Pregnant By The Playboy Surgeon. Lucy Ryder
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to the floor. Pressing a shaky hand to her even shakier belly, she gave a ragged moan and banged her head against the side of the elevator a couple times, hoping to knock a little sense into her head.
Oh. My. God. She couldn’t believe it. The guy she’d brushed off, then spent way too much time thinking about, was a surgeon...at the very same hospital where she worked. Not only that, he was the very same Dr. Hot Stuff all the female personnel—married and unmarried—were drooling over. And if that didn’t have alarm bells shrieking away in the back of her mind, nothing would.
Not interested, she told herself firmly. She’d barely survived a relationship with one rich, handsome and hotly in demand man and she had no intention of melting for another.
Nope. No way. No how. Absolutely no melting.
But she’d dreamed about him, she was forced to admit. The type of dreams a girl never shared with anyone—not even her best friend. The types of dreams that made her blush just thinking about them, because she hadn’t had a sexy dream since she was a shy, awkward teenager mooning over hot bad boys.
She would rather step in front of a bus than have him suspect that she was like every other woman, swooning when he turned his green eyes her way, ramping up her hormones while every nerve-ending, every strand of DNA, perked up and did a Mexican wave.
Look at me! her nipples had yelled.
The elevator doors opened and she was hugely relieved that the hallway was empty and she could enjoy her little freak-out in private. Instead of heading for the ER, she ducked into the bathroom and barely resisted the urge to shove her entire head under the cold water tap and drown herself.
She splashed her hot face instead and when she caught sight of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, paused to give herself a stern lecture. No brooding over hot, sexy surgeons with green eyes, she told her reflection firmly. At least until you can behave like a mature professional.
On second thought, she should just stay away from the entire species altogether. Besides, he had even more women throwing themselves at him than Richard Ashford-Hall III. She wasn’t ever going to be one of a crowd again. She would never put herself in a position where she had to fight for any man’s attention. It was too humiliating to discover that no matter what you did you’d just never measure up.
Besides, she was damaged goods, wasn’t she? And no man, Richard had told her cruelly, wanted damaged goods. If she couldn’t do what she’d been put on the earth for—provide him with an heir—she was no good to anyone.
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