“Look, Dr. Granger—”

“You can call me Jared.”

Brooke caught his gaze. “No, I really can’t. In order to maintain our professional arrangement, we need to keep this on a professional level.”

“And that’s not what we’ve been doing?”

“Well, yes. And no.”

“Tell me about the no part.”

She shrugged. “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you better, but—well at times….” Her gaze faltered.

He leaned closer. “At times you felt something stirring between us?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

He released his breath on a sigh. “You’re a very attractive woman. And if we’re going to spend time together, I’d rather that we be friends than enemies.”

“Okay,” she said. “As long as you remember who’s the boss.”

He grinned. “Hell, I knew that the day I met you. But you’ll have to be patient with me. I’m usually in charge.”

Dear Reader,

Ring in the New Year with the hottest new love stories from Silhouette Desire! The Redemption of Jefferson Cade by BJ James is our MAN OF THE MONTH. In this latest installment of MEN OF BELLE TERRE, the youngest Cade overcomes both external and internal obstacles to regain his lost love. And be sure to read the launch book in Desire’s first yearlong continuity series, DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS. In Tall, Dark & Royal, bestselling author Leanne Banks introduces a prominent Chicago family linked to European royals.

Anne Marie Winston offers another winner with Billionaire Bachelors: Ryan, a BABY BANK story featuring twin babies. In The Tycoon’s Temptation by Katherine Garbera, a jaded billionaire discovers the greater rewards of love, while Kristi Gold’s Dr. Dangerous discovers he’s addicted to a certain physical therapist’s personal approach to healing in this launch book of Kristi’s MARRYING AN M.D. miniseries. And Metsy Hingle bring us Navy SEAL Dad, a BACHELORS & BABIES story.

Start the year off right by savoring all six of these passionate, powerful and provocative romances from Silhouette Desire!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Dr. Dangerous
Kristi Gold

MILLS & BOON

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KRISTI GOLD

began her romance-writing career at the tender age of twelve, when she and her sister spun romantic yarns involving a childhood friend and a popular talk-show host. Since that time, she’s given up celebrity heroes for her favorite types of men, doctors and cowboys, as her husband is both. An avid sports fan, she attends football and baseball games in her spare time. She resides on a small ranch in central Texas with her three children and retired neurosurgeon husband, along with various livestock ranging from Texas longhorn cattle to spoiled yet talented equines. At one time she competed in regional and national Appaloosa horse shows as a nonpro, but she gave up riding for writing and turned the “reins” over to her youngest daughter. She attributes much of her success to her sister, Kim, who encouraged her in her writing, even during the tough times. When she’s not in her office writing her current book, she’s dreaming about it. Readers may contact Kristi at P.O. Box 11292, Robinson, TX 76116.

To my husband, Steve,

who has shown me the true and loving heart of a healer

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

One

Administering physical therapy had always been a challenge Brooke Lewis readily embraced, but the anger in her new patient’s you-want-me blue eyes and the defiance in his here-I-am stance, made her want to run for the nearest fast-food joint for employment. Or to her boss, Macy Carpenter, armed with a noose.

Dr. Jared Granger, “King of Cardiology”—the man she had shamelessly fantasized about from afar—had graced her with his presence. And not one solitary soul in the department had bothered to warn her.

Many times she’d admired him as he strode through San Antonio Memorial’s corridors in his impeccably starched lab coat, wearing his gorgeous golden hair, cut in the latest style, and a guarded expression that discouraged any kind of communication. It came with the territory, she supposed. Anyone who held life in his hands on a daily basis wasn’t necessarily approachable.

But since the recent injury that had suspended his career, he had obviously changed. Now his sandy hair was askew, and his normally clean-shaven face sported a near-full beard. His ragged jeans with one leg cut away revealed a cast on his left leg. Overall, his attire looked as though it had seen better days. But then, so did he. From all appearances he could be a drifter, not a doctor.

And for the past few weeks his uncooperative behavior had grown to legendary proportions in the physical therapy department. Brooke had managed to avoid his wrath. Until now.

Not to mention she would have to touch him, and although that certainly wasn’t an unpleasant prospect under normal circumstances, she had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to be too receptive.

She opened her mouth, but words didn’t form. Nothing seemed quite adequate at the moment.

Smiling, she gestured toward the chair facing hers. “Nice you could join us today, Dr. Granger. Please be seated.”

Without speaking, he hobbled over with his lone crutch and sank into the chair, sprawling his broken leg awkwardly to one side as he propped his splinted hand on the small table’s surface in arm-wrestling position. She pulled the curtain around the area to give them some privacy, away from the prying eyes of both patients and therapists throughout the large treatment room.

When Brooke faced him, he flashed her a sardonic grin. “So you’re my next victim.”

The impact of that smile, no matter how cynical, did things to her heart rate that made her wonder if she needed a round of digitalis. Thank heavens she was close to the chair before her knees gave way. After taking her seat across from him, she said, “Victim? That should be my line.”

Brooke opened the chart to review the assessment and treatment plan along with the notes of his limited progress. Victim proved to be an appropriate description. He’d already been through three therapists in three weeks, and it looked as if she was his last resort.

