TOO HOT TO HANDLE Page 9

  "Annabelle, you can't be serious."

  "Oh yeah, I am."

  Mike studied her for a long moment. It seemed as if he was about to argue, then simply shook his head, pulled his cell phone from his belt, and made a call. The whole time, his other hand never left her foot.

  "Hi, this is Dr. Mike Flynn. Is Dr. Doyle available?" There was a pause. "Thanks, I'll call his cell. Yes, I have the number."

  He gave her an assessing look and made another call. "Dick, it's Mike Flynn. Good, you? A-huh. Well, that's why I'm calling. Is it okay if I borrow your X-ray machine for a few shots? Yes, I think it's a sprained ankle, but I want to be sure. The patient has an aversion to hospitals." Mike checked the time. "About ten minutes. Where are you? Oh. Great. We'll see you there. Thanks."

  Mike disconnected the call. "I assume you're okay with an urgent care center?"

  Mike knew Annabelle was anything but okay with urgent care centers. She had her arms crossed, her lithe body lying so rigid, he'd seen corpses in rigor mortis that were more flexible. It didn't help that the look on her face told him they wouldn't be playing doctor any time soon. If ever again.

  Of all the luck. Most women prayed for a doctor to date. He wasn't sure why, because these days, with malpractice insurance costs and student loans, being a doctor didn't have nearly the cachet or cash it once had. He figured he wouldn't be in the black until sometime in the next century. Leave it to him to find the only woman who'd figured that out.

  Either that or she was afraid of doctors and hospitals, which again, didn't bode well. Mike wondered if it ran in the family. Her sister, Rosalie, hated anything having to do with doctors and hospitals. Rosalie was one of his favorite patients, but that didn't keep her from cursing him in four languages while he examined her. So far, other than the whole fear of doctors and hospitals thing, he hadn't seen much resemblance between the two sisters, except for maybe the curly black hair and the shape of their faces.

  Annabelle was guarded, which intrigued him. Mike had always had a love of puzzles, and Annabelle was the human equivalent. Rosalie was an in-your-face kind of person. Subtle she was not—which made her perfect for Nick.

  "Hello. Earth to Mike. Are you going to stare at my ankle all day, or are you going to get me some ice?"

  Well, okay, maybe Annabelle had some of the in-your-face trait too. He couldn't help but smile. "You've got beautiful legs, and I've got a real nice view here."

  She pushed down the short skirt of her dress and scowled. "I thought you said I needed ice."

  "You do. I'll get it and be right back."

  Mike leaned forward and kissed her, just a quick one. It had been a long time since he'd kissed her last Sunday night, or was it Monday morning? He hadn't counted on her wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back. Neither had he counted on her practically pulling him down on top of her, nor the way they fit so well together on the soft leather couch. He'd forgotten how great she smelled, how great she tasted, and how great she felt.

  Sunday night had seemed like a dream. Never before had he clicked with someone so immediately. Usually in a relationship, even ones as short as his, there was a learning period. It took time to find out what a woman wanted in bed—her likes and dislikes. With Annabelle, it wasn't that way. It was as if they had some kind of mental communication. He knew what she wanted, and oh man, right now what she wanted wouldn't be very good for her ankle, or for Mike's relationship with Dickey Doyle, who had cut his lunch short to meet them. Christ, never before had Mike's sense of responsibility been so difficult to heed, and the woman currently wrapped around him knew it.

  A light bulb flickered in his mind, which surprised him, considering he wasn't thinking of much other than Annabelle, her body, the sexy sounds she made when he kissed her neck, and how very nice it was that the straps of her dress slid down enough to reveal the top of her lacy bra. Damn it, of all times for his brain to be firing on all cylinders. He pulled away and focused on her eyes, which were dark and unfocused. Double damn.

  "You want to get out of having your ankle x-rayed."

  Annabelle pulled her elbows behind her, pushing her chest toward him and causing his dick to jump. Damn, damn, damn. Sometimes it sucked being him.

  "I can't believe you think I'd make out with you just to get out of an X ray."

