Tori Carrington - Night Fever

The door opened again and Layla came out, stuffing something into her purse and appearing not to notice him. Sam lightly grasped her arm as she began to edge past him.

She blinked up into his eyes and a curious mixture of vanilla and lemon teased his nose. She smiled. A little welcoming, a little nervous. A slight upturning of the edges of her full mouth that made his stomach crave something other than food. “I thought you were holding my chair,” she murmured, her gaze flicking over his features.

“Mmm. I was. But there was something I needed to find out first.”

Someone walked by, forcing her to step closer to him to make room. He watched her swallow thickly and saw her green eyes dilate in a telltale sign of arousal. “Oh? And what’s that?”

Heat surged through Sam’s groin. “Whether or not you taste as good as you look.”

He slowly closed the few inches separating his mouth from hers, giving her plenty of time to pull back. She didn’t. In fact, she leaned forward. Sam made a low sound of satisfaction. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid of taking it.

And, oh boy, she tasted even better than she looked. She might smell like vanilla and lemon, but her mouth was a juicy, fleshy peach just begging to be devoured. He flicked his tongue out, licking the rim of her lips then dipping it inside. So hot, so sweet, so utterly intoxicating.

He felt her hand on his waist, her fingers splaying against the muscles there, boldly probing. Sam snaked his arm around her and tugged her closer yet, feeling every inch of her clothed body against his as he slanted his head and took a deeper taste of her. Damn, but she felt good. Need, sure and swift, swept over him as he slid his hand down her slender back toward the upper curve of her bottom.

Something between them vibrated. For a moment, Sam thought he was feeling the electricity generated by their mutual passion. But then he realized it was her cell phone.

He opened his eyes, surprised that he’d completely forgotten where they were.

He had to give Layla credit. Rather than jerking away from him or displaying surprise, she laughed softly and rested her forehead briefly against his. Then she cleared her throat. “So what’s the verdict?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Sam had to restrain himself from pulling her back to him when she stepped out of his arms. “Oh. You definitely taste as good as you look. Better even.”

He heard that sultry laugh again as she dug into her purse and clicked open her cell phone. “Hello?”

Hello was right. Hello, sunshine.

If only tomorrow’s forecast didn’t call for rain.

She snapped the cell closed. “I have an emergency at the clinic.” She began to walk away, then hesitated. “It was nice meeting you…”

Nice didn’t begin to cover it. “Same here.” He took her hand and shook it, trying to ignore the heat that shot through his body at the contact. The dampness of her palm made him think of all things hot and wet. Now, how should he handle her subtle prompting for his name? “Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”

Her smile widened. “Why not?”

Why not, indeed? Sam thought, watching her walk away. He tried to keep a mental image of that beautiful smile, because he had a feeling that come tomorrow morning, he might never see it again.

THREE HOURS LATER Layla was stationed in the cramped room that served as the attending doctor’s office in the San Rafael Free Clinic. She took a deep breath and dared to peek out into the waiting area, which, she saw thankfully, was nearly empty. Just a short time ago it had been overwhelmingly full.

She smoothed back a couple of stray strands of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. While the time she put in at the free clinic was rewarding, it was also exhausting. And often disheartening. So many people. So few doctors willing to help. It was especially disheartening when they’d just lost another attending physician and she’d been called away from a perfectly inviting encounter to fill the void.

Lupe Rodriguez, the clinic’s long-standing head nurse, popped into the doorway and handed her a file. “Room two. Three-year-old with upper respiratory congestion. Room three, Ashanti’s getting into position for her annual pap.”

Layla watched an elderly woman tuck a tattered blanket more snuggly across a frail man’s legs.

“Ola, Layla?”

“Hmm?” She glanced at the Hispanic woman waving a hand in front of her eyes.

“There’s a thirty-something wealthy bachelor in room one looking for a hot night out.”

Layla blinked several times then grimaced at Lupe. “That’s not even funny.”

Especially since the man she’d met at the restaurant bar earlier in the evening kept intruding on her thoughts. Sometimes it would just be a flash of his grin. Other times it would be his suggestive comments. But mostly it was the feel of his mouth sliding against hers. She’d be peering down a teenager’s throat and remember the way he’d invited her to have dinner with him. Running her stethoscope across a patient’s back and recall how wide his shoulders were. Definitely hot.

“How long’s it been since you been out on a date?”

Layla took the patient file from Lupe and reviewed the preliminary information there. It wasn’t that the question was intrusive, really. It was just that she’d been asking herself the same thing all night.

And the answer? Much too much time had passed since she’d sat across a dining table from someone who engaged her on every level. And the man in the bar had appealed to her physically and mentally.

“None of your business,” she said to Lupe, smiling.

Lupe made a tsk sound. “That’s what I thought. Too long.”

Layla scratched her head. “Who’s got time to date? I certainly don’t.”

Lupe crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I work here, what? Fifty, sometimes sixty hours a week for the past fifteen years and I not only dated, I got married, had five kids, and still manage to have a pretty good sex life, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I do mind. What you and your husband do behind closed doors is your business.”

“And you?” Lupe teased. “What do you do behind closed doors, Dr. Hollister?”

“We already established that I don’t date.”

“What’s a man got to do with it?”

Layla stared at her as if antennae had sprouted from her black, over-permed hair.

“Hmmph. That’s what I thought.” Lupe held the door open. “Let’s go help someone who can be helped. You, Layla, are absolutely beyond hope.”

Layla preceded her out of the room, trying to hide her exasperation. It was hard enough to successfully ignore the poor status of her love life without other people showing interest in it. Who else talked about her and her pathetic dating abilities? Oh, sure, she was busy. But as Lupe so adeptly pointed out, time or lack thereof had very little to do with a person’s personal life.

Five kids? Did Lupe really have five kids?

She shook her head then strode to examining room three, opening the patient’s file as she entered.

Ashanti. A nineteen-year-old who had more sex than ten women combined.

Or at least ten Laylas.

The young woman smiled at her from the examining table. “So, Doc, how they hanging?”

“Oh, they’re hanging a little lower each day,” she said automatically.

The problem was that there was no one around to notice…

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Sam repositioned the pothos plant his sister, Heather, had bought him, moving it first one way then another on top of a filing cabinet in his office near the window. But rather than being a gift in the true sense of the word, she’d done it to make a point. Simply that even though he was a doctor, he failed to look after himself. According to her, his days were focused way too much on work and not nearly enough on the small pleasures of life. No pets. No real hobbies—outside serial dating and an hour-long run in the morning. And the only reason he returned to the model of modern architecture in the depths of Hollywood Hills he called home, was to sleep. If pressed under threat of torture, he couldn’t tell you the color of his bedroom walls, much less the makeup of the rest of the place.