Glancing up, Brooke found him staring at her, watching, waiting. Waiting for her to screw up, she decided. But his visual assessment made her wonder if that was all he was waiting for. Considering his reputation with women, he probably expected her to pass out from a charisma overdose. Well, he had another thing coming. She’d keep her covert admiration to herself and a tight rein on her hormones.

With a polite smile she closed the chart and set it on the end of the table. “I’m Brooke Lewis, and it looks like we’ll be working together for some time, Dr. Gran—”

“Don’t count on it.” He displayed more insolence through the hard set of his eyes and the tight ridge of his jaw.

Good Lord, she wanted to scream all of two minutes into the appointment. “I don’t understand. Dr. Kempner wants extensive therapy treatments for your hand.”

“Yeah, that’s what he wants.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“I hate this whole process.”

Brooke got the distinct feeling she would, too, before it was all over. “Well, let’s see if we can make this as pleasant as possible for both of us. If you’re going to return to surgery, then—”

“I don’t want that mentioned again. Ever.”

He sat forward, skewering her with his unwavering gaze, giving her a good dose of his pain. Not physical pain. She could handle that. It was her job to make it all better, and sometimes that meant making a patient physically hurt from the effort. But emotional pain… That was another thing altogether. She was a sucker for sympathy, and right now she didn’t want to be sympathetic to a God complex in action. But she was. It went beyond his looks. His aura of power. He couldn’t mask the frustration in his eyes, those windows to the soul that Brooke had learned to look through to find the person beneath the facade. And this particular person was totally torn up inside.

Straightening her spine, Brooke tried to affect her usual cheerful disposition. “Okay, so we’ll work on stretching those tendons, and then we’ll see what’s what.” She reached for his hand to remove the splint, but he pulled away.

“I’ll do it.” With slow, stilted movements, he took off the splint while Brooke waited patiently. At least this was a positive sign, wanting to do it himself. Some of his pride was still intact. And that could mean more grief for her.

While Brooke allowed him this act of independence, she considered his predicament. A doctor who had lost the function of his dominant hand—his instrument of healing. A skilled surgeon who could very well find himself without a career if he didn’t mend.

He had the right to be a little ticked off. Anger was sometimes a good thing. A great motivator. Considering the fact that during the accident he’d damaged the flexor tendons in three of his fingers, he needed some motivation for the long haul to recovery. The question was, would Brooke be up to it? If he didn’t fire her first.

Gently she took his hand into hers. His fingers were large, well-defined, yet rigid because of the accident. “Have you been doing your passive motion protocol at home?”

He shrugged and looked away. “When I find the time.”

Oh, boy. He was going to test her to the max.

Brooke conducted a visual search and homed in on his wrist. The dense scar, to say the least, was ugly. She touched it, and he flinched. “Still ultrasensitive there, I take it.”

“No kidding.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she examined his thumb.

“Do you feel that?”

“No.”

She moved on to his pointer finger. “Here?”

He pulled his hand away quickly, startling Brooke. “Look, I’ve already been through this,” he said, fire and frustration in his tone. “I’ve got no sensitivity on the volar surface of my thumb, no feeling on the second finger and diminished sensitivity on the third. My tendons are a bloody mess, and a whole army of therapists can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Brooke put on her calm face and waited to see if he was finished with his outburst. When he seemed to relax somewhat, she forced another smile and spoke through it. “Dr. Granger, I realize that you probably know as much if not more than me about your condition. I know this is a horribly painful thing to go through. I also know that if you don’t opt to continue therapy, you might never be able to pick up anything smaller than an orange, much less a scalpel.”

She stared at him straight on, surprised he had yet to protest since she’d mentioned another S word. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “So if you’re willing to cooperate, then I’ll do my best to assist you. But I can’t do this alone.”

“And I can’t do this at all.”

Brooke expected him to vault out of the chair and head out the door, but he didn’t. What was holding him here, if he was so bent on nixing therapy? Why was he wasting her time? Anyone’s time, for that matter?

That wasn’t relevant. It was her job to put him through the motions. Her job to see to it that he at least attempted to accomplish something. Her job to hang on to her cool.

While Brooke applied moist heat to his wrist as well as electronic stimulation to try and alleviate some of the scar tissue, he didn’t say a word. She administered myofacial massage and stretching exercises to relax his tendons, and still he didn’t speak. In fact, he didn’t react at all except to flinch now and then. Even when she tried to engage him in mundane conversation about the unseasonable weather, he replied in one-word responses. She might as well talk to the wall.

“Okay, time for something new,” she said, trying to spark his enthusiasm. His posture wasn’t the greatest, but she thought it best not to scold him too much. “Just sit up a little straighter and we’ll try this for a minute.”

He moved maybe a microinch. She put the small red foam ball in his palm. “Can you try to grip this?” she asked.

After staring at the ball like it was some alien entity, he let it slip from his grasp without even trying. It rolled onto the floor beside the table. Brooke quietly retrieved it, barely avoiding knocking her toe on his cast. Again she placed the ball in his palm. Again it rolled away, this time under the table before Brooke could thwart its escape.

Drawing in a cleansing breath, she leaned down and felt around for the offending object. Not finding it, she bent farther underneath the table, grabbed up the ball, and promptly bumped her head on the edge when she straightened.

She rose and found the not-so-good doctor staring off into space. Obviously her near concussion meant nothing to him. Not even worth a “Is your head okay?” or “Hope you didn’t break the table.” Just absolute detachment, as if he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. At the moment so did she.

