Barbara McMahon - Starting with a Kiss

She took another deep breath. This technique for calming jittery nerves seemed highly overrated. Any more deep breaths and she’d hyperventilate. Her nervousness grew as more and more people swung around to stare at her. Was it simple curiosity, or was it the dress?

Maybe, just maybe, she’d gone a tad overboard.

Or were they fascinated by the fact that she had arrived with Greg Hastings? Would it be all over Merrimac General tomorrow that Dr. Abigail Trent couldn’t get a date, that she had to be set up?

How long had it been since she’d been on a date? A real honest-to-goodness date—not a night out with Jeb and Carol? She shied away from thinking about all the evenings the three of them had shared. She would not let her emotions choke her again.

Tilting her chin, she stepped up to the head table, grateful to be able to sit. At least she didn’t feel so much on display.

Unfortunately, Greg Hastings sat right beside her. Too close, actually. She peeked at him through her lashes, then looked quickly away. Could she pretend her beeper had sounded and dash away? No. She owed it to Carol’s memory to accept the endowment.

She recognized some of the administrative staff, doctors, two head nurses. Glancing around, she looked for the Walkers’ attorney.

The subtle scent of Greg’s aftershave wafted her way, starting a curious reaction. Her heart rate sped up, her senses became more alert. A strange bud of interest curled deep inside. Swallowing hard, she tried to ignore the sensations, tried to ignore how awkward she felt. It was just a meal, a business commitment.

“What a large crowd,” she murmured, wishing desperately she had the gift of small talk. Maybe she could pretend he was a patient and talk to him like a doctor.

That wouldn’t work. Almost all her patients were under ten, and Greg Hastings was nothing like a ten-year-old! She even wondered if he’d ever been ten. She had trouble envisioning him as anything other than the successful surgeon he was.

A laugh almost escaped as she imagined him as a dedicated surgeon when only ten. She glanced at him and found his dark eyes on her. Her breath caught—that gaze felt as dangerous as skydiving. Her breathlessness couldn’t be any worse if she’d jumped out of a plane!

He reached for his water glass and her gaze was drawn to his hands. As a skilled surgeon, did he take them for granted? His palms were large, as fitted a man his size, his fingers long.

What would they feel like holding hers? They had never touched, had no reason to. But for a moment she wondered what it would feel like to have her hand engulfed in his.

She raised her eyes and Greg quirked up one eyebrow, as if in silent inquiry. Heat flooded her face. She was no better than those silly nurses who fawned all over him.

Ben Taylor, chief of staff for Merrimac General, joined them at the table. Greg stood and shook the older man’s hand, smiling in warm welcome.

In his right cheek a dimple appeared. Abby’s heart skipped a beat. She used to daydream about some dashing knight sweeping her off her feet—and in her mind he’d always been a rugged rogue—with dimples.

Where did women get these silly notions? Greg was a respected member of the hospital staff, a surgeon with a growing reputation. Not some man to have fantasy dreams about. They were colleagues. Nothing more. A colleague, moreover, she wasn’t sure she even liked. And if his attitude toward her was anything to go by, the feeling was mutual!

Seated beside him, she could almost feel the power and assurance that cloaked him. She definitely felt a tingling awareness that had nothing to do with business, but was totally personal.

It was simply sex appeal. Oh, Lord, did he have that in spades!

She looked around and caught the eye of one of the doctors from the emergency room. His knowing smirk startled her. What—? When his gaze moved to Greg, the oddest thought struck. Did he think she and Dr. Hastings were dating? How ludicrous. As if Greg Hastings, heartthrob of Merrimac General, would ever consider dating someone like her!

“We’ll wait until the dessert is served before starting the speeches,” Ben remarked.

She nodded and involuntarily glanced at Jeb’s table to study the vivacious woman at his side. That was the kind of woman men liked—beautiful and gifted with the ability to make small talk.

“Is there someone you want to speak with? There’s time before they start serving dinner,” Greg said softly as he sat down when Ben moved on to speak to another staff member at the next table.

She met his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You keep staring at that table. If there’s someone you want to talk with, you have time.”

“No, there’s no one.” She looked away. He was too perceptive. She’d better make sure she didn’t look at Jeb’s table again anytime soon.

Greg studied her for a moment, perplexed with the enigma that was Abigail Trent. He’d been surprised yesterday when Ben had asked him if he would escort Dr. Trent to tonight’s banquet. Used to the ploys of women on the make, he’d instinctively suspected an ulterior motive in the request.

When she’d opened her door tonight, he’d been shocked to see the change from quiet, slightly prickly young Dr. Trent to—to what? He didn’t mind women dressing up for a date, but there was something too much about the way she was dressed tonight. Not that he’d ever mention it. He had two sisters and knew better than to make any negative comment when a woman had taken pains to dress to the nines.

And it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the way the dress showed off her figure. Who would have suspected behind those ubiquitous lab coats Dr. Abigail Trent had a tempting femininity that could capture a man’s interest in less than five seconds.

Tempting?

Greg watched her take another deep breath. Did she have any idea what doing that did to the dress?

While her attire suggested one thing, her attitude puzzled him. Had she dolled herself up to make a play for him? If so, she’d lost her nerve. So far he felt more like a fifth wheel than the center of her attraction.

Wryly looking away, Greg wondered if he was starting to believe the hype his secretary told him every day. He did not expect every woman he met to fall for him. He didn’t want anyone to, if the truth be known. He’d been down that road once—and had no intention of ever going again.

But neither was he used to taking a woman out and having her attention focused three tables away!

He frowned at the thought. He didn’t care. He was merely doing his duty as a favor to the chief of staff. When tonight’s event ended, they’d go back to normal. He’d see her a couple of times a month at staff meetings, maybe pass in the hallway. Or consult if she had a patient who needed surgery. That would be the extent of their involvement.

By the time dinner had ended, his companion was definitely displaying signs of nervousness. Amusement began to sweep through him as he studied her, taking in her agitated air, her held breath. She was a doctor, held the power of life and death in her hands, and she was nervous about accepting a check on behalf of the hospital? He hadn’t felt that anxious when he’d diagnosed his very first patient.

Interested in how she’d handle herself, Greg sat back to watch, still trying to figure the woman out. And he glanced to the table she had under observation, trying to figure out which man sitting there was the one she was interested in.

By the time the evening ended, Greg felt almost sorry for Abigail Trent. She’d given a good speech when accepting the endowment. Her voice had broken once, but that had added to the poignancy of the evening. Several colleagues spoke warmly about Carol Walker, about the lost potential, the tragic accident that had claimed her life. The speeches seemed to upset Abigail.