Night Fever. Tori Carrington

would do short of shoving him against the tall filing cabinets to her right and having her way with him.

      “Point taken,” Sam said, pushing off the desk and rounding it so he could sit down.

      Two can play at this game, Sam thought as he tried to wipe the grin from his face and motioned for Layla to have a seat opposite him.

      She seemed inordinately preoccupied with his filing cabinet. He wondered why as he watched her carefully sit down in the soft leather guest chair, her shapely knees together, her legs crossed at the ankles.

      He couldn’t recall a time when he’d enjoyed flirting with a woman more. Her initial disappointment at his deception pushed aside, she gave as good as she got. He fought the sudden urge to pull at his collar, knowing she’d be the same way in bed. Competitive. Bold. And so very, very naughty.

      “It says here in your file that you volunteer at a free clinic,” he launched into his official getting acquainted session.

      “Ah, down to business,” she said, finally meeting his gaze again. Was it him, or were her pupils a little large? “Actually, the clinic started paying me last year when the staff physician retired and moved back to St. Louis, and I essentially took over the role.”

      He made the notation on a pad. “This was the clinic you went to last night?”

      She nodded. “Yes.”

      “How many hours do you put in a week?”

      “Right now, since they’re short of staff…about forty.”

      He raised his brows. “And you put in forty here.”

      “That’s right.”

      Sam sat back in his chair. “That doesn’t leave much time for a personal life.”

      The smile returned. “No, it doesn’t.”

      He pretended to go through the file. “Is there a husband or significant other around to complain?”

      “No.”

      He seemed to consider that, then he grinned at her suggestively. “Good. Then there’s no reason for you not to have that dinner with me tonight….”

      3

      “WE’RE BOTH consenting adults,” Sam had said when Layla remained silent, more shocked than reticent. “You’re attracted to me, I’m very definitely attracted to you. Let’s see what impact dinner will have.”

      Three hours later back in her own office at the Trident Medical Center, Layla caught herself replaying the words. Her immediate reaction was no different now than it had been then. Her thighs dampened and her nipples strained against the front of her blouse as if seeking liberation. Or, more specifically, eagerly seeking the attention Sam Lovejoy appeared to want to give them.

      “So don’t leave me hanging. What did you say to him?” her friend Mallory’s voice sounded impatient over the phone as she shouted over the noise of traffic. Sometimes it seemed as if Mallory’s middle name was impatient. Layla was amazed by her rush through life in a take-no-prisoners way that left everyone else coughing in her dust.

      Unfortunately, Mallory’s driving—speeding, really—without directions usually left her facing a dead end.

      A documentary producer by trade, a…what was she privately? Layla wondered. Chaos on wheels?

      She smiled. No. Mallory was a great friend.

      “I told him I have to work at the clinic tonight,” she finally answered.

      “Oh, Layla, you didn’t!”

      She leaned back in her chair, enjoying Mall’s indignant reaction. “I most certainly did. Because it’s the truth. Being short one doctor…”

      “Screw the clinic,” Mallory said then cursed up a blue streak. Good thing Layla also heard her car horn or she’d have thought Mallory was reaming her out. “You need to start looking after yourself for a change, Layla.”

      “Funny, that’s what Sam said.”

      “Smart man, Sam. I like him already.”

      “Then you don’t recognize his name.”

      “No. Why? Should I?”

      “Remember that documentary you did, oh, about eighteen months ago?”

      “The one on the elephant man’s remains?”

      “Close. The one on Hollywood’s obsession with plastic surgery.”

      “Plastic surgery…Sam…oh my god! He’s not the Dr. Lovejoy, is he?”

      Even said in the elongated, condescending way Mallory uttered his name, Layla shivered. “The one and only.”

      “Kill him now. Before it’s too late.”

      Layla laughed.

      Mallory released a long breath. “Only you, Lay. Only you could be attracted to the one man in all of L.A. you shouldn’t be attracted to.”

      “Who said I’m attracted to him?”

      “You did, idiot. Just by mentioning him.”

      Layla made a face and toyed with the foil top of her yogurt container. Leave it to Mallory to sum things up within five seconds when she’d been trying to figure them out for the past three hours.

      “So when are you guys going out?”

      Layla raised her brows. “I didn’t say we were.”

      “You didn’t say you weren’t, either. When?”

      Layla sat up and tossed the half-eaten yogurt into the trash bin under her desk. “He invited me to his place for a late dinner tonight. You know, after I knock off at the clinic.”

      “Late-night nookie is more like it.”

      “Mall! I didn’t say I was going. I just said that he offered the invite. He said something about it giving me an easy out if I needed it. You know, come, don’t come. The ball’s in my court.” She coughed. “I, of course, turned him down.”

      “And he, of course, told you to think about it, that the invitation would remain open.”

      “How did…”

      “A man of his stature is not known for giving up easily, Layla.”

      The sentence hung in the air before Layla’s eyes in bright-blue neon letters. She heard the whoosh of traffic from the receiver and the sound of voices passing in the hall outside her office door, but all she could think about was what Mallory meant.

      She rested her hand against her neck, noticing the heat there, the elevation of her pulse. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Sam Lovejoy was a plastic surgeon, he was also rumored to be one of the biggest playboys on the Pacific coast.

      He was also a great kisser. Just remembering his mouth against hers made her body tingle in response.

      Mallory said, “Go.”

      “What?” Layla barely breathed the word.

      “I said, go. I don’t care how tired you are when you finish up at the clinic. You march right over to his place, strip out of your clothes before you’re even through the door, and indulge in some meaningless, mindless sex.” She sighed almost wistfully. “Lord knows, everyone else does.”

      “You don’t.”

      “Yeah, well, that’s because I’m probably one of the most uptight liberals this side of the equator.” Layla heard the smile in her voice. “But I would want to go if I were in your shoes. I guess the question here is, do you want to go?”

      Yes, she did. With every clench of her thighs. “No.”

      “Liar. Go. Then call me tomorrow with