Taming The Beastly MD

She’d told herself her apprehension was silly, that obviously she did have a secret admirer—and hey, why was that such a bad thing? Then she’d donned the charm bracelet, as well, hoping again to “out” the giver.

But again, no one came forth to claim the identity of Rita Barone’s secret admirer. No one came forth for any reason at all.

Now, as she eyed this latest gift with a mixture of hesitant pleasure and growing dread, she lifted her right hand to stroke the bandaged heart pin fastened, as it always was, on the pocket of her scrubs. When she did, the charm bracelet clinked merrily on her right wrist.

Now the mysterious giver had struck again, had left her a third gift—on the third anniversary of her having started work at Boston General.

Whoever it was, she realized then, was commemorating special occasions and events—first Valentine’s Day, then her birthday, and now the anniversary of her first day at work. It must be someone who worked at the hospital, she thought. And it must be a secret admirer—for lack of a better ID. There were too many romantic overtones for it not to be. Still, she couldn’t begin to imagine who might be leaving her gifts like this. She’d noticed not one hint of interest from anyone of the opposite sex, absolutely no clue that there was a man out there who regarded her as anything more than another human being who inhabited the same planet. Not at work, and not anywhere else, either.

Not unless she was overlooking any hints and clues a man might be giving out, which she supposed was possible, since she’d really never been much interested in the opposite sex. Her sisters Gina and Maria often told her she was so focused on her work that she was missing out on everything else life had to offer, including romance.

Of course, Rita didn’t necessarily disagree with that. Her work was very important to her. More important, she admitted, than anything else. Except for family, of course. The Barones were a close-knit bunch, and family would always come first for all of them. But Rita had never wanted to be anything but a nurse, ever since she was a child, and the job gave her more satisfaction and fulfillment than she could imagine receiving anywhere else. She helped save lives here at the hospital. What could possibly be more important than that?

Well, there was saving her own life, Gina would always argue when Rita pointed that out, seeing as how Rita didn’t much have one outside work. And there was living her life, Maria would chime in, the one outside work, anyway. Whenever her sisters offered their opinions in such a way, Rita would blithely remind them that her work was her life, and she enjoyed it very much, thanks. And she truly did believe it was enough. She had a full, and very satisfying, life without having to wade through all the politics and games of a romantic relationship—especially a workplace romance.

Still, she thought now as she gingerly fingered the third little white package, it would be nice to discover who was leaving the gifts for her. If nothing else, she could rest easy knowing there was nothing more to it than someone having a bit of fun. Because she just couldn’t quite shake the sensation that there was something a bit sinister about all this anonymous gift-giving, even if the gifts in question had been totally benign.

Rita checked one more time to see if there was a card or note to accompany the gift but, not surprisingly, she found none. So, inhaling a deep breath, she tucked her finger under the gold ribbon and slowly slid it off. Then she carefully peeled back the white paper. Just as it had been with the previous two gifts, the box was plain and white, too, with no markings that might identify where the gift had been purchased. Placing it cautiously on the desk, Rita lifted the lid, then pushed aside a fold of tissue paper.

“Oh, my,” she said softly, reverently, when she saw what was inside. A small, cut-crystal heart winked merrily at her from its cushion of tissue in the box, shattering the harsh fluorescent overhead light into a billion kaleidoscopic colors. It was meant, she supposed, to be a paperweight. Somehow, though, it was much too beautiful for so functional a purpose.

A crystal heart, she remarked again. Was it a symbol of what she did for a living, caring for a fragile organ? Or a symbol of the giver’s fragile feelings for her? And how would she ever know if the giver never came forward? And why wouldn’t he? It had been two months since that first gift had appeared. Surely, by now, he was ready to make himself known. Unless…

Unless his intentions were less than honorable.

“Have you nothing better to do with your time, Ms. Barone, than enjoy an extended coffee break?”

Rita jumped at the gruffly offered question, not so much because of the question itself—unfair as it was—but because the voice belonged to Dr. Matthew Grayson. In addition to his medical skills, he was renowned for his no-nonsense approach to his work.

And also because of his complete intolerance for anything bordering on fun.

