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  “I hope you didn’t have to wait long, Mr. Merrick.”

  Dr. Shore’s comment reminds me of Mr. Merrick’s unjust preferential treatment.

  “Disgusting,” I say under my breath. “That poor woman and child.”

  The conversation ceases and four pairs of eyes focus on me.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Merrick lifts his eyebrows.

  I promise if he smirks, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

  He waits for my reply. No smirk.

  I slap his folder down onto the bedside table. “Nothing.”

  I feel myself gain the upper hand as I turn and leave the room, sliding the door shut behind me. On my walk to Triage, I ignore calls from Derek, who undoubtedly wants details on our wealthy visitor. I’d rather not see or discuss Mr. Merrick ever again.

  As I reach the double doors, Valerie jumps in my way, foiling my escape.

  “So, how did it go?”

  I shrug. “I greeted him, he’s in Room Three . . . I’m going back to Triage.”

  She places a hand on my shoulder. “Did he mention anything about the service or his thoughts on the hospital?”

  Plastering a smile on my face, I say, “Dr. Shore is in there now. I’m sure he’ll give you a full report when he’s finished.”

  I step around her and push through the doors, but Valerie catches my arm and drags me back. I turn around and discover Harriet walking toward us with her purse hanging from her shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Valerie lets go of my arm.

  “I’m going on break,” Harriet says with a quick wave of her hand.

  Valerie sputters a protest, but Harriet disappears through the doors without looking back. Dr. Shore and Karen enter the nurses’ station, both frowning.

  “Dr. Shore,” Valerie calls. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you treating Mr. Merrick?”

  Dr. Shore drapes his stethoscope around his neck. “I completed my assessment. He definitely needs stitches, but—”

  “He wants you.” Karen looks directly at me.

  The room stills. Blood drains from my face.

  “Me?”

  Dr. Shore steps forward, looking unimpressed. “He dismissed us. He said he’ll only let me stitch him up after he talks with you. Alone. I’m not surprised after the attitude you gave him.”

  Valerie’s vicious stare lands on me. “Fix this, Sara. Now.”

  Before I can run away, she places her hand against my lower back and vaults me down the corridor into Room Three. She pulls the curtain for privacy and slides the door shut.

  Mr. Merrick approaches me from the other side of the room with a graceful and purposeful prowl. I cast my gaze to the floor, wringing my hands in front of me, trembling from his closeness. I don’t need to look at him to know his eyes are smoldering. Sparks course through my body, igniting a deep yearning.

  Time passes. My heart palpitates, my breaths deepen, the mere awareness of him in my personal space affecting me as though his hands were all over me.

  When I finally lift my head, the first thing I see is that smirk.

  Then Mr. Merrick dips his head, his expression softens, and the gap between our lips vanishes.

  Chapter Two

  As Mr. Merrick’s warm tongue ventures into my mouth and his arms encircle my waist, I tense for a moment, startled, and then collapse into his embrace. From the way he holds me, I sense he’s aware of what he’s doing to me, the control he has over me, and that it pleases him.

  Damn it. This can’t be good.

  Closing my eyes, I grip his shoulders and kiss him back with everything I have, inundated by his scent—that perfect kaleidoscope of dark spices—and lost in the relentless yet gentle movement of lips.

  Keeping my mind focused grows harder with every moan he makes, every sensual touch of his hands up my back and across my shoulders. Eventually, my body trumps rationality and yearns for one thing: For Mr. Merrick to caress every inch of me with his smooth fingers, or better yet, his tongue.

  Oh, his tongue . . .

  I want him trailing kisses down my throat to my breasts, and his hands wandering to more intimate places . . . petting, probing . . .

  This is not good. Not good at all.

  Mr. Merrick cups my face while his other hand drifts down my side, coming to rest on my hip. As he pulls me closer, I lift my leg and wrap it around his waist. Where that bright idea comes from, I have no clue.

