The Texan's Royal M.D.
She’d thought at first that she’d started her period early but the pain had become more intense with each hour. And the blood! Dear God, the blood!
“I almost died before they got me to the hospital. At that point the situation was so desperate the surgeons decided the only way to save my life was to perform an emergency hysterectomy.”
She fell silent as the waiter materialized at their table to take their order. Mike sent him away with a quiet, “Give us some time.”
“I love children,” Zia heard herself say into the silence that followed. “I always imagined I’d have a whole brood of happy, gurgling babies. When I accepted that I would never give birth to a child of my own, I decided that at least I could help alleviate the pain and suffering of others.”
“But...”
There it was. That damned “but” that had her hanging from a limb like a bird with a broken wing.
“It’s hard giving so much of myself to others’ children,” she finished, her voice catching despite every attempt to control it. “So much harder than I ever imagined.”
Her doubt and private misery filled the silence that spun out between them. Mike broke it after a moment with a question that cut to the core of her bruising inner conflict.
“What will you do if you don’t practice medicine?”
“I’ll stay in the medical field, but work on another side of the house.”
There! She’d said it out loud for the first time. And not to her brother or Natalie or the duchess or her cousins. To a stranger, who didn’t appear shocked or disappointed that she would trade her lifelong goal of treating the sick for the sterile environment of a lab.
Like all third-year residents at Mount Sinai, she’d been required to participate in a scholarly research project in addition to seeing patients, attending conferences and teaching interns. Worried by the seeming increase in hospital-acquired infections among the premature infants in the neonatal ICU, she’d searched for clues via five years’ worth of medical records. Her extensive database included the infants’ birth weight, ethnic origin, delivery methods, the time lapse to onset of infections, methods of treatment and mortality rates.
Although she wouldn’t brief the results of her study until the much anticipated annual RRP—Residents’ Research Presentation—her preliminary findings had so intrigued the hospital’s director of research that he’d suggested an expanded effort that included more variables and a much larger sample base. He’d also asked Zia to conduct the two-year study under his direct supervision. If the grant came through within the next few months, she could start the research as her spring elective, then join Dr. Wilbanks’s team full-time after completing her residency.
“The director of pediatric research at Mount Sinai has already asked me to join his staff,” she confided to Mike.
“Is that as impressive as it sounds?”
A hint of pride snuck into her voice. “Actually, it is. Dr. Wilbanks seems to think the study I’ve been working on as a resident is worth expanding into a full-fledged team effort. He also thinks it might warrant as much as a million-dollar research grant.”
“That is impressive. What does the study involve?”
Lord, he was easy to talk to. Zia didn’t usually discuss topics such as Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, aka MRSA, with someone not wearing scrubs. Especially during a candlelit dinner.
As the incredibly scrumptious meal progressed, however, Brennan’s interest stimulated her as much as his quick grasp of the essentials of her study.
* * *
She couldn’t blame either his interest or his intellect for what happened when they left the restaurant, however. That was result of a lethal combination of factors. First, their decision to walk back along the beach. Zia had to remove her borrowed stilettos to keep from sinking in the sand, but the feel of it hard and damp beneath bare feet only added to her heightened perceptions. Then there was the three-quarter moon that traced a liquid silver path across the sea. And finally the arm Mike slid around her waist.
She turned into his kiss, fully anticipating that it would be pleasant. A satisfying end to an enjoyable evening. She didn’t expect the hunger that balled in her belly when his mouth fused with hers.
He felt the kick, too. Although his hat brim shadowed his eyes when he raised his head, his skin was stretched tight across his cheeks and there was a gruff edge to his voice when he asked if she’d like to stop by his place for coffee or a drink.
Or...?
He didn’t have to say it. Her pulse kicking, Zia knew the invitation was open-ended. “Don’t you have company? Davy and...” She searched her memory. “And Kevin and their mother?”
“Eileen took the kids back to town this afternoon. I suspect she won’t let either of them close to the water for the next five years. She wants to thank you personally, by the way. She told me to be sure and get your phone number.” Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I promised I would.”
Zia hesitated for all of three seconds before digging her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll text my family and tell them not to wait up for me.”
Three
The brief detour to Mike’s place should have allowed plenty of time for Zia’s common sense to reassert itself. Would have, if he hadn’t taken her arm again to steer her toward a barely discernible path through the dunes. His hand was warm against her skin, his body close—too close!—to hers in the silvery moonlight.
The beach house on stilts he conducted her to was obviously new. Gleaming a pale turquoise in the moonlight, it sat on a high rise that gave it an unobstructed view of both the Gulf of Mexico and the lights of Houston gleaming in the far distance. The thick pilings looked as though they went down a mile, and white-painted storm shutters framed every window.