When Brooke awakened that morning to the first cold front of the season mixed with bone-biting rain, the second flat tire in a week and a dead coffeemaker, she’d been primed for a typical Monday. But she didn’t deserve this, even from the man who had once been the doctor of her dreams.

Anger began to seep into Brooke’s pores. No matter how hard she tried to plug up the hole in her resolve so the frustration wouldn’t escape, another fissure took its place. She was known for tolerating difficult patients. Known to never lose her composure. But today had been the mother of all bad days, and right now she was feeling anything but composed. What else would explain the sudden need to respond to his apathy with a curtness totally foreign to her?

Brooke choked the ball in her fist and leveled her gaze on him. “Dr. Granger, since you seem to be having a problem with cooperation, it just occurred to me that maybe you’re having a temporary bout of self-pity. At least, I hope it’s only temporary, because if you want to see something to feel sorry for, then hang around for my next patient. A twenty-five-year-old father of two with a fractured C-6 vertebrae.”

She paused only long enough to take a deep draw of air. “He comes here in a wheelchair with his kids on his lap and a smile on his face even though he’ll never take another step. Never make another baby. Never even make love to his wife in the same way again. But he’s not moaning over his situation. He’s going about the business of living, even though he has little opportunity to get better. You do.”

For a moment he looked as though she had struck him. He opened his mouth, then let it drop shut. Awkwardly he stood, looming over her like a sturdy oak able to survive the greatest of storms, his face flashing anger. But his eyes looked vulnerable. So very, very vulnerable.

“I don’t need your lecture, Ms. Lewis. I’ve spent the last eight years of my life operating on sick people, many of them kids, and with every one that I lost, part of me died right with them. But I kept going because I couldn’t do anything but be a doctor. I didn’t want to be anything but a doctor. I still don’t.”

He held up his stiff right hand. It trembled like a fragile leaf. “If you take away this, you might as well take away my legs, too.”

With that, he pivoted around and tore back the curtain. And Brooke immediately experienced the biting pang of remorse. She’d forced him to bare his soul. Forced him to uncover a wound that was forty times the size of his scar.

Brooke rose on shaky legs, afraid that she had totally turned him off to therapy—totally blown his world apart with her callous behavior. And in the process, she could have jeopardized her job, the most worthwhile thing in her life. But more important, she had kicked a man at his lowest point—a talented doctor whose potential was limitless and, because of one life-altering accident, was now nothing more than the shell of the man he used to be. Regardless of his bitter attitude, that was unforgivable.

“Dr. Granger, wait,” she called out before he reached the door. Several therapists stopped their own activities and briefly gave their attention to Brooke.

Dr. Granger halted and turned. This time his eyes looked lifeless. Dead. And something deep inside Brooke died, too.

She joined him at the doorway and signaled him to follow her into the hall. Once there, she lowered her eyes because it was simply too painful to look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come down on you so hard. It’s just that if you give up, it would be such a waste.”

“Would it?”

She looked up to find him studying her, this time with a penetrating sadness that cut to the heart. “A terrible waste. I propose you come back on Thursday, and we’ll start over again.”

“I hate coming here.”

“I know, but once you settle into the routine, it will get easier.”

“Not here, with you. Here, in the hospital.”

His hospital, Brooke thought. A place that had been a huge part of his life. A place full of reminders of what he’d once had—a brilliant career.

Brooke certainly couldn’t blame him for being less than thrilled to return on a regular basis. She also couldn’t allow him to fall into complacency. Yet she wasn’t sure how to convince him that he needed to continue the therapy if he was frustrated by the hospital surroundings.

A sudden thought crossed her mind. A crazy thought, but just crazy enough to work.

“Dr. Granger, have you considered home therapy?”

His eyes narrowed. “You mean someone coming to my house instead of me coming here?”

“Yeah. It’s been done before.” Brooke had done it before, mostly with shut-ins. Never with a struggling, handsome doctor.

“You’d be willing to come to my home?” he asked, surprise in his tone.

“Well, yes. Or someone else, if you prefer.”

“No. I’d want it to be you.”

He seemed so adamant that she continue his therapy, Brooke was almost rendered speechless. “So you’d consider it?”

“Maybe.”

Brooke released the breath she’d been holding. “I’ll have to clear it with my supervisor, and we’ll need to talk with Dr. Kempner about changing the order.”

“He’ll do it.”

“So you’ll think about it?”

“We’ll see.” He limped down the corridor with a slump to his shoulders, all the pride seeming to have seeped from him in a matter of moments.

Somehow, some way, Brooke was determined to set things right, and if he agreed to the home therapy, that was a start.

If he allowed her the opportunity to aid in his recovery, hopefully when the time came, she would walk away from him knowing that she had helped him in some small way. Walk away and never look back. But deep down, Brooke worried that walking away from Jared Granger might be easier planned than done, especially if he didn’t get better.

Yet she had to walk away, and without any second thoughts. Becoming emotionally involved with a patient was not only taboo, but created a danger to Brooke’s emotional well-being. Leaving her heart wide open was not an option.

Yes, Dr. Jared Granger might need her, but she would never need another man again.

