Race To The Altar. Judy Duarte

      His black, unruly curls were matted with blood now. And his eyes, which his ID said were blue, were swollen shut.

      What had they looked like before?

      According to his ID, he was six feet tall, a hundred and ninety pounds. He had a birthday coming on October seventeenth.

      He’d be thirty. But that’s about all she could assess, other than he’d probably been an attractive man when he’d started out today.

      Her curiosity continued to build, which was strange. Normally she kept a professional distance from her patients, yet for some reason she was drawn to this one. And that was crazy, since there were several good reasons to excuse herself now that the paramedics were packing up and preparing to leave.

      “By the way,” Sheila added, “there’s a kid coming in, too. He has a laceration on his left leg which may need stitches, as well as a possible fracture of the wrist. His guardian is driving him in.”

      “Was he involved in the accident?” Molly asked.

      “He was looking for his little sister, who’d chased after a runaway cat. When he saw the collision, he lost his balance and fell off his bike.”

      Molly nodded, then returned her attention to the man on the gurney—Chase Mayfield.

      “He’s coming to,” Betsy said. “Hi, Chase. You’re in a hospital. You’ve been in an accident. I’m Dr. Nielson. How are you feeling?”

      He grimaced.

      “Your injuries aren’t life threatening,” Betsy told him, “but we’re going to run a few tests. We also want to keep you in the ICU tonight for observation.”

      His only response was a moan.

      Betsy went on to probe and clean his head wound. After telling him what she was about to do, she began stitching it shut.

      Dawn, who’d ordered an MRI, reentered the room just as Betsy finished the last of ten or twelve sutures over Chase’s left eye. “Doctor, the boy arrived and is waiting with his guardian.”

      Betsy nodded. “I’ll be finished here in a few minutes.”

      The man moaned again.

      “Chase?” Betsy asked.

      No response.

      “Wake up, Mr. Mayfield.”

      Chase cracked open his good eye. “Where…what…?”

      “You’re in the hospital,” Betsy told him again. “You were involved in an accident. Do you remember?”

      He seemed to be trying to process the information. “Oh…yeah.”

      “Can you tell me what happened?” the doctor asked.

      Molly knew Betsy wasn’t interested in details of the accident. She was actually trying to assess the extent of his head injury and his cognitive function.

      “A dog…a kid…a truck…” His eyes opened momentarily, then closed again. “I had to pick one…”

      He’d opted for the truck, Molly concluded.

      “Good choice,” Betsy said. “At least, for the sake of the kid and the dog.”

      Chase grumbled. Or perhaps it was a groan.

      “Rumor has it you might be the Chase Mayfield,” Betsy said. “The race car driver.”

      “Rumor has a big mouth.”

      So, Molly thought, he had a sense of humor. And apparently, he was the man in question. She drew closer to the bed. “Karen still hasn’t arrived, Doctor. So I can finish cleaning him up and put on his gown.”

      “Thanks, Molly. I really appreciate you coming in to pinch hit like this.”

      “No problem.” She glanced at the patient.

      He opened his eyes. Well, actually, he opened the one that wasn’t completely swelled shut, and it was the prettiest shade of blue Molly had ever seen. Like the color of the stone in her mother’s sapphire ring.

      “We can transport you to Houston,” Betsy told him, “if you’d rather be in a larger hospital.”

      “No.” Chase turned to the doctor and reached out, grabbing Molly’s arm by mistake, gripping her with an intensity that shot her adrenaline through the roof. “I don’t want to go to the city.”

      “No problem,” the doctor said. “You can stay here, if you’d rather.”

      “I don’t—” he winced “—want word to get out…about this…if it can be helped.”

      “We’ll do what we can to ensure your privacy,” Betsy assured him. “But there were witnesses to the accident. The media could find out, although we certainly won’t make any statements, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

      “I want to…fly under the radar.” He opened his eye a crack. “Use my middle name, Raymond, instead of Chase. Maybe that’ll throw people off.”

      “We’ll issue a request for discretion.” Betsy turned to Molly. “I’ll let you take it from here. I’ll order some Demerol and let ICU know he’s on his way up.”

      “All right.”

      Chase closed his eyes and blew out a sigh.

      “Is there someone I can call for you?” Molly asked. “Someone who’s expecting you at home?”

      “No.” He blew out another ragged breath. “Damn, my head…hurts.”

      “Dr. Nielson is ordering pain meds. I’ll go and get it for you.”

      Ten minutes later, after giving Chase an injection, Molly had managed to fill out the forms and have Mr. Mayfield formally admitted to the hospital—under his middle name, Raymond.

      She’d returned to his bedside to tell him, but he’d fallen asleep—his eyes were shut, his breathing even.

      Good, she thought. He’d feel better in dreamland.

      She reached into the cupboard and took out one of the hospital gowns. Then she proceeded to pull down the sheet to Chase’s waist, noting the broad shoulders, the sprinkle of dark hair across his chest, the well-defined abs, the…

      Oh, wow. The whisper of a sexual rush buzzed through her veins, and she did her best to shake it off.

      She’d seen countless naked men in her life—professionally speaking, of course—but she’d never had a purely feminine response to a patient.

      Until this moment.

      Doing her best to ignore the unwelcome physical reaction, she slipped his arms through the gown, then proceeded to lift his shoulder just enough to tie at least one of the strings.

      “Ow. What’re you doing?”

      Startled, she gently rolled him back on the mattress. “Getting you dressed.”

      Did he realize his nakedness had unbalanced her?

      Surely not.

      “You dozed for a few minutes,” she said, trying to get her mind back on track. “How are you feeling now?”

      “Like I…got hit by a…Mack truck.”

      “I think you did.” She smiled at his joke, letting down her guard just a little. “A sense of humor should help you recover quickly, so I’m glad your funny bone wasn’t fractured.”

      “What do you know? A pretty nurse…and witty, too. I…like that…in a woman.” He managed a faint smile.

      She couldn’t help but wonder what one of his smiles would have looked like before his face had been swollen and bruised.

      His eyes—well,