Doing It Right. MaryJanice Davidson

won’t have anything to do with me.”

      “That’s too bad,” she said, and he jerked his head up at her tone. She hadn’t sounded sympathetic. She’d sounded almost … pleased?

      “It’s what I deserve,” he sighed, “for giving in to her womanly wiles.”

      “What about your wiles? More milk, please,” she added when he opened the fridge to put the carton away.

      “I am wile-less. And you never answered my question—how’d you know about the boy? And the orthopedic surgeon, for that matter,” he added under his breath.

      “It’s an inner-city emergency room,” she pointed out, looking on with interest as he slid a perfect omelet onto her plate. “I could walk in on my hands and the only one to notice would be the triage nurse and the only thing she’d want to know was my insurance number.”

      “Can you?” he asked, beginning to cook his own omelet.

      “What?” she asked with her mouth full.

      “Walk on your hands?”

      She swallowed, dabbed her lips—full and pouty, his mind reported uselessly—grinned at him, then arched backward on her stool. In a moment her head and torso had disappeared and he could see her legs receding as she carefully walked away from him on her hands.

      He applauded. She came back to her feet, slightly flushed and looking pleased, and took her seat, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “You’re amazing,” he said admiringly. “You can do everything.”

      “You wouldn’t like me if you really knew me,” she said, then pressed her lips together so hard they went white. He had the feeling she wasn’t in the habit of making candid comments to near strangers.

      “What’s not to like?” he said, trying to sound casual, to cover up the bald truth in his question.

      She shook her head at him and finished her omelet in silence. “Wonderful,” she said, pushing the empty plate away. “The best breakfast I ever had. Where did you learn to cook?”

      “My dad was a chef.”

      “Was?”

      “He and my mom retired and moved to North Carolina. Now they golf and wear ugly clothes and make fun of the tourists. It’s a shameful thing, I’ve been searching for a cure for them. Where are your folks?” He rinsed the plates in silence, sure she wouldn’t answer him.

      “Dead,” she said finally. “They died when I was just a kid. I went to a foster family the week after they died, and when my foster mother broke my arm I ran away.”

      “Jesus.” He crossed the room, wanting to take her into his arms, not sure how to bridge the sudden gulf between them. “That’s terrible.”

      “It’s no big deal,” she said quickly. “It’s not like I remember my parents. You don’t miss what you never had.”

      “Wrong, gorgeous. That’s the stuff you miss most of all.” And carefully, so carefully, he put his arms around her and drew her close.

      “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring at his mouth.

      “Want to bet?”

      Her mouth was a dream, the nicest dream he’d ever had, all sweet lips and lush softness. She pressed against him and he felt her breasts flatten slightly against his chest, felt her arms come around him, felt her mouth bloom beneath his. She sighed into his mouth and he shuddered, balling his hands into fists so he wouldn’t tear off her clothes and take her on the kitchen tile, which hadn’t been mopped since he was a med student. He heard her make a sound, some sound, a cross between a growl and a whimper, and heard himself groan in response. Then she came to herself—or perhaps came away from herself, back to the cool exterior she liked to show the world—and stiffened, took her arms away and pushed him back.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, not very, but not interested in gaining a black eye either, “but you’re so beautiful and—and good, I can’t resist you.”

      She looked startled, then sad. “I’m not good. I’m bad. You should keep it in mind, Jared.” She touched her mouth, then looked at him with something like wonder.

      “Anybody who has Carlotti for an enemy—who would protect a stranger from her enemy—isn’t bad.”

      “I’ve done … terrible things. You wouldn’t understand.”

      “Try me,” he urged softly. He took a step toward her and she skittered back, nearly tripping over the stool to keep away from him. He was struck once again by the combination of power and vulnerability. She could snap his spine like a bread-stick, he was sure. And yet, she was afraid of his touch. “Or not,” he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’ve done terrible things, too. In med school one time, I brought my cadaver to breakfast at the local Denny’s. Man,” he said nostalgically, “the food inspector sure got pissed. On the bright side, my cadaver was a cheap date.”

      She giggled, then choked off the sound and looked at him severely. “No more of that,” she said. “I’m here to keep you safe for a few days, not to play wifey.”

      “Don’t play wifey,” he said promptly, “marry me.”

      “Ha, ha.”

      He decided not to mention the fact that he wasn’t kidding. “So now what happens?” he asked.