Jared Granger waited alone in Nick Kempner’s office, studying his rigid hand, his gnarled fingers. He hated sympathy of any kind, the pitying looks he received from colleagues and friends alike. Hated the fact that he was steeped in self-pity more often than not these days.

Never had he been posed with such a challenge. Even med school and multiple residencies hadn’t gotten him down like this. Might as well admit it, he was washed up as a surgeon. Not much better off as a man. At least not at the present.

Admitting it didn’t take away the pain, the anger. It only served to create more vile-tasting resentment that he couldn’t control.

He also couldn’t recall the last good day he’d had, even before the accident. Three weeks ago, getting away to his farm—a place he could always count on to regroup—hadn’t eased the piercing guilt over losing a special patient, the reason why he hadn’t been paying attention to the thin piece of wire caught in the tractor shredder. The reason he’d carelessly tried to manhandle it out of the blade, causing the backlash that had sent the metal slicing across his wrist, creating the deep laceration that damaged his median nerve, then the fall that had shattered his leg. All in a few short moments of stupidity, he had ruined a career years in the making.

He recalled twelve-year-old Kayla Brown’s death, why he’d gone to his weekend retreat in the first place. She’d been faced with rejection of her new heart and awaiting another when she’d finally given up after fighting the good fight. Jared hadn’t been able to save the young girl who had been a natural room brightener. A kid who always smiled no matter how much pain she endured or how constant the prospect of death.

His problems were minor compared to what she had faced. So what if it took him an hour longer to brush his teeth, dress himself, pour a glass of milk? So what if he could barely manage to clean himself? He’d be damned and desperate before he would admit that to anyone. No one would understand.

Brooke Lewis immediately came to mind—her wild, dark curls, big brown eyes, natural smile and die-hard attitude. As badly as he hated to admit it, he admired her grit as much as he admired her schoolgirl looks. She didn’t view him as anything other than a patient. He found that refreshing, since most people treated him as if he was some infallible being without a heart or feelings. No one knew the real Jared Granger, because he had never revealed much of himself; he feared that he could never live up to others’ expectations.

The door swung open and Nick Kempner strode in, the best orthopedic doc in the business, and Jared’s closest friend. “What’s up, Granger?”

“Not much.”

Nick slipped out of his lab coat and tossed it and several newspapers from his seat onto the nearby sofa before sinking into the office chair. “Sorry I’m late, but I had to take a call at the front desk.”

“No problem.” And it wasn’t. Jared had nowhere to be at the moment. Nowhere to be most days in recent history, except doctor appointments and dreaded therapy sessions.

Nick folded his hands in front of him and brought out his all-business face. “The call was from your latest therapist.”

Jared braced for another lecture. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She told me that although you were, and I quote ‘a bit uncooperative,’ she would work around it. She mentioned maybe home therapy. What do you think about that?”

The woman was as persistent as a moth on a porch light. “Therapy isn’t doing me a helluva lot of good.”

“That’s because you’re not giving it a chance.”

“She looks too young to know what she’s doing.” And too pretty to ignore, as much as Jared hated to admit that.

“She’s not a kid, Granger. She’s got a master’s degree, and she’s been working here for several years. In fact, she’s at least twenty-five. Probably older.”

“In my book that’s still a kid.”

“To hear you talk, you’re sixty, not thirty-six.”

“I feel like I’m eighty.”

Nick forked a hand through his dark hair. “Look, Brooke Lewis is one of the best therapists around. If you give her the opportunity, she can help you with those tendons. It’s just going to take some time and hard work on your part.”

If Jared could ball his fist, he’d punch the wall. He could do that with his left hand, but considering his recent misfortune, he’d probably ruin it, too. “What you’re saying is that I might never operate again.”

Nick let go a frustrated sigh. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Jared. I’m saying you need to give the therapy a shot, and the best place to start is with Brooke.” He grinned. “And you’ve got to admit, she’s pretty nice to look at. Can’t imagine you’d mind having her touching you twice a week—wherever she wanted.”

Jared refused to admit that the thought had crossed his mind, too. He’d immediately been aware of her finer points. When she’d touched him, his immediate reaction had taken him back, the reason why he’d been so tough on her. He didn’t need an attraction to a woman, especially a therapist. Not that he could easily stop it. At least that part of him wasn’t exactly dead. Not by a long shot. Brooke Lewis had proven that. But at the moment, he had other more pressing problems, like getting his hand to function again.

“If you think she’s so great, then you make an appointment with her for some hands-on therapy,” Jared said.

Nick shook his head. “No way. I’ve sworn off women since the divorce.”

“Sure, Kempner. Tell me another one.”

“I’m dead serious. Not worth the hassle.”

“Speaking of women, how’s it going with your ex?”

Nick grabbed up a pen and drummed it on the desktop. “Not great. I only have to see her when I pick up Kelsey on the weekends that I’m not on call. We barely speak, which is probably a good thing. Fighting in front of a four-year-old isn’t a great idea.”

Jared hated the pain in his friend’s voice. Pain over limited time with his daughter all because of marrying the wrong woman. But how could anyone know if they’d found the right one?

Nick had a point, Jared decided. Sometimes women weren’t worth the hassle. Marriage definitely wasn’t, exactly why Jared had avoided it, especially with the demands of a doctor’s career. Not that he’d had to worry about that lately.

