A satisfactory ah-h-h went through the crowd. Feeling confident, he knelt beside her chair, gave her a wink and pulled Brooke’s tennis shoe off. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed with a dull thud on the platform.
“Hey! Give me back my shoe.” She reached for it, and he grabbed her hand.
It was a battle of wills that he hadn’t played with a woman in a long time. If ever. And he was determined to win.
“I’m going to give you something better than that old tennis shoe.” He placed the mike on the floor behind him so their voices wouldn’t carry. Then he trapped her foot against his thigh.
Her eyes widened. His insides burned. A staggering heat seemed to fuse them together. Or maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was the flashes from the cameras. Maybe the crowd was pressing too close.
Touching Brooke was definitely a mistake.
Her toes curled in protest and made his skin tighten with need. Blood pumped hot and fierce through him. What was she doing to him?
“I like my tennis shoe,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let go of my foot.”
“I’m only going to measure it.”
“Measure someone else’s. Let me choose another—”
“No.” His temper snapped.
Why couldn’t someone else have been the millionth customer? She tried to pull her foot away, but he held firm. Until she winced. Guilt shot through him. Quickly he closed both hands over her foot and soothed the place he’d injured. He kneaded her instep. Beneath the thick sports sock, he felt her fine bones, her warmth. Slowly she relaxed. The center of her eyes dilated with awareness. Keep your hands to yourself, Cutter!
“I’m sorry.” He forced himself to quit massaging her foot and get through with this procedure. “Now be still. This will only take a minute.”
Her shoulders stiffened at his instructions. He slid the foot-measuring plate between her foot and his thigh. The cold metal chilled his overactive libido.
“A perfect six,” he said, “but very narrow.” Then he measured the length from her ankle to her knee, sliding the measuring tape along the curve of her calf. He felt her tremble. She tried to pull away from him, but he held firm. “Your boots will be ready in six weeks, Miss…Doctor. What color would you like? White to go with your doctor coat?”
“I’m not that kind of doc.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A professor then?”
“A psychologist.”
Definite trouble. “How about black for troubled souls?”
“Or for your black eye if you don’t let go of my foot.”
She was one feisty filly. He laughed, taking more pleasure in the anger sparking in her eyes. Abruptly he released her foot and stood.
Though he dreaded bringing out the grand prize, he had no choice. Everything had all been staged, and it was too late to turn the tide. Seeing it move toward them like a float in the Rose Parade, he reached for the microphone.
“Now, ladies and gentleman and doctors, too.” His eyes darted toward Brooke. She was reaching for her wayward tennis shoe. “Here’s the grand prize.” Matt reached into his pocket for the keys. “Your very own convertible!”
The crowd went wild as the tiny roadster was wheeled to the front of the platform. Brooke dropped her shoe, her mouth gaping before she recovered, her gaze slicing toward Matt for confirmation.
“You don’t want that!” someone yelled. “Give it to me!”
“How ’bout me, honey?” a man from the back hollered. “I could sure use a date magnet like that.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed with irritation. He took Brooke’s hand and closed her fingers around the keys. “The car is yours. Understand?”
She locked gazes with him. He felt an electric shock right in the middle of his chest, as if she’d zapped him with a cattle prod.
“Could I have a van instead?” she asked.
Her question stunned him. Now, after all this time, she was going to get greedy? “What?”
“A van. You know with sliding doors on both sides.”
He knew he would regret asking, but he couldn’t stop himself, “Why?”
This time, she leaned toward the microphone. “I’m going to donate this car…well, van…to an orphanage here in town.”
The crowd fell silent. It felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room and every greedy hand waver chastised.
“An orphanage?” Matt repeated.
She nodded. “They really need a vehicle to transport the children for doctor appointments and special events. So if you don’t mind…?”
She pushed the keys back toward him, putting the ball in his court. How could he say no?
Slowly light applause trickled through the crowd, and Matt’s attitude toward Brooke suddenly changed. An orphanage. How many people would do something like that? Not many. He gave her a nod of approval.
“Cutter’s would be glad to trade this car in for a vehicle that will help the orphanage.”
Finally Brooke gave him a smile that melted the cynicism surrounding his heart. This woman amazed, confounded and confused him. And that spelled trouble.
“What else do I get?” Brooke asked. Luckily her voice didn’t carry to the mike.
What else? Maybe he’d been wrong about her. Maybe he’d wanted to believe there was someone out there who wasn’t interested in money or what he could give them.
“What more do you want?” he asked.
“Isn’t there a sign over in the window saying something about a million pennies?”
He’d forgotten. This woman distracted him, jumbled his thoughts, discombobulated him. “Are you going to keep this one?”
She lifted her chin with a challenge. “Why don’t you find out?”
Chapter Two
Enough celebration for one day.
Enough Brooke Watson…or Dr. Brooke Watson…forever.
Matt strode down the hospital corridor, intent on forgetting his irritation over the millionth customer debacle. More important things concerned him.
The antiseptic smells made him scowl as he made his way past the nurses’ station. But Brooke’s clean, fresh scent of soap and sunshine lingered with him, permeated his thoughts and kept him thinking of her long, sexy, jeans-clad