  With a growl, Mr. Merrick presses me back against the wall, moving against me with a sudden carnal, possessive desire. If what I feel against my inner thigh is any indication, then I believe he likes my leg hitch—a lot.

  He grips my ass with both hands and lifts me higher up the wall. I whimper and plunge my hands into his hair, holding him closer, grinding into him, sucking on his tongue, desperate to savor everything he offers me. The presence of him, large and erect, against my thigh isn’t enough. In an effort to direct him where I want him most, I wrap my other leg around his waist and latch my ankles together at his lower back.

  Mr. Merrick hisses and drops his head to my shoulder, the rocking of his hips increasing in urgency.

  I shudder, feeling my release build. “Oh, yes . . . more . . . please.”

  His mouth claims my neck, his tongue flicking, his teeth grazing, his arousal pushing against me, migrating higher—

  My stethoscope slides from my neck and falls to the floor with a clatter, jolting me to my senses.

  Oh, God! What am I doing?

  I freeze. Mr. Merrick pulls back and opens his eyes, gauging me. Gasping for breath, I unhook my legs from around his waist, drop my feet to the floor, and slip from his arms. I try to steady my breathing, keeping one hand on the wall as I move farther away from him. He turns his back on me and paces a few steps.

  “I’m sorry. I—I can’t do this,” I say.

  Mr. Merrick sits down on a chair in the corner and drapes his right ankle over his left knee, his posture straight and confident.

  “Harvey Shore is an arrogant prick. I don’t know how you stand working with him,” he says, smoothing back his hair.

  I gape at him. “Um, hello? Were you not just here a few seconds ago?”

  Mr. Merrick shrugs. “Yeah, you kissed me.”

  My eyes widen. “What? No, you kissed me!”

  He shakes his head.

  “I saw you batting your eyes and licking your lips. Then you hooked your leg around me.” He chuckles. “Come on. Your actions were unmistakable—you were desperate to kiss me.”

  “Licking my lips? Oh, please!” I snatch my stethoscope from the floor. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? What did you think you were doing anyway?”

  “Well, from what I recall, I was feeling light-headed after hitting my head and you took advantage of me.” His smirk returns. “But I must say, Miss Peters, the bedside manner at this hospital is exceptional.”

  “Oh, you little . . . How could you? You . . . jerk!”

  This earns another laugh from Mr. Merrick, which only fuels my frustration.

  Draping my stethoscope over the back of my neck, I head for the door, ready to tell Valerie that I’m unwell and I want to go home early. I feel ashamed, foolish, rejected, and used; a naïve pawn in Mr. Merrick’s sick game of seduction that he obviously plays for perverted kicks. I can’t believe I fell for it. Not to mention I crossed the line with a patient, an action for which this hospital maintains a zero-tolerance policy.

  “Why did you storm out of the room earlier?”

  Mr. Merrick’s question brings me to a halt near the door.

  “What?” My pre-kiss memories are hazy, my brain still trapped somewhere between outrage and orgasm.

  I notice his patient file on the bedside table and it all comes rushing back to me: the woman and child pushed aside to send this conceited CEO to the top of the waiting list.

  “You seemed . . . annoyed with me when you left,” he says.

  “Is that why you called me back in here? To
ask me that?”

  He shrugs.

  Now I have a reason to smirk. Mr. Merrick’s ego is wounded.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You cut in line.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had to turn away a mother and her sick infant so I could see you first because my manager labeled you a VIP, and therefore, a priority, which is an absurd notion to me.” I pause. “What do you care what I think anyway?”

  His brow furrows. “I didn’t ask for special treatment.”

  “Whatever. I’m going home.” I head for the door again. “I’ll send Dr. Shore and Karen back in here. Harriet is on break. Just forget that our . . . whatever we just did a few minutes ago ever happened, okay? Please. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  Mr. Merrick springs from his chair and dashes after me. He throws his right arm across the door, and with his left, gently tilts my head up, forcing my eyes to his. This time, they look sympathetic, kind.

  How does this man have the ability to infuriate me one minute and charm me the next?

