to do the work that so pleased him. And if he managed to get lucky in between those two things with a California babe here and there, so much the better.
He thought of this morning, and one Dr. Nicole Mann. Not the typical California babe, that was certain. But with her fatigues and tough take-it-on-the-chin attitude, she was easily the sexiest little number he’d ever seen. And he did mean little, for she’d barely come to his shoulder. Still her body had been honed to a curvy, mouthwatering perfection by what he suspected was sheer will on her part—it certainly wasn’t a result of her diet if her “breakfast” was anything to go on. Definitely, the one thing the good doctor had in spades was will. She could kill with just her eyes, these long-lashed, huge eyes, the gray of a wicked winter storm. Her hair, shiny, dark and cut short to her stubborn chin, made him think of silk.
He would have laughed at the impression she’d made on him, if there was anything funny about it. She was different, and because of it she’d grabbed him on a level he didn’t want to be grabbed at. So he wouldn’t think about her or her perfect, meant-for hot-wild-sex mouth.
Straightening, he put his feet firmly on the ground. He liked his feet on the ground. To do that, he had to keep a certain distance from others, and that included sexy Dr. Mann. Spinning in his chair, he propelled himself the few feet to his computer and booted it up. To clear his head of stormy gray eyes and that kissable frown, he’d work.
His e-mail account opened, showing twenty-eight unread messages. Skimming through, he deleted each as he took care of various work issues.
And it was all work. Except the last one. He didn’t recognize the sender’s address, but didn’t think anything of it until he opened the mail.
Are you Ty Patrick O’Grady of Dublin?
Surging to his feet, he stared at the e-mail. The words were still there. Stuffing his fingers in his hair he turned a slow circle. No one knew where he was from. No one.
But when he bent to look at the screen again, the words hadn’t changed.
Are you Ty Patrick O’Grady of Dublin?
Hell, yes, he was. But who wanted to know? And why? There was nothing good about his past. In fact, there was so much bad, his stomach cramped just thinking about it.
He reached toward the keyboard to delete the message, but his finger hovered just over the key.
Who was asking?
No. It didn’t matter. None of his past mattered, and with another low oath and yet another slow spin around the room he came back to his computer. Stared at the message some more.
Then slowly reached out and punched Delete.
AFTER TWO straight days of hell at work, Nicole drove home. She could tell it wasn’t her usual time to be doing so—the usual time being very, very late or very, very early—because there wasn’t a single parking space to be found in all of South Village, much less on the busy street where she lived.
Shops, galleries and restaurants were all hopping with activity, reminding her that everyone else but herself had a life outside of work. But then, she’d decided long ago that medicine was her life. All she needed now was a place to park her car. Finally, after circling the block—twice—swearing in a very satisfying manner and even getting flipped off in the process, she got a spot down the street. The walk to the apartment felt good. So did the bag of fresh croissants she purchased at a corner deli. They’d go splendidly with the take-out hamburgers in a bag in her other hand.
Finally, she came to her building. It really was the wince spot of the area, though the turrets, mock balconies and many windows gave the hundred-year-old place its own charm and personality. Albeit a neglected, falling-down kind of charm.
The two storefronts on the ground floor were empty, though Suzanne planned to open a catering shop in one of them. Taylor was doing her best, working on the renovation day and night, gathering bids and selling off some of her antique collection to do it.
There were plants hanging from window boxes in front of the two apartments on the second floor. Taylor’s boxes were effortlessly green and flowery, Suzanne’s looked a little wilted since she spent most of her time at Ryan’s now.
Nicole could have bought her own place. Her mother often hounded her about it. After all, doctors made tons of dough, right?
Ha! She was twenty-seven. Maybe by the time she was forty she’d have half her college loans paid off. Then again, given that she tended to spend her extra time working at clinics for free to ensure that the less fortunate got medical care, maybe not. Didn’t matter. Work was who she was, what she did and there wasn’t time left over to tend to so much as a single little plant, much less a house of her own.
She liked things that way.
Exhausted, she staggered up the stairs to her loft. It was still light outside, which confused her. She squinted at her living room. How different it looked with sunlight streaming through the big window. On the street below throngs of people were heading toward chic restaurants and cafés. A glance at her watch told her why. It was five in the afternoon. People were meeting for after-work drinks or early dinners. The thought of socializing like that startled her somewhat. When she wasn’t pouring herself into work, she truly preferred to spend her time alone.
She wolfed down the fast food first, while reading one of three medical journals on the table in front of her. The hamburger and super-size fries were the perfect accompaniment to the article on a new and innovative artery replacement. Then, with the sun still shining in all the windows, she headed into her bathroom, still reading, nibbling on a croissant as she stripped for a mind-numbingly hot shower.
No one could ever say she couldn’t multi-task.
After her steaming shower, she padded naked back into her bedroom, heading directly for the bed, until she glanced at her answering machine, which was blinking.
Damn it, why did she have one of those things again?
Because the hospital administration, tired of not being able to get her when they needed, had insisted. With a sigh, she hit the message button. If it was work, she’d just roll over and die right now.
“Nicole, baby, it’s me. Mom,” her mother clarified in her cheerful, laughing voice, as if Nicole wouldn’t recognize the woman who’d been nagging her all her life. “Are you working too hard? Are you getting any rest? Are you eating right? Are you ever going to call me and put my mind to rest that my baby isn’t working herself into an early grave?”
Nicole sank to her bed and ran the towel over her short mop of hair—her idea of styling. Since she’d just called her mother last week, in fact, called every week, she refused to feel guilty.
“Once a week just isn’t enough, Nicole,” her mother said with her perfectly startling ability to read her daughter’s mind. “I want to hear you.”
Nicole rolled her eyes but a smile escaped anyway.
“Honey, listen. I’m making pot roast on Sunday. Your father called your sisters and everyone is coming—the husbands, the kids, everyone.”
Oh, good God. Nicole had three sisters, each of whom had a husband, the requisite minivan, the house in the burbs and at least two kids. The thought of that entire noisy, happy bunch all in one place made Nicole suddenly need another hamburger.
“So, honey, you have to come. We’ll expect you by four, and let me warn you, if you don’t show, I’ll…well, I’ll call you every single day for a week.”
As Nicole’s mother was quite possibly the bossiest, nosiest, most meddling, warm, loving person on the planet, Nicole believed her.
But everyone under one roof? Laughing, talking, happily arguing sisters, sticky toddlers, drooling babies, stinky diapers… She felt a headache