Tall, dark and brooding, that was Dr. Grayson. All the nurses and other doctors thought so. And most steered clear of him whenever they could, because they didn’t want to get caught in the storm swirling in the dark clouds that always seemed to surround him. Rita, though, had always thought him rather intriguing. Nobody was born grouchy and aloof, she reasoned. Something had to happen in a person’s life to make him that way. And Rita couldn’t help wondering what had happened in Matthew Grayson’s.

She also couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with the scars he bore on his left cheek and neck. The worst of them were a trio of nearly straight lines that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw—three parallel stripes, roughly a half inch apart and three inches in length.

Automatically she slammed the lid back down on the box she had just opened. For some reason, she didn’t want Dr. Grayson to know about her secret admirer—if admiring was indeed what was behind the mysterious gifts. As discreetly as she could, she slid the box back into her note slot, tossed the white wrapping paper and gold ribbon into the wastebasket beneath her desk, and then turned in her chair to face him.

Big mistake, she realized immediately. Because being seated while he was standing left Rita gazing at a part of Dr. Grayson she really shouldn’t be gazing at.

“Dr. Grayson,” she said as she abruptly stood, telling herself she was only imagining the breathless quality her voice seemed to have suddenly adopted. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Obviously,” he replied wryly.

“And I wasn’t enjoying a coffee break,” she assured him.

He gazed pointedly at the cup sitting before her chair.

“Okay, yes, I was having coffee,” she conceded. “But I wasn’t enjoying it. It’s from the vending machine,” she added meaningfully.

Dr. Grayson, however, evidently didn’t catch her meaning, because he only continued to scowl at her. Granted, it was kind of a handsome scowl, what with those dreamy green eyes and that full, luscious-looking mouth, but it was a scowl nonetheless. So Rita countered with the most dazzling smile she could conjure from her ample arsenal. She knew it made him uncomfortable to be smiled at. Probably, she thought, because he didn’t know how to smile back. In fact, she’d never seen him smile. And, true to her supposition—and his own personality—Dr. Grayson only deepened his scowl. So Rita smiled even more dazzlingly, this time batting her eyelashes playfully.

There, she thought triumphantly. Take that, Dr. Grayson.

But instead of being immobilized by her mischievous warfare, Dr. Grayson only looked more ferocious. So, with an imperceptible sigh, Rita surrendered.

Point to Dr. Grayson.

“Rita,” he said in a tone of voice that indicated he wanted to start all over again and pretend the last few moments hadn’t happened, which was fine with her, “we’ve just admitted a new patient who will be arriving in CCU shortly, a Mr. Harold Asgaard. He’s scheduled for surgery at seven in the morning, but I want him monitored closely throughout the evening and all through the night.”

Somehow, Rita refrained from a salute. Still, she dutifully replied, “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“Good.”

“Anything else?” she asked when he added nothing more. She found it odd that he’d sought her out just to tell her to closely monitor a patient who was scheduled for surgery in the morning. That was standard operating procedure in CCU.

Dr. Grayson dropped his gaze to the chart he held in one hand, began scanning it, then shook his head. “No, I think that’s all for now. You’re on evening shift tonight?” he asked, stating the obvious, still scanning the chart, as if he were uncomfortable meeting her gaze.

“Um, yes,” Rita replied in light of the obvious.

“Covering for Nancy?”

“Rosemary, actually,” Rita said. “Her great-grandmother’s one-hundredth birthday party is tonight, so she and I traded off today. Nancy’s left the unit. She transferred to pediatrics last week.”

Dr. Grayson nodded, as if just now remembering, and continued to scan the chart. Continued to avoid Rita’s gaze. “That’s right,” he said absently. “I’d forgotten.”

Rita eyed him suspiciously. It wasn’t like Matthew Grayson to forget things. And it wasn’t like him to avoid anyone’s gaze. What was up with him today? He seemed a little…off.