When Mike ushered her up the stairs to the front landing and keyed the door lock, Zia still had time to defuse the situation. Once inside, she could have drifted to the wall of windows overlooking the Gulf. Could have contemplated the moon’s reflection on the dark, restless sea. Could have accepted his offer of an after-dinner brandy or coffee. Against every increasingly strident warning issued by her clinical, careful self, she ignored the view and declined a drink. Weeks of stress, indecision and near exhaustion got lost in a rush of biological need. For what was left of the night, she didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to do anything but give herself up to the hunger pulsing through her in slow, liquid rolls.
And Brennan didn’t waste time repeating the offer. Tugging off his hat, he skimmed it carelessly toward the nearest chair and cupped her face in his palms.
“You are so gorgeous.”
His thumbs brushed her cheeks, her lower lip. An answering need turned his forest-glade eyes as dark and restless as the sea. Zia felt another wild leap as she sensed the iron control that held him back. He was leaving it to her to dodge the bullet hurtling at them in warp speed...or step in front of it. She chose option B.
Dropping the stilettos she’d carried into the house, she hooked her arms around his neck. “So are you.”
“Me? Gorgeous?” He looked startled, then amused. “Not hardly, darlin’.”
The drawl came slow and rich, and the laughter in his eyes raised goose bumps of delight. That, and the quick, confident way he claimed her mouth. He was much a man, this Michael Brennan.
Very much a man, as she discovered when he lowered his hands to her waist and drew her into him. He hardened against her hip even as his lips moved over hers with dizzying skill. He’d been married, she remembered, and had learned well how to stoke a woman’s fire. She was panting when he raised his head. Eager for his touch when he fumbled the clip from her hair. The heavy mass tumbled free, and Brennan buried his hands in it, holding her steady while he explored her mouth again.
With every nerve in her body alive and clamoring, Zia conducted her own avid exploration. Her palms planed his broad shoulders. Her fingers found the lapels of his sport coat. She peeled it back, forcing him to break contact long enough to wrestle free of it. He reached for her again but felt compelled to offer a gruff caveat.
“Just so you know, I don’t make a habit of trying to finesse women I’ve just met into bed.”
“Nor,” she murmured, her acquired New York twang slipping away a little more with each word, “do I allow myself to be finessed.”
The blood of her Magyar ancestors thrummed hot in her veins. She felt as wild as the steppes they’d swept down from on their fast, tireless ponies. As fierce as winds that howled through the mountains and valleys they’d eventually settled in.
“But tonight I shall make an exception, yes?”
“Hell, yes!”
He scooped her up almost before the words were out of her mouth. Cradling her against his chest, he headed in what she assumed was the direction of the bedroom. She used the short trip to attack the buttons on his crisp blue shirt.
She got the top two open and was nipping at the cords in his neck when he elbowed a door open. She gained a vague impression of wide-plank floorboards, sparse furnishings and framed posters of ships filling one wall. Then he was lowering her to a king-size bed covered in thin, buttery-soft suede.
Mike shed his shirt, boots and jeans with minimal motion and maximum speed. A real trick, considering that every drop of blood had drained from his head and was now pooled below his waist. He couldn’t believe he’d managed to get the exotic, intriguing doc in his bed, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to give her time for second thoughts.
Yet he dredged up enough self-control to strip her slowly, item by tantalizing item. The silky camisole. The thigh-hugging jeans with the sparkly red heart that had drawn his eyes to her butt every time she’d walked in front of him. Her half bra and thong were mere scraps of lace and easily disposed of. Then he made the near fatal mistake of pausing to drink in the sight of her long, slender curves. She gleamed like alabaster against the pearl-gray bedcover. Her hair spilled across the suede, as silky and erotic as the dark triangle at the apex of her thighs. Mike almost lost it then. Probably would have, if he hadn’t gritted his teeth and held back the raging tide with the promise of exploring every slope and hollow of that luscious body.
Thank God he kept an emergency supply of condoms in the nightstand. The cache was a year old. Maybe more. With the demand for super-container ships skyrocketing and his fleet expanding almost faster than he could keep up with it, Mike hadn’t had all that many opportunities to dip into this private stash. He intended to make up for those missed opportunities now, though.
If he could find the damned things! Muttering a curse under his breath, he rifled through the drawer. Where the devil had all this junk come from? With another muffled curse, he finally resorted to dumping the contents on the bed. Two dog-eared paperbacks, a handful of loose change, a spare set of keys, several socks and a plastic fire truck tumbled out.