Nick tossed the pen aside and leaned back in his chair. “Jared, I know you’re having a tough time with this whole thing. If you want someone to talk to, I have the name of—”

“I’m not depressed, dammit. I’m just ticked off.” God, he resented this attitude. Resented that people were always trying to second-guess his feelings, when in reality they didn’t know him at all.

Nick put up his hands, palms first. “Okay, bad idea. But I really think you need to concentrate on physical therapy. You could do a lot worse than Brooke Lewis.”

He could do a lot better if he could just crawl in a hole somewhere and lick his wounds. But that wasn’t reality. He had to deal with this somehow. And maybe the hell-on-wheels therapist with the killer smile and dynamite eyes was the answer, at least temporarily. Maybe Brooke Lewis’s offer wasn’t such a bad idea.

Jared stared at the ceiling for a long moment, sensing Nick’s gaze on him while awaiting an answer. “Okay. Set up the home therapy. I’m not making any promises, but I guess I’ll take on Brooke Lewis.”

Nick laughed. “I think that’s the other way around.”

If his instincts were correct, Jared knew in his gut that working with Brooke Lewis could be like facing a pit full of vipers. But before the accident he’d never backed down to a challenge. Not true since the accident, though. Could he handle this one, especially with a woman who had sparked his interest, among other things? Did he really have a choice?

“One more thing,” Nick said. “She told me that next time you can count on her to use putty to work your hand instead of the ball, since it doesn’t bounce. Any idea what that means?”

Jared allowed his first real smile in weeks. “Yeah, it means I’ve probably met my match.”

Two

“Rural” was an understatement.

Brooke climbed out of her car and trudged toward the door after driving an hour in the dark to reach her destination. She’d checked the address at the mailbox just to be sure she was in the right place. And she was, but the place wasn’t at all what she had envisioned—a small white house that could use a good coat of paint as best she could tell from the lone porch light. A simple dwelling to match the aged blue pickup that sat in the drive and the weathered plank porch beneath her feet.

She’d imagined a grand home fit for a physician, not a cracker box dwelling that reminded her of her grandparent’s farm. Once again Dr. Jared Granger had surprised her, and she wondered what else might be in store for her this evening.

But at least he had agreed to home therapy, something that both surprised and pleased her. And made her a tiny bit leery. Facing him in unfamiliar surroundings—his territory—caused her to question the wisdom of her offer. She certainly couldn’t worry about that now.

Brooke bolstered her courage and rapped on the door, primed for whatever she would have to face. She waited for a time, glad the weather had turned warm again, although it still rained on and off. So typical of fall in Texas.

She heard a shuffling sound, and the door opened to Dr. Jared Granger dressed in ragged T-shirt, faded jeans, his dark-blond hair mussed as if he’d just crawled out of bed.

“You found me,” he said with more welcome in his tone than she’d expected. Or perhaps she was simply engaging in wishful thinking.

“Yeah,” she said. “Dr. Kempner gives good directions.”

He opened the squeaky screen and allowed her entry. Brooke stepped inside and found the place to be warm and dry—and a total disaster. Her gaze roamed around the small living room where she zeroed in on the coffee table cluttered with newspapers and an assortment of paper cups. A pair of discarded work boots sat near an opening at one end of the room, clothes tossed about as if a tornado had swept through the area. Several times. Quite a contrast to her immaculate apartment.

Taking a few guarded steps, Brooke met his gaze and offered a polite, noncommittal smile. “Well, this is certainly a comfortable home.”

He shrugged. “Suits me fine.”

She shifted her canvas bag from one arm to the other. “Where would you like me to set up?”

“In here.” He leaned heavily on his crutch as he struggled toward the entrance that opened into the small kitchen.

Brooke followed silently behind him, trying hard not to notice the tear beneath his back pocket where she caught a glimpse of flesh when he moved. No need to look there again, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

Once in the kitchen Brooke found more mess to garner her attention. More discarded food containers, more newspapers, more chaos.

He pointed to the small dinette. “Will this work?”

She couldn’t see anything at all because of the debris. “Is there a table under there?”

“Yeah. Somewhere.”

He looked up at her, and she noted a bit of self-consciousness in his expression. With one arm braced on his crutch, he began to sweep the mess away with his free forearm, onto chairs, the floor, wherever it happened to land. If only Brooke’s mother could witness this act. She’d faint.

“Look,” Brooke said. “Find a chair, have a seat, and let me pick up some of this.”

He pinned her with an irritated glare. “I didn’t hire you to be my maid.”

“And I didn’t sign on to be one. But if we’re going to make any progress, I need some room. It’ll only take a minute if you’ll point me to the trash bags.”

He indicated a cabinet underneath the sink. “Right there. If you insist.”

“I insist.” Setting her tote bag on the hardwood floor, she made her way to the cabinet and opened the door to find an overflowing trashcan. “You’ve obviously given your housekeeper the year off.”

“She’s at my house in town.”

She regarded him over one shoulder. “You have a house in town? Then why aren’t you living there?”

“I like it here. More secluded.”

“You can say that again,” Brooke muttered as she bent over to tug a black bag from the cardboard dispenser. She turned to face him and shook the bag out, surprised to find an indescribable darkness in his normally light eyes. “Maybe you could get your housekeeper out here for some spring cleaning.”

