Cindy's Doctor Charming. Teresa Southwick

remembered that doing battle for babies barely alive didn’t give him license to be a bastard to everyone else.

      “Dr. Steele,” she said with as much cool reserve as she could muster.

      “Call me Nathan.”

      “All right. Nathan.”

      He studied her intently and finally said, “Where do I know you from?”

      It was on the tip of her tongue to say she saw him almost every day. Granted, the disposable, white “bunny suit” she wore for her housekeeping job in the neonatal intensive care unit made her fairly anonymous. But still …

      She was about to tell him, then something stopped her. The devil made her do it. “I look familiar?”

      “Yes.”

      Maybe she’d finally caught a break. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

      “Quite a lovely face.”

      And now it was red. How did she respond to that? “Thank you.”

      “I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met.” He sipped his drink. “Did you have a baby in the NICU?”

      Heaven forbid. A baby was the last thing she needed. Although that would require sex and she hadn’t had any for a very long time. “I’ve never had a baby.”

      “So you’re here at the fundraiser out of the goodness of your heart?”

      “I won a seat at the table with a raffle ticket,” she said honestly.

      “Right.” His mouth curved up at the corners.

      “I’m not kidding.” The amused expression on his face said he didn’t believe her. Honesty was always the best policy. “There’s no way I could afford to come to something like this otherwise.”

      “Of course.” His gaze lowered to the spot where the champagne-colored piping on her dress criss-crossed over her breasts. For a moment, intensity flared in his eyes and then amusement returned. “Raffle ticket. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that.”

      “It’s the absolute truth.”

      “Uh huh. Who’s your stylist?”

      Stylist? She almost laughed. No way could she afford something like that. “Not a stylist. They’re called friends. Fairy godmothers.”

      “So they pulled off a miracle with a magic wand?” One dark eyebrow rose.

      “As a matter of fact …” She took a sip of wine and warmed to the subject. “I wasn’t going to come, but my friends talked me into it. I borrowed the dress, shoes and bag from Flora, Fauna and Merryweather.”

      “Who?”

      “They’re characters from an animated fairy tale. Surely you saw it when you were a kid.”

      He shook his head and all hint of laughter disappeared. “No.”

      “You probably don’t remember. It’s a classic children’s movie.”

      “That explains it. I was never a child.”

      The sort of lost expression on his face pulled at her heart and she fought the feeling down, mentally stomped the stuffing out of it. Life was hard and then you met someone who made things harder. Not happening to her again. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

      “It doesn’t require a response.” He shrugged. “Just a fact.”

      “Sad fact.” Those were two words she wanted back. He didn’t need her sympathy and she didn’t want to feel sorry for him. But tell that to her bleeding heart, which always got her into trouble. Used to get her in trouble. Past tense. She was a reformed soft touch.

      “What was your childhood like?” he asked.

      “There wasn’t a lot of money, but my brother and I didn’t know anything different.” She thought back to the time before her mother died. “We hung out with friends. Had sleepovers. Pizza and movies. Carefree.”

      He nodded. “Sounds nice.”

      “It was.” She was going to be sorry for asking, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What was yours like? You might not have thought you were a child but everyone starts out that way.”

      “I was more what you’d call an unaccompanied minor.” He took a sip from his glass and drained the contents. “On my own a lot.”

      “Only child?”

      He nodded. “You had a brother?”

      “Still do. He’s in college. In California.” And she was struggling to keep him there because it was her fault the money her father had saved for his education was gone. “I miss him.”

      “And that detour into childhood was really off the subject.” His puzzled expression was back.

      “What subject would that be?” The question was just a stall. She should just tell him that he knew her from the hospital. She worked in housekeeping. But some perverse part of her wanted a little payback for his earlier temper tantrum.

      “Who are you?”

      “Cindy Elliott,” she answered.

      “So you said.” He studied her face until shivers of awareness made her want to squirm. Finally he shook his head. “But I still can’t figure out why I know you. Where do you work?”

      “Mercy Medical Center.” That would jog his memory. Again she waited for the “aha” moment.

      “Really?” Instead of recognition, his puzzled frown deepened. “What department?”

      “Guess.” She took a large swallow of wine.

      “Nursing.”

      She shook her head.

      “Human Resources?”

      “No.” She twirled the long stem of the glass on the table in front of her.

      “Dietary?”

      “You mean Nutritional Services?” she asked.

      “That was politically incorrect of me. Yes, that’s what I meant.”

      She shook her head. “Nope, don’t work there either.”

      “Okay. I give up.”

      “All evidence to the contrary.” If he gave up that easily, there were a lot of babies who wouldn’t be alive today. Welcome to a classic conundrum. She was invisible to him. In all fairness, at the hospital he was totally focused on his tiny patients and got points for that. But he’d actually talked to her, chastised her really, for something she hadn’t done. How could she admire him so much at the same time she found him to be a pain in the neck?

      “What does that mean?” he asked.

      That she was an idiot. “I’ve seen you in action in the NICU.”

      “But you’re not a nurse.”

      “I’m an administrative intern at Mercy Medical Center. In addition to—other things,” she said vaguely.

      Before he could answer, an announcement was made for everyone to find their tables and the program would begin. Cindy was grateful for the distraction as the seats around them were filled and introductions made. She talked to the people on her right and tried to ignore the man on her left. Not so easy when their shoulders brushed and thighs bumped. Every stroke sent a surge of heat through her.

      She smiled politely, laughed when appropriate and planned to slip out at the first opportunity.

      Nathan had expected this dinner to be acutely boring speeches and barely edible rubber chicken. A yawn. He’d been wrong. Not about the speeches and chicken. But he’d never felt less like yawning.

      That