One Night with the Doctor

It wasn’t as if they’d been strangers. He’d originally met Poppy last fall at another of Travis Fisher’s parties. Benedict had enjoyed their brief conversation that night. Enjoyed it so much he found himself hoping their paths would cross again at one of the parties over the holidays. She hadn’t shown her face at any of the events. Until tonight.

Although he’d arrived late, the moment he spotted Poppy he was glad he’d come. It had been going well until he’d stolen a quick kiss with all the finesse of a schoolboy in the throes of a first crush.

Benedict raked a hand through his hair and expelled a harsh breath. He had no one to blame for the current situation but himself.

“Why don’t you ask her to dance again?”

“Why don’t you mind your own damn business?” Benedict shot back, frustration twisting his gut into a knot.

“Okay, okay.” Tripp raised his hands, palms out.

The sound of feminine laughter rang out and Benedict slanted a quick glance in Poppy’s direction. God, she was beautiful. The red dress hugged her body like a second skin.

“Want to hit the Flying Crane with me?”

Benedict jerked his attention back to Tripp.

“On the fourteenth.” The hospital administrator’s eyes took on a hopeful gleam.

“That’s Valentine’s Day,” Benedict reminded him. “I’m pretty sure you don’t want to spend the evening with me when you could be with her.”

He gestured with his head to where Tripp’s bride stood speaking with the hostess. Adrianna, or Anna as she’d recently instructed him to call her, was lean and voluptuous with thick dark hair and a face that belonged on a cover of a fashion magazine. She was also a well-respected midwife.

Tripp shifted his gaze and Benedict experienced a stab of envy at the pride and love in the newly married man’s eyes.

“Anna will be at the Crane participating in a Torch Singing competition that night.” Tripp snatched a canapé from a passing waiter’s silver tray. “It’s a fund-raiser for Community Safety Net.”

“A worthy cause.” It was impossible to live in Jackson Hole and not be aware of all the good work being done by the nonprofit. The organization provided shelter and advocacy to victims of domestic violence and sexual assault.

“I thought you might want to come and help me cheer her on,” Tripp added.

Since he wasn’t dating anyone special, Benedict hadn’t given much thought to Valentine’s Day. He supposed spending an hour or so at the popular bar knocking back a couple of beers with Tripp while watching Anna sing could be fun. “What exactly is torch singing?”

Tripp hesitated. His face took on a pained expression. “The contestants sing sentimental love songs—”

The words came more quickly at Benedict’s snort of laughter.

“—with a distinctly jazz and blues influence.”

“I’ll check my calendar,” Benedict told him. “If it turns out I can’t make it, tell Anna I’ll happily make a donation.”

“Coward.”

Benedict laughed. He sobered when he saw Winn Ferris swagger over to speak with Poppy and Lexi. His gut tightened as Lexi sauntered off, leaving Poppy alone with the man.

Last summer, Winn had blown into Jackson Hole as an emissary of GPG. His employer, a large investment firm based in Atlanta, had deep pockets and a mission to develop every inch of Jackson Hole.

Although Winn pushed and pushed hard, his golf course project had gotten hung up in the environmentally sensitive guidelines passed by the county several years earlier. Those who expected Winn to give up and return to Georgia with his tail between his legs had been mistaken. He’d stayed and continued to fight.

Benedict liked the business executive, had found him to be intelligent with a good sense of humor. But Winn wasn’t the right guy for Poppy. She needed someone different, someone more...grounded in Jackson Hole.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her flash Winn a brilliant smile. When Winn responded by looping a friendly arm around her shoulders, a knife twisted in Benedict’s gut. Though he’d planned to stay and enjoy the evening, Ben had the feeling if he didn’t walk away now he might do something stupid. Like tell Winn to back the hell off.

With frustration fueling his steps, Benedict was halfway across the room when Poppy’s eyes met his. He told himself to just keep walking. But something inside him locked into place at the connection.

She held his gaze long enough for him to see the heat shimmering in those beautiful green eyes. Heat directed not at Winn Ferris, but at him. Then Winn touched her arm and Poppy shifted her gaze back to the business executive.