“Is everything okay, Dr. Grayson?” she asked before thinking. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

His gaze shot back up to meet hers, and only then did Rita realize how familiarly she had spoken to him. Boston General didn’t have rules against such behavior, but Dr. Grayson did. And everyone knew it, because he’d made it clear over the years that he was not the kind of person who spoke about personal things. But Rita couldn’t help it. It was in her nature. Family matters were a big deal with the Barones, and were generally discussed quite candidly.

Still, she should have known better with Dr. Grayson. She didn’t know what she was thinking to have asked him such a question and offered such a remark about his well-being.

“And who do I seem like, Rita?” he asked coolly.

“Uh, no one in particular. Just…you know…not yourself.”

“And how does myself usually seem?” he asked further.

“Uh… I, uh… What I meant was… It’s just that…” Great. Now she’d done it. How did one get oneself out of a painted corner without messing up one’s shoes? she wondered.

“Yes, Rita, everything is fine,” Dr. Grayson finally interjected before she gave herself enough rope for a self-inflicted hanging. And in doing so, he simultaneously put her out of her misery, and put her back up in the process. “Not that that’s any of your concern,” he added sharply.

Another point to the beastly Dr. Grayson, Rita thought.

She bit her lower lip to keep in a tart retort. Instead, she nodded silently and glanced momentarily away. But when she looked his way again, she noticed his eyes weren’t meeting hers, though his attention was lingering on her face. More specifically, on her mouth, she realized. He was noticing how she was anxiously biting her lip and…

…and probably thinking her the worst kind of neurotic.

Immediately, she ceased her fretting and forced herself to attention. “I’m sorry,” she said, though even she couldn’t detect a trace of apology in her voice. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Didn’t you?” he asked.

She shook her head, knowing she spoke the truth. Why would she want to pry into Matthew Grayson’s life? Just because she found his seemingly inexplicable gruffness intriguing? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because he seemed to be as dedicated to his work as Rita was to hers? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she’d been wondering since the day she started working in CCU what his story was? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she wished she could work up the nerve to ask him about those scars on his face and neck?

And had she mentioned his dreamy green eyes?

Get a grip, Rita, she told herself. This was Matthew Grayson, MD, whose green eyes she found so dreamy. He was a distinguished cardiac surgeon and an eminent curmudgeon, probably almost ten years her senior and too serious by half. He wasn’t the kind of man she should be wondering about in any way. He wasn’t her type at all.

Not that she had a type, she quickly reminded herself. But if she did have a type, it wouldn’t be Matthew Grayson, MD.

Even if he did have dreamy green eyes.

“No, I didn’t,” she said, recalling now that he had asked a question. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just a little concerned, that’s all.”

Dr. Grayson studied her for a moment more, long enough to make Rita think he was wondering something about her, too. Then, in a brisk, that-will-be-all kind of voice, he assured her, “You needn’t be concerned about me.” Before she had a chance to comment further, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Point three to the Beast.

Rita was a Barone, though, and Barones always got in the last word, no matter how many points behind they were. Always. So, quietly enough that he couldn’t hear, and to his retreating back, she said, “Trust me, Dr. Grayson, when I say that I won’t be concerned about you. Ever.”

Point to the Barone. Finally.

Then Rita returned to both her chair and her work. Still not feeling as if that last word was quite enough, however, she glanced back up in time to see Dr. Grayson’s imposing figure disappearing around the corner at the end of the corridor. And she fired off another last word to punctuate the others.

“Beast,” she said.

For some reason, though, it didn’t make her feel any better.

Matthew Grayson managed—barely—to make it back to his office in the medical towers adjoining Boston General before his knees finally collapsed beneath him. He staggered over to his desk and toppled into the leather chair behind it, then inhaled a deep, ragged breath in the hopes that it might quell the rapid-fire banging of his heart. Then he called himself every kind of fool.

Rita Barone had come this close to catching him this time. When he’d seen her leave the nurses’ station, he’d thought she was taking a longer break than a few short minutes, so he hadn’t been in any hurry to slip the little package from the pocket of his jacket into her mail slot. Plus, he’d had to wait for another nurse and a visitor to conclude their conversation near the nurses’ station and walk off before he could even approach. He couldn’t risk anyone seeing him anywhere near Rita’s station when he did what he had to do.

