Falling At The Surgeon's Feet. Lucy Ryder
listening, she let her gaze slide around the table but it came to an abrupt halt the instant she locked on a pair of amused blue-green eyes that were shockingly familiar. For the second time that morning—and it wasn’t even nine a.m.—Holly felt the breath leave her lungs.
Her head went light, her stomach cramped and she thanked God she was sitting down because there in the chair next to Langley’s was none other than…elevator guy.
Oh, God.
Her tongue emerged to moisten suddenly dry lips, and she wished she could grab the nearby water jug and drown herself before anyone noticed.
One eyebrow rose up his forehead and all Holly could think was… Who the heck is he?
Realizing she was staring at him all wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Holly jerked her gaze away to stare unseeingly at the columns of numbers on the screen, her mind racing with a kaleidoscope of images from the last half-hour. And when she realized she was absently rubbing her tingling palm down the length of her thigh she clenched both hands in her lap and struggled to control her breathing.
Maybe she’d dreamed up the entire episode. Maybe she was still asleep and dreaming.
Or having a nightmare, she snorted silently, and sneaked a peek at him. He was still watching her, his expression a mix of amusement and confusion—as though he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
He wasn’t the only one.
Frowning, she returned her unseeing gaze to Langley, nearly missing the part about the generous donation the hospital had recently received to expand P&R and finance the expensive new procedures they would be developing over the next five years, courtesy of a prominent Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.
It was the “Beverly Hills plastic surgeon” that caught Holly’s attention and her gaze jerked back to elevator guy as a bad feeling landed in the pit of her stomach.
She sucked in a sharp breath at the wicked gleam lighting his changeable eyes and barely heard Langley’s words over the blood thundering in her head.
Oh, God, please let me be wrong.
“I’m sure you all saw the announcement in the foyer this morning,” Langley was saying, and elevator guy must have caught her stunned look because he gave a tiny shrug as though to say, You should have seen that one coming. But she hadn’t. Not even close.
How could she have thought—even if she hadn’t blown through the foyer—that the guy in the battered sneakers and well-washed jeans molded to every inch of his muscular thighs and well…everywhere was some big Hollywood celebrity cosmetic surgeon?
It’s not him, Holly. It can’t be.
Besides, where was the thousand-dollar suit, the eight-hundred-dollar, hand-stitched loafers and hundred-dollar haircut? She sneaked another peek at him and ran her gaze over all that tanned skin, sun-streaked hair and languid grace and decided she could see him gracing the cover of an extreme sports magazine—or maybe Surf’s Up—more readily than a fancy Beverly Hills fundraiser.
But then Langley said, “I’d like to formally introduce Dr. Gabriel Alexander and welcome him to the West Manhattan family,” and Holly realized with an unpleasant shock that the hot guy who’d made her knees wobble and her breath hitch in her chest was the very same man who’d been linked to rumors of new procedures and extreme body-sculpting of many Hollywood A-listers and supermodels. Including her famous sister.
What the heck was he doing in Manhattan?
He even had a dimple, darn it!
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