Night Fever. Tori Carrington

least as long. She’d hoped her day would improve with dinner. Instead it seemed to be taking an even sharper nosedive.

      Layla slid her phone back into her purse, catching an envelope before it could fall to the floor. She flipped it over to read the return address. Her quarterly student loan statement. How long had it been since she’d actually paid any attention to her financial affairs? Her paychecks from both the Center and the clinic were deposited directly into her savings and checking accounts, and her loan payments automatically taken out. She had the same overhead every month—what with rent, utilities and car insurance—so there wasn’t really much need to balance her accounts on a monthly basis. The problem was she was pretty sure a year or so had passed since she’d last sat down and gone over everything. All her bank and loan statements sat on her foyer table unopened. Or she temporarily stuck them into her purse with the intention of opening them—which she never did.

      She made a face. Wasn’t that how people got into trouble? So she didn’t like doing that sort of stuff. Who did, other than a boring accountant?

      She slid her short thumbnail into the corner of the envelope and opened the statement. A quick glance told her that everything was going like a well-oiled machine. No flags to say that she’d missed a payment or that she was being penalized for anything. She stuffed the envelope back into her purse, figuring that’s all she really needed to know.

      “This seat taken?”

      Layla blinked up into a pair of cappuccino-colored brown eyes a woman could easily fall into. A man who looked better than anything any menu could offer up was gesturing toward where she’d put the gossip magazine on the next stool. The seat was just about the only one in the place. Layla gestured at him. “It’s all yours.”

      She covertly eyed the drop-dead-gorgeous guy; he had dirty blond hair and an even dirtier grin. Maybe her day had just gotten a whole lot better….

      A MODEL. She had to be.

      And Sam Lovejoy definitely liked models.

      He grinned again at the tall, slender brunette as he took the stool next to her. He was at least twenty minutes early for dinner with the Trident Medical Center’s senior board member. Hey, you couldn’t be too careful in L.A. While the term “fashionably late” had likely come as a result of the rotten L.A. traffic, he prided himself on always being punctual. Even if that meant getting somewhere way too early.

      Tonight it looked as though luck was on his side, though. As far as he could tell, the hottie next to him wasn’t with anyone. And the way she kept sliding him glances told him she was open for any suggestion he might like to make.

      He gave himself a mental thumbs-up and ordered a club soda.

      “Twelve step?”

      He raised his brows at the soft sound of her voice. She had one of those throaty voices that belonged in a smoky nightclub down on Sunset. “No, business dinner.”

      She smiled as she crossed her legs. Sam openly watched the movement, wishing her skirt was just a few inches shorter. “Not from L.A., are you?” she asked.

      “That obvious?”

      “Natives usually drink their way through meals, business or otherwise. In fact, they’ve been known to forego food altogether. It’s what they call coping.”

      He handed her the paper he’d picked up from the stool. “Yours?”

      She quickly accepted it. “My one vice.” Her smile was a knockout. “I’m obsessed with these things. Can’t leave a store without picking one up.” She tucked her thick dark hair behind her ear. “How long are you staying?”

      “In L.A.? Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been here for eight years and have no immediate plans for departure.”

      “Ah. In the business?”

      “How do you mean?”

      She gestured at the others around the bar, most trying to look important or as if they weren’t scoping the place out for familiar famous faces. “Movie business.”

      “Oh, no. Not even close.” Well, for all intents and purposes anyway. He didn’t make movies.

      She seemed to relax, and he chuckled.

      “How about you?” he asked, plucking the lime from the glass and putting it on the napkin. Something she seemed to take note of. “Model, right?”

      Her green eyes narrowed slightly. “Wrong.”

      “Then you should be.”

      While the comment was true, he got the distinct impression that she hadn’t taken it as a compliment. He held up his hands. “Whoa. That sounded like one of the worst come-on lines on record, didn’t it?”

      “Mmm.”

      “Give me another chance?”

      She stared at him for a long moment then cracked a smile. “To what? Embarrass yourself?”

      “I deserved that.”

      She slowly sipped on her club soda through the tiny straw and stared thoughtfully ahead. “No, you didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m having a really bad day today and it just got worse, and I guess you’re the closest available target.”

      “Apology accepted.”

      She toyed with the napkin under her glass. “It’s just that, well, one of my friends just cancelled out on me and my other two are late and…” She trailed off.

      “And…?” he prompted, surprised to find he was waiting for what else she was going to say.

      She waved her left hand—a hand devoid of jewelry. Her nails short and neat and clean. Most men might not notice something like that, but as a surgeon, Sam did. The expression “cleanliness is next to godliness” undoubtedly came from the medical profession.

      “You don’t want to hear this. Really you don’t.”

      “You’re right, I probably don’t.”

      She stared at him.

      “But since I still have…” he glanced at his watch “…at least a good fifteen minutes before my party arrives, listening to you sure beats watching the wallpaper fade.”

      Truth was, Sam was in an exceptionally good mood. His grandmother had always called him the Golden Boy, and when a college mate had overheard her calling him that, the tag had followed him throughout medical school and well into his career. Not so much because of his looks, but because of his demeanor. While he experienced black moods like everyone else, the difference was he never let anyone know about them. But that didn’t stop him from being interested in others.

      “If I ask you a question, will you promise not to go cold on me?” he said when she fell silent.

      “Depends on the question.”

      “Spoken like a true woman.”

      “You noticed.”

      His grin turned decidedly suggestive. Oh, yeah, he’d noticed. And then some.

      Truth was he was highly attracted to the woman next to him. As far as first meetings went, he felt good about this one. She was elegantly gorgeous and obviously had more than a couple of marbles rolling around in her head. Most women he’d met over the past year would have immediately launched into a tale about a coffee enema gone awry when he asked about their dark mood. And while he still didn’t know the source for her agitation, he’d bet it didn’t have anything to do with coffee or enemas. And that was a refreshing change indeed.

      “Who did your nose?”

      WHO…did…her…nose…?

      Layla absently rubbed the facial feature in question. It wasn’t so bad that he had asked the question. It wasn’t even bad if she had had her nose done. But the fact that an attractive nose—just like attractive breasts—instantly