One Night with the Doctor. Cindy Kirk

for the toast and told herself it was time to switch to coffee.

      Ben watched her for a second longer then his gaze flicked to the right. The waiter, dressed in dark pants and a crisp white shirt, immediately moved tableside.

      “We’ll take coffee now,” Ben informed him.

      “Of course, sir.” The man slipped silently away.

      Poppy took a sip of water, disturbed by his take-charge behavior. “What makes you think I want coffee?”

      “It goes well with dessert.” Ben gestured to the tiramisu. Seconds later the waiter placed the coffee on the table.

      Ignoring the steaming brew, Poppy glanced around the crowded room. Her gaze lingered on a couple holding hands. They were staring into each other’s eyes with such passion Poppy swore she saw a fat little cupid and pink hearts floating above them. She exhaled a sigh.

      Ben lightly touched her arm. “Problem?”

      She shifted her gaze back to him. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Well, for starters it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m out with you.”

      The coffee cup paused several inches from his lips. “That’s flattering.”

      “Oh, my goodness, that didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean—” She stopped prattling when she saw a faint look of amusement in his eyes. “It’s just that we’re...strangers.”

      “Isn’t that why we’re here?” At her blank look, he continued. “To get to know each other.”

      He reached over and covered Poppy’s hand with his, his eyes mesmerizing.

      “Tell me why you decided to become a social worker,” he continued in a deep sexy rumble that made her insides quake.

      She’d told him about her childhood in Jackson Hole over dinner. But when she’d reached her college years, the conversation had taken a turn to favorite books and movies.

      Other than mentioning he’d been sent back East to boarding school at twelve, Ben had kept the conversation squarely focused on her. Poppy had gone along, convinced if she asked too many questions, it might give the erroneous impression she was interested in him.

      Slipping her hand out from under his, she kept her answer short and sweet. “I started out in fashion merchandising. But I had to do some volunteer work to satisfy a humanities requirement and a free clinic was close to campus.”

      He leaned slightly forward, offered an encouraging smile.

      “Since the sight of blood makes me queasy, I was assigned to help in the social services area.” It had been an eye-opening experience for the young sorority girl. “Marlene, the social worker there, was inspiring. Helping people felt right. After that semester I changed my major and never looked back.”

      “I applaud you.” Ben forked off a piece of tiramisu. “Servicing the public isn’t always easy. People who need help often don’t want it. And sometimes a person’s worst enemy is themselves.”

      Though he’d kept his tone offhand, something in the words sparked Poppy’s interest. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

      “Sounds to me like you’ve had some personal experience with such people,” she heard herself say.

      She thought he might refuse to share. Hoped he would. Then his eyes met hers and she saw the frustration.

      Ben lifted one hand and began counting off fingers. “Not returning for follow-up appointments. Not doing the therapy they’ve been given. Letting the kid jump on the bed when they have a cast so the child ends up reinjuring themselves.”

      Poppy grimaced at the sudden image of a small boy tumbling to the floor and a healing bone resnapping like a brittle tree branch.

      Bringing the dessert to his lips, Ben chewed, swallowed. “I don’t understand it.”

      He cared, she grudgingly admitted, and obviously wanted the best for all his patients. Including patients who—for whatever reason—were noncompliant.

      After several years in the social work field, Poppy often likened human behavior to a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. A stiff look at each individual piece was usually necessary before one could understand where the segment fit into the big picture.

      “It could be a cultural or a language issue,” she murmured. “Or something as simple as the postoperative instructions needing to be more basic. Often there’s more than one reason we don’t do what’s best for us.”

      She was seconds away from offering to consult on these issues when she clamped her lips together. The fact she was tempted to prolong the conversation was a red flag.

      “What you’re saying makes sense.” He lifted the bottle and refilled her wineglass before topping off his. “I realize there can be extenuating circumstances. It just gets frustrating to repair a fractured bone or a torn tendon and then not have it heal correctly because the patient doesn’t do their part.”

      “I’m sure it does.” Poppy took another sip of the dry but zesty white. “Tell me how you’re currently dealing with those patients.”

      “Some other time perhaps.” Ben waved a dismissive hand. “I didn’t bring you here tonight to bore you with talk of my problem patients.”

      No, Poppy thought, remembering what he’d said only moments before. He wants us to get better acquainted. A shiver traveled up her spine.

      Well, she certainly didn’t want him to probe any further into her life. A few questions more about her work history and the only topic left would be the extremely personal tale of her ill-fated marriage. It was a time she didn’t like to revisit even on the best of days. That meant she must keep the focus off of her. “Did you always want to be a doctor?”

      His eyes lit up, apparently pleased by her interest. “With my grandfather and father both being physicians, medicine has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.”

      Poppy absently took a sip of wine. “What made you decide to go with the same specialty as your dad?”

      “It was a perfect fit.” Ben’s gaze grew thoughtful. “I enjoy doing what’s necessary to make a person whole again.”

      “I think it’d be stressful.” Poppy had done a stint in the hospital when she was in training. She remembered the orthopedic patients and their often lengthy surgeries.

      “I work well under pressure,” he said with a hint of a smile. “And I’m good with my hands.”

      Poppy couldn’t stop herself. Her gaze dropped to his fingers that were currently wrapped around the wineglass. Strong, straight fingers with short filed nails. Large, talented hands that could finesse surgical tools or a woman’s breast—

      She inhaled sharply and glanced up. Her gaze locked with Benedict’s and a volatile heat swirled around her. Around him.

      Around them.

      “I want you, Poppy.” His low tone stirred her already overheated blood. The longing that had been aroused earlier by him simply touching her hand morphed into a full-fledged ache. “I have ever since we kissed at the party.”

      She tried to keep the intense feelings from showing but knew she hadn’t been successful when satisfaction blanketed his face.

      “You want me, too,” he said quietly.

      He was completely and totally right. But to say so would take them places she couldn’t, wouldn’t, go.

      “No. No, I don’t.” Her voice sounded shaky and faint, as if it had traveled a long distance.

      His gaze dropped pointedly to her chest where her breasts strained against the fabric, yearning for his touch.

      From another part of the restaurant, a woman began to sing an aria from Don Pasquale. Poppy fought the urge to fall into hysterical laughter.