme sports magazine—or maybe Surf’s Up—more readily than a fancy Beverly Hills fundraiser.

But then Langley said, “I’d like to formally introduce Dr. Gabriel Alexander and welcome him to the West Manhattan family,” and Holly realized with an unpleasant shock that the hot guy who’d made her knees wobble and her breath hitch in her chest was the very same man who’d been linked to rumors of new procedures and extreme body-sculpting of many Hollywood A-listers and supermodels. Including her famous sister.

What the heck was he doing in Manhattan?

He even had a dimple, darn it!

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2016d42a-1c8f-532e-aedc-987ed84a0669)

DR. GABRIEL ALEXANDER sighed and wedged himself into the movie-house-style chair, scooching down so he could tip his head back and finally close his eyes. It seemed like months instead of days since he’d shared a very interesting elevator ride with a certain surgical resident and he was exhausted—no thanks to said resident.

Crossing one ankle over the other on a backrest a few chairs down probably made him look like a long-legged spider squashed into a matchbox, but Gabe just needed some quiet time out from his hectic schedule. Besides, as a resident he’d slept anywhere; his favorite being observation rooms where it was usually quiet—especially after eight at night.

Popping his earphones in his ears, he sighed as rock music washed over him. It had only been four days since he’d been welcomed to West Manhattan Saints by a stunning briefcase-wielding assailant, but he kind of liked the vibe of being back in a large medical facility. Seems selling his partnership to some entitled young punk hungry for the Hollywood lifestyle had been the right decision after all.

For the past six years he’d been attached to a small private clinic that was so exclusive very few people even knew of its existence—except if you were famous, ultra-wealthy or both. Now, just thinking about what he’d left behind made Gabe shudder with an odd mix of pride, distaste and shame. And if that didn’t make him a candidate for the psych ward, nothing would. Not even his screwed-up childhood.

He’d had a mansion in Beverly Hills, a house in Santa Monica, a yacht and several luxury vehicles in his multiple-car garage and he’d been the most sought-after plastic surgeon on the West Coast. For a kid who’d spent his childhood believing he wasn’t good enough, it had been a dream come true.

Looking back, he realized it had been a symbolic gesture to his rich and powerful grandfather. A man who’d used his connections to forcibly end the marriage of his son to a fellow student. A girl he’d deemed unworthy to carry the Alexander name—or the Alexander heir.

Only it had been too late for that. Third-year journalism student Rachel Parker had already been pregnant. When the old man had found out, he’d paid her a visit and along with thinly veiled threats told her to stay away from his family. Or else.

Afraid for her unborn child, Rachel had agreed. She’d moved across the country to ensure they never bumped into each other and Caspar Alexander had made sure that his son had been too busy—with his new wife and family—to be bothered with looking up his college flame. It hadn’t stopped Rachel from telling her son all about his father and it hadn’t stopped Gabe from dreaming—until he’d turned twelve—that his father would one day come to claim him. It had never happened. Both his father and his grandfather had conveniently gone back to their entitled lives as though nothing had happened.

Until about two years ago when the old man had decided he needed someone to take over the family business. It seemed Caspar’s son and legitimate grandchildren were a huge disappointment and couldn’t be trusted not to squander everything he’d spent a lifetime building.

The old man had told him how proud he was of Gabe’s achievements and that it was clear he was a chip off the old block.

Gabe had not so politely told him what he could do with his offer.

For a long time he’d been angry—at his mother and father—but especially the ruthless Caspar Alexander. And when he’d been invited to join the clinic he’d seen it as his ticket to the big league. Look, Gabe was saying to the old man. I didn’t need you or your family’s money to become someone. I did it all by myself.

Then his mom had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of leukemia and none of his money, contacts, fame or his skill with a scalpel had made a difference. By the time she’d slipped away, he’d realized his mother was right. He’d become the one thing he hated above all else. He’d become just like his grandfather. Ruthless, cold in his personal relationships and interested in only two things—money and status. It had been a rude awakening. One that had spurred him on to make some drastic changes in his life.

Someone bumped against the row of seats, jolting Gabe from the disturbing memories of his childhood and his non-existent relationship with a man who’d pretended most of Gabe’s life that he didn’t exist.

Grateful for the disruption, he cracked open one eye to see that a small crowd had gathered at the observation window overlooking operating room three.