The Royal Doctor's Bride. Jessica Matthews

man burst into the office, wearing an expensively tailored dark gray suit and a grim expression.

      “Throw one more thing and you’ll be flying through the air, too,” he snarled as he moved in front of her, effectively blocking her from her irate superior. In the next instant, he whipped out a snowy white handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. “You’d better take care of that, Gina.”

      Too curious about the scene unfolding, especially when two more men arrived who were more stocky and not quite as tall or as handsome, she didn’t ask how this stranger knew her name. She simply nodded and did as she was told.

      To her surprise, a large smear of blood—her blood—stained the expensive cotton square. Quickly, she pressed it to her cheek again, more curious about the drama than about her scratch, especiallywhen her rescuer approached Bill behind his desk.

      “You, Dr Nevins,” the authoritative man accused in a deep, stern voice, “have forfeited your right to collect your things. Leave the premises immediately.”

      Bill straightened to his full five feet five inches and his beady little eyes narrowed. “Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?”

      “I’m your replacement,” the fellow stated calmly and firmly. “Goodbye, Dr Nevins.”

      He raised one hand and in the blink of an eye the two men moved round the desk from opposite directions to grab Bill’s arms and lead him toward the door.

      “But I didn’t hurt her on purpose,” Bill screeched. “Tell him, Gina.”

      Everyone’s gaze landed on Gina. “Bill wouldn’t hurt me,” Gina responded. “Not intentionally.”

      Her handsome knight folded his arms and regarded her cooly. “A man with such an obvious lack of control can’t be trusted.”

      “You can’t do this,” Bill shouted. “I have thirty minutes left.”

      Bill’s replacement, with his regal bearing and handsomely aristocratic features, looked down his aquiline nose. “You now have none. Take him away.”

      “But my things,” Bill wailed over his shoulder as the two henchmen literally lifted him off the ground.

      “Dr Sutton will ship your personal possessions to you.” And with that, the two apparent security guards carried him out, kicking and screaming.

      Gina stared at the now empty doorway. “At the risk of sounding completely ridiculous, what just happened?”

      “Changing of the guard,” the man said as he stood in front of her. “Let me look at that.” Without waiting for her permission, he tipped her chin upward, pulled away the handkerchief and peered at her face.

      Strangely enough, an attack of self-consciousness swept over Gina. The most handsome man she’d seen in ages had burst into her department like an avenging angel and now was studying her face as if he’d never seen a scratch before.

      “It’s nothing,” she said inanely, extremely conscious of two things—his six-foot-plus frame, which made her feel petite at five foot eight, and a delightfully masculine scent that made her appreciate being a female.

      He pressed on her cheekbone and frowned. “You need a stitch.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      He raised both eyebrows, eyebrows framing chocolate brown eyes that were deep, dark pools. “Are you questioning my medical judgement?”

      “I believe so. Yes.”

      A huge grin spread across his face. The dazzling brilliance of his smile made him seem younger, more approachable, and less formidable.

      “At least you’re honest,” he said.

      “It’s the best policy,” she answered.

      “Have a seat,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

      She might have obeyed, but it wasn’t in her nature to ignore the obvious. Because she weighed her problems more easily if she was busy, she carefully picked up the shattered remnants of Bill’s mug while she contemplated the sharp turn that the morning had taken.

      Bill was gone. While she took a few seconds to rejoice, she knew life in Belmont’s ER might not turn out better than it had been under Bill’s administration. Clearly, his successor—whoever he was—had a definite take-charge attitude. Once he’d plotted his course of action, he followed it, which was a good thing provided he based his decisions upon facts and logic. But if he didn’t, they would be in trouble, because she doubted if she’d be as successful at negotiating with him as she had been with Bill.

      No matter. She’d learned the art of persuasion at a young age and had developed it fully as she had taken care of her father near the end of his too-short life. She hadn’t met a man yet who came close to Arthur John Sutton in stubbornness.

      With any luck, however, the new ED Director would be more reasonable than Bill, although after watching him mercilessly throw Bill out of the department, she hoped he didn’t normally manage his subordinates with the same dictatorial style.

      “I see you’re a person who doesn’t follow orders,” he said behind her a minute later.

      “I follow them when they’re rational,” she replied pertly.

      “Do I detect shades of a warning?”

      “If the shoe fits.” She dumped the last shard of china in the trash can. “I thought I’d get a head start on cleaning up the mess.”

      “I appreciate the offer, but someone can take care of it later.”

      She eyed the piles of papers and hesitated, but when he added, “Please,” she couldn’t disobey.

      He cleared off a corner of the desk with one swipe of his hand, then placed a bottle of alcohol, several sterile gauze squares and a suture kit on the surface before he faced her. “Don’t worry. Rational is my middle name. Are you ready?”

      She eyed his supplies. “You don’t stitch a scratch. It’s hardly bleeding now anyway.”

      He whipped a small mirror out of his pocket. “See for yourself.”

      Her reflection revealed a large drop of blood that welled up in the cut which was dangerously close to her right eye. “No stitches,” she insisted.

      “If you’re worried about my sewing ability…”

      “Your abilities aren’t in question. I simply don’t think it’s necessary.”

      He perched on the edge of the desk. “I’ll call a plastic surgeon, then. We’ll get his opinion.”

      “You will do no such thing,” she stated firmly. “A butterfly bandage will do the job. You’re overreacting. So the cut is a little deep. One stitch isn’t worth the trouble.”

      “You’ll have a scar,” he warned.

      She eyed the cut before she dabbed the blood away. “Probably, but it won’t be so big that make-up won’t cover it.” She grinned as she handed the mirror back. “It will blend in with the normal wrinkles. No one will ever notice.”

      “Your significant other might.”

      “If he can’t look past a hairline scar, then he won’t be my significant other, will he?” she asked lightly. “Would it bother you if your significant other had a scar on her face?”

      “Of course not.” He appeared affronted.

      She smiled. “Then I rest my case.”

      He hesitated for a heartbeat. “I can’t talk you into this, can I?”

      “Nope. Not a chance. As a patient, I have the right to refuse or accept treatment.”

      “OK. Butterfly bandage it is.” He rose to shrug off his