Lucy Ryder - Falling At The Surgeon's Feet

Stop that, Holly , she ordered sternly, he’s the guy that turned Paige’s respectable B-cups into C pods . And for what? So he could make a few thousand bucks? So her sister could flash a bigger cleavage to all her adoring “fans” when she appeared on the latest magazine cover? Or went topless on Bimini?

Big deal . Especially when there were people out there scarred by life-altering events who didn’t have access to even basic medical care, let alone cutting-edge plastic surgery.

Weren’t there enough butchers willing to slice and dice in the name of vanity that West Manhattan could focus on building the best P&R center in the world? Besides, everyone knew that most women would never be satisfied with their looks, no matter what.

She was trying so hard to convince herself that there were no redeeming qualities about Dr. Hotshot from Beverly Hills that she failed to realize the man himself had caught up with her until a flash of movement drew her attention.

Her stride wobbled for an instant but she sucked in a fortifying breath and marched on, determined to ignore him. Besides, she needed all her concentration to keep upright or she might end up breaking something the next time she took a tumble.

She grimaced. She’d seen him a total of three times and managed to embarrass herself each time. Despite her klutzy childhood, it was probably a new record.

She clenched her jaw and sent him a narrow-eyed look out the corner of her eye but he appeared oblivious to her presence, loping along beside her with an easy, loose-limbed stride that was deceptively indolent, as though he was alone and liked it that way.

Holly rolled her eyes and ignored the pinch in her chest. Yep, story of my life . The hot guys always ignored her—especially when they discovered she wasn’t perfect, like the rest of her family. That she wasn’t as outgoing as her famous sister or as warm and beautiful as her mother.

Not that she wanted him to notice her, she amended quickly, especially if it meant she didn’t have to make conversation.

“Are you following me?” she asked coolly, rolling her eyes at the faint huskiness in her voice.

So much for not wanting conversation .

He turned his head and their eyes met for a couple of beats until Holly felt the soles of her feet tingle. “I’m headed home,” he said mildly. “Although… I could probably be talked into dinner somewhere dark and smoky.”

She caught his harmlessly hopeful smile, which did absolutely nothing to reassure her—especially when his eyes gleamed all wickedly amused and challenging. But it was the smoldering heat in them that stole all her bones right along with her breath and common sense.

Gabriel Alexander was about as harmless as a tiger in a supermarket and had most likely perfected the art of seduction before he could walk.

“No? Coffee, then?” he suggested in that deep hypnotic voice that invited women to do things they wouldn’t normally do. Things she wouldn’t normally do, but was suddenly tempted to try. “Besides being starving, I thought I might be useful.”

Useful? Holly licked her lips. Completely against her wishes, her thoughts turned recklessly to just how useful he could be—to her exercise plan, of course—and then wondered if she was advertising her thoughts like a neon sign in the desert when his teeth flashed white in his handsome, tanned face. And because the notion flustered her, she blurted out, “Did you know that silicone is a better choice than rubber for medical purposes because it is more heat- and UV-resistant?”

Realizing what she’d said, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for death. Ohmigod . Wouldn’t it be easier to just walk into the nearest wall? Or maybe step out into traffic? Because clearly the man just had to look at her and her mouth disconnected from her brain.

“It’s also better at resisting chemical and fungal attacks, which makes it more durable,” she finished miserably and when he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle she glared at him, only to find him looking back at her with polite interest—as if blurting out random stuff was normal.

“Now, that I do know,” he revealed, hitching a shoulder in a smooth, boneless move that she envied. “I spent most of the eighth grade water-bombing the girls’ locker room. The fact that latex is so flexible means it’s more prone to breaking when stretched beyond its limits.” His teeth flashed. “But don’t worry, you’re safe. I’ve grown out of the urge to hear girls scream at the sight of latex.”

Yeah, right , Holly thought a little hysterically. Safe, my eye. He was probably still making women scream — before wreaking havoc with their hearts .

And when she felt queasy at the thought of him making some faceless woman scream, she turned away from his appealing smile before she gave in to the urge to return it—or maybe smack him for making her forget her plan.

Just then the automatic doors opened to reveal a uniformed porter and Holly could have kissed the older man in sheer relief.

On seeing her, the porter’s face broke into a wide, craggy smile. “Evening, Doc,” he greeted her in his heavy Brooklyn accent. “No big date tonight?” Holly shook her head as she did every time he asked and he clicked his tongue, sending the man beside her a reproving look. “It’s a sad day when a beautiful girl doesn’t have someone to wine and dine her at one of those fancy downtown restaurants. What is the world coming to?”

Dr. Alexander sent her a silent look and shrugged as if to say, I did offer . Narrowing her eyes, Holly was seriously tempted to lie. Besides, she did have a date. Sort of. That it was probably takeout from the pizza place around the corner from the brownstone she shared with a couple of other surgical residents, along with a bottle of wine and a gallon of ice cream, was beside the point. A date was a date.

Conscious of blue-green eyes watching her, Holly flushed. “Dating isn’t in my plan,” she told the older man. “At least, not right now,” she hastened to add when a soft snort reached her, and she wished she carried a stun gun in her purse because he now also knew that she didn’t date. And found it amusing. The jerk .

“Plans change, Doc. Besides, you’re not getting any younger,” the porter advised, and Holly ground her back teeth together when Dr. Hollywood’s snort turned into a cough. “Want me to call you a cab?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

She was tempted to add that she wasn’t entirely opposed to dating. Just not right now, thank you very much. Besides, the last guy she’d been serious about had taken one look at her sister Paige and decided perfection was better for his image than scarred and brainy.

That Holly had thought to surprise Terrence Westfield one night and had found Paige already there—in his bed—was beside the point. The two of them had been discussing Holly like she was a freak and laughing about how naive she was to think a handsome guy like him could be interested in her. It had been even more devastating to discover that Terrence had only dated her to get her father’s attention in the hope that he could get an internship at her father’s law firm.

She could have told him that Harris Buchanan only had time for his son and couldn’t care less whom she dated.

When— if— she found a man who was either blind or could look beyond the surface flaws to the woman deep inside, she might risk it, but she first wanted to prove to herself that she didn’t need to be perfect or beautiful to succeed.

Sighing, she turned to see Dr. I-Can-Make-Women-Scream watching her silently.

“What?”