  Mike pushed the strand of hair that had fallen over her left eye behind her ear. He had no problem imagining how much she'd gotten away with as a kid with her innocent look and petulant tone. "I'm not insinuating it's the only reason you kissed me, just an added benefit."

  He couldn't fight the smile pulling at his lips. Her eyes no longer met his. She suddenly found her lap very interesting. She was cute when she was totally busted.

  "You're wrong. Kissing you had absolutely nothing to do with my ankle."

  Mike laughed. "Do you have any idea what a terrible liar you are?"

  Annabelle slumped back on the sofa and crossed her arms. "Yes. You're not the first to mention it—"

  "But it doesn't usually matter, does it? All you have to do is pout those beautiful lips, and guys let you get away with it. Don't they?"

  She seemed hopeful when she grabbed his tie and pulled him back down to her. "Yeah."

  He was sure this would kill him, but he took his Hippocratic Oath seriously. It was the first, do no harm part he couldn't get around. The other parts were easier to ignore, since Annabelle wasn't his patient, and never would be. He couldn't have his girlfriend as his patient, now could he? But he couldn't convince himself that her ankle wouldn't be any worse for wear if they made love. No, unfortunately even in his highly aroused state, that wouldn't fly.

  "Too bad it's not working now. Believe me, no one is more sorry about that than I am. Matter of fact, I'm not so sure it won't kill me. Now, you need to let me go so I can get an ice pack or two."

  "Why would we need two? I only hurt one ankle."

  Mike stood and pointed at his crotch.

  "Oh." Then Annabelle smiled, way too pleased with herself in Mike's estimation. "Sorry about that."

  He couldn't help but laugh. "You really are a pathetic liar."

  She shrugged. "I know. But it wouldn't be kind of me to admit that it's nice to know I'm not the only one who's horny and in pain."

  Mike turned toward the door. "I've been horny and in pain since the moment I met you." He couldn't see it, but he knew she had a diabolical smile on her face. Yeah, misery loves company.

  Annabelle lay in bed, her ankle propped up on a pillow, an ice bag covering it, and with strict instructions to keep it elevated. Didn't Mike understand her life was on her feet? She couldn't stand to stay in bed, and she wasn't much for TV. She'd been tucked in for all of a half hour, and she was already going nuts. So, okay, she was always a tiny bit hyper. That's why she ran on top of running around the gallery all day. Chip used to say the only time she stayed still was when she was in front of her canvases.

  There were times when she painted that whole days passed like the blink of an eye. She'd get engrossed in a painting, and she'd forget to eat. Thankfully, Becca and Chip kept her water bottle filled so at least she stayed hydrated. She'd have her music on, and she'd get in a zone, not unlike when she ran. Now she couldn't run—not for at least six weeks. Annabelle wasn't sure what she'd do.

  She sprained her ankle. Well, okay, it was more than just the average sprain. She looked at the sheet Dr. Dolittle had given her to try to remember the tendons she tore, the superior and interior peroneals. Who named these things anyway? She was still amazed it wasn't broken because of the amount of pain she'd felt when she'd injured it. Mike had wanted her to go to a specialist and get an MRI, but when push came to shove, he reluctantly agreed to let her hobble around with her foot in a really ugly bootlike thing and crutches. For a guy who made a big show of claiming not to be her doctor, he'd have a hard time proving it. He was the one who insisted on positioning her foot for the X rays, he was the one who read the X rays, and he was the one always
telling her what to do. Yup, Mike did a great impression of someone who was her doctor.

  Dr. Dolittle just stood aside and smiled. He seemed nice enough, and he was obviously smart—he stayed out of Mike's way. All he did was write a prescription for painkillers and fail to sufficiently stifle his laugh every time Annabelle argued. Which was the whole time she was in that blasted place. It would have been a whole lot easier to win the argument if Dr. Dolittle would have left the room. She couldn't take Mike's mind off her foot with Dickey Dolittle watching.

  Then before she knew it, Mike had her foot in a boot and the two of them, along with a pair of crutches, stuffed in a cab on the way to Brooklyn. When they got to her place, he insisted on carrying her in, bothering Wayne and Henry and enlisting their help to take care of her until he returned after office hours.