  “Hey, I don’t want you to get fired,” he says softly. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone . . . and I don’t want to forget our . . .”

  “I need to go.”

  “You’re right.” His voice sounds full of remorse. “I’ll return to Triage and wait my turn.”

  Mr. Merrick drops his arm and reaches for the door handle behind the curtain.

  I sigh. “Hold on.”

  He stops and looks at me, his eyebrows cocked, his hair falling across his forehead and over the bloody gauze in sexy disarray.

  Focus, Sara. Focus!

  “You’re already here. You might as well stay. I suppose it’s unfair to blame you. It’s just that our healthcare system frustrates me. This hospital is so backward sometimes.”

  Mr. Merrick’s face relaxes, suggesting he’s relieved. “Okay, I’ll stay. But I have one stipulation . . .”

  I’m about to say that my offer doesn’t come with a stipulation—especially not the type I’m sure he’ll propose.

  “ . . . Forgive me?”

  He traces his forefinger down the side of my face and across my lower lip, and my original retort slips from my mind. My skin tingles as I remember our kiss from earlier and the feel of his hands roaming my body.

  The words slip out before I can stop them. “Yes, I forgive you.”

  Mr. Merrick smiles—not a smirk—but a genuine smile.

  I smile, too, and gesture toward the bed. “Let’s get you situated over here so Dr. Shore can stitch you up.”

  Mr. Merrick follows me to the bed and sits, dangling his leg over the mattress. The flimsy paper draw sheet crinkles under his weight. He folds his hands in his lap, studying me as I get to work.

  I try to match his cool demeanor and reach toward the side table for the supplies I need to clean his wound in preparation for the sutures. Before I can grab the items, Mr. Merrick takes my hand gently, his thumb caressing my knuckles.

  “Normally, my private physician attends to me,” he says, staring down at our joined hands. “But he’s out of town this weekend. I would’ve called his associate. However, this hospital was close to where I sustained my injury. I must say, Miss Peters, I’m very glad I stumbled upon your ER tonight.”

  Mr. Merrick looks into my eyes, and all at once, I slip back under his hypnosis. I contemplate bringing up our kiss, but I’m concerned he’ll dismiss it again. I don’t want to revisit the embarrassment I felt earlier.

  With a smile, I pry my hand from his and pick up the supplies. I set them down on the bed next to him and pull on a pair of latex gloves. The gauze peels away from his skin easily, revealing a messy gash.

  “How did you do this anyway?” I ask, cleaning the blood from around his wound.

  “I went for a walk after I returned home from work at ten thirty and fell and hit my head.”

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  Mr. Merrick’s jaw clenches. “I tripped . . . on a curb . . . and landed on the sidewalk.”

  I may only have six months of professional nursing under my belt, but I know the smell of bullshit when it clouds the air around me. Physical evidence doesn’t lie.

  When a person falls and they’re fully conscious, they throw their hands out to protect themselves for their collision with the ground. As for Mr. Merrick, I’m well aware from our encounter thus far that his hands are tantalizingly smooth.

  Further inspection of his dress pants reveals no tears. In fact, the fabric looks immaculate. Even if he dusted himself off, he couldn’t have cleaned the New York street grime from them that well.

  Moreover, his forehead is sliced open. If he tripped on a curb and hit his head on sidewalk cement, a bump or scrape would be more common—not a gash that looks like . . .

  I gulp.

  Like a knife wound.

  But it couldn’t be.

  I force myself to think realistically. Trenton Merrick seems like more of a pretty boy than a crime fighter or criminal.

  “Oh, I see.” I continue to clean away the blood.

  His eyes narrow. “What?”

  “What?” I say modestly. “Is something wrong?”

  “You have this look on your face.”

  “A look?” I regard him with feigned innocence. “Do you always take late night strolls in fancy suits, Mr. Merrick?”

  Ever so slowly, he takes a hold of my wrist and lowers the cloth away from his face. His scowl tells me he isn’t pleased.

