Cindy Kirk - One Night with the Doctor

Even when she’d been small, Cassidy had exhibited a bold, eclectic and totally unpredictable fashion sense. In kindergarten, she’d regularly worn a Halloween catsuit to school in lieu of more traditional attire. In sixth grade she’d come to school with her hair buzzed, demanding they call her Sinead.

Not everyone had been kind to her.

Remembering, Poppy felt her irritation ebb. She reached out, rubbing a soft, fragrant petal between her fingers. How long had it been since anyone had sent her flowers? Years, she decided.

She wished these beautiful blossoms were hers. But she’d learned long ago wishing didn’t change reality.

“I bet these were simply placed on the wrong table.” Regret filled Poppy’s voice.

“The flowers are yours.” Cassidy’s chin lifted. “I was here when they were delivered.”

Poppy widened her eyes at the stylist’s defensive tone. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“See.” Cassidy plucked a card from the bouquet and shoved it under Poppy’s nose. “Your name is right here.”

Conscious of the curious glances from the other contestants now directed her way, Poppy took the envelope from the stylist and glanced down. Her name in elegant cursive stared back at her.

Unable to contain a shiver of anticipation, Poppy broke the seal with one finger and slowly pulled out the card nestled inside.

“Break a leg” had been scrawled in bold masculine strokes followed by a single name, “Ben.”

The warmth that rushed through her was chased by a prickle of alarm. Doctor Benedict Campbell wasn’t someone she wanted to notice her, much less buy her flowers.

Cassidy jostled close, rising on tiptoes to peer over her shoulder.

Biting back annoyance at the woman’s obvious attempt to see what was on the card, Poppy casually dropped it into her purse. The last thing she wanted was for rumors to get started about her and Benedict.

“Who sent them?” Poppy demanded.

“A friend.” Poppy’s tone came out light and breezy, just as she’d intended.

“Puh-leeze.” The stylist rolled her eyes and emitted a braying laugh. “I’m not stupid.”

“It happens to be the truth. Regardless of what you may think, Be—” Poppy stopped and cleared her throat. “The man who sent the flowers is merely a friend. Really a friend of a friend. Actually, more of an acquaintance.”

Cassidy hooted and glanced meaningfully around the room, but found herself playing to a dwindling audience. Without an immediate answer the other contestants had quickly lost interest in the “who sent the roses” game.

“A guy would never send something that pricey to a woman he considered an acquaintance or even a friend.” The stylist spoke loudly. “A gesture like that has lover written all over it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw Anna Randall cast a sympathetic glance in her direction. Anna had gone to school with her and Cassidy and was well aware of the stylist’s predilection for drama.

Poppy retrieved the cardboard carrier and the cellophane the florist had left next to the dressing table. Although she knew better, she clung to the hope Cassidy would give up the snooping and wander off. But when she looked up, the woman was still there.

Cassidy tapped a finger against her lips. “A dozen long-stemmed set this guy back plenty,” she said as if thinking aloud. “Florists jack up the prices something fierce around Valentine’s Day.”

Poppy simply shrugged and pretended to check her makeup. As she leaned close to the mirror, rose petals—soft as cashmere—caressed her cheek.

Now that the bouquet was up close and personal, Poppy realized that, unlike some of the inbred varieties, these roses possessed a wonderful scent, sweet without being cloying. Giving in to impulse, she buried her face in the fragrant blossoms and inhaled deeply.

“Give me a hint,” Cassidy said the second Poppy lifted her head. Apparently deciding to go with the subtle approach, the stylist used a persuasive tone that invited confidences. “Who is your mystery man, Poppy? Do I know him?”

Poppy was spared the need to respond when she and the other contestants were called back to the stage. After considerable fanfare, David Wahl announced she was the winner of the competition. Poppy stared in stunned disbelief when he pressed a small silver microphone trophy into her hand and presented her with a check for $50. She kept the trophy but promptly donated the money to Community Safety Net.

The crowd cheered loudly. As she glanced over the enthusiastic throng, Benedict, er, Ben, gave her another thumbs-up and she offered him a smile, not a flirty one but the kind you’d give your grandmother or the helpful stranger next door.

But when his eyes held hers an instant longer than comfortable, friendly didn’t begin to describe the jolt. Poppy realized with a twinge of alarm that she wanted this man. Not in her life, oh most certainly not there, but in her bed.

It was a startling revelation. She’d had many opportunities for trysts since her divorce, but no interest. It was as if her desire for sex had died when she discovered her husband had been unfaithful for most of their married life.

Now, one smoldering look from Benedict had stirred those embers. No, not just stirred. The spark in those gray eyes had ignited a bonfire hot enough to paint the sky in bold red strokes.

Being blindsided by this unexpected desire didn’t change the fact that, for Poppy, sex had always followed love. And Benedict wasn’t the kind of man she would allow herself to love.

Once bitten...

There was one more round of applause for all the contestants before they were ushered off the stage. She told herself not to look but Poppy couldn’t help it. She cast a quick glance in the doctor’s direction.

He was gone.

She shoved aside something that felt an awful lot like disappointment. It was a blessing, she assured herself. Always best to have temptation out of reach.

Once she reached the dressing room Poppy scooped up the roses along with her purse, trying to block the other contestants’ excited chatter about their evening activities.

She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt blue. After all, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plans. Exciting plans that included a bowl of ice cream and a favorite DVD.

After declining a last-minute offer to have a drink with Cassidy and a group of her friends, Poppy slipped out the back door, telling herself quite firmly that Colin Firth on screen would have to do. Rolling around on the sheets with Benedict wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not any night.

Though for a moment, the thought of a spontaneous night of pure fun made her heart quicken.

With fear? she wondered. Or excitement?

Not that she’d had much experience with fun times in bed. After the initial honeymoon phase, sex during her marriage had been...disappointing.

With the vase of flowers tucked securely in the crook of her left arm, Poppy strolled across the parking lot toward her car. Though she’d left the bar alone, when she was a few feet from the vehicle a prickle along her skin told her she had company. She glanced toward her left in time to see a man dressed in black step from the shadows.

Poppy’s heart slammed against her ribs. Tense muscles rippled. She lifted the vase, poised to fling the flowers in the mugger’s direction and run.

But before she could get her arms to move, the light from a full moon played over the handsome face. Her fear deflated as quickly as a balloon pricked by a sharp pin.

“Ben.” She lowered the vase, pressing her hands firmly against the crystal to still their trembling. “You startled me.”

“Apologies.” His cultured voice reminded her of expensive bourbon, the kind that slid down smooth but packed a wallop. “You were stunning tonight. Your voice is tailor-made for sexy, sultry songs.”