Crossing the Line. Lori Wilde

well paid. She couldn’t go anywhere else and make the same kind of money. Plus, she was given lots of autonomy and she adored the staff. The VIP patients could be challenging at times, simply because they were VIPs, but Elle enjoyed taking care of people. Being a caregiver, however, had its drawbacks. For instance it prevented you from making a voodoo doll of your ex-husband and sticking sharp pointy things through it.

      “Come on, let me show you to your office,” Mark said. Without even bothering to introduce the new doctor to the staff, he slung an arm around Dante’s shoulder and propelled him toward the door.

      Typical Mark. No thought for anyone except himself.

      As her ex-husband dragged the new physician past her, Dante’s elbow accidentally grazed Elle’s breast.

      Sharply she inhaled as the shock of the unintentional contact spread out through her nerve endings.

      She saw Dante glance down at her from his imposing height. He had to be at least six-three, almost a foot taller than her own five feet four.

      For the briefest of moments, their gazes wed.

      His eyes glinted as if he knew exactly what she looked like stark naked and he approved. The intimate suggestion in his stare caused Elle’s knees to weaken.

      Nature had packaged him in a hard, muscular frame. He was meaty but not bulky. At once both supple and strong. His hands were big and square, his fingernails manicured. Nothing odd there; lots of surgeons babied their hands. Then she spied something that completely rattled her. There, at his wrist, from underneath his Rolex, curled the hint of dark-blue ink.

      A tattoo.

      Talk about out of place.

      Who was he really?

      The look that passed between them was succinct and yet weighted with a meaning she couldn’t begin to unravel.

      She felt heavy and light at the same time.

      Elle’s cheeks tingled. She was blushing!

      God, how embarrassing.

      What was happening to her? One minute she’d been minding her own business, doing her job as the nursing director of the E.D. and the next minute this sharp-dressed, broad-shouldered stranger had her locked in some emotional chokehold.

      She didn’t trust a man who could make her feel so breathless with just a look.

      Not one little bit.

       Chapter 2

      AS MARK ESCORTED HIM from the emergency department, Dante couldn’t help swiveling his head for one last look at the feisty red-haired nurse.

      She glowered, hands on her hips, watching him go.

      Her eyes narrowed. The woman didn’t like him. But could he blame her? He’d messed up her disaster drill, and in the process he could very easily have blown his cover. He’d already made her suspicious.

      Not good.

      Dante could tell from the way she’d scolded him that she thought he was a bulldozing hothead, and he’d given her plenty of reasons to draw that conclusion. He’d have to be more careful. He threw her the most disarming grin he could conjure before turning his attention back to Mark. Behind him, he heard her snort indignantly. He wasn’t winning her over that easily.

      “The medical staff is waiting in the doctors’ lounge,” Mark was saying. “We’re throwing you a little welcome party.”

      Ah crap, he hated this sort of political meet-and-greet, but he knew it was necessary. Suck up to the old guard if you want to fit in, and he had to fit in to gain their trust. He’d done it well enough in college. He could do it again.

      “Who’s the redhead?” Dante asked, the words popping unexpectedly from his mouth.

      “Redhead?”

      Dante jerked his thumb in the direction of the emergency department.

      Mark wrinkled his nose and his smile disappeared. “Word to the wise, steer clear of Elle.”

      “Any particular reason?”

      “You don’t know?”

      “Know what?”

      “She’s my ex-wife.”

      “For real?”

      “We were married for five years.”

      Surprised, Dante tightened his chin. Elle wasn’t Mark’s typical type. She was solidly built for one thing—wellrounded hips, sturdy legs, the generous look of a true earth mother. She also had quick, intelligent seashore-blue eyes. Unless his college roommate’s tastes had changed, Mark went in for thin, leggy, big-breasted blondes with wide eyes and a minimum of brain power.

      Dante resisted the urge to look back down the hallway again. “What happened?”

      “Things happen. People change.”

      “Bad breakup?”

      Mark shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

       She’s available.

      It was the wrong thought to think. He should have been wondering what had caused their breakup, but it was too soon to ask probing personal questions of Mark. Tread lightly and trust no one. It was, after all, his lifelong motto.

      He had to forget the redhead. The fact that she’d rattled his concentration bothered him almost as much as the rattling itself. He was not a man easily swayed from his objective.

      It was the memory of his sister and the filthy alley where her body had been found that had him steeling his mind, clenching his fists. She’d overdosed on heroin, but the medical examiner had found that her death was not accidental. Ligature marks on her wrists had told the tale. She’d been tied up and forcibly injected. She’d been murdered and Dante had never forgiven himself for not protecting her.

      As part of his penance, Dante would do whatever it took to bring the bastard responsible for putting Rapture in the underground drug pipeline to justice, and if Mark was that bastard, then so be it.

      “Here we are.” Mark pushed through the frosted-glass double doors marked Doctors Only.

      Behind the doors was a collection of well-heeled doctors mingling in an atmosphere of opulence. This room, with its designer draperies, Persian rug, a marble waterfall and chic modern furniture, was a far cry from the sparse, functional doctors’ lounge at the county hospital in Dallas where Dante had done his internship.

      “Here he is,” Mark called out to the gathered contingency. “Our newest plastic surgeon and my old college roommate, Dante Nash.”

      There was a polite smattering of applause. Someone gave Dante a new scalpel and told him to cut the cake that read in neon-blue buttercream icing, Welcome to Confidential Rejuvenations, Dr. Nash.

      He felt like rolling his eyes at the pomp, but in the spirit of cozying up to his new colleagues, he forced a grin. Unsheathing the blade, he then made a precision slice right through the middle of the N in his last name.

      Someone else handed him a flute of champagne. He felt awkward as hell standing there with a glass of Dom Perignon at nine o’clock in the morning, but he had to act as if he expected such treatment. He forced himself to take a sip.

      Mark took him around the room, introducing him to the people gathered.

      Dr. Jarrod Butler was the chief of staff. He had a lanky build and a leisurely way of speaking that reminded Dante of Gregory Peck’s classic role of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Dante guessed Butler was in his early sixties; he was the most senior person in the room.

      The chief of surgery, Wilson Covey, was a few years younger than Butler. He had the square, muscular build of a boxer and wore his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back off his forehead. He had a broad smile and a booming voice