I don’t wonder who shot this man or why. That’s not my job. My job is to help the doctor save his life.
Finally, the victim is stable and can be wheeled to Radiology for a CT scan. Barring any unforeseen complications, the man will live.
Stripping off my gloves, I walk over to the sink to wash my hands again. The habit is so deeply ingrained I never have to think about it. Whenever I’m in the hospital, I wash my hands compulsively every chance I get, both for my own health and that of my patients.
Letting the warm water run over my hands, I roll my head from side to side to relieve the tension in my neck. As much as I love my job, it’s both physically and mentally exhausting, particularly when someone’s life is on the line. Full-body massages should be part of the benefit package for nurses. If anyone needs a rubdown at the end of a twelve-hour shift, it’s a nurse.
Turning away from the sink, I glance back at where the wounded man was—and catch a pair of steely blue eyes looking at me.
It’s one of the men who’d been standing near the victim, likely one of his relatives. Visitors are generally not allowed in the hospital at night, but the ER is an exception.
Instead of looking away, as most people will when caught staring, the man continues to study me.
Both intrigued and slightly annoyed, I study him back.
He’s tall, well over six feet in height, and broad-shouldered. He’s not handsome in the traditional sense. That’s too weak of a word to describe him. Instead, he’s magnetic.
Power. That’s what comes to mind when I look at him. It’s there in the arrogant tilt of his head, in the way he looks at me so calmly, utterly sure of himself and his ability to control all around him. I don’t know who he is or what he does, but I doubt he’s a pencil pusher in some office. This is a man used to issuing orders and having them obeyed.
His clothes fit him well and look expensive. Maybe even custom made. He’s wearing a gray trench coat, dark gray pants with a subtle pinstripe, and a pair of black Italian leather shoes. His dark brown hair is cut short, almost military style. The simple haircut suits his face, revealing hard, symmetric features. He has high cheekbones and a blade of a nose with a slight bump, as though it had been broken once.
I have no idea how old he is. His face is unlined, but there’s no boyishness to it. No softness whatsoever, not even in the curve of his mouth. I guess his age to be early thirties, but he could just as easily be twenty-five or forty.
He doesn’t fidget or look uncomfortable as our staring contest continues. He simply stands there quietly, completely still, his blue gaze trained on me.
To my shock, my heart rate picks up as a tingle of heat runs down my spine. It’s as though the temperature in the room has jumped ten degrees. All of a sudden, the atmosphere becomes intensely sexual, making me aware of myself as a woman in a way I’ve never experienced. I can feel the silky material of my matching underwear set brushing between my legs and against my breasts. My entire body seems flushed and sensitized, my nipples pebbling underneath my layers of clothing.
Holy shit. So this is what it feels like to be attracted to someone. It’s not rational, not logical. There’s no meeting of minds and hearts involved. No, the urge is basic and primitive. My body has sensed his on some animal level, and it wants to mate.
He feels it too. It shows in the way his blue eyes darken, lids partially lowering, and in the way his nostrils flare as if trying to catch my scent. His fingers twitch, then curl into fists, and I somehow know he’s trying to control himself, to avoid reaching for me right here and now.
If we were alone, I have no doubt he’d be on me already.
Still staring at the stranger, I back away. The strength of my response to him is frightening, unsettling. We’re in the middle of the ER, surrounded by people, and all I can think about is hot, sheet-twisting sex. I have no idea who he is, whether he’s married or single. For all I know, he’s a criminal or an asshole. Or a cheating scumbag like Tony. If anyone has taught me to think twice before trusting a man, it’s my ex-boyfriend. I don’t want to get involved with anyone so soon after my last, disastrous relationship. I don’t want that kind of complication in my life again.
The tall stranger clearly has other ideas.
At my cautious retreat, he narrows his eyes, his gaze becoming sharper, more focused. Then he comes toward me, his stride graceful for such a large man. There’s something panther-like in his leisurely movements, and for a second, I feel like a mouse being stalked by a big cat. Instinctively, I take another step back, and his hard mouth tightens with displeasure.