Emergency Engagement. Michele Dunaway
whole heart and soul, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, death-do-us-part thing. He wanted the fairy tale. Hell, he wanted what, in reality, probably didn’t exist.
Quinton twisted the bottle in his hand. Maybe he shouldn’t have been a doctor, especially one with ER duty. Doctors experienced too much negative reality. Jaded, Quinton knew the fairy tale was fake.
Unlike Carly Johnson. At four years of age, she had confused him for a prince. He was no prince. Quinton shook his head. Eight days had passed since Carly left the ER, and her small face still haunted him. She’d been pale but undeniably brave after her body had begun to purge itself of the liquid charcoal.
She’d even hugged him as she left, her small arms finding and tugging at the heartstrings he kept safely hidden. At that moment he’d looked into Beth Johnson’s blue eyes and seen tears. Not tears of happiness, but of something else he hadn’t been able to catch before she’d lowered her lashes and hidden the emotions. Images of Beth had haunted him, too, and that had never happened before. They remained as fresh as on the day they met—
“She’s here,” Larry said, interrupting Quinton’s thoughts. “At least stay for this. Bill won’t understand if you walk out early.”
“Fine.” Quinton tossed the empty bottle into a trash can. He could use the time to sober up a bit. Although he’d only had two beers, he rarely imbibed any alcohol, and he could definitely feel its effects. Besides, even though he disliked strip shows, maybe the tawdriness of it would help dispel his memories of the Johnsons. Quinton followed Larry into the family room and both men took a seat on the sofa.
“Everyone here?” Mike, one of the senior doctors in the practice, glanced around the room. “Great. Well, Bill, this little show’s just for you, to give you a hint what you’re giving up by being dumb enough to tie the knot again!”
Hooting and hollering followed as a woman entered the room. The large-brimmed hat she wore shadowed her face, and a tan trench coat covered her body. She set a boom box down, pressed a button and the music began. Catcalls resounded as she rotated her hips sensually. At the same time, she began to peel off her gloves, then tossed one of them over the head of the guy nearest to her. He responded with a loud whistle.
Quinton reached forward and, from the dish on the coffee table, grabbed a handful of peanuts. He should have left. He just hated these displays, they always embarrassed him. His highly moralistic mother had ingrained in him a sense of gentlemanly dignity and appreciation of a lady. Thus, he’d never been able to understand how a woman could sell her body to make money.
Deciding to take a clinical approach to the stripper, Quinton leaned back against the sofa and studied her as he had those pornographic films years ago during a six-hour-straight pornographic films desensitization exercise in med school.
Her hat still hid part of her face, but the trench coat had been loosened to reveal her black lace outfit underneath. She did a maneuver in which she dropped to sit without a chair, and Bill grinned widely. The beer Quinton had had suddenly tasted old and pasty in his mouth. She stood up, flashed the crowd by opening and closing her trench coat, then simply opened the coat and let slip off her shoulders.
The words to the song were something about leaving the hat on but she tilted it up and away from her face. Once she turned around Quinton would be able to see her. But she arched her back and pivoted.
The trench coat fell to her feet and all the men except for Quinton hollered. Instead, he swallowed. Despite his clinical aloofness, the body underneath the black lace outfit appealed to him. The woman didn’t have a perfect body, but her warm full curves made his fingers itch to touch them. She unhooked a garter belt and Quinton felt himself strain against his jeans. She straightened, and with a flick of her wrist, she finally sent the hat flying. Dark blond hair tumbled from beneath the hat and spread over her shoulders. Then she turned.
And Quinton froze.
Those lips. That nose. Those blue eyes. They’d stayed with him for the past two weeks.
He was on his feet in a second, next to her in maybe one more. She began to loosen a strap. “Stop,” he said. He placed a hand on her arm.
For her to register that he wasn’t just some drunk frisking a feel took a moment. Beth swatted Quinton’s hand away. “What are you doing?” She kept her voice low, so only he could hear.
“I’m getting you out of here.” He couldn’t believe the force behind his words. To hell with the boos from his friends and acquaintances. They were married or about to be. They didn’t need a peep show, especially of her. Hell, most of them wouldn’t remember her face five minutes after she left.
What kind of a mother was she, anyway? He could still picture Carly’s innocent eyes.
“Cut it out, Quinton. Whatcha doing?” someone called.
He really didn’t know, nor did he answer, but like a possessed man, he circled Beth’s wrist with his fingers and dragged her toward the kitchen.
“Let go of me,” Beth said as she wrenched herself away. “I don’t appreciate what you think you’re doing. I have to finish my job—”
At that moment she recognized him. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’ is right. Your job’s finished.”
“Quinton?” Larry poked his head around the cabinets. “Is everything okay?”
“Move on to the porno flicks or something. She won’t be finishing. And bring me her stuff, will ya?”
“What do I tell Bill?”
“Make something up.”
“You can’t do this,” Beth said.
“I just did,” Quinton said, as Larry returned with Beth’s things. “You had me so fooled.” He shook his head savagely as he tossed her trench coat at her. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me…”
She must have seen the look in his eyes, for she headed toward the door. After telling Larry to make his excuses, that he’d explain later, he was right on her heels.
“Where’s your car?” he demanded as they exited the building, his gaze roving the street.
“I took the L,” she said.
“Then get in mine,” he said. One hand still on her arm, with his free hand he fumbled for the remote and unlocked his Mercedes. When he reached for the door handle, she pulled away.
“Stop this. I’m not going anywhere with you. You’ve screwed everything up! Don’t you get it? I had a job to do and—”
“Job’s over. I’m taking you home. You won’t go back inside.” He glared at her, and she glared right back.
She must have believed him, though, for she said, “I can get home by myself. I don’t even remember your name.”
“I’m Quinton Searle. You can call me Quinton.” His jaw set in a stubborn line. “And I’m taking you home.”
Her chin came up as she held her ground. “I can take care of myself. You are not my keeper. I got here, didn’t I?”
More possessiveness swept over him, even surprising him. “That’s irrelevant. I’ll drive you. In that getup at this time of the night you won’t even make it to the L station without being accosted.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Her ice-blue eyes blazed, and Quinton felt something inside him stir.
Damn, but she did things to him. Exactly what he wasn’t certain, but he’d never yanked a woman out of a party before, much less a stripper. “I’m not attacking you. I’m saving you.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, but to his relief she complied and got in the car.
His respite from her verbal attack lasted mere seconds.
“You