Yet there was no denying for that one instant there’d been a tangible connection between him and Poppy. Benedict found himself whistling as he walked out the door.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Benedict’s thoughts strayed to Poppy at odd times. But he didn’t have a chance to do more than wonder how she was doing. A rash of skiing and motor vehicle accidents had kept his surgical schedule full.

After finishing an emergency open reduction of a comminuted tibia fracture, Benedict left the hospital to return to his office. He still had to see the handful of patients who’d chosen to wait, rather than reschedule. To his surprise, he discovered that one of his associates, Dr. Mitzi Sanchez, had stayed to help him out.

By the time the last patient limped out the door, even the receptionist had gone home. Apparently most of the staff had plans for Valentine’s Day.

Other than me, he thought. And Mitzi.

He and his beautiful colleague had once been involved. Now they were simply friends.

Benedict sat behind his desk and dictated a letter back to a primary care physician thanking him for a referral. So many surgeries in the past fourteen days had left him behind on such paperwork. Since he didn’t have anything going this evening, he told himself it would be a good opportunity to get caught up.

“Tell me you’re not hanging around here all night.”

Benedict recognized Mitzi’s voice and a jolt of uneasiness swept through him. He hoped she wasn’t on the verge of suggesting they go out for dinner or something equally crazy.

“Your concern about my social life warms my heart.” He kept his tone light and his eyes focused on the monitor.

“What’s the matter, Ben? Couldn’t find a date?”

He heard a hint of laughter in Mitzi’s tone as well as the familiar bite.

Finally glancing toward her, Ben noticed she’d exchanged her white lab coat and work clothes for a dress that hugged her curves and reminded him of stretchy silver lace. High heels in the same color showed off slender legs. He didn’t blink an eye when he noticed her hair. Instead of the color of honey streaked with caramel as it had been yesterday, it was now a rich dark walnut.

He narrowed his gaze even as relief flooded him. There was no way she’d gotten herself all dolled up for him. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

Her full lips lifted. “Kelvin Reid.”

Ben had treated the NFL linebacker several months earlier when he’d been injured in a skiing accident while vacationing in Jackson Hole. “Proximal humerus fracture with dislocation.”

Mitzi chuckled. “Kelvin will be happy to know you remembered him so personally.”

Pushing back his chair, Benedict stood, but remained behind his desk. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friendly.”

“We chatted several times when he came into the office to see you,” she said with a studied nonchalance deserving of an Academy Award.

“If he came back to take you out on Valentine’s Day, you must have hit it off.”

“What can I say?” She drew up one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Men find me irresistible. Unless, of course, we’re talking about you.”

“Mitz,” he began.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her eyes held an impish gleam. “I’m over you every bit as much as you’re over me.”

“That’s good to know,” he said in a dry tone that made her chuckle.

“But you are my friend.” She fluffed her hair with her fingers. “That’s why I stayed late to help see patients. By the way, you’re welcome.”

Though he’d already expressed his appreciation to her earlier, he smiled. “Thank you, again.”

“You know, Ben—” she brought a manicured finger to her mouth, tapped it against her lips “—you should check out the Torch Singing competition tonight at the Flying Crane.”

“Thanks for the offer, Mitz.” He spread his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “But I have no desire to spend the night with you and your new boyfriend. That would be awkward for all concerned.”

“Well, for starters, Kelvin is my friend, not my boyfriend. And I didn’t invite you to spend the evening with us. Kelvin and I have dinner reservations at the Gun Barrel,” Mitzi said, referring to a place known for their mesquite grilled steaks and wild game. “You’ll like the atmosphere at the Flying Crane. Trust me.”

“I’ve been there before,” Benedict informed her. “It’s a nice enough place, but I’m not really in the mood to listen to a bunch of schmaltzy love songs.”

“Even if Poppy Westover is singing?”

Feeling the weight of Mitzi’s assessing gaze, Benedict deliberately kept his expression bland. “Anna Randall is also competing. Tripp asked me to go with him to support Community Safety Net. I turned him down.”

Mitzi pointed to the phone on his desk. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

“Why would I want to do that?” he drawled, even as he considered the possibility.

