Doctor For Keeps. KRISTI GOLD
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“Beer,” Miranda blurted out. Lord, why did she say that? She didn’t even like the stuff.
“A beer it is. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, then disappeared into the apartment.
Miranda took the chair near the boxwood hedge, farthest from the door, and closest to the walkway. Just in case.
She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs from her common sense. She must be nuts for agreeing to this. For heaven’s sake, he was a stranger, albeit a beautiful one. But she had to admit she was more than a bit curious about him. For instance, why on earth had he extended the invitation to her when the man could have his choice of women?
Okay, so the complex wasn’t buzzing with buxom blondes this time of night on a Sunday. Obviously Musician Rick had invited her—thistle-thin with waist-length, straight-as-a-two-by-four, mousy-brown hair—because she was the only woman available.
“Here.” He handed an amber bottle of beer over her shoulder. She studied the dusting of dark hair that extended up his arm. She found his strong square fingers fascinating. She found every inch of him fascinating.
Miranda finally took the bottle and held it up to the porch light. “I don’t recognize the name.” Not that she would. “Import?”
“Domestic.” He dropped down into the chair next to hers. “It’s a small brewery from the Hill Country. My friend’s favorite. If you don’t like it, I’ll bring you something else.”
“It’s fine.” She wasn’t fond of any kind of beer, so it didn’t matter if it was made with Rocky Mountain spring water or well-water from Amarillo. But she didn’t want to be rude.
He took a long draw from his beer, then asked, “How long have you been living here at the complex?”
She thought a minute. The past two weeks had gone by in a whirl of planning and unpacking. The first few steps toward true independence. “Fifteen days, almost sixteen.”
He stretched his long legs out in front of him with a panther-like grace. “Are you from here?”
“Actually, no.” She stared off at the twinkling Dallas skyline, so unlike the rural horizon she had grown up with and eventually taken for granted. “I’m from a small town near the Louisiana border. Far-east Texas.”
“You’re a long way from home.” As he took another drink, Miranda watched his Adam’s apple contract and followed the path below where she glimpsed a gold chain and another shading of dark hair peeking out from his open shirt.
She dragged her gaze back to his face and tried to concentrate on polite conversation. “How about you? Where are you from?”
“San Antonio.”
The two times she’d been to San Antonio, she’d loved its romantic ambience. Not that she’d ever traveled there with a man. She had always dreamed about it, though. “That’s a beautiful place.”
He tipped the bottle toward her. “I bet you like the downtown area. Alamo. River Walk.”
“How did you guess?”
“Easy. You have romantic eyes.”
She laughed. “Define ‘romantic eyes.”’
Rick inclined his head and locked into her gaze. “Wistful. Wise, like you’ve seen more than most people your age.”
She hadn’t traveled much, hadn’t even left Texas to obtain her nursing degree, but she had seen a lot of heartache. More than she cared to admit. And somehow he knew that. Maybe in reality he was an undercover FBI agent. Maybe he was psychic.
Maybe you need to get a grip on the imagination, Miranda Jane.
She smiled nervously. “I’m just a country girl who’s moved to the city. I suspect I’ll see a lot more of the world in the next few months.”
“What do you do for a living?” he asked.
“I’m a registered nurse.”
He pulled his legs in and sat forward in the chair, seemingly interested in the revelation. “No kidding? Hospital or doctor’s office?”
“I work for a group of doctors.” Or she would as of tomorrow, a reminder of why she needed to go home. But right now her cluttered apartment didn’t seem as appealing as the man sitting next to her.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tough profession. Why’d you choose it?”
It took great effort for Miranda to mask her surprise over his intuitiveness. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“I’ve found that most health-care professionals have some motivating life experience that affects their choice.”
She did have one very prominent motivating force, but she didn’t want to go into that with a perfect stranger, no matter how perfect he seemed to be. “Actually, I wonder sometimes what possessed me to do it. I don’t like most doctors.”
He sat back in his chair and blew out a tuneless whistle. “You’re direct, aren’t you?”
“No need in beating around the bush. They’re basically high-strung, perfectionist egomaniacs.”
He leaned forward again and dangled the beer between his parted knees. “That’s a pretty strong generalization.”
“Maybe, but I’ve met quite a few with God complexes bigger than a stretch limo.”
He laughed again, a deep rich sound that vibrated clear down to Miranda’s soul. “I won’t argue that.”
“You sound like you know from experience.”
“Some of my best friends are doctors. So is the guy I’m apartment-sitting for.”
Open mouth, insert size-seven white sandal. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your friend.”
He looked more amused than offended. “You didn’t. God knows he can be a pain in the…butt.”
She sat back in the chair, feeling more relaxed with every passing moment. “What kind of doctor is your friend?”
“A resident in thoracic surgery.”
She wasn’t surprised. The apartment complex was full of medical residents due to its proximity to the hospital and the cheap rent. That’s why she had chosen the location.
Rick slapped at his neck and muttered, “Damned airplane-sized mosquitoes.”
“I guess it’s time to head for cover.” She sounded hesitant, even to her own ears.
He pointed at her three-quarters-full bottle. “You aren’t finished with your drink yet.”
She examined the bottle again, wondering whether or not she should stay. In her opinion, the only thing worse than beer was hot beer, and the only thing worse than indecisiveness was making the wrong choice. “I’m really not much of a beer drinker.” Or risk taker, for that matter.
“Then I’ll get you something else.”
“Really, I need to go,” she said without much conviction.
He set his bottle on the concrete floor and scooted the chair closer. “Just a few more minutes?”
She rose, needing to escape the insistent voice in her head that kept telling her to go for it. She thrust the beer at him. “Here. You can finish this for me.”
Rick stood and reached for the bottle. Their fingers brushed, sending a succession of chills down Miranda’s spine.
His espresso eyes bored into her, as if he knew her secret desire to stay. “Don’t leave yet, Randi.”
Her flesh still tingled where he’d touched her. If she didn’t know better, she’d write it off to poor circulation. The