Brennan burst into the office, edging the woman aside and dividing her gaze, giving him an apologetic glance and the woman a killing glare. “I’m so sorry, Doctor. I don’t know who on God’s green earth this woman thinks she is.”
This was not the time for Mrs. Brennan, either. “Give us a minute,” Thomas told her.
Mrs. Brennan’s jaw dropped. “But I can have security here in a jiff—”
“I’ll call you if I need you.”
Even Mrs. Brennan at her feistiest couldn’t mistake the finality in his tone. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she muttered darkly, slipping out the door.
The woman clicked the door shut behind her and crossed the room to stand in front of his desk. “Thank you. For your time.”
Sudden urgency made his voice hard, but he needed to know.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
She hesitated. “Lia Taylor.”
An unusual feeling of shame made him launch into his explanation even though he rarely, if ever, felt the need to make himself understood to others. Normally, he did his thing, which was performing his job to the best of his excellent ability, and if someone had an issue with his occasional abrasiveness, then that was just too damn bad. If people preferred a surgeon with a sweeter temper but unsteady hands, then that was their choice, right?
Normally, that was.
With Lia Taylor, on the other hand, he was happy to spill his guts.
Anything to convince her that he wasn’t a complete SOB.
“Just so you know,” he said, “Dr. Brown’s earlier mistake means that our patient is unstable and needs antibiotics for several days. Which means that we have to postpone her surgery for several days. Which isn’t good.”
“Oh.” Lia blinked. Something in her expression softened, and he felt a corresponding easing of his own tension. Did he have a chance with her, then, if she realized he wasn’t a bastard? “It was none of my business.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“I’m not sure what got into me. I’m a crusader, I guess. I usually root for the underdog.”
“Good to know. I’ll bear that in mind.”
“But that’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” His belly tightened with delicious anticipation. “Why are you here?”
It took several long beats for her to answer.
“I’m here about my son.” She drew a deep breath, then another, clearly gathering courage to tell him something big. “I’m here about … our son.”
Chapter 3
Our son.
The two words hung in the air, hovering over his head like one of those giant anvils that Road Runner was always using to nail Wile E. Coyote in those old Looney Tunes cartoons.
And then they hit him, along with the stinging realization that this woman had no personal interest in him whatsoever.
“Our son?” he echoed, reeling.
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
She seemed to have expected this reaction, because she flinched but quickly recovered, plowing ahead with grim determination. “I know you don’t believe me, but he’s sick. And I need your help.”
Oh, okay. He got it. With a bitter laugh, he strode to the door and opened it, the better to speed this little liar on her way. “Nice try. I hate to tell you this, but your theatrics won’t get you to the front of my waiting list for new patients, okay? You need to wait your turn like everyone else. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
To his utter shock, she put her warm little hand on top of his where it rested on the knob, and stared up at him with such a wild mix of hope and desperation in her face that he had to turn away from it. “I’m not making this up. Look at me. I swear on Jalen’s life that I’m not making this up. Please hear me out.”
Jalen.
Weaker and more foolish than he needed to be where this one woman was concerned, he looked at her.
Mistake.
Tears sparkled in those big brown eyes, clinging to her black lashes and threatening to spill onto smooth brown cheeks that had to be the softest things in the world, not that he’d ever know. Worse was her unblinking earnestness, which was unexpected but unmistakable. Whatever else she might be, Lia Taylor didn’t appear to be off her meds, a wacko or a plain vanilla liar.
Or maybe that was just his lust talking.
Snatching his hand free—maybe he could think better when she wasn’t touching him—he stalked back to his desk, anxious to put some distance between him and her and between him and his growing sense of unease.
“Start talking,” he said. “Why don’t you start with explaining this miraculous event, since you and I have never laid eyes on each other before today, much less had sex.” He let his gaze scrape down her body, lingering on a few key points, trying to insult her the way she’d insulted his intelligence by expecting him to believe this fairy tale. “You didn’t think I’d forget having sex with you, did you, sweetheart? Because there’s no chance of that. Let me assure you.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart. This is hard enough without you being patronizing.” She shut the door again and took a few steps farther into the office. “And of course it wasn’t an immaculate conception—”
He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms and his legs. “Oh, I get it. This is the part of the conversation where you try to convince me that we had sex after some college frat party and I was too drunk to remember.”
“No, actually,” she said, her voice cooling several degrees and her tears long gone by now, “I’ve never been sexually attracted to drunk people.”
So she wasn’t going to pursue that line of argument, eh?
Smart choice. Especially since the chance of him forgetting a night with her, drunk or not, were the same as him playing starting center for the L.A. Lakers. Anyway, he’d been too busy studying to have many drunk nights in college, and too careful of his future to have unprotected sex with random women.
“Well, feel free to enlighten me.”
“My husband and I—” she began.
The H-word didn’t sit well with him, which was insane. “You’re married?”
“Widowed.” She had the nerve to raise one delicate brow with obvious annoyance. “Are you going to let me get a complete sentence out?”
He waved a hand for her to continue.
