Dr. Mom And The Millionaire. Christine FlynnЧитать онлайн книгу.
“I just need the blinds adjusted. If you don’t mind,” he expanded with far more civility than she’d expected. “It’s too bright in here to focus.”
His deep voice still held a rasp from the airway, but there was strength to it now and the smoky undertones sounded as if they belonged there.
“You can’t focus because you’re barely twelve hours out of surgery and your eyes are still affected by the sedatives. Give it time.”
Her tone was conversational, her manner deliberately relaxed as she walked over to the window and dimmed the buttery glow of the mid-June sun filling the room. She itched to get outside in all that warmth and brightness. Cloudless days were a rarity in Honeygrove. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She’d heard the faint crackle of newsprint as he slowly lowered the paper, but her focus wasn’t on his face as she turned from the window. It was on the round metal rods above his knee that formed a double H on either side of his leg and the four pins that went through it. At least, that was what had her attention until his silence drew her glance and she met his impossibly blue eyes.
Last night, she remembered thinking the color breathtaking. The observation had been purely factual, rather like the way a person would describe velvet as soft and rock as hard. Now, she actually felt her breath stall in her lungs. The phenomenon was disconcerting enough. What made it downright unnerving was the unabashed way he held her glance before his own moved slowly, boldly over her face.
The man was cut, broken and battered. He looked every bit as tired as he undoubtedly felt, and he needed a shave. His dark hair was rumpled and the burgundy bruise along his high cheekbone had bloomed to contrast sharply with the stark white bandage and his faint pallor. Yet, even looking as if he’d come out on the losing end of a bar fight and stripped of any trapping that might indicate status or power, the aura of masculine command surrounding him was unmistakable.
So was the sensual tug low in her stomach before his glance settled on the embroidered Alexandra Larson, M.D. on her pristine white lab coat.
It didn’t matter that she’d seen him before. Until the moment his eyes locked on hers, he’d been more procedure than patient, more media myth than man. Before that moment, too, she hadn’t been the subject of his attention. Being the sole subject of it now, unnerved by the fact that she hadn’t moved, Alex forcibly reminded herself he was on her turf and held out her hand.
“I’m Dr. Larson,” she said, jerking her professional composure into a subdued smile. “When we met last night, you were pretty groggy. I’m your surgeon.”
She rather expected him to go a little chauvinistic on her. With his reputation and considering what she’d heard of his attitude so far, a little alpha-male behavior wouldn’t have surprised her at all. Or so she was thinking when his hand engulfed hers and the heat singing up her arm made her feel more female than physician.
“I remember your voice.” His glance narrowed as it fell to their clasped hands. A hint of memory glimmered in his expression, as if he might have recalled the feel of her hand in his, too. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember what we talked about.”
Feeling strangely disadvantaged, Alex pulled back, letting her hand slide from his firm grip. “Mostly we discussed whether or not you were in any shape to make a phone call,” she replied, deliberately ignoring the tingling in her palm as she slipped her hands into her pockets. “I assume you’ve placed it by now,” she added, since a phone was within convenient reach on his bed table. “It was about a meeting last night that seemed rather important to you.”
Hesitation slashed his features. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I made it. Thanks.” Looking uneasy and not at all comfortable with the feeling, he nodded toward the bed. “So what’s the deal with the leg?”
It was as clear as his water glass that something about his business still disturbed him. It was equally clear that he wanted to change the subject.
“My question first,” she countered, more curious about his reaction than whatever his call had been about. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was hit by a Mack truck.” Moving gingerly, he set aside the paper someone had obviously gotten for him. Just as carefully, he eased back against the pillows. “Actually,” he muttered, looking paler from the movement, “I think it was a Ford.”
She’d expected antagonism from him. She’d been braced for bluster. She hadn’t anticipated raw sensuality or a dry humor that had somehow managed to survive obvious discomfort.
Feeling her guard drop, she eyed the wicked bruise edged beneath the left sleeve of his gown. She knew there was also one on his left hip. His thigh would be rainbow-hued for weeks. “I understand you’re refusing pain medication,” she said, reaching for the edge of his gown to lower it from his shoulder. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”
“You’d rather be in pain?” she asked mildly.
“I’d rather be able to think.” He hitched a breath when her fingers moved over the tender joint. “I just want my mind clear. I have things to do and I can’t do them if I can’t concentrate.”
Trying to concentrate herself, she made a mental note to have the nurses ice his beautifully muscled shoulder, then clinically ran her hand over his rock-solid trapezius muscle to the strong cords of his neck. The tension she felt there could easily have been a normal state of affairs for him. Her neck was definitely where she tended to carry her stress. But the impact would have strained his muscles, too.
“You’re going to be sore everywhere for a while,” she told him, frowning at the way the heat of his skin seemed to linger on her hands as she slipped the gown back in place.
“I was the last time, too.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Not this way.” There was an edge in his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago, a heavy hint of frustration that almost overrode the discomfort. “I broke my other leg skiing a couple of years ago. It’s an inconvenience, but it isn’t anything I can’t function with if I’m not taking anything that messes up my head. And as long as I can move around,” he pointedly added. “So let’s get rid of that scaffolding and just put a cast on it. I need to get out of here.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Looking at her as if she couldn’t possibly have said what he thought he’d heard, he muttered, “Why not? All you have to do is take that thing off and wrap my leg in plaster of paris. It’ll probably take a couple of days to dry completely, but I don’t have to stay in the hospital for that.”
He was rubbing his temple. The one without the bandage. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he had a headache. She was also beginning to see why he seemed to be giving everyone else one, too. Especially Kay with her regimented routine and Mrs. Driscoll with her hospital regs. She seriously doubted that any man who’d accomplished what he had followed other people’s rules. He did things his way.
That was how he wanted them done now.
Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t in a position to call the shots.
Unfortunately for her, she was.
“You may have had a broken leg before,” she patiently allowed, still more concerned with the way he winced when he moved than with his obstinance, “but there are different kinds of breaks and this particular one can’t be casted. At least not yet. Your mobility is a priority but not our first one. The bone penetrated the skin and our biggest concern is infection. You’ll be able to get around with the scaffolding,” she assured him, referring as he had to the external fixation device. “But right now, you need a three-day course of IV antibiotics. As for letting you out of here, we’ll talk in a few days about how long you need to be hospitalized.”
“A few days isn’t acceptable. If I can get around on this thing, you