One Hot Night With Dr Cardoza

“For ripping your dress?”

Maybe. Could it be that this little mishap had provided a way to break the ice? To give her that little flaw in his perfection that she’d been searching for?

“You make a pretty intimidating figure—did you know that?”

His head cocked. “No. I didn’t.”

“I think even Peter and Lara felt it.” Although he wasn’t intimidating in a bad sort of way, like whoever Flávia had been referring to.

“Then I’ll have to work on that.”

He uncurled himself from the sofa and stood over her, and there it was again. That shiver of awareness. And whether it was because of the T-shirt fabric brushing over her bare skin or her reaction to him, her nipples tightened as a swirl of sensation spiraled down her belly to points below. She had to fight the urge to hook her arm back over her chest like she’d done while holding up her dress.

“You don’t have to work on anything. I’m sure it’s just part of being in a different country.” Why on earth had she said anything to him? “Pretty much everything is intimidating to me right now.”

“Don’t be intimidated, Amy. You’ll find Brazilians are quite amigáveis.”

“I know they’re friendly. I didn’t really mean that.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I’m not sure. I just feel a little bit out of place. Everyone I’ve met has been either a doctor or an expert in their field.”

“You are an expert in your field, or you wouldn’t be here.”

She hadn’t thought of it like that. She’d heard the vetting process was tough and was actually surprised that she’d gotten in, even if it had been because someone else had dropped out. “Well, thank you. But not really.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. The team decided you were right for this position.”

Something caught her attention. “The team. But not you?”

“The heads of the departments are given a list of applicants that are préselecionados… I think you say it as ‘short-listed,’ yes? And then the selections are made. You were on that list.”

He was evading the question about whether or not he had wanted her. Or was he?

“But I only got on afterward, when there was a cancellation.”

“There was no cancellation. The powers that be were merely trying to find where best to place you. The physical therapy department couldn’t spare anyone to oversee your month-and-a-half shadow period. So you are now with me. I almost said no. Until I read one of your case files. It made me change my mind.”

He almost refused to work with her? And if he had, she’d still be sitting in the States.

She did not want him to see how much that stung.

He changed his mind, Amy. That counts for something.

“Which case file?”

“The spina bifida patient who went on to practice martial arts.”

Bobby Sellers. She almost hadn’t included him, because he hadn’t been the stellar success story she felt the hospital was looking for. But he’d touched her life. And when he told her he’d always wanted to break a board in tae kwon do, something her mom had insisted on her participating in, it had struck a chord. And she’d helped him work toward that, even going as far as attending the event where Bobby had indeed broken his board. It had brought her to tears.

“But why that case?”

“It showed that you are able to think outside the box—that you don’t keep pushing where it will do no good. You tweaked the prescribing doctor’s treatment plan slightly to include your patient’s own personal life goals. That is exactly what I want to see at Paulista. Things don’t always follow a prescribed path. As the saying goes, medicine is sometimes more art than science.”

“I believe that as well. We have to look at patients as a whole, not as a conglomeration of symptoms. We have to help them adapt and change when the body won’t cooperate.”

He smiled and stood, leaning on his cane a little more than he had been. “And that is why I said yes. I should go. I might not care about what people think, but I have a feeling you do. And since Dr. Smith knows I’m here in your apartment…”

Yes, it was time for Roque to go. But not because of Lara Smith. Or the fact that the pink scrap of lace peeking out of her suitcase was going to haunt him for days to come. He was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra under that T-shirt. But none of that was what drove him to say goodbye. It was because of the vulnerability he’d seen in her when they were talking about how she’d gotten into the program.

He’d sensed a bit of imposter syndrome, and he probably had fueled that even more with his honesty. But he hadn’t wanted to work with someone like the physical therapist he’d been assigned after his surgery. He didn’t want a fix-it mentality. He wanted someone with the ability to set realistic expectations for his or her patients. In the end, Roque would not have agreed, if the candidate absolutely didn’t meet that qualification. His patients were too important to him.

But to have stepped on her dress.

Hell. He definitely did not have the coordination he’d had back in his days with Chutegol, his football club. But then again, his injury had resulted in muscle and nerve damage, and although you wouldn’t know it from the single long scar on his outer thigh, the damage to the underlying structures had ended his football career. Fortunately, he’d earned enough from his five years of playing to put himself through medical school.

“Well, thank you for coming.”

Amy’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, and he swung his gaze to her, avoiding looking at her chest.

“I will let you know when it is done.” He held up the bag containing the real reason he was here. His mother would be happy to repair it for her. But not without a question or two, or a mention of their earlier conversation, which made him wonder if he’d been right to offer her services. After having women throw themselves at him during his football days, and the messy breakup of his engagement, and then the pass his physical therapist had made during treatment, he was leery of believing someone could be interested in him…as someone who came from simple roots, who’d worked hard for everything he had. So his relationships were short and sweet, and very, very superficial. No one who would try to “fix” whatever they thought was wrong with him.

So yes, his mother would ask some pointed questions.

But Roque took care of the mistakes that he could. And the ones he couldn’t? Well, he walked away from them.

Amy wrapped her arms around her midsection. “The dress was my fault, so don’t worry about it. Like I said, it’s too long. I shouldn’t have worn it.”

The image of her with her forearm clamped across her chest to keep her bodice from falling down swam in front of his face. Were all her undergarments pink? And lacy?

Damn. Talk about mistakes. Maybe this was a bigger one than he realized.

“The dress was—is—quite lovely.” His phone buzzed on his hip. Glancing at the readout, he frowned. Enzo Dos Santos? He hadn’t heard from the owner of the football club in ages, other than a quick note saying he’d had a cancerous lesion removed from his jaw. Had things gone south? He let the call go to voice mail, making a note to call his friend back once he got back to the car. “I’ll let you know when my mom has had a chance to look at it.”

What he wouldn’t tell her was the hoops he was sure to have to jump through before his mom actually got down to work.

“Well, thank you again.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you in the morning.” Roque had been dreading this three-month rotation, but there was now a weird sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt in a while. One he didn’t like and halfway suspected was due to the woman whose dress he’d stepped on. She was here for three months. Why risk letting things get messy, when they could stay in a neat and tidy box. And where he’d have no more mistakes to correct. So he said his goodbyes and walked out of her apartment, glancing at Lara’s door and wondering if she was staring out her peephole with a stop watch. Ridiculous. Roque did not care what people thought.

Except for the owner of his former football team. When he got to his car, he tossed Amy’s dress into the passenger seat and slid into the vehicle, taking out his phone and scrolling through his missed messages. Then putting all thoughts of his rotation charge out of his head, he dialed Enzo’s number and waited for the man to pick up his phone.

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