  “I take walks after work, Miss Peters, regardless of the hour I return home, because I find they help me unwind.”

  “I see.”

  Our eyes remain locked, neither of us yielding.

  Okay, Mr. Merrick, I’ll let you win this one.

  I look away first and he releases my wrist.

  “What’s your first name, Miss Peters?”

  Great, I made out with a guy who doesn’t even know my first name. My mother would be so proud.

  “Sara.” I focus on his forehead, feeling a rush of blood to my face.

  “That’s a lovely name.”

  “So I guess you’re used to receiving special treatment, given, well, who you are,” I say, desperate to change the subject.

  “What can I say? My reputation precedes me.”

  “And aside from being rich, exactly how many other reputations do you hold, Mr. Merrick?”

  He merely smirks in response. He can’t seem to hang up his ego for one goddamn second. It’s frustrating and sexy at the same time. If I was smart, I’d bolt from the room, ask Karen to prepare the wound for Dr. Shore, and remove Mr. Merrick from my life for good.

  “What did you say about Dr. Shore earlier?”

  Mr. Merrick huffs. “The guy’s a joke. I couldn’t send him away fast enough.”

  “He’s harmless. Conceited, but harmless.”

  “His behavior is appalling—embarrassing, actually.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “I guess you know an arrogant ass when you see one, huh?”

  Mr. Merrick scowls.

  I smirk.

  Once his wound is clean, I remove my gloves and add them to the pile of dirty supplies.

  “All right, I’m finished here.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Merrick’s warm breath skates across my face.

  I smile weakly. “Don’t mention it. It’s my job. Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Merrick, and—”

  “Listen, Miss Peters. About our kiss—”

  The sound of the door sliding open and the curtain being drawn startles me. I jump away from Mr. Merrick. He glares over my shoulder at our visitor.

  Dr. Shore’s voice echoes throughout the room. “Mr. Merrick, not to worry, there’s a doctor in the house. You don’t have to settle for a nurse any longer.”

  What a dick.

  I tighten my ponytail, hoping my appearance doesn’t give a hint of what happened between Mr. Merrick and me. After str
aightening my scrubs, I turn around and discover that Karen is also in the room.

  I smile and try to act casual. “Well, I’ll leave you three alone—”

  “Harriet hasn’t come back from her break so I’m going to need an extra pair of hands, Sara,” Dr. Shore says. “You can assist me and Karen.”

  Mr. Merrick smirks and straightens his posture.

  My curiosity forces me to stay. I focus on my job and assist wherever I can as Dr. Shore stitches up Mr. Merrick’s wound—without pain control—as requested by the stubborn patient.

  I suppose Mr. Merrick is trying to prove that he’s not only loaded, but a tough guy, too. Typical. But I have to give him credit. He doesn’t flinch once as Dr. Shore guides the sutures in and out with the needle.

  The gash closes cleanly. Karen disinfects and redresses the wound with my help and our job is complete.

  Dr. Shore wants to do a CT scan of Mr. Merrick’s head, but he declines, which is interesting. If he truly fell, I’d think that a scan would be an important precaution to take. But he doesn’t seem concerned about a possible concussion, or worse.

  Karen and Dr. Shore wrap up with Mr. Merrick and tell me to stick around and clean up the mess they made. The door slides shut, the curtain falls back into place, and we’re alone again. Mr. Merrick’s staring doesn’t ease, but I try to ignore him this time as I resume my nursing tasks.

  “You still seem wary around me,” he says.

  “You’re tough to figure out.” I clear the supplies into the garbage.

  “Let me prove to you I’m not a bad person.”

  “I never said you were bad—”

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow night at my place.”

  I freeze. “Um, what?”

  “Dinner.” He stands from the bed. “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. I’m assuming you don’t have a boyfriend or a husband after the way you came on to me earlier, so my invitation shouldn’t be out of line.”

  I glare at him. “Came on to you?”

  His boyish grin cools my anger. I realize he’s joking.