about it brought back the shame and disgust at the knowledge that he’d been as culpable as any one of his patients in their futile pursuit of perfection. But that didn’t mean he was going to let her get away with her accusation—or her attitude, which, now that he came to think about it, had changed right about the time Langley had introduced him.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Want to know what I learned about you?”
“No,” she said quickly, and took a step toward him, only to stop abruptly when he didn’t move aside because for some idiotic reason he didn’t want to let her go. “I’m sure your insights are simply fascinating,” she continued, frowning at her watch as though she was very busy and couldn’t spare the time. “But I’m not that interesting.”
Gabe smiled, because in the few days—encounters— that he’d known her, Holly Buchanan had been anything but uninteresting. He lifted a hand to scratch his jaw and paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully when she sucked in a tiny breath as though the rasp of beard-roughened skin was somehow too intimate in the quiet room.
“You’re intensely focused, keep to yourself and practice with your hands without realizing it. You bite your thumbnail when you’re concentrating and hate being the center of attention. In fact, you mostly present only one side of your face to people you’re talking to.”
She bit her lip and looked away. Zeroing in on the move, he was suddenly tempted to lean forward and bite that plump lip too. But she was carrying her briefcase again and he didn’t want to tempt her to use it as a weapon. This time her aim might just reach ground zero.
“How am I doing so far?”
He was rewarded when she rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together as though her silence would discourage him. He’d spent enough time strutting around California beaches during his adolescence to know when a woman was disinterested. He’d bet his entire surfboard collection that Holly Buchanan had been just as affected by their little skirmish as he had. Her dilated pupils, wild rosy flush and that soft gasp she’d given when she’d realized how close he was—and how hard—were as telling as the shiver that had gone through her.
She was attracted but determined to fight it. The question was why. What had he done to offend her?
“Okay,” he mused, studying her through narrowed eyes. “My guess is you did all the girly-girl stuff, like ballet, piano and deportment. You probably feel like you have to excel at everything you do…maybe to make someone happy. Mother? Father? Boyfriend?” Her mouth dropped open and he grunted with displeasure at the notion. “Is it a boyfriend?”
“As if!” she practically squawked, and he smirked, strangely pleased by her reaction. Seeming embarrassed by her outburst, Holly pressed her lips together and tried to look bored.
He scratched his jaw again before sliding his gaze over her face, touching briefly on those silvery white scars. “I’d say your interest in plastic surgery stems from your own experiences or maybe some deep-seated need to fix other people’s mistakes.”
Her hand rose swiftly and then froze in mid-air, as though she was fighting an instinctive reaction to hide her face, and Gabe felt his gut clench as though he’d been carelessly insensitive.
Fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and pull her into the safety of his arms—which was shocking enough—he let his gaze slide over her classically classy outfit, lingering overly long on her breasts, covered but not hidden by the expert fit of her jacket. He suddenly knew exactly how to put that spark of rebellion in her eyes and get the stubborn tilt back to that Irish chin.
“Or maybe I’ve got it completely wrong,” he drawled smoothly, making no secret of the direction of his gaze. “Maybe I’m not the only one into cosmetic surgery?”
For a moment she stared at him like he’d uttered an obscenity before she huffed out a breath and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, making Gabe wonder if it was to hide from his gaze or keep from taking a swing at him.
“That’s just insulting,” she snapped, and Gabe grinned. He kind of liked the idea that she was struggling with some pretty intense feelings and he didn’t mind the idea of getting into a tussle with her if she did take a swing at him.
In fact, he would enjoy it. Probably more than he should.
He expected a scathing response—or maybe a request for him to get the hell out of her way. What he didn’t expect was for her to open her mouth and say, “Did you know that women with breast implants are three times more likely to commit suicide or develop drug- and alcohol-related dependencies?”
Gabe tore his attention from her breasts with a “Huh?” and wondered if he’d heard correctly. She flushed and sucked in air before continuing and he struggled to connect the random facts with what they’d been discussing.
“Two-thirds are repeat clients.”
“O-o-okay….” Well, he could certainly attest to that fact. But what the hell did that have to do with—?
“In fact,” she continued peevishly, as though she held him personally responsible for women’s dissatisfaction with their bodies, “more than five million Americans are addicted to plastic surgery, spending about thirteen billion dollars annually on a variety of procedures. That’s enough to rival the national debt of a small country.”
She stared at him as though waiting for his response but he wasn’t sure what he would say if he did. Instead, he studied her silently for a couple of beats, his mouth slowly curling up at one corner. “Uh-huh. That’s quite fascinating but doesn’t really answer my question.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded like “Never mind,” before taking a bold step toward him, no doubt hoping good manners would prompt him to move out of her way.
“I have mace,” she announced when he remained blocking her escape.
“No, you don’t,” he disputed, his grin growing into a chuckle when she blew out a frustrated breath. Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits and her hand tightened on her briefcase as though she contemplated whacking him with it. “I know exactly what you have in there, remember,” he said, angling his shoulders just enough for her to slip past but not enough that she could avoid touching him.
But Holly Buchanan was obviously no pushover because just before she stomped from the room she sent him a level stare all women seemed to develop in the womb that said he was lower than slime for behaving like a jerk.
But, really, he didn’t know of one guy who wouldn’t have.
For a long moment he admired the straight spine, slender, curvy hips twitching with annoyance as she headed down the passage. The strappy heels that had caused at least one of her accidents this week tapped out an irritated beat on the tiled floor that for some odd reason he found damn sexy.
“By the way,” he called out, “did you know that the world’s largest condom is two hundred and sixty feet long with a base circumference of three hundred and sixty feet?” And when she paused in her stride and sent him a what-the-heck? look over her shoulder, he shrugged. “I’m just saying. Mediums are only good as water bombs.”
