Hot Bodies Boxed Set: The Complete Vital Signs Erotic Romance Trilogy (8 page)

Joanna sat in a molded plastic chair in Dr. Larry Rosenblum’s waiting room, flipping through a tattered copy of
Life & Style
with one hand, and biting her nails down to the quick on the other. She stared at the glossy paparazzi photographs of Jennifer Aniston and Britney Spears until her eyes glazed over, and when that happened, she glanced up at the waiting-room clock for the umpteenth time.

Dr. Rosenblum had rearranged his afternoon surgery schedule to fit in an examination of Harlan’s wound. Joanna knew he had done so in respect for the sacred surgeons’ brotherhood, since he refused to take any money for the job. He might even get to write a research article about it, since deep scalpel wounds of surgeons’ hands weren’t exactly common.

Harlan had been in Dr. Rosenblum’s examination room for almost an hour. Joanna had no idea what could be taking so long, unless the two surgeons had fallen into swapping war stories or talking baseball. Just as Joanna was starting to re-read for the eighth or ninth time a six-month-old article on why Jennifer Aniston’s relationship with John Mayer was doomed to failure, a shout in the next room startled her.

“How DARE you imply that—“ Harlan’s voice boomed. She tried to make out the rest, but part of the shouts were drowned out by the air conditioning.

“Goddamn you! God
DAMN
you!”

Joanna chuckled to herself
. I suppose that means they’re not talking baseball
, she thought.

Harlan Wilkinson burst into the waiting room, which thankfully was empty save for Joanna. She noticed his right hand was now unbandaged save for a light gauze dressing. Dr. Rosenblum had closed the cut on his palm with nine perfectly executed butterfly stitches.

“I don’t know what kind of substandard, incompetent
numbskull
you’ve brought me all this way to see, Joanna, but we are leaving.
Now
.”

A split second later, Dr. Larry Rosenblum, a gentle-voiced, balding Jewish man in his late sixties, followed Harlan out into the waiting room. “Dr. Wilkinson, wait. Please. We need to talk about your next course of treatment—“

“My next course of treatment will be getting the hell away from you.” With that charming remark, Harlan Wilkinson grabbed his jacket off Dr. Rosenblum’s brass coat tree and stomped out into the hall, slamming the office door behind him with a crash.

Joanna didn’t know what to think. She had known and respected Dr. Rosenblum for years, and was mortified by Harlan’s crass behavior towards him.

She was even more mortified by the fact that Harlan’s crass behavior thrilled and aroused her more than anything she had ever witnessed.

For reasons Joanna still couldn’t begin to understand, her heart was pounding in her ears at the echoes of Harlan’s booming baritone, her stomach fluttering as her body reverberated with each and every vibration his stomping feet made in the linoleum.

Joanna took a moment to collect herself and then stepped over to face the kindly old surgeon she and Dr. Turnblatt had known and worked with for so many years. “I’m sorry, Larry. Had I known he would behave like this, I—“

Dr. Rosenblum held up his hand. “It’s all right, Joanna. This is exactly how I would expect a surgeon of his reputation to react when I told him what I did.”

“React? React to what?”

Larry Rosenblum, MD, a hand surgeon with a medical degree from Duke and more than thirty years’ experience in his highly specialized field, motioned for Joanna to sit down. She did.

“Joanna, can you tell me exactly what you think happened when Dr. Wilkinson dropped the scalpel in the OR and got cut?”

Joanna flushed and looked at the floor. “I handed him the scalpel blade-first, Larry. It was my mistake—“

Dr. Rosenblum’s eyebrows raised. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

Joanna bit her lip. No, she wasn’t
absolutely
sure. But she
had
been daydreaming—not to mention so distracted by Harlan’s sex appeal she wasn’t concentrating on the task at hand. So there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation for the accident. Could there?

“Joanna, I’ve inspected Dr. Wilkinson’s wound very carefully, and I’ve determined that the accident was his own fault. You handed him the scalpel properly; he just dropped it, and the blade cut him on its way down.”

“But—but that’s impossible!” Joanna cried. She couldn’t fathom Harlan making that kind of mistake.

“I’m afraid not, Joanna,” Dr. Rosenblum plopped into the plastic chair next to her own and sighed. “The shape and direction of the cut makes it clear that it occurred from him not having a good grip on the scalpel when he took it from you, causing it to slip. Had you handed it to him blade-first, like you thought, the cut would have been perfectly smooth and straight, and likely the exact length of the scalpel blade. That’s just not the case here. These kinds of surgery-related hand injuries don’t happen that often, but when they do, they are almost always the surgeon’s fault.”

Joanna was dumbstruck. “Are you sure?”

Dr. Rosenblum nodded. “I’ve been called upon to consult on cases of this kind in several lawsuits, and that’s just been the consistent finding when I see jagged palm cuts like this. It looks to me like Dr. Wilkinson was just plain careless. And I told him as much.”