Zia pushed up on one elbow and eyed the hook and ladder. “I’ve seen all kinds of sex toys during my years in med school,” she said with a grin. “Some were put to rather remarkable use. But that’s a new one.”
“Dammit, I told Kevin and Davy to stay out... Ah! Thank God.” He gave a huff of relief and held up two foil packets. “I caught the boys making water balloons out of them four or five months back but was sure I’d salvaged a few.”
Four or five months back? Zia digested that little tidbit of information as he used his teeth to rip into one of the packets. Brennan must not bring many female friends to his beach house. The thought surprised her. And added another bubble to the cauldron that erupted into a furious boil at the sight of him sheathing himself.
He made quick work of it. A snap, a roll, and he tumbled her back onto the suede. He followed her down, bracing himself on his elbows to kiss her again. And again. And again. Her mouth. Her throat. Her aching breasts. Her quivering belly. When he eased a hand between her thighs, Zia went taut as a bow.
Yes! This was what she needed. What both her mind and her body craved. This wild pleasure. This dizzying spiral of excitement that contracted the muscles low in her belly. With each kiss and stroke of his busy fingers, the spasms got tighter, faster.
“Wait.”
She clenched her jaw, tried to clamp down on the soaring sensations.
“Mike. Wait.” She scrunched deeper into the velvety suede and reached for him. “Let me... Oh!”
Before she could do more than wrap her fingers around his rock-hard length the sensations spun into a white-hot core. Groaning, Zia gave up trying to stop the climax that shot up from her belly. She couldn’t have held back if she’d wanted to. It came at her like an out-of-control freight train.
Neck arched, spine bowed, she rode it to the last shuddering sigh. When she collapsed onto the covers and opened her eyes, she saw Brennan watching her.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s, ah, been a while.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He was still hard and rampant against her hip. His shoulders were still taut, his tendons tight. Yet his grin contained nothing but smug male satisfaction. “You wouldn’t be sorry if you had any idea how glorious you just looked.”
Zia had studied human sexuality and the reproductive process, of course. She could put a name to each stage of her body’s response. Desire. Arousal. Lubrication. Orgasm. Satisfaction. She also knew the female of the species could generally repeat the cycle faster than the male. Still, she was surprised at how fast. All it took was for Mike to lean down and feather his lips over hers. The kiss was so tender—and such a contrast to the tension still locking his muscles—that Zia kicked into high gear again.
He filled her. Stroked her. Pushed her to another peak. She hung on this time and refused go over the edge without him.
* * *
Gasping and limp with pleasure, Zia knew she should get up, get dressed and go home. Should drifted into later when Mike defied conventional science by proving he could repeat the cycle after only a minimal break.
If the first round was fast and urgent, the second round was exquisitely slow. So slow, Zia had more than enough time to explore his hard, muscled body. The corded tendons, the washboard ribs, the flat belly, the five-inch scar on his left shoulder. She’d set enough stitches during her ER rotation to know a knife wound when she felt one.
“How did you get this?”
“Hmm?”
He shifted, obviously more interested her body than his own
“This scar?” she persisted. “How’d you get it?”
“It was just a slight misunderstanding.”
“Between?”
“Me and a one-eyed, foul-breathed Portuguese. He was a pumper on the tanker I shipped out on the summer before my senior year in high school.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say Joachim didn’t appreciate smart-assed kids pointing out he hadn’t grounded himself before opening the feed nozzle. Now...”
His hands cupped her butt and scooted her up a few inches.
“Let’s get back to more important matters.”
* * *
Zia hadn’t planned to zone out. Grabbing twenty or thirty minutes to recharge in the residents’ lounge had pretty much become a way of life. All she’d intended was a brief catnap between the sheets with her head nestled in the warm angle between Brennan’s neck and shoulder. So when she blinked awake to a blaze of sunlight spilling through the wide windows she gave a small yelp.
“Oh, no!”
She jerked upright and pushed her hair out of her eyes. A quick glance around confirmed her hazy impressions from last night. The flooring was wide oak planking polished to a rich sheen. One wall did sport a collection of framed, poster-size photographs of oceangoing vessels. And she huddled amid a welter of silky cotton sheets topped by a cloud-soft suede cover. Naked. With what felt like a good-size patch of beard burn on her left cheek.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! She was an adult. Responsible and unattached. She had no reason to feel guilty or uncomfortable about explaining a whisker scrape to her family. Or the fact that she’d spent the night with an interesting, attractive man.
A man who evidently knew his way around a kitchen. She discovered that after she’d made a trip to the bathroom, scrambled into her clothes and followed the scent of frying bacon. Mike had a small feast laid out on a glass-topped breakfast table with a breath-knocking view of the Gulf. Her surprised glance slid over the juice, sliced melon and basket of croissants to lock on a tall carafe.
