Falling At The Surgeon's Feet. Lucy Ryder

huffed out a breath and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, making Gabe wonder if it was to hide from his gaze or keep from taking a swing at him.

      “That’s just insulting,” she snapped, and Gabe grinned. He kind of liked the idea that she was struggling with some pretty intense feelings and he didn’t mind the idea of getting into a tussle with her if she did take a swing at him.

      In fact, he would enjoy it. Probably more than he should.

      He expected a scathing response—or maybe a request for him to get the hell out of her way. What he didn’t expect was for her to open her mouth and say, “Did you know that women with breast implants are three times more likely to commit suicide or develop drug- and alcohol-related dependencies?”

      Gabe tore his attention from her breasts with a “Huh?” and wondered if he’d heard correctly. She flushed and sucked in air before continuing and he struggled to connect the random facts with what they’d been discussing.

      “Two-thirds are repeat clients.”

      “O-o-okay….” Well, he could certainly attest to that fact. But what the hell did that have to do with—?

      “In fact,” she continued peevishly, as though she held him personally responsible for women’s dissatisfaction with their bodies, “more than five million Americans are addicted to plastic surgery, spending about thirteen billion dollars annually on a variety of procedures. That’s enough to rival the national debt of a small country.”

      She stared at him as though waiting for his response but he wasn’t sure what he would say if he did. Instead, he studied her silently for a couple of beats, his mouth slowly curling up at one corner. “Uh-huh. That’s quite fascinating but doesn’t really answer my question.”

      She rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded like “Never mind,” before taking a bold step toward him, no doubt hoping good manners would prompt him to move out of her way.

      “I have mace,” she announced when he remained blocking her escape.

      “No, you don’t,” he disputed, his grin growing into a chuckle when she blew out a frustrated breath. Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits and her hand tightened on her briefcase as though she contemplated whacking him with it. “I know exactly what you have in there, remember,” he said, angling his shoulders just enough for her to slip past but not enough that she could avoid touching him.

      But Holly Buchanan was obviously no pushover because just before she stomped from the room she sent him a level stare all women seemed to develop in the womb that said he was lower than slime for behaving like a jerk.

      But, really, he didn’t know of one guy who wouldn’t have.

      For a long moment he admired the straight spine, slender, curvy hips twitching with annoyance as she headed down the passage. The strappy heels that had caused at least one of her accidents this week tapped out an irritated beat on the tiled floor that for some odd reason he found damn sexy.

      “By the way,” he called out, “did you know that the world’s largest condom is two hundred and sixty feet long with a base circumference of three hundred and sixty feet?” And when she paused in her stride and sent him a what-the-heck? look over her shoulder, he shrugged. “I’m just saying. Mediums are only good as water bombs.”

       CHAPTER THREE

      HOLLY ROLLED HER eyes and set off down the passage at a fast clip, muttering to herself about men never growing up. While it was mostly true and not worth losing sleep over, it certainly beat thinking about her humiliating tumble into the lap of the one man she wanted to avoid. Or his physical reaction to her squirming around on his lap like a second-rate stripper hoping for a big tip.

      Her face burned. And, boy, had she been given the biggest tip of her life. Before she could stop it, her skin prickled and heated and her heart set off like a vampire bat scenting warm blood. Oh, God. And to think that humiliating little incident had actually turned her on. Maybe this all-work-and-no-play plan of hers was making her a little crazy. Maybe all she needed was a few hours of hot, sweaty, heart-pumping exercise—at the gym, she added hastily—and she could get back to focusing on her plan to get the fellowship.

      Besides, she was so close that she couldn’t let herself get distracted. Not now and certainly not by a guy who either nipped and tucked women into physical perfection or made the backs of their knees sweat.

      Groaning inwardly, Holly increased her pace, as though she could outrun the memory of hard thigh and belly muscles pressed firmly against her bottom and then from chest to knee—and everything between—as she’d slid down the front of his hard frame.

      She got a full-body tingle just thinking about it. A gasp of horror burst out. Full-body tingle? Oh, God.

      Absolutely no freaking way. And not with him.

      Focus on the plan, Buchanan, and not on the way he makes your knees wobble or the fact that medium was too small. No. Not too small, she corrected a little hysterically. Waa-aay too small.

      Oh, boy. And since she’d inadvertently stared at his package, she would probably agree. She got another full-body shiver and muttered a curse when it slid down her spine like a delicious thrill.

      Stop that, Holly, she ordered sternly, he’s the guy that turned Paige’s respectable B-cups into C pods. And for what? So he could make a few thousand bucks? So her sister could flash a bigger cleavage to all her adoring “fans” when she appeared on the latest magazine cover? Or went topless on Bimini?

      Big deal. Especially when there were people out there scarred by life-altering events who didn’t have access to even basic medical care, let alone cutting-edge plastic surgery.

      Weren’t there enough butchers willing to slice and dice in the name of vanity that West Manhattan could focus on building the best P&R center in the world? Besides, everyone knew that most women would never be satisfied with their looks, no matter what.

      She was trying so hard to convince herself that there were no redeeming qualities about Dr. Hotshot from Beverly Hills that she failed to realize the man himself had caught up with her until a flash of movement drew her attention.

      Her stride wobbled for an instant but she sucked in a fortifying breath and marched on, determined to ignore him. Besides, she needed all her concentration to keep upright or she might end up breaking something the next time she took a tumble.

      She grimaced. She’d seen him a total of three times and managed to embarrass herself each time. Despite her klutzy childhood, it was probably a new record.

      She clenched her jaw and sent him a narrow-eyed look out the corner of her eye but he appeared oblivious to her presence, loping along beside her with an easy, loose-limbed stride that was deceptively indolent, as though he was alone and liked it that way.

      Holly rolled her eyes and ignored the pinch in her chest. Yep, story of my life. The hot guys always ignored her—especially when they discovered she wasn’t perfect, like the rest of her family. That she wasn’t as outgoing as her famous sister or as warm and beautiful as her mother.

      Not that she wanted him to notice her, she amended quickly, especially if it meant she didn’t have to make conversation.

      “Are you following me?” she asked coolly, rolling her eyes at the faint huskiness in her voice.

      So much for not wanting conversation.

      He turned his head and their eyes met for a couple of beats until Holly felt the soles of her feet tingle. “I’m headed home,” he said mildly. “Although… I could probably be talked into dinner somewhere dark and smoky.”

      She caught his harmlessly hopeful smile, which did absolutely nothing to reassure her—especially when