Pregnant By The Playboy Surgeon. Lucy Ryder

until he’d looked into the smoky eyes of an irresistible brunette as he’d reached for the scattered contents of her purse.

      Not only had she invaded his dreams but the Zen-like calm he usually adopted in the OR as well. It had to stop. Distraction was costly—especially in his profession. With Steve off in Bora Bora he didn’t have time to take a lunch break, let alone think about a woman determined to stick to her man embargo.

      He wondered what had happened to leave her so wary and mistrustful of men. And if he experienced an inexplicable urge to find the guy who’d done it and pound him into the ground it was only because he had two sisters and would do the same to any guy who messed with them.

      Yeah, he assured himself, he was feeling protective in an entirely fraternal way. It certainly wasn’t because his ego had taken a little beating. Besides, he knew next to nothing about her other than the fact she worked at St. Mary’s. Even if he’d wanted to prove to himself that he’d imagined the entire incident, St. Mary’s was a large hospital. She could work anywhere, and he didn’t have the time—or the inclination, he assured himself—to hunt down a woman who wasn’t interested.

      It was just as well that she’d turned him down because he wasn’t looking for anything more than the occasional good time with an attractive woman who knew the score. And since she hadn’t seemed like the “occasional” type, or even a “good-time” girl, he would forget all about her and focus on cementing his professional reputation.

      With back-to-back appointments and two solid days of surgery, by the Thursday evening of the following week Dylan was ready to call it a day. He grabbed his leather jacket and turned off the lights as he walked through the darkened waiting room. It was after eight and he had plans to meet up with a couple of kayaking friends at a sports bar near the marina. He hadn’t seen them since his return and was eager to get back on the water.

      He dug in his pocket for his Jeep keys and was about to lock the door behind him when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID had him smiling. “Hi, Mom, what’s wrong?”

      His mother’s light, familiar laugh floated through the phone. “Nothing’s wrong, darling. I’m just calling to find out how my favorite son is doing on his first week back and to invite him to dinner.”

      “Mom, I’m your only son.”

      “Still my favorite,” she teased. “But don’t tell your sisters.”

      Dylan chuckled, because he’d heard his mother tell his sisters the same thing. “I’d love dinner, Mom but I’m on call. It’ll take too long to get back from West Vancouver if there’s an emergency.”

      “That’s the beauty of my plan, darling,” said Vivian St. James smugly. “We’re having dinner at the Regis with the Hendersons. You remember Fred and Daphne, don’t you?”

      For some reason his mother’s overly bright, chatty tone put Dylan’s senses on alert. He grimaced when her next words confirmed his suspicions.

      “Well, their daughter Abigail is back from Europe, and we can all have a wonderful dinner tog—”

      And there it was. “Mom,” he interrupted gently. “Don’t.”

      There was a short pause, then a bewildered, “Don’t what, darling?”

      Dylan sighed. “You’re trying to set me up again.”

      “Don’t be silly!”

      His mother gave a laughing snort but Dylan could tell that he’d hit the nail on the head. His mother was trying to get him a date in the hopes that it would lead to the altar. She wanted grandchildren before she died—which was ridiculous because she wasn’t yet sixty.

      “Even if that’s true, young man,” she said in her “mom voice”—the one that said he was being deliberately uncooperative. “And I’m not saying it is, you need to get out and meet people. Women.”

      “Mom, I meet women every day. Besides, I have met someone,” he heard himself say.

      And then he wanted to slap himself upside the head for giving his mother false hope. Vivian would hound him until she met the mythical woman herself. He loved his mother fiercely but if she thought one of her brood needed a helping nudge in the right direction she wasn’t above using both hands.

      “You have?”

      Oh, hell. His mother sounded so delighted at the prospect that her son was dating again after his friend’s death. She thought all her children were amazing and wouldn’t be able to resist meddling.

      “That’s wonderful, darling. Where did you meet and when can I meet her?”

      No pressure there, St. James, he thought with amused exasperation. “Who says it’s a her?”

      There was a moment’s stunned silence on the other end of the phone and Dylan could picture his mother’s expression.

      Then Vivian snorted. “Dylan Thomas St. James!” She chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay but I know you’re only trying to wind me up. So, when can I meet her?”

      Fortunately he was saved from replying when his phone beeped an incoming call. Talk about being saved by the beep.

      “Just a sec, Mom. I’ve got a call coming in.” With a flick of his hand he accessed the call. “St. James.”

      “This is Rona Sheppard from the ER,” a brisk voice said. “Are you still in the building?”

      “I am,” he said, shrugging out of his leather jacket and reaching for his lab coat because any call that included the words Are you still in the building? meant he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. “What’s up?”

      “A young child with a traumatic arm injury,” the supervisor said briskly. “ETA three minutes—vitals shaky.”

      “I’ll be right down,” he said before disconnecting, his mind already flying ahead to the case.

      He was about to shove his phone in his pocket when he remembered his mother.

      “Mom,” he said, returning to his call. “I’m sorry but I won’t make dinner tonight.” He didn’t say he’d been headed to Harry’s on the marina anyway—mostly to prevent the lecture he knew would follow about the kind of women who hung out in sports bars.

      “Oh, darn.” Vivian sighed. “I’ve been giddy with happiness since you got back.”

      She very obviously didn’t say she was disappointed that he wouldn’t meet their friends’ daughter but Dylan could read between the lines.

      “Is it something bad?”

      “I don’t know yet but it’s a little kid.”

      “Oh, darling, I know how much you hate these cases. Call me when you can.”

      He said goodbye and disconnected, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, because traumatic injuries were always bad. That it was a child made it that much more urgent.

      Dylan had spent enough time in the ER to appreciate that when children were involved emotions ran high. It was one of the worst parts of working in trauma and he held a huge respect for the people who dealt with it on a daily basis.

      Even as he hit the swing doors and headed down the hallway he could hear someone rapping out orders in a soft, feminine voice that sent skitters of recognition across his skin. From the rapid-fire instructions, he knew even before he approached the trauma bay that the patient had just arrived. Even more surprising was that right in the center of the chaos, directing proceedings, was the brunette from the parking lot.

      The attending physician.

      He didn’t know why the sight of her so competently handling the emergency threw him but it did—enough that he paused at the entrance, his gut clenching in a combination of dread and anticipation.