Joanna was stunned. The very idea of Harlan being “just plain careless” just didn’t make sense. What’s more, it showed Joanna that Harlan, was, like her, an imperfect, fallible human being—something that he might not be willing to admit to himself.

“I guess he didn’t take the news very well,” Joanna said.

“Well, as I’m sure you already know, Joanna, surgeons often like to think of themselves as superhuman. Most surgeons aren’t known for accepting even constructive criticism, let alone reminders that they can make careless mistakes. But I think in this case, it’s pretty clear that’s exactly what Dr. Wilkinson did.”

Joanna got up and pulled her jacket off the brass coat tree. “I suppose I should get going. I’m Dr. Wilkinson’s ride home, and—“

“I suggest you take the man out for a stiff drink or two,” Dr. Rosenblum said, helping Joanna into her jacket like a true Southern gentleman. “He’ll need it, especially after I file my report with your hospital’s administration.”

Joanna stopped short. “Report? What do you mean?”

Dr. Rosenblum shook his head, sadly. “By order of state law, I am required to make a report to Covington Hospital’s administration of my clinical opinion as to why a scalpel injury of this nature occurred in their OR. I plan to tell them the truth. I’m afraid it could mean some serious consequences for Dr. Wilkinson.”

“What kind of consequences, exactly?”

Dr. Rosenblum shook his head again. “That’s at the discretion of the hospital, as well as the state medical board. At best he could be fined, at worst he could have his medical license revoked. I suspect he’ll get something in-between.”

“Like what?” Joanna’s voice was trembling now.

“Likely he’ll get placed on unpaid leave for a month or two.”

“But they can’t do that! He’s only just started! He’s—” Joanna blurted. She stopped short, took a moment to compose herself. She couldn’t fall apart now. Not in front of Dr. Rosenblum. Not with so much at stake.

Dr. Rosenblum placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Joanna, I think the best thing you can do for Dr.Wilkinson right now is to help him relax. Take him out for a drink, buy him dinner, have a nice conversation with him that doesn’t have anything to do with surgery. He could just use a good friend right now, and I’ve known you long enough to understand that being a good friend is something you excel at.”

Joanna smiled, hugged the kindly old surgeon, and left.

No matter what Dr. Rosenblum might think of her, she didn’t share his confidence in her ability to be just a good friend to Dr. Harlan Wilkinson. Not one bit.

Sex had a nasty habit of getting in the way of friendship.

Harlan stared at Joanna from across a table at La Colatta, a small Italian restaurant in downtown Raleigh. La Colatta had been a favorite of hers for many years—she and Dr. Turnblatt often had lunch here together when she accompanied him on surgical field trip demonstrations at University Hospital.

A harried waitress had just set down a basket of fresh-baked rolls and two glasses of ice water for them to pick at until she could have time to take their order. But instead of deciding what he wanted to eat, Harlan grabbed one of the warm rolls and started shredding it into small pieces with the nimble fingers of his left hand. Joanna squirmed in her seat as she felt her crotch grow warm, imagining what it would feel like to have those fingers on her cunt again. She grabbed a roll for herself and smothered it in butter in a vain effort to distract herself.

“All that butter’s bad for your health,” Harlan said, dismembering yet another roll. “Not to mention your figure.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joanna retorted. “I’ve never had a problem staying healthy, what with all the running around I have to do for you arrogant surgeon types all the time. Thanks to that, I’m the same size now as I was when I was eighteen.”

Harlan dusted crumbs off the fingers of his left hand. His now stitched-up right one hovered down at his side. “And how old are you now, Joanna?”

“Thirty-six.”

Harlan didn’t comment further. He just shrugged and then pretended to be interested in the menu.

“So, what are you going to order?” Joanna asked. “The stuffed shells are very good here, by the way. And so’s the veal. Don’t worry about the price, it’s my treat.”

Harlan glanced up at Joanna over the edge of his menu, shrugged, and said nothing.

“I also recommend the spaghetti Bolognese, if you’re looking for something heavier,” Joanna chirped. “It’s the specialty of the house.”

“Hmm,” was Harlan’s noncommittal reply. A series of nervous tics jerked along his hard, angular jawline. Joanna hoped the tics were a sign of sexual tension on his part, but somehow she doubted it.

“How about I order a nice Chianti for us?” Joanna offered, hoping to break the tension. “I’ll get you the best vintage on the menu.”

Harlan set his menu down, his eyes and expression getting more steely by the second. “Don’t worry about the price, huh? Expensive chianti, too? Funny, Joanna, earlier today I thought you said you were broke.”

Joanna took a sip from her water glass. “I am a little broke, but don’t worry. That’s why God invented MasterCard.”

Harlan rolled his eyes at this.