“Because you want to do your duty and support this important fund-raiser.” Mitzi’s brightly painted lips lifted in a Cheshire cat smile. “Why else?”

* * *

Poppy gazed into the dressing table mirror and added a touch of gloss to her cherry red lips. A stranger stared back at her. Cassidy Kaye, the backstage stylist and former high school classmate, had arranged Poppy’s hair into a “top reverse roll.” Poppy had been apprehensive but had to admit the pompadour-like style suited her face. And she decided the two bright sparkly pins that winked back at her—one from above her temple, the other just behind her ear—added a festive touch.

Her dress, a 1940s era floral sheath, nipped in at the waist and fell just below her knees. Bending over, Poppy adjusted the seams of her stockings then lifted to straighten the strand of red beads encircling her neck.

“You’re up next.” The balding stage manager with a walrus mustache motioned Poppy forward. “Break a leg.”

Offering the man a shaky smile, Poppy smoothed suddenly sweaty palms on the skirt of her dress. What had she been thinking when she agreed to participate?

Granted, she loved to sing. That was the reason she’d joined the church choir. In fact, it had been after one of the evening rehearsals when Lexi had ambushed—er, pulled her aside—and innocently asked if she wanted to volunteer for a Jaycee fund-raiser. Being civic-minded, Poppy had immediately said yes. When she learned what she’d agreed to do, she’d considered pulling out. It had been years since she’d set foot on a stage.

How could she possibly perform with only a few weeks to pick her song and practice? But then, she reminded herself to stop setting impossibly high standards. The performance didn’t need to be flawless or perfectly choreographed. This was a fund-raiser, not a Broadway musical.

From where Poppy stood just offstage she could see that not only were all the tables full, there were people standing in the back. Of course, she reminded herself, more people meant that a community organization, which did a lot of good, could do even more.

When she heard the applause for Anna Randall and saw the midwife take a bow, Poppy’s stomach quivered. Adrenalin mixed with a healthy dose of fear surged. In less than a minute she’d be the one standing under that spotlight.

She reminded herself that the only person she might disappoint tonight was herself. Unlike most of her fellow contestants, Poppy didn’t have anyone in the audience who’d come specifically to hear her.

“Please put your hands together for Poppy Westover.” David Wahl, an emergency medicine physician and emcee for the evening’s event, held out his hand to her.

Poppy took a deep breath and strode onto the stage to a smattering of applause. She glanced over the crowd and froze. The man whose torrid kiss had never been far from her thoughts the past two weeks sat at a small table in the front row.

Benedict saw the look of startled surprise in her green eyes before she looked away.

“She’s happy to see you,” Tripp observed, then took a sip of beer. His lips twitched.

Shock was closer to the word that had come to Benedict’s mind. Had he been mistaken about the desire he’d seen in her eyes two weeks ago as he’d left the party? Still, she didn’t look angry. That was some consolation. Though he now had to wonder if the gesture he’d made before leaving the office had been a smart move.

Since it was too late to change anything now, Benedict took a pull from the bottle of Dos Equis and sat back, ready to enjoy the show.

It took only a few notes for Benedict to realize that Poppy had a voice suited to this style of singing, warm with a bluesy richness. As the song continued he leaned forward, mesmerized.

She drew out the final note and the crowd rose to their feet. Cheering filled the bar. Even as he clapped, Benedict turned to Tripp. “She’s as good as any professional.”

“Poppy had the lead in several musicals when we were in school. She’s even better now.” Tripp shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone topping that performance.”

The words barely registered. Benedict’s entire focus remained on the stage. He gave Poppy a thumbs-up and she blushed.

When Poppy bowed one last time, Benedict didn’t take his eyes off her. He’d been given a second chance to make an impression.

This time he wouldn’t blow it.

Chapter Three

After her performance, Poppy headed straight to the dressing room. She reached the small table with her name written on a strip of paper taped to the mirror and came to an abrupt halt. The makeup brushes littering the tabletop had been pushed aside. In their place sat a crystal vase holding a dozen long-stemmed burgundy roses.

She brought a hand to her breast and glanced around. “Are—are these for me?”

Although she’d spoken to no one in particular, Cassidy Kaye, owner of the Clippety Do-Dah salon, looked up from the supplies and brushes she’d been stuffing into an oversize purple bag.

