was only when she passed a startled nurse pushing a bassinet that she realized she was on the twentieth floor and not the twenty-second.
Muttering to herself, she changed direction and headed for the stairs, resigned to the fact that she was nearly fifteen minutes late for her meeting.
The moment she slipped into the boardroom she felt the eyes of every person in the room turn to watch her entrance, including the laser-blue stare of the chief of surgical residents, Professor Gareth Langley. Flushing, she ducked her head and murmured an apology, and slipped into the only open chair around the huge oval table.
Fortunately, with the day she was having, she wasn’t scheduled for any surgery. She’d probably slice and dice her fingers—or worse.
Without looking up, she drew the nearest folder closer and opened it, knowing she would find the new surgical schedule. There were other pages inside but Holly ignored them and quickly scanned the list, sighing her relief when she saw that she was scheduled for a number of procedures with Dr. Lin Syu and two with the head of plastic surgery, Dr. Geoff Hunt.
She lifted her lashes and caught Lin Syu’s quick smile before she transferred her attention to the head of P&R, who was—oh, joy—looking right at her. She flushed beneath his questioning look and bit her lip but after a brief nod in her direction and a dry “Now that Dr. Buchanan has finally joined us…” Geoff Hunt turned away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his perfectly creased pants as he rocked back on his heels. “Perhaps we can get to the real reason Professor Langley is here this morning.”
Now that the heat was off her, Holly let out a silent breath and relaxed into her chair, only half listening as Langley rose and began talking about the proposed expansion of the P&R department and the upcoming charity ball. It was a subject that he’d brought up before and one that Holly’s mother—as CEO of Chrysalis Foundation—was involved in.
The Chrysalis Foundation worked solely for children and young people who needed plastic or reconstruction surgery but had no way of paying for the expensive procedures. It was also an organization her mother had started after Holly’s own traumatic experiences.
Half listening, she let her gaze slide around the table but it came to an abrupt halt the instant she locked on a pair of amused blue-green eyes that were shockingly familiar. For the second time that morning—and it wasn’t even nine a.m.—Holly felt the breath leave her lungs.
Her head went light, her stomach cramped and she thanked God she was sitting down because there in the chair next to Langley’s was none other than…elevator guy.
Oh, God.
Her tongue emerged to moisten suddenly dry lips, and she wished she could grab the nearby water jug and drown herself before anyone noticed.
One eyebrow rose up his forehead and all Holly could think was… Who the heck is he?
Realizing she was staring at him all wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Holly jerked her gaze away to stare unseeingly at the columns of numbers on the screen, her mind racing with a kaleidoscope of images from the last half-hour. And when she realized she was absently rubbing her tingling palm down the length of her thigh she clenched both hands in her lap and struggled to control her breathing.
Maybe she’d dreamed up the entire episode. Maybe she was still asleep and dreaming.
Or having a nightmare, she snorted silently, and sneaked a peek at him. He was still watching her, his expression a mix of amusement and confusion—as though he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
He wasn’t the only one.
Frowning, she returned her unseeing gaze to Langley, nearly missing the part about the generous donation the hospital had recently received to expand P&R and finance the expensive new procedures they would be developing over the next five years, courtesy of a prominent Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.
It was the “Beverly Hills plastic surgeon” that caught Holly’s attention and her gaze jerked back to elevator guy as a bad feeling landed in the pit of her stomach.
She sucked in a sharp breath at the wicked gleam lighting his changeable eyes and barely heard Langley’s words over the blood thundering in her head.
Oh, God, please let me be wrong.
“I’m sure you all saw the announcement in the foyer this morning,” Langley was saying, and elevator guy must have caught her stunned look because he gave a tiny shrug as though to say, You should have seen that one coming. But she hadn’t. Not even close.
How could she have thought—even if she hadn’t blown through the foyer—that the guy in the battered sneakers and well-washed jeans molded to every inch of his muscular thighs and well…everywhere was some big Hollywood celebrity cosmetic surgeon?
It’s not him, Holly. It can’t be.
Besides, where was the thousand-dollar suit, the eight-hundred-dollar, hand-stitched loafers and hundred-dollar haircut? She sneaked another peek at him and ran her gaze over all that tanned skin, sun-streaked hair and languid grace and decided she could see him gracing the cover of an extreme sports magazine—or maybe Surf’s Up—more readily than a fancy Beverly Hills fundraiser.
But then Langley said, “I’d like to formally introduce Dr. Gabriel Alexander and welcome him to the West Manhattan family,” and Holly realized with an unpleasant shock that the hot guy who’d made her knees wobble and her breath hitch in her chest was the very same man who’d been linked to rumors of new procedures and extreme body-sculpting of many Hollywood A-listers and supermodels. Including her famous sister.
What the heck was he doing in Manhattan?
He even had a dimple, darn it!
DR. GABRIEL ALEXANDER sighed and wedged himself into the movie-house-style chair, scooching down so he could tip his head back and finally close his eyes. It seemed like months instead of days since he’d shared a very interesting elevator ride with a certain surgical resident and he was exhausted—no thanks to said resident.
Crossing one ankle over the other on a backrest a few chairs down probably made him look like a long-legged spider squashed into a matchbox, but Gabe just needed some quiet time out from his hectic schedule. Besides, as a resident he’d slept anywhere; his favorite being observation rooms where it was usually quiet—especially after eight at night.
Popping his earphones in his ears, he sighed as rock music washed over him. It had only been four days since he’d been welcomed to West Manhattan Saints by a stunning briefcase-wielding assailant, but he kind of liked the vibe of being back in a large medical facility. Seems selling his partnership to some entitled young punk hungry for the Hollywood lifestyle had been the right decision after all.
For the past six years he’d been attached to a small private clinic that was so exclusive very few people even knew of its existence—except if you were famous, ultra-wealthy or both. Now, just thinking about what he’d left behind made Gabe shudder with an odd mix of pride, distaste and shame. And if that didn’t make him a candidate for the psych ward, nothing would. Not even his screwed-up childhood.
He’d had a mansion in