With a melodramatic groan, she made her presence known. “Please tell me that’s coffee,” she begged, nodding to the carafe.
Mike angled around, spatula in hand, and grinned. “It is. Help yourself.”
She did, but one sip had her gasping. “Good Lord!”
“Too strong?”
“Strong doesn’t begin to describe it. This makes the black tar in the resident’s lounge taste good by comparison.”
“Sorry. I try to remember not everyone likes navy swill. Guess I didn’t water it down enough. Why don’t you run another pot?”
“That’s okay. I’ll just doctor this one.”
Several ounces of milk and two heaping spoons of sugar made the coffee marginally more palatable. Sipping cautiously, Zia leaned her hip against the marble-topped island and watched the man work. She couldn’t help noting how his faded University of Texas T-shirt molded his broad shoulders and his chestnut hair showed glints of dark red in the morning sunlight. She also noticed that he wielded the spatula with easy confidence.
The bacon cooked, he drained the grease and swiped the pan with paper towels before offering her a choice. “I’ve got the makings for a Spanish omelet and French toast. We can do either or both.”
“You don’t need to go to all that trouble. I’m fine with just coffee and a roll.”
“I’m not,” he countered, a smile in those sexy green eyes. “We burned up the calories last night. I need sustenance. So...omelet or French toast or both?”
“Omelet. Please.”
Zia settled onto one of the stools lined up at the island, a little surprised she didn’t feel even a trace of morning-after awkwardness. Not that the absence should surprise her. Mike Brennan had proved an easy, attentive companion at dinner last night. She’d opened up to him about doubts and worries she hadn’t even shared with Dom yet.
Which reminded her...
She’d carried her purse into the kitchen with her. She fished out her cell phone, so glad she’d sent that text last night so Dom wouldn’t have the police out searching for her maimed and mutilated body. She skimmed over the list of messages and saved them to be read later before sending a brief text saying she’d be home soon. That done, she refilled her coffee cup and watched a master at work.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked, marveling at his chopping, browning and omelet-flipping skills.
“That one-eyed Portuguese I told you about? Joachim Caldero? He pulled doubled duty as pumper and cook. Bastard jumped ship in Venezuela. Since I was the junior crew dog aboard, the captain stuck me with galley duty.” He slid the first omelet onto a plate and poured the remaining egg mixture into the frying pan. “It was either dish up canned pork and beans all the way back to Galveston or teach myself a few basic skills.”
She admired the perfect half oval. “Looks like you learned more than the basics.”
“I added to my repertoire over the years,” he admitted with a shrug. “My ex-wife wasn’t into cooking.”
Or anything else that didn’t involve exclusive spas and high-end boutiques. Mike didn’t look back often. Nor did he wallow in regrets. But as he added diced peppers and onions to the second omelet, he had to force the memory of his soured marriage out of his head. The outing took surprisingly little effort with this stunning, dark-haired beauty watching him with admiring eyes. Playing to his audience, he flipped the omelet into a perfect crescent and let it firm before sliding it onto a plate.
“Bring your coffee,” he instructed as he added bacon strips to each plate and led the way to the breakfast table.
* * *
Mike already knew he wanted more time with Dr. Anastazia St. Sebastian. Arranging a follow-up assignation turned out to be a challenge, however.
“I need to spend time with my family,” she said when he proposed getting together later. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she added when the significance of the day failed to register with Mike.
“Oh, hell. So it is.”
No way he could duck the mandatory family gathering. With its dense Hispanic concentration, the four-block area of Houston where his grandmother lived still clung to the old ways. The entire Brennan clan would gather at her house this afternoon for food and games. Come dusk, they’d troop outside to watch the traditional posada. Local teenagers had been chosen to portray Mary and Joseph, and the whole parish would follow with lit candles and paper lanterns.
After the procession, it was back to his abuelita’s to hoist the star-shaped piñata. The seven-pointed star held all kinds of religious significance, most of which Mike had forgotten. There were devils in there. He remembered that much. They had to be beaten out with a stick, with the reward being the candy that showered down on shouting, squealing kids. After that came a feast of gargantuan proportions. Tamales, atole, buñuelos, and ponche—the potent hot drink brewed from spiced fruits.
Then the Irish portion of Mike’s heritage would take over. He would accompany his parents and assorted siblings to midnight Mass. Go home with them for the inevitable last-minute toy assembly and gift-wrapping. And crash until the entire clan reconvened at his parents’ house Christmas morning for an orgy of present opening followed by the traditional turkey dinner.
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