The waitress finally appeared. Joanna ordered the stuffed shells, a green salad, and a calamari appetizer. At Joanna’s recommendation Harlan ordered the spaghetti Bolognese, which pleased her. Then he tossed his menu gruffly at the waitress and ordered a gin and tonic, which did not please her at all. The waitress dashed off for the kitchen before Joanna could protest or even order a glass of wine of her own.

“Gin and tonic? What about Chianti? We’re at an Italian restaurant, we should have a good Chianti.”

Harlan cleared his throat. “I hate Chianti. I hate all wine, in fact.”

Joanna’s crotch went cold. She’d never heard of anyone—let alone someone as well-educated and sophisticated at Harlan—hating wine. “Why is that?”

“Gives me a headache. Plus, you can get drunk a helluva lot faster on hard liquor. You really should try it sometime.” Harlan’s mood was as black as pitch, and getting blacker by the second. Joanna knew she had to do something to lighten the man up, or else this would be one unbearable meal. Not to mention the fact that the darker the man’s mood got, the less chance she had of getting his pants off again.

“No thank you, Harlan. I prefer to be as sober as possible when I’m eating Italian food. Otherwise, I’ll get too messy and sloppy with my eating, and when I do that, all the tomato sauce tends to get into some unmentionable places.” Joanna added a flirty toss of her hair—a trademark Southern belle move if there ever was one—and smiled.

The left corner of Harlan’s frowning mouth tipped upward ever so slightly. Maybe there was hope for her sex life after all. It was a start. Who knew—if she could manage to keep cracking suggestive jokes, she might even manage to melt the man’s heart a little.

Harlan’s gin and tonic arrived. He downed it in one gulp and ordered another. Joanna timidly asked the waitress to bring her a glass of moderately priced Merlot. Harlan attacked the fresh drink shortly after the waitress brought it, while Joanna only nipped at her Merlot.

If Harlan kept hitting the bottle this hard, he just might soften up.
Maybe there’s still a chance for me to get lucky tonight
, she thought.

“So, what do you think of North Carolina?” Joanna finally asked, eyeing the level of liquid left in Harlan’s second highball in as many minutes. “How does it compare to Boston?”

“There’s no comparison. No comparison at all.” Harlan ran his left index finger around

and around the rim of his highball glass in a way that Joanna found insanely erotic. She felt her crotch slowly start to refill with the now-familiar warmth.

“No comparison at all?” she asked, shifting a little in her seat. Her nurses’ uniform slacks suddenly felt itchy, even too tight. “Do you mean that in a good way or a bad way?”

Harlan polished off the rest of his second gin and tonic and then leaned back in his chair, stretching out his arms and then cupping the fingers of his left hand behind his head. He kept his injured right hand on the table, right next to his empty highball glass. “Both,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Harlan sighed loudly and then settled back into a regular sitting position. Joanna could tell by his fluid movements and more relaxed posture that the alcohol was already working on him, and working well. “I mean,” he said, fiddling with his red cloth napkin, “that there are things about North Carolina that I absolutely love—like the beautiful scenery, the fresh air, the friendly people. And then there are things that I absolutely hate.”

Joanna took another sip of wine. “Such as?”

“I’d prefer not to talk about the things I hate tonight.” Joanna saw the nervous tics pulling at Harlan’s jawline again, although they weren’t as deep this time. “I’ve had enough bad will for one day.” Harlan crumpled his napkin into a ball and sighed again.

Joanna stared thoughtfully into her wine glass for a moment, pondering whether or not it was safe to tread too close to the topic of Harlan’s injury. She decided to approach it with caution. “Did Dr. Rosenblum think your injury is bad enough to affect your surgical career at all?” Joanna hoped the injury wasn’t permanent.

“I think your Dr. Rosenblum is full of crap, frankly.”

“No, he’s not,” Joanna retorted. “He’s very respected. He’s one of the best hand surgeons on the East Coast, Harlan.”

Harlan scoffed. “If he really were any good, he’d be in Boston or New York.”

Joanna was deeply offended by Harlan’s not-so-subtle potshot at her home state, but she made no show of it in her face. She would match him, tit for tat. “Oh? Then tell me something, Harlan. If you think North Carolina so crummy, what are
you
doing practicing here?”

Harlan laughed, but it wasn’t a genuine laugh. It was forced, almost metallic. “You really are one tough lady, Joanna Watson,” he said. “You just don’t let up, do you?” Harlan frowned and rubbed at his eyes with his good hand. Joanna could tell that she had touched a nerve. The tiniest speck of vulnerability had arisen in Harlan’s rugged features.

Joanna felt things heat up down south.

“Well?” Joanna prodded. “Are you going to tell me why you moved here or not?”

“That’s kind of a long story,” Harlan finally said, just as their calamari appetizer arrived.