The silver sparkles in Cassidy’s atomic blue eyeshadow glittered in the artificial light. “And you told me you weren’t dating anyone.” Her shocking pink lips curved up in a smug tilt. “You had to know I’d find out.”

Like a fine wine, some people got better with time. Others, well... Poppy sighed. The hairstylist was just as nosy as she’d been back in high school when she’d written the Loose Lips gossip column.

Dressed in skintight purple pants and a bright emerald green sweater, Cass still marched to her own beat. Her blond hair, jagged to her shoulders, currently held a streak of fuchcia. Canary yellow glasses were tipped up at the corners and studded with rhinestones.

Even when she’d been small, Cassidy had exhibited a bold, eclectic and totally unpredictable fashion sense. In kindergarten, she’d regularly worn a Halloween catsuit to school in lieu of more traditional attire. In sixth grade she’d come to school with her hair buzzed, demanding they call her Sinead.

Not everyone had been kind to her.

Remembering, Poppy felt her irritation ebb. She reached out, rubbing a soft, fragrant petal between her fingers. How long had it been since anyone had sent her flowers? Years, she decided.

She wished these beautiful blossoms were hers. But she’d learned long ago wishing didn’t change reality.

“I bet these were simply placed on the wrong table.” Regret filled Poppy’s voice.

“The flowers are yours.” Cassidy’s chin lifted. “I was here when they were delivered.”

Poppy widened her eyes at the stylist’s defensive tone. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“See.” Cassidy plucked a card from the bouquet and shoved it under Poppy’s nose. “Your name is right here.”

Conscious of the curious glances from the other contestants now directed her way, Poppy took the envelope from the stylist and glanced down. Her name in elegant cursive stared back at her.

Unable to contain a shiver of anticipation, Poppy broke the seal with one finger and slowly pulled out the card nestled inside.

“Break a leg” had been scrawled in bold masculine strokes followed by a single name, “Ben.”

The warmth that rushed through her was chased by a prickle of alarm. Doctor Benedict Campbell wasn’t someone she wanted to notice her, much less buy her flowers.

Cassidy jostled close, rising on tiptoes to peer over her shoulder.

Biting back annoyance at the woman’s obvious attempt to see what was on the card, Poppy casually dropped it into her purse. The last thing she wanted was for rumors to get started about her and Benedict.

“Who sent them?” Poppy demanded.

“A friend.” Poppy’s tone came out light and breezy, just as she’d intended.

“Puh-leeze.” The stylist rolled her eyes and emitted a braying laugh. “I’m not stupid.”

“It happens to be the truth. Regardless of what you may think, Be—” Poppy stopped and cleared her throat. “The man who sent the flowers is merely a friend. Really a friend of a friend. Actually, more of an acquaintance.”

Cassidy hooted and glanced meaningfully around the room, but found herself playing to a dwindling audience. Without an immediate answer the other contestants had quickly lost interest in the “who sent the roses” game.

“A guy would never send something that pricey to a woman he considered an acquaintance or even a friend.” The stylist spoke loudly. “A gesture like that has lover written all over it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw Anna Randall cast a sympathetic glance in her direction. Anna had gone to school with her and Cassidy and was well aware of the stylist’s predilection for drama.

Poppy retrieved the cardboard carrier and the cellophane the florist had left next to the dressing table. Although she knew better, she clung to the hope Cassidy would give up the snooping and wander off. But when she looked up, the woman was still there.

Cassidy tapped a finger against her lips. “A dozen long-stemmed set this guy back plenty,” she said as if thinking aloud. “Florists jack up the prices something fierce around Valentine’s Day.”

Poppy simply shrugged and pretended to check her makeup. As she leaned close to the mirror, rose petals—soft as cashmere—caressed her cheek.

Now that the bouquet was up close and personal, Poppy realized that, unlike some of the inbred varieties, these roses possessed a wonderful scent, sweet without being cloying. Giving in to impulse, she buried her face in the fragrant blossoms and inhaled deeply.