“It’s fall, and I don’t want her here.” His tone was harsh, and Brooke got the feeling he didn’t want her there, either. Back to square one.

His resistance only fueled her tenacity. Made her want to try a little harder to gain his respect, or at least his cooperation. “Well, I’m no domestic goddess, but I can handle the trash.” Her mother fit the prima housekeeper role perfectly, and there was only room for one of those in the family. Neither she nor her sister, Michelle, had ever embraced domestic bliss. Right now she had little choice in the matter.

Brooke stared at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and wondered how long they’d been there. A long time from the looks of the caked-on food, at least since the accident. Turning back to the table, she began slipping cartons of every shape and size, paper cups, a few discarded newspapers and myriad pizza boxes, into the bag.

After that was done, and she could actually see the scuffed wooden table, she gathered up her bag, took out her pen and forms to note his progress and sat facing him. “Have you started doing your home therapy as prescribed?”

“Some.”

She looked up from her charting. “Explain ‘some.’”

He struggled to remove the splint, avoiding her gaze. “Once since last week.”

She jotted the note and tamped down her frustration. “You might want to try at least once a day. Twice or three times would be better.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have the energy. By the time I get up in the morning, try to clean up, then get dressed, I’ve wasted half the damned day, and all I want to do is take a nap.”

Little did he know, Brooke could relate to that. If she had a particularly rough asthma attack, her weakness sometimes slowed her to a snail’s pace.

“Okay. Now let’s get down to business.” She looked toward the mound cluttering the sink. How could she run water if she couldn’t find the faucet? How could she heat water if she couldn’t find a clean pot to boil the packs? Heaven help her, she would have to wash dishes, or at least try to clear some of them away. Her mother would be so proud.

Without speaking, Brooke rose and began stacking some glasses to one side of the sink until she had a makeshift fortress teetering on the edge of catastrophe. Finally she made enough room to draw some water. Now, to find some kind of soap.

Bending down, she retrieved a half-full bottle of dishwashing liquid from the cabinet underneath and squirted a few drops into the sink. She washed the pot with the least dried on food, filled it with water, dropped the pack in, then set it on the gas stove to heat.

While waiting for the water to boil, she went back to the sink and the Mt. Everest mess. After remarkably finding a clean towel and rag in the drawer, she dove into the task of dishwashing, her back to him while he waited at the table.

The silence was almost as stifling as the unpleasant odor wafting from the dirty dishes. She struggled for something to say to break the awkwardness. “Looks like you’ve gotten to know every pizza deliveryman in the county. Pepperoni or the works?” She smiled over one shoulder and found him staring at her, his blue eyes sharp and intense.

“Neither. Just the plain stuff for me.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Why?”

“It’s that whole doctor persona. I’ve always believed that most medical men have a predilection for the exotic. You know, fast cars. Faster women.”

“That’s the problem with stereotypes. People get too bogged down in them.”

She rimmed one glass with the cloth, over and over, until it squeaked. “So that’s not the case with you?”

“Depends. Which one are you referring to? Cars, pizza or women?”

Boy, oh, boy, did she want to know about the latter. Why, she couldn’t say. But she did. “All of the above.”

“I like my old truck, which on a warm day can actually top fifty-five if I get a running start. I like my pizza with double cheese and sometimes sausage. And what was that last one?” he asked, amusement in his tone.

“Women.”

A chuckle rumbled low in his chest, lifting Brooke’s spirits a notch. “I like to know that they don’t have to have a running start to reach the speed limit, and covered in cheese is just fine by me.”

My goodness. The doctor had a sense of humor. And she had a bad case of pleasant chills. “Well, those are certainly impeccable standards.”

“What about you? What are your requirements in a man?”

“A man?” She sounded as though she didn’t know the meaning of the word.

“Yeah. What’s your boyfriend like?”

She released a sharp humorless laugh. “Nonexistent.”

“I’m surprised. Seems to me a woman as attractive as you would have a significant other.”

The glass she’d been washing for a ridiculous amount of time slipped from her grasp and fell back into the sink, sending a fountain of water onto the front of her lab coat. She ignored the dampness but couldn’t seem to ignore his compliment or her pulse’s pitter-patter rhythm. Yet she had to if she wanted to keep her head on straight. “Nope, no significant other. I don’t really have the inclination at this point in my career.” Or the strength of will to investigate that possibility. Not after her one terrible experience with a man who’d used her, then discarded as easily as she’d just discarded the trash in Jared Granger’s kitchen.

“Your career is the most important thing to you.” He posed it as a straightforward statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes, you could say that. One day I plan to start my own clinic.”

The chair creaked behind her, indicating he shifted in his seat. “So you have it all mapped out, huh? How long it will take to reach this goal, then the next, until it all comes together. Then the next thing you know, everything’s on course, just the way you planned it, not believing for a minute it can all come apart at the seams in a matter of moments.”

Setting the last of the glasses aside, she faced him, knowing he spoke of his own life as much as he spoke of hers. “Sure. But I guess nothing’s guaranteed, right?”

“Yeah. And that’s a damned bitter pill to swallow.”

The familiar pain slid across his taut features once again. Brooke held on tightly to a thin rein of control. She couldn’t keep playing into the sympathy. She needed to stay focused. Remain objective.

