CHAPTER TWO

      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 Beverly Hills, a house in Santa Monica, a yacht and several luxury vehicles in his multiple-car garage and he’d been the most sought-after plastic surgeon on the West Coast. For a kid who’d spent his childhood believing he wasn’t good enough, it had been a dream come true.

      Looking back, he realized it had been a symbolic gesture to his rich and powerful grandfather. A man who’d used his connections to forcibly end the marriage of his son to a fellow student. A girl he’d deemed unworthy to carry the Alexander name—or the Alexander heir.

      Only it had been too late for that. Third-year journalism student Rachel Parker had already been pregnant. When the old man had found out, he’d paid her a visit and along with thinly veiled threats told her to stay away from his family. Or else.

      Afraid for her unborn child, Rachel had agreed. She’d moved across the country to ensure they never bumped into each other and Caspar Alexander had made sure that his son had been too busy—with his new wife and family—to be bothered with looking up his college flame. It hadn’t stopped Rachel from telling her son all about his father and it hadn’t stopped Gabe from dreaming—until he’d turned twelve—that his father would one day come to claim him. It had never happened. Both his father and his grandfather had conveniently gone back to their entitled lives as though nothing had happened.

      Until about two years ago when the old man had decided he needed someone to take over the family business. It seemed Caspar’s son and legitimate grandchildren were a huge disappointment and couldn’t be trusted not to squander everything he’d spent a lifetime building.

      The old man had told him how proud he was of Gabe’s achievements and that it was clear he was a chip off the old block.

      Gabe had not so politely told him what he could do with his offer.

      For a long time he’d been angry—at his mother and father—but especially the ruthless Caspar Alexander. And when he’d been invited to join the clinic he’d seen it as his ticket to the big league. Look, Gabe was saying to the old man. I didn’t need you or your family’s money to become someone. I did it all by myself.

      Then his mom had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of leukemia and none of his money, contacts, fame or his skill with a scalpel had made a difference. By the time she’d slipped away, he’d realized his mother was right. He’d become the one thing he hated above all else. He’d become just like his grandfather. Ruthless, cold in his personal relationships and interested in only two things—money and status. It had been a rude awakening. One that had spurred him on to make some drastic changes in his life.

      Someone bumped against the row of seats, jolting Gabe from the disturbing memories of his childhood and his non-existent relationship with a man who’d pretended most of Gabe’s life that he didn’t exist.

      Grateful for the disruption, he cracked open one eye to see that a small crowd had gathered at the observation window overlooking operating room three.

      A quick look at the overhead OR screen gave him a close-up of an open torso and disembodied gloved hands wielding stainless-steel instruments with skill and precision. And considering that WMS had some of the best trauma surgeons on the east coast, whoever was on the table was in good hands.

      Tugging on one earphone, he tuned into the murmur of voices around him and discovered that someone called Dr. Chang was working on a young woman who had landed beneath a bus during rush hour traffic.

      He replaced the earphone and watched the onscreen action for a few more minutes, admiring the dexterity of the leading surgeon’s hands, before letting his eyes drift over the observers.

      They were painfully young and even if they hadn’t been dressed in light blue scrubs, he would have pegged them as residents. Their fresh, animated faces reminded him of his own resident days, which meant they