His Heir, Her Honour / Meddling With A Millionaire: His Heir, Her Honour. Catherine Mann

alone?

      Static-like awareness popped along her nerves until the hair on her arms rose. Was that an answering spark lighting his dark eyes? Then he blinked away any hint of emotion.

      “It does not get much more personal than this, boss lady.” He turned off the shower. “Could you pass me that towel?”

      She snagged the white cotton draped on a hook. The hospital name and logo were stamped along the bottom. She pitched the towel to him rather than risk an accidental touch. As he looped it around his waist, she couldn’t resist staring for a stolen second.

      Water soaked his hair even blacker, shiny and swept back from his face. Every hard and hunky angle of his aristocratic cheekbones and nose was revealed. Dark brows slashed over brown eyes that rarely carried humor, but turned lava lush when he made love to her.

      Pivoting, his back to her for the first time, he snagged his shampoo. Her eyes quickly left his slim hips and taut butt, drawn more to the scars along his lower back. In the four years she’d known him, he’d chalked up his permanent limp to a teenage riding accident. The one time she’d pressed him, the first time she’d seen those scars, he’d brushed aside further questions with distracting kisses along her bare skin.

      While she was a lawyer and not a doctor, her tenure working at the hospital—and flat-out common sense—clued her in that he’d suffered a major physical trauma.

      Toiletries bag tucked under his arm, he leaned toward her. His shoulders, then his eyes, drew her in until the rest of the space faded away. She swallowed hard.

      He stared back, unblinking, unflinching. “Let’s make this quick.”

      “Your charm never ceases to impress me.”

      “If you’re looking for charm, you hired the wrong man four years ago.” He’d been thirty-six then to her thirty-one, a lifetime ago. “I’ve spent most of the day repairing the spine of a seven-year-old Afghani girl injured by a roadside bomb. I’m beat.”

      Unwanted sympathy whispered through her. Of course he was exhausted from the drawn-out, tragic surgery. Even when he caved to his pride and used a chair during extended operations, the toll it took on him was always evident. But she couldn’t afford to weaken now.

      They’d been friends for years only to have him turn into a cold jackass because of an impulsive one-night stand together after a Christmas fundraiser. It wasn’t like she’d dropped a wedding planner in his lap five seconds after the third orgasm waned.

      Yep, three. Her toes curled inside her pumps at just the memory of each shimmering release.

      The sex had been amazing. Beyond amazing actually, and after that impulsive hookup, she’d envisioned them transitioning into a relationship of friends with kick-ass benefits. A nerve-tingling, safe option. But he’d pulled away as fast as he’d pulled on his pants the next morning. He was cold, withdrawn and painfully polite.

      But she wasn’t backing down. “I don’t have the time for niceties. I’m just here to say my piece. So grab some clothes and let’s talk.”

      He ducked his head until his voice heated her ear. “You’re not the type to create a scene. Let’s set up a time to talk when you’re calmer. This is already awkward enough.”

      Her nose twitched at his fresh-washed scent. Yes, she’d chosen an unconventional route for her confrontation, but Carlos Medina’s tenacious—stubborn—reputation was legendary. She felt confident the hospital board would cut her a little slack for her scene. And if they didn’t? Then so be it. Sometimes a woman had to make a stand.

      This was her time. She couldn’t afford to wait much longer.

      “I’m not setting up an appointment. I’m not delaying this conversation.” She lowered her voice, although from the sound of retreating footsteps behind her there must not be many people left. “We talk. Today. The only matter up for discussion is whether we chat right here in front of everyone or if we speak in an office. And believe me, if we stay here, it’s going to get a lot more awkward very quickly.”

      Carlos cocked an eyebrow.

      From behind her, a cleared throat echoed, or a stifled laugh perhaps. She looked up at Carlos, suddenly painfully aware of just how close they stood to each other with nothing but a towel covering his oh-so-generous family jewels.

      Whispering, she struggled not to back away—or move closer still. Carlos had ignored her for nearly three months, hurtful and flat-out insulting given their friendship. Or rather, their prior friendship.

      One way or another, she would get a reaction from him. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you before. In fact, I recall in great—”

      “Enough,” he silenced her with a word.

      “The almighty Medina prince has spoken,” she mocked, backing a step to snag surgical scrubs from the top of a stack. “Get dressed. I’ll wait.”

      She thrust the folded green set his way and turned away. A trio of half-dressed men faced her, their jaws slack and eyes wide. The magnitude of the scene she’d caused hit her full on for the first time. She resisted the urge to squirm.

      This was too important to show any vulnerability. She just hoped she could maintain enough distance to get through the conversation during their first time alone together in so long. She pressed her fingers to her lips, still unable to forget the rush of passion from their first impetuous kiss, a clench that had led to so much more with lasting consequences.

      Once Carlos put on his clothes and they moved to another room, he would learn the truth she’d only just begun to accept herself. A truth she could no longer avoid.

      Dr. Carlos Medina was a little over six months away from becoming a princely papa.

      Carlos Medina was about six seconds away from losing his temper, something he never, never allowed to happen.

      Of course, he was the person who needed chewing out for foolishly allowing himself to sleep with Lilah nearly three months ago. He’d wrecked a top-notch working relationship.

      Sidestepping a janitor slopping an ammonia-saturated mop over the floor, Carlos followed her down the otherwise empty hospital walkway, wearing fresh surgical scrubs, tennis shoes and ten tons of frustration. Fluorescent lights overhead lined the path down the corridor. Windows flanked either side. Murky late day sun fought to pierce the dreary drizzle outdoors. But his focus was locked in on the woman two steps ahead of him on the way to his office.

      His office. Not hers. His territory.

      She may have tipped the controls in her favor with the shower confrontation, but he wasn’t giving ground again. His office would also provide guaranteed privacy. Once his Medina name had been exposed, the hospital had been flooded with paparazzi. He’d feared he might have to resign his position in order to ensure the safety of his patients.

      But he’d underestimated Lilah.

      She’d slapped restraining orders and injunctions on the press in a flash. She’d increased security at the hospital. And she’d moved his office to the farthest corner of the building. Overzealous paparazzi would have to run a gauntlet of two layers of security and a half-dozen heavily populated nurses’ stations before reaching his newly relocated inner sanctum. No one in the press had succeeded to date.

      Yes, he’d underestimated her then, something he wouldn’t do now. He needed every edge he could muster around this woman when all he could think about was her bold entrance into his shower, her gaze raking over his body as if she wouldn’t mind a touch. A taste. Maybe even a bite. Damn, but he hadn’t expected to see her again without the defense of even a pair of boxers.

      The understated twitch of her hips encased in a black power suit held his gaze far longer than any simple passing interest. His eyes glided up the rigid brace of her spine to the vulnerable curve of her neck, exposed with her auburn hair swept into a tight twist. One stubborn curl escaped to caress her ear the way he burned to do