Night Fever. Tori Carrington

the past year would have immediately launched into a tale about a coffee enema gone awry when he asked about their dark mood. And while he still didn’t know the source for her agitation, he’d bet it didn’t have anything to do with coffee or enemas. And that was a refreshing change indeed.

      “Who did your nose?”

      WHO…did…her…nose…?

      Layla absently rubbed the facial feature in question. It wasn’t so bad that he had asked the question. It wasn’t even bad if she had had her nose done. But the fact that an attractive nose—just like attractive breasts—instantly made other people think it was unnatural…well, rankled. The whole Hollywood bunch had made it virtually impossible for anyone outside the business to lead a normal life. She’d once joked that they should have some sort of government certification service that checked your body composition so that you had a certificate of authenticity that you could show to someone whenever they asked a stupid question like this.

      Because no matter how she answered, the status of her nose would still be in question. After all, how many people who’d had cosmetic surgery admitted to it?

      She opened her mouth and turned to give it to him good…but just looking into his handsome, inquisitive face robbed the air from her sails.

      “Uh-oh. I’ve insulted you again, haven’t I?” he asked good-naturedly. “Let me guess. The nose is yours.”

      “One hundred percent. And not in the ‘I bought it so it’s mine’ way either.”

      “I guess I should be the one to apologize now.”

      She propped her elbow up on the bar and leaned her head against her hand. “No. It’s not necessary. In this town it’s a perfectly natural question. If anyone should be immune to L.A.-speak, it’s me.” She twisted her lips. “I don’t know why I’m so touchy tonight. No, wait. Yes, I do. Because today I just found out I have a new boss.”

      “Ah. Someone I take it you don’t like.”

      “Not a lick.”

      Layla picked at her napkin. Actually, she couldn’t even say that, really. After all, she’d never met the guy. But his reputation had definitely preceded him. Known as the ultimate Chop Doc of L.A., he could nip, tuck, enlarge and siphon off whatever it was your li’l ole heart desired. From what she’d heard, wealthy clients and aspiring actresses alike lined up around the block for his services, and he had a waiting list as long as the Declaration of Independence. Except, in his case, the document would be entitled the Declaration of Dependence. Namely, dependence on a doctor to give you what nature hadn’t.

      Of course, it didn’t help that it was rumored the doctor in question dated many of the patients he worked on. A new take on follow-up, she supposed. Nothing like getting a really good squeeze of the breasts you’d enlarged.

      “I think that’s why I’m so sensitive about anything related to plastic surgery tonight. I mean, I could have taken it if he was only another doctor at the Center, but he just signed on as senior staff administrator.”

      The man’s hand knocked against the lip of the wood bar causing the club soda he held to splash out all over his wrist. He shook his hand and blotted his skin with a napkin. “Center?”

      She nodded as she handed him her napkin. “The Trident Medical Center. Heard of it?”

      “Santa Monica, right?”

      “Right.”

      “You’re a doctor?”

      “A general practitioner, more specifically.”

      He motioned for the bartender to bring him another soda. “Not many of those around nowadays, are there?”

      God, he was good-looking. He had breathtaking brown eyes that could put any actor’s to shame. And that jaw…it came in second only to his mouth in items she most wanted to kiss in that one moment.

      He looked at her pointedly, reminding her that he’d asked a question, albeit an indirect one. “No. There aren’t many general practitioners around anymore. Everyone usually specializes in one branch of medicine or another. Me…well, I couldn’t make up my mind.” She smiled, liking the way he appeared to be listening to her. Not many men knew how to do that. “And there really wasn’t any reason to do so. It turns out general practitioners are in high demand. Patients like to have one person to refer to instead of twenty.”

      “Mmm.”

      She pushed her elbow off the bar. “Now I feel as if I’ve said something to insult you.”

      His brows rose. Brows a shade darker than his dark blond hair. “Oh?”

      “Yeah, you got awfully quiet. Change your mind about watching the wallpaper peel?”

      “Fade,” he corrected, then thanked the bartender when he got his drink. “And no,” he said, looking at her, that suggestive glint returning to his eyes. In fact, the invitation in them seemed to go up a couple of notches. “Truth is…I’m very intrigued by what you said.”

      Intrigued?

      Her purse vibrated in her lap again, reminding her that she was still waiting for Mallory and Jack.

      “Pardon me,” she said, fishing the wireless out. Yep, it was Jack. She turned slightly away. “Don’t tell me you’re canceling, too?”

      She could hear traffic on Jack’s end of the line. She instantly envisioned him driving his old Chevy with his windows rolled down. “Reilly cancelled?” he asked.

      “How did…”

      “I know because Mall just called from the 101. Engine trouble. I’m heading over to help her now.”

      Layla made a face and looked at her watch. “Sorry to hear that. I was really looking forward to tonight. Oh, well. It’s busy here anyway. Maybe I’ll just get a salad and head home. Give me a call later to let me know everything’s all right?”

      “Will do.”

      SAM WATCHED the sexy doc clap her phone closed and slip it back into her purse, feeling curiously as if he’d been whacked upside the head and sucker-punched at the same time. The first because he hadn’t felt this strongly attracted to someone in a very long time. The second because, well, he barely knew her and she hated his guts. Not because of something he’d said. But rather because he was the new senior staff administrator at Trident.

      Aw, hell. Talk about your small worlds.

      Sam pretended to focus on something the guy on the other side of him was saying about the poor service, rather than on the doc’s enticing legs. Meanwhile he considered his dilemma. Either he came clean now with the certainty that the attraction arcing between them would vanish like a flash of lightning. Or he continued to play dumb, pretending that she hadn’t been specific about her information. Then he could try to take things on a bit with her—possibly even take her back to his house in the Hills—then hope that she would forgive him in the morning.

      And he would have to face the music in the morning because if memory served him correctly, his first appointment tomorrow morning was with one Doctor Layla Hollister, the center’s only female general practitioner. A getting-acquainted meeting that he’d prefer to conduct right now under present conditions…and without her knowing who he was.

      “Your friends cancelled out, huh?” he asked.

      “Yeah.” She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, tucked the grocery-store rag under her arm and started to get up.

      “Are you up for dinner with me, then?”

      She looked at him, obviously tempted. “I thought you had business to conduct.” She tilted her head. “I never asked what you did, did I?”

      “No. And about the business dinner…I can always reschedule.” He grinned at her, having made his decision not to reveal his identity. Not just yet.