She retrieved the hot pack, wrapped it in another dish towel and applied it to his hand before going back to the dishes. She finished her chores while the allotted twenty minutes passed, enough time for the heat to relax his tendons, and all the excuse she needed to get back to the business at hand—helping him put his life back on track.

“Did washing my dirty dishes give you some kind of thrill?” he asked as she took his hand into hers to begin the therapy.

She stared up at him, surprised to find amusement in his eyes. “Nope, just dishpan hands. Why?”

“You were whistling, like you really enjoyed it.”

If the truth were known, it had given her a little boost. Because of her mother’s penchant for cleaning on a weekly basis to prevent aggravating Brooke’s asthma, she rarely did anything in the way of housekeeping, and she kind of liked the independence of not having someone standing over her shoulder, telling her she wasn’t doing it right. Not that she’d reveal that to the physician. She didn’t want him to erroneously assume that cleaning up after him would be a common occurrence. She hadn’t enjoyed it that much. And it wasn’t in her job description, either.

“Believe me, Dr. Granger,” she said, “I’ll send you a bill for my KP duties.”

“No problem.”

She looked up from working his fingers and met his compelling blue eyes once again. “How much do you think I should charge?”

“Whatever’s fair.”

“How much do you charge for, let’s say, a quadruple bypass?”

He smiled again, but only part way. “Are you making a comparison here?”

“I think it’s only fair, don’t you? It took me over a half hour to consult with your dishes.”

“At least they didn’t talk back. And they sure as hell can’t sue you if you happen to break one.”

Another glimpse of wry humor. “Good point,” she said, pleased by the fact that his tension over her presence had seemed to ease. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for his stiff, injured fingers, especially his pointer finger. She had her suspicions what the problem could be.

She curled her own fingers into his palm. “Can you grip my hand?”

With his brows drawn down in concentration, he moved his appendages somewhat. Not much, but enough to heighten Brooke’s optimism. And heighten her awareness of the size of his hand. Hers looked small resting in the well of his large palm. Vulnerable. She could imagine how skilled his hand once was, in various undertakings that had nothing to do with surgery.

“Great,” she said, pulling her hand away, pushing the questionable thoughts from her brain. “You need to really tackle the home therapy more often. Your second digit is the worst, and I’d hate to think you might develop a contracture.”

He frowned. “You really think that’s going to happen?”

“Hopefully not, but that’s why you need to really work hard so we can prevent that from happening.”

“I’ll try.”

At least that was some semblance of a commitment, Brooke decided.

After Brooke finished the treatment, she checked the clock again. More than an hour had passed, and she was beat.

“All done here,” she said after putting away her equipment. “Guess I’d better go.”

“One other thing,” he said. “A favor, really.” He looked as if it was costing him a lot to ask.

“What favor?”

“I’m having trouble doing some things. Personal things.”

Whoa, Nelly. Brooke wasn’t at all sure what he meant by that, or if she even wanted to know. Or did she? “What kinds of things?”

He rubbed his bearded chin. “Shaving, for one.”

A doctor who performed open-heart surgery on a regular basis had just admitted that he had trouble using a razor. The old sympathy bug bit into Brooke once again. She tried to resist its sting. “Have you thought about hiring an occupational therapist or maybe a home healthcare aide?”

“I don’t want to involve anyone else.”

She could understand that he wanted to maintain as much privacy as possible, but where did she fit into this picture? “I’m not sure I can help you.”

“I assume you know something about OT.”

“Yes. Some.”

“Then I don’t see why you can’t do it. I’ll make sure you receive extra pay for your time. We could make it a private arrangement.”

It wasn’t the money that concerned Brooke, not that she couldn’t use the extra funds. The fact that she would be even more deeply involved in his recovery, his life, bothered her on some level she didn’t care to explore at the moment.

Her mind catalogued all the pros and cons. The pros won out. She was going to do it. Help him with personal things. And of course, administer therapy.

“Okay, I can help you shave. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

His expression suddenly turned serious. “First, there’s something I need to say.”

Brooke braced for a demand, a warning, something in his tone that would help her regain her emotional bearings.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” he said. “It’s been a long time since…” He studied the table before looking up again. “Not many people would be willing to do this for me. I appreciate it.”

She smiled, buoyed by his gratitude. “You’re welcome. So do you want to try the shaving tonight?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” He rubbed a hand over his almost full beard. “I thought it would be easy to do with my left hand, but it’s weird how you take things for granted, like how you need fingers to lift your nose up to get to your upper lip.”

“To be honest, I’ve never thought about it.” She stood. “You want to do it here or in the bathroom?”

His smile came slowly, a hint of devilment in his crystalline eyes. “Where do you like to do it?”

Brooke’s face heated to desert proportions. Had he really sounded that suggestive? Or was she simply imagining the innuendo? “Depends. How small is your bathroom?”

“Not nearly big enough, unless we stand up. I might have a hard time maneuvering with my bum leg.” His eyes sparkled in the overhead light, full of mischief and something else. Surely not desire, Brooke thought.

Another image filtered into Brooke’s brain, this one much more vivid. A vision of heated kisses, his hands on her, his mouth on her…

Obviously her libido had suddenly commandeered her brain.

Get a grip, Brooke. “I think that since you’re fairly tall, in order for me to show you how to hold the razor, you should be sitting, and I should be standing. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, so we’re back to shaving again.”