He’d only just managed to leave the gift and steal away before she’d returned. Lucky for him she’d been entirely focused on not spilling her coffee as she’d walked down the corridor. Had she glanced up, even for a second, she would have seen him standing there, then would have found the gift after he left, and then would have had no trouble deducing who had been leaving her mysterious presents for the past two months.

And damned if Matthew didn’t feel like the biggest buffoon on the planet for leaving those mysterious presents. Here he was, a thirty-three-year-old man, one of the most noted surgeons in New England, and a member of one of Boston’s most illustrious families, and he was behaving like a goofy junior-high-school kid, leaving secret gifts in the locker of the girl he liked. What in God’s name had reduced him to such behavior?

Well, of course, he knew that. And he felt like an even bigger buffoon admitting it. It was the simple presence of Rita Barone in the coronary care unit at Boston General. The “beastly” Dr. Grayson—yes, he knew quite well what his nickname was around the hospital; he had ears, after all—had a crush on one of the nurses. And not just any nurse, but a nurse who was young and pretty and vivacious. A nurse who would surely be shocked and repulsed if she ever found out the identity of her secret admirer.

Talk about your Beauty and the Beast scenarios. Without even meaning to, Matthew had reduced himself to a cliché.

Gingerly, he lifted his hand to his left cheek, tracing his index finger over the scars that even the most talented plastic surgeons and the most sophisticated cosmetic surgical techniques couldn’t erase. The deepest of the wounds had gone straight down to the bone. Well, the deepest of the physical wounds, at any rate. Over the past twenty-three years, Matthew had undergone more surgery for his face than he cared to think about. Really, he supposed he looked pretty good, considering the viciousness of the attack and the depth of the damage. Physically, any scarring that was left was relatively superficial. Emotionally, however…

Well. Those injuries had gone straight down into the bone, and in many ways, had been even more damaging than the physical ones. Nor were they as repairable. Although he knew no one was perfect, Matthew was imperfect in ways that most people were not. He couldn’t imagine someone like Rita Barone—someone who was very nearly perfect, at least in his eyes—ever wanting to get any closer to him than she had to.

He propped his elbows on his desk, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hands, hoping that by doing so, he might be able to think about something else, visualize something other than Rita’s dark, soulful eyes and her lush mouth. But he couldn’t stop replaying the image of her nibbling her lip the way she had, and he couldn’t halt the heat that swept through him when he remembered it. He could still hear the sound of her soft sigh and her reverently whispered “Oh, my” as she opened the box with the crystal heart, and that, too, filled him with a strange sort of warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before.

She had liked her gift, he realized, relief coursing through him like a slowly thawing springtime stream. And she had been wearing the bracelet and pin, too, just as she had worn them at work every day since he’d left them for her. Something about that gladdened Matthew, as if there was a little part of him she kept with her every day, even if she didn’t realize it herself.

Surely, he thought further, there was something wrong with him, finding a guilty sort of pleasure in a secret he was sharing with no one.

No, he immediately corrected himself, dropping his hands from his face to place them resolutely on his desk. He did not have a crush on Rita Barone. It wasn’t that at all. He focused his gaze on the opposite wall of his office, the one hung with his degrees and awards and commendations. He wasn’t the kind of man to have crushes. He was far too pragmatic and accomplished.

He admired Rita Barone, he told himself, that was all. Admired her on a professional level, and nothing more. Surely there was nothing wrong with admiring a co-worker. Nor was there anything wrong with being unable to verbally articulate that admiration. There were plenty of people who were uncomfortable expressing such sentiments. Matthew had never been one for the touchy-feely sharing of emotions—none of the Graysons were—and God knew he wasn’t about to start now.

He admired Rita Barone, he told himself again, more adamantly this time. He respected her dedication to her work, and he appreciated her ability to relate to patients in a kind and caring fashion.

Take last February, with a homeless man named Joe. Rita had calmed the man’s fears, and stayed by his side throughout his open-heart surgery. Because of her, the old man had made a total recovery.

