Czytaj książkę: «Dante's Shock Proposal»

To Amy, Annie, and Tina. Expect me to whine incessantly until we do this again! No, really. When are we going to do this again? How does now work for y’all?

Amy: will pretty much always be jealous of your inspirational idea—Magic Mike: surgeon. Thank you for your tireless friendship, and for seriously raising the bar! *luff*

Annie: for being an amazing, energetic weirdo who makes this hyperactive purple-haired lunatic feel right at home! And being the other quirky medical writer. Ugly Sisters 4 Evah!

Tina: this marks our third author-led collaboration and it keeps getting better! Thank you for continuing to come back and try again. ♥

Laura McCallen: sorry for being such a pain! And thank you for not only whipping the proposal into shape, but for all you’ve done to work with me—this year’s been a tricksy one! ♥

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE WAS BEING stood up.

Badgered into a blind date by her coworkers, and they hadn’t even picked