“I don’t think we ever really left. Did we?” She cringed at the question, as if she were baiting him to admit that for a moment he was considering other things, too.

“I don’t know about you,” he said with a wicked smile, “but I just took a mental trip that didn’t have a damn thing to do with personal hygiene.”

Surely he wasn’t already suffering from transference, that pesky condition where a patient thought himself in love with his therapist. No, she didn’t think so. Besides, this had more to do with lust, not love, although that wasn’t totally out of the ordinary, either. He was simply trying to validate himself as a man. Needing some confirmation was understandable. And for heaven’s sake, she’d only touched his hand up to this point. But she was about to touch his face. Much more intimate, and not a repulsive idea at all.

Stiffening her frame, she forced herself into business mode. “You just stay where you are. We can do it…shave you in here.” She looked around the room. “I’ll need an outlet for your razor.”

“I don’t use an electric razor. I prefer a blade.”

Wonderful. “Maybe you should reconsider, at least until your hand’s better.”

“I like using the real thing, so you’re not going to get me to bend on this one. Besides, most women prefer a closer shave. Less whisker burn. Don’t you?”

He was doing it again, making her feel all hot and bothered. And those darned scenarios that kept popping into her brain. The man had more pull than a Supreme Court judge. No wonder he was also known as the Stud of Surgery. “Okay, we’ll work around it. Where are some scissors? I need to cut off the excess fur before we bring out the razor.”

“In the bathroom drawer,” he said, pointing toward the hallway leading from the living room. “First door on the right. Shaving cream’s in the medicine cabinet along with the razor.”

Making her way down the hardwood hallway floor, Brooke came to the small bathroom. It, too, was cluttered with towels and discarded rags piled in the corner.

She rummaged through the organized drawer and found the scissors with little trouble. The mirrored medicine cabinet was much the same, everything lined up in neat rows like multicolored perennials in an immaculate garden. Obviously he’d had some order in his life at one time.

She opened the linen closet behind her. It was bare. No towels, no washcloths. He must be recycling, but for how long? She couldn’t tolerate the thought of many weeks worth of used towels. Only one option remained. She’d have to do laundry. Her mother would be doubly proud.

Gathering up a load of towels in her arms, the shaving cream, razor and scissors tucked in her lab coat pocket, Brooke headed back into the kitchen. “I thought I’d throw a load of towels in—” She halted in midstride and midsentence when she came upon the doctor, sitting at the table, sans shirt.

Her gaze roamed over his bared chest covered by a spattering of golden hair. A well-defined road map to a prime physique. His belly was flat, revealing a nice six-pack of muscle, and she wondered how the heck he’d been lifting weights with one bad hand and a broken leg.

Of course, it probably came naturally for him, as it did for many men. Not that Brooke had seen all that many men who looked like Jared Granger. Not even close.

He seemed unaffected by Brooke’s perusal, and she prayed her mouth was shut. “Where’s the washer?” she asked, when what she really wanted to know was where her good sense had fled.

He pointed to a louvered door to his right. “In there.”

“Okay, then. Let’s see if I can figure this out.” Securing the pile of towels under her chin, she opened the door and stuffed the load into the washer. After tossing a scoop of detergent in, she stared at the knobs for a few minutes.

“Mind if I throw a few more things in with those?”

The hair on Brooke’s neck came to attention when she realized he was standing immediately behind her. She sensed his heat, smelled his cologne and finally got up the nerve to look at him over her shoulder. “What do you have in mind?”

He pointed to a laundry basket sitting atop the dryer. “My underwear and a few pair of socks.”

She surveyed the pile of briefs in the basket. Not surprising. He seemed like a brief kind of guy. “I have room for a few. Nothing worse than being down to your last pair.”

“I ran out two days ago.”

That thought conjured up all sorts of questions she didn’t dare ask. She didn’t have to.

“I’m going native,” he said. “That’s what we used to call it in college when we ran out of Jockey shorts. In case you’re wondering.”

She had been wondering, and going “native” seemed an appropriate description. Right now she was having some fairly primitive thoughts about the man behind her. “Do you want me to teach you how to use the washer?” Her voice came out highpitched and shaky.

“Nope. I can handle the washer. I manage fine with my left hand.”

Then why hadn’t he? Maybe he was playing on her sympathy, knowing she’d feel sorry for him and engage in some menial tasks. Then again, maybe he truly didn’t have the energy.

After tossing a few pair of underwear into the washer with the towels, Brooke turned to find Jared Granger seated at the table. He’d actually retrieved a basin and filled it with water while she’d been taking care of the laundry. So he wasn’t helpless after all. But he was gorgeous sitting there with his bare chiseled chest and tousled blond hair. A woman could sure get a thrill running her hands over all that sinewy muscle.

Brooke slapped the thoughts out of her brain. For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen a half-naked man before. Just not any who had the kind of sensual aura that made women take a second look. A third look…

What was it about him that made her feel all soggy inside? Why did she respond to his questionable comments when she had learned long ago not to react to anything with sexual undercurrents where patients were concerned? Where any man was concerned, for that matter.

Right now she didn’t care to dissect her reaction to Jared Granger. Right now she only had to help the man shave. And Lord help her, she hoped she survived it.

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