Matthew had been amazed by her kindness and nurturing during that time. He’d envied her then—and still did—the gift she had for relating to and sympathizing with others, two things he’d never been able to master himself. Of course, there was a reason for that, but it didn’t keep Matthew from feeling diminished in that regard. As he’d watched Rita interact with Joe, Matthew had been touched on a level where he’d never felt anything before.

Back in February, he’d wanted to do something to let Rita know how much he had appreciated her help with Joe. Since he was uncomfortable vocalizing such things, he’d decided to leave some small token of his gratitude in her mail slot instead. He’d seen the bandaged heart pin in the hospital gift shop, and he’d thought it would make an appropriate gift. He’d written a note of thanks to leave with it, but the day had been so hectic, he’d forgotten to include it. He’d also forgotten that the day in question was Valentine’s Day.

It was only later, when he began to hear the rumors about Rita Barone’s secret admirer that he realized what he had done. The last thing he’d wanted to do at that point was identify himself and risk being labeled Rita’s secret admirer by the hospital grapevine. That would have only led to teasing, and Matthew hated to be teased. There was a reason for that, too, but no one would have cared. All he’d known then was that he couldn’t let himself be fingered as Rita Barone’s secret admirer. So he’d tossed the note in the garbage and kept his mouth shut.

Of course, that didn’t explain why he’d felt compelled to leave her another gift last month, on her birthday, or a third gift this evening, on the anniversary of her start at Boston General. Hell, it didn’t explain why he even knew those dates. And it certainly didn’t explain why he’d deliberately made sure those gifts were given anonymously. What did explain that, Matthew thought now, was…

Ah, dammit. He didn’t have an explanation for it.

Sure, you do, he told himself sarcastically. You admire her. On a professional level. There’s nothing more to it than that. Even if she does have the kind of dark, soulful eyes a man could get lost in forever and never find his way back.

Oh, stop it, Matthew commanded himself. You’re getting maudlin in your old age.

And old was often how he felt around Rita Barone. Old and scarred and beastly.

Enough! he shouted inwardly. He had plenty to occupy his mind at the moment other than thoughts of a certain dark-eyed, dark-haired nurse that made him feel foolish. He had surgery scheduled early tomorrow morning, and he had yet to make his final rounds. Rita Barone was the last thing he should be thinking about. She was his co-worker, nothing more. And she was too young and spirited and beautiful to be interested in someone old and scarred and beastly.

And even if there was the potential for something to develop between them—which was highly unlikely—her family was the nouveau riche Barone clan, while his own was old-money Bostonian. The Graysons had come over on the Mayflower, for God’s sake, and they never let anyone forget it. The Barones, on the other hand, had come over in steerage. They came from humble beginnings and had only recently made their fortune, and in the Italian ice-cream business, of all things. Talk about your frivolous pursuits. The Graysons, by and large, were financiers. Much more respectable work—at least, as far as the elder Graysons were concerned.

No, there was no way his parents would ever approve of a Grayson–Barone merger, and they’d make things very difficult for Matthew—and for Rita, too. Especially after the sordid, scandalous stories that had been splashed across the tabloids last month about one of Rita’s sisters. He vaguely remembered something about suggestive photos better suited to men’s magazines than respectable newspapers. Not that the tabloids were in any way respectable. But they were read. Doubtless the photos had never been meant for public consumption, but consumed by the public they had been—rabidly. And although the old-money Bostonians might turn their noses up at scandal and gossip, it certainly didn’t keep them from gossiping about scandal. There was no way Matthew’s mother would let any of the Barones come near her family or her home.

Not that it mattered. There were just too many things that didn’t mesh between Matthew and Rita for there to be anything to worry about, he told himself again. Therefore, he wouldn’t worry about it.

And he wouldn’t think about her dark, soulful eyes.

Two

Rita was absolutely beat when she finally got home just after midnight. Not surprisingly, the brownstone on Paul Revere Way looked dark and quiet as she climbed the handful of steps to the front door and unlocked it. Her older sister Gina had moved out last month, after marrying Flint Kingman, and Rita and Maria were still trying to find a suitable tenant for the empty top-floor apartment. And her younger sister Maria was doubtless just out, as she so often seemed to be these days.