“Give me a hint,” Cassidy said the second Poppy lifted her head. Apparently deciding to go with the subtle approach, the stylist used a persuasive tone that invited confidences. “Who is your mystery man, Poppy? Do I know him?”

Poppy was spared the need to respond when she and the other contestants were called back to the stage. After considerable fanfare, David Wahl announced she was the winner of the competition. Poppy stared in stunned disbelief when he pressed a small silver microphone trophy into her hand and presented her with a check for $50. She kept the trophy but promptly donated the money to Community Safety Net.

The crowd cheered loudly. As she glanced over the enthusiastic throng, Benedict, er, Ben, gave her another thumbs-up and she offered him a smile, not a flirty one but the kind you’d give your grandmother or the helpful stranger next door.

But when his eyes held hers an instant longer than comfortable, friendly didn’t begin to describe the jolt. Poppy realized with a twinge of alarm that she wanted this man. Not in her life, oh most certainly not there, but in her bed.

It was a startling revelation. She’d had many opportunities for trysts since her divorce, but no interest. It was as if her desire for sex had died when she discovered her husband had been unfaithful for most of their married life.

Now, one smoldering look from Benedict had stirred those embers. No, not just stirred. The spark in those gray eyes had ignited a bonfire hot enough to paint the sky in bold red strokes.

Being blindsided by this unexpected desire didn’t change the fact that, for Poppy, sex had always followed love. And Benedict wasn’t the kind of man she would allow herself to love.

Once bitten...

There was one more round of applause for all the contestants before they were ushered off the stage. She told herself not to look but Poppy couldn’t help it. She cast a quick glance in the doctor’s direction.

He was gone.

She shoved aside something that felt an awful lot like disappointment. It was a blessing, she assured herself. Always best to have temptation out of reach.

Once she reached the dressing room Poppy scooped up the roses along with her purse, trying to block the other contestants’ excited chatter about their evening activities.

She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt blue. After all, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plans. Exciting plans that included a bowl of ice cream and a favorite DVD.

After declining a last-minute offer to have a drink with Cassidy and a group of her friends, Poppy slipped out the back door, telling herself quite firmly that Colin Firth on screen would have to do. Rolling around on the sheets with Benedict wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not any night.

Though for a moment, the thought of a spontaneous night of pure fun made her heart quicken.

With fear? she wondered. Or excitement?

Not that she’d had much experience with fun times in bed. After the initial honeymoon phase, sex during her marriage had been...disappointing.

With the vase of flowers tucked securely in the crook of her left arm, Poppy strolled across the parking lot toward her car. Though she’d left the bar alone, when she was a few feet from the vehicle a prickle along her skin told her she had company. She glanced toward her left in time to see a man dressed in black step from the shadows.

Poppy’s heart slammed against her ribs. Tense muscles rippled. She lifted the vase, poised to fling the flowers in the mugger’s direction and run.

But before she could get her arms to move, the light from a full moon played over the handsome face. Her fear deflated as quickly as a balloon pricked by a sharp pin.

“Ben.” She lowered the vase, pressing her hands firmly against the crystal to still their trembling. “You startled me.”

“Apologies.” His cultured voice reminded her of expensive bourbon, the kind that slid down smooth but packed a wallop. “You were stunning tonight. Your voice is tailor-made for sexy, sultry songs.”

On the surface, he’d offered a simple compliment. But the look in his eyes told her it wasn’t just her voice he found sexy.

The truth was, she found him sexy, too. When she saw him sitting in the audience, dressed simply in black pants and a sweater, her heart had quaked. This was a man who looked good in everything...and probably even better in nothing at all.

Poppy’s cheeks heated. She dropped her gaze toward the roses, now protected from the cool night air by a tent of cellophane. “Thank you for the compliment. And for the lovely flowers. They smell every bit as good as they look.”

When Benedict didn’t immediately respond, a horrible thought struck her. What if he wasn’t the “Ben” who’d sent them?

Before she could backtrack, his lips stole upward in a pleased smile. “The florist assured me you’d get them before the competition started. I’m happy to see he kept his word.”

Break a leg, the note had said. Yes, Ben would have wanted her to receive them before she stepped onto the stage. Poppy saw no purpose in telling him the roses hadn’t arrived until after her performance.