Joanna dove right into the pile of fried squid. “Well, we do seem to have plenty of time. We’re both off surgery duty until further notice, after all.”

Harlan frowned. “So?”

“So tell me the long story.”

Harlan sucked at the dregs of his gin and tonic and gave Joanna a black look capable of melting iron. “No.”

Joanna met his fierce gaze without flinching. She knew it was time for her to dig deeper. Much deeper. “Dr. Rosenblum told me that it’s your own damn fault you got cut,” she snapped.

Harlan’s lips thinned with irritation, but he said nothing.

“Dr. Rosenblum said you made a careless mistake, Harlan,” she went on. “Is that true?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Harlan snarled, and then flagged down the waitress for another drink.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not,” he replied, and to Joanna’s shock, he put his head in his hands, covering his face completely. He finally looked up, and gave her a hard look. “I’m a failure, Joanna. That’s why I’m in North Carolina now, and not Boston. There, I said it. Are you happy now?”

“You’re not a failure, Harlan. You just made a mistake, that’s all. We all do.”

Harlan gestured with his injured right hand. “I’m not talking about what happened today. I’m talking about my life in general. I’m a failure, Joanna. I’m here in North Carolina because of something that happened to me on my last Doctors Without Borders excursion, among other things. Things that pretty much render me incapable of ever working in a first-class hospital ever again.”

Joanna reached across the table and put her right hand over Harlan’s left one. The feel of his skin on hers was exciting, startling, and sensual all at the same time. Involuntarily, Joanna sucked in her breath as a hot surge of electricity jolted up her arm, ran through her neck and chest, and landed squarely between her legs. She took a deep breath to cool herself, and focused her eyes back on Harlan’s brooding ones before speaking. “Harlan, I don’t know what you could have possibly done to think you’re a failure. You’re a confident, capable, and obviously gifted man. I’ve thought so almost from the moment I met you.”

Harlan’s sandy-blonde eyebrows knitted. “Funny, it seemed to me you thought I was a total asshole when we first met.”

Joanna had to laugh. She squeezed his hand, and to her surprise and delight, he squeezed hers back. “Actually, yes, I did. But even assholes can be confident, capable, and gifted. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

To her amazement, Joanna found she was actually getting through to Harlan. After so many days of playing the super-tough, ultra-masculine surgeon, he was letting his guard down with her a little. Perhaps, just perhaps, it wouldn’t be as hard for her to win his love as she thought.

Harlan squeezed her hand again, harder this time. “Joanna, I owe you an apology.”

“Oh, really? Why?”

The waitress arrived with Harlan’s third gin and tonic. He caressed the sweating highball glass with his fingers but didn’t take a drink. “I think you know why, Joanna. I wrongly accused you of cutting me in the OR. I manipulated you into thinking the accident was your fault, when it wasn’t. I—“ Harlan trailed off and stared into his highball glass.

“Go on.”

After a long pause Harlan took another cautious sip of his third gin and tonic of the evening. Even with that much alcohol in his system, the necessary words were not coming easily to him. Joanna squeezed his hand again, and this time, his fingers caressed the inside of her hand by way of responding. The feel of his smooth, ministering fingertips on her skin was electric.

“The truth is, Joanna, I’ve been making careless mistakes in my surgical practice for years now. What happened today was just the first mistake that physically injured someone. Despite all the mistakes I’ve made before, I didn’t want to accept that I was capable of being so inept at my own job, so I blamed you instead. Then when Dr. Rosenblum saw through me—well, I guess I just lost it. I’m sorry.”

Harlan sighed and hung his head. Joanna could feel from the sadness and tension in his fingers as they gripped hers.

“I suppose it’s a mixed blessing that the person I injured was myself, instead of you or my patient,” Harlan went on. Joanna could smell the alcohol on his breath now. It mixed with the scent of his aftershave and his own distinctive, musky male scent to form a malleable, almost acid-like odor that she supposed was the scent of fear. Her heart went out to him.

“But I’m afraid that if there’s a next time, I won’t be so lucky,” he said. Harlan let go of Joanna’s hand and started fiddling with his napkin again. He didn’t touch the calamari, so Joanna polished the rest of it off herself.

Licking some excess grease off her fingers, Joanna gave Harlan a gentle smile, which seemed to relax him a little. “Thank you for the apology, Harlan. I appreciate it, I really do. But it seems that there’s a lot more to this than what you’re telling me.”

Harlan’s jawline hardened, erupting into dozens of nervous tics again. “I don’t know what you mean. I just spilled my guts to you—“

“The other mistakes, Harlan. What other careless mistakes have you made in your career? In your life?”

“I don’t want to talk about this any more, Joanna.”

“But—
Harlan put up his hand. His
right
hand, palm first. Joanna studied the nine perfect butterfly stitches on his palm for a moment. She started to speak, but Harlan cut her off.