Finding Dr. Right. Lisa B. Kamps
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Finding Dr. Right
Lisa B. Kamps
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Coming Next Month
For Gerrit and Connor, who keep me young and crazy, and for my parents, who supported me from the time I could hold a crayon in my hand. Mom, Dad—you guys always knew I could do it.
Thank you!
And finally, for my pals from the last two years.
I’ll always remember the Alamo!
Chapter One
Nathan watched as the puddle grew. Drip, drip, drip. At first held together by surface tension, the sheer volume of blood forced it to spread across the stark white floor.
Blood. His blood.
A buzzing sounded in his ears. His breaths quickened, the edges of his vision fading to a swirling gray-black. He closed his eyes, trying to banish the sight from his mind, as his stomach clenched around his breakfast.
Not that. Anything but that.
He swallowed against the inevitable, finding a shred of self-control in the part of his mind that remained detached. His eyes opened again. How could there be so much of it?
He stared, mesmerized in the most morbid sense, as the pool grew. Dark crimson against the gleaming white. He imagined he could feel the heat of it, still warm as it hit the floor with a plop. And the smell. Was he only imagining it, or did the room suddenly become heavy with that sticky metallic odor?
His vision continued to swirl as the buzzing grew louder. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to steady himself with a deep breath to keep from swaying.
“Mr. Conners?” The voice was thin, a wisp of reality reaching out to him from far away. He looked up and saw a hazy vision in white, the features indistinct against the brightness.
He swallowed, hard, and attempted to reach out. His hand turned to lead as it dropped heavily beside him. He opened his mouth to speak, thought he may have muttered something as the buzzing exploded in his head with an anticlimactic pop a second before he hit the floor with a thud.
Catherine Wilson muttered at the commotion coming from the closed room. She wasn’t supposed to be here today, had come in only for a personal favor. Now she was stuck.
She jammed the pen into her pocket, clutched the clipboard tightly in one hand and took a deep breath. No sense in drawing it out any longer. It was her own fault she couldn’t say no.
The bitter smell of ammonia stopped her midstride as she opened the door, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste while biting back a smile. A man was sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up to his chest, his head resting limply on his knees. Large hands curled protectively around his ankles and his shoulders heaved with his heavy breathing. Beside him, on the clean tile floor, was a small pool of blood.
Catherine observed the scene in the space of the few seconds it took her to close the door. Gwen was bent over the man, telling him to breathe deeply. She shook her head and glanced quickly at the chart.
“Mr. Conners?”
The man released his grip from his ankle and waved absently in the air, brushing her off. Catherine took another deep breath, reminding herself it wasn’t his fault she was here today. “Mr. Conners? I need you to take a seat on the table, sir.” Her voice was brisk, businesslike. It was the tone she reserved for the possible troublemakers, and Gwen looked up at her sharply. The man released a loud groan and shook his head, muttering something into his leg.
“Mr. Conners, I really do need you—”
“I said no.” The voice was still muffled but louder, with as much force as Catherine’s request. She stared at the figure on the floor, then looked questioningly at Gwen.
“Um, it seems that Mr. Conners had a slight…accident.”
“Accident?” Catherine bit the inside of her cheek at the flash of amusement that sparkled in Gwen’s eyes.
“Yes. He, um, fell off the table. When I was trying to draw some blood.”
Catherine turned from the nurse to study the man on the floor, sympathy surging to the surface as she realized he must be embarrassed. She looked back at Gwen, her voice less brisk. “Did he hit his head at all?” The nurse shook her head.
Catherine placed the clipboard on the small table in the corner before leaning down closer to the man.
“Mr. Conners, are you feeling okay? Here, why don’t we help you stand up.” She motioned to the nurse and reached for one of the man’s arms, surprised by the heat of his flesh. “Then we—”
“No.”
Catherine was surprised at the quiet demand in the man’s voice as he pulled his arm from her grasp. But not before she’d noticed the hard muscle beneath her fingers and sensed the leashed tension thrumming through him. She took a breath then motioned for Gwen to get assistance.
Catherine settled on the floor a few feet from him and leaned against the wall, her arms folded in front of her as she studied him. Thick black hair fell forward, hiding his face, and his muscular arms were wrapped around sturdy legs. His hands were large, as well, with long, tapered fingers.
Normally she would be hesitant to stay by herself with a potentially difficult patient, but some inner instinct told her that she needn’t worry with him. Yes, he was a large, powerful man. His physical build alone was intimidating, but she felt no threat. If she felt anything, it was empathy for the keen embarrassment that pulsated around him. She could certainly identify with humiliating reactions at the worst possible time.
Catherine took a deep breath and spoke softly in an effort to alleviate some of his embarrassment. “Mr. Conners, you’d probably be more comfortable if you weren’t sitting on the floor. Why don’t you let me help—”