  Annabelle picked up the phone and dialed Becca's number.

  "Annabelle? What's wrong? Why aren't you at work? Are you playing hooky with Dr. Feelgood?"

  "No."

  "Okay. Are you so horny you can't work?"

  "I fell off a ladder, sprained my ankle, and tore a few tendons."

  When Annabelle told Becca the story, you'd have thought she was a regular at the Laugh Factory. Okay, it was funny. Especially the way Mike had looked when he saw Ben carrying her. She'd been afraid he'd behave like all the other guys she knew. They'd get jealous and go off half-cocked. He got jealous all right, which she had to admit felt pretty good. But he was man enough to assess the situation and listen to reason before reacting. That made her like him even more than she already did.

  "Okay, so all we know about him for sure is that he's not a hothead. He's patient—especially considering what your brother did to your seduction plans. He's helpful in the kitchen—which is a good thing since you've already cooked one of the three meals you know how to make without poisoning someone."

  "I didn't poison you. Maybe it was an allergic reaction."

  "Annabelle—let's not go there, okay?"

  "Fine, but I'm not that bad in the kitchen."

  "Back to Dr. Flynn—he must have some kind of power over you to get your butt into a hospital."

  "He didn't. He took me to an urgent care center instead. He was okay with me refusing to go to a hospital."

  "Well, you'd better figure out how to get over your irrational fear of hospitals. You know the hospital had nothing to do with Chip's death, right?"

  "Becca. Please. I don't want to talk about that."

  "Too bad, tootsie pop. You'd better figure out how to deal with Chip's death, and you'd better do it sooner rather than later. You're going to screw up this relationship because you haven't buried Chip, and you know I don't mean that literally. Besides, you're dating a doctor. You can't be afraid of hospitals when you're dating a guy who practically lives in one."

  "We're not dating…"

  "Reality check here. You invited him for dinner, and he came over and brought wine and flowers. He didn't so much as say boo when your seduction dinner got interrupted by your not-so-darling brother—"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Then he came back later that night because he just had to see you and then picked you up, carried you to the bedroom, and rocked your world."

  "Bec—"

  "Hold on, I'm not finished. You gotta admit he scored major points when he didn't wig out about BOB, the bouncing vibrator incident."

  "Ah, you had to remind me of that?"

  "Yes, and after all that, he asked you out to lunch. A lunch that he gave up to drag you to a doctor. Then he carried you home and got the Fairy Godfathers to watch over you. Sounds like you're dating to me."

  "I didn't want to date. I wanted to have sex."

  "The two usually go hand in hand. Sorry, Annabelle. It looks like you've got yourself a boyfriend."

  "Bad day, Dr. Flynn?"

  Mike looked up from the workstation where he'd been dictating notes into patients' charts and saw Millie, his favorite nurse. She was a no-nonsense nurse—there were no histrionics, no temper tantrums, she was kind to the patients, and she always went the extra mile for him, his patients, and from what he could see, everyone else. She also made the absolute best peanut butter cookies Mike had ever tasted. Millie began making them especially for him after she caught him eating more than his share of the cookies she'd brought in for the office. She said he reminded her of her son who was about his age. According to Millie, they were both too skinny.

  "Yeah, my girlfriend sprained her ankle and tore the interior and superior peroneal tendons, which made our lunch date … interesting."

  "How many lunches have you eaten in the ER?"

  "Too many, but she wouldn't go to the ER. I had to take her to an urgent care center. I think she's afraid of hospitals." He couldn't help but wonder if by forcing her to seek medical care, he'd put the last nail in the coffin that was their relationship. He sure hoped not. Lately, she was the only thing in his life that seemed to be going well.

  Millie laughed. "Sounds like a match made in heaven."

  He shrugged. "Don't rub it in." The office was deserted. "Did Dr. Meyer leave? I didn't see him dictate his notes."

  "His last patient was at four, and you know him, he can't wait to get out of here. I jotted some notes in the files with the patients I saw. I'm not sure if his other nurse did the same."

  Mike bit his tongue to keep from cursing. He hated working with Dr. Meyer. The old man was a malpractice suit waiting to happen. Dr. Meyer's age wasn't what he had a problem with. What was unacceptable was the fact that the man was a bumbling fool.

  Mike suspected she shared his opinion. Millie had already brought more than one of Dr. Meyer's mistakes to his attention. Luckily, she'd done it before following his orders. Sure, a few of them could be explained away by claiming different treatment methods—methods that didn't take into account the advances made in the medical profession over the last twenty years. Medicine had come a long way since the Dark Ages. Unfortunately, Dr. Meyer missed most of it.

  Millie took off her stethoscope. "How did your talk with the partners about Dr. Meyer go?"

  "You know about that?"

  Millie nodded. "Are you kidding? Tabitha had her stethoscope to the door and took shorthand at the same time. But she didn't feel it necessary to share the information."

  "It didn't go well. The partners circled their wagons as soon as I mentioned him. They made it abundantly clear I'm still an outsider."

  Millie put her stethoscope in her locker. "You might be an outsider, but you're the bravest one here. No one else had the guts to say anything. All the other doctors are checking up on him, but when it comes down to it, someone's going to miss something, and a patient is going to suffer because of it."

  "Yeah, I'm going to have to do something, and it might just get my ass fired. I'm not a partner, and the way it's looking, I never will be."

  "That's not fair. You've put in so much time, and I don't know how much they're paying you, but I've been working here for eight years and know enough about them to know it can't be much."

  He was buying his way into the practice with what they called an investment in the six-figure range and less than 50 percent salary for five years. Two of which he'd already served. He would not make partner until he'd put in his five years at slave wages. And, even after his investment of time and cash, all the partners would have to vote him into the partnership. Right now, that was starting to look like a long shot. Even if Dr. Meyer retired and the problem went away, a few of the partners still wouldn't be happy giving Mike a seat at the grownups' table.

  "No, it's not. And I figure when it comes down to it, I'm not interested in partnering up with a doctor I wouldn't trust to care for my patients, or any doctor who would put his patients in the hands of a doctor like Meyer. Since I have no say about what goes on in the practice and won't until they make me a partner, I'm nothing but a peon. A peon who's causing problems."

  Millie got her pocketbook out and put on a sweater. "As much
as I hate to admit it, you might be better off somewhere else, Dr. Flynn."

  "Yeah, I agree. I wish I knew how to do what's right without flushing my entire career down the toilet. I can live with the fact I've lost a ton of money, but I'm not sure I can live with a death on my conscience because I protected my career."

  Mike threw on his suit jacket and grabbed his messenger bag as he followed Millie, who turned off all the lights as they left. They locked up the office and walked to the subway.

  He should go home and get some sleep, but he'd never get to sleep unless he made sure Annabelle was all right. The rational part of his brain told him she was fine. After all, it was only a bad sprain and a few torn tendons he knew would heal if she followed instructions to stay off it. It was nothing life threatening. But the other part of him had really hated leaving her alone that afternoon. It didn't help he'd been tempted to call her a hundred times since he walked out of her bedroom. Sure, he'd told her she could page him if she needed him. But Annabelle had made it clear she didn't need anyone. Especially him.

  Chapter 6

  On the way to Annabelle's, Mike stopped at an art supply store and bought a sketch pad and a package of artists' pencils that the store clerk had recommended.

  All her art supplies must be in her office since he hadn't seen any at her apartment. Heck, he never even knew she was an artist, though it made sense. She had an avant-garde style, the way she dressed, the shoes she wore, and her jewelry looked handcrafted. Even the way she decorated the apartment. He could tell Rosalie and Nick were no longer the residents.

  Carrying his purchases, he made his way to the cash register thinking about his bank balance. Artist's supplies were expensive, but he couldn't leave her with nothing to do.

  When Mike got off the train, he bought a box of condoms at the corner market. He wasn't planning to make love to Annabelle; after all, she'd just sprained her ankle. But all the times they'd made love hadn't been planned either. The supply of condoms he'd found in the bedside table drawer had to be waning. He checked out the produce and hoped she had something at her place to cook. He'd missed lunch, and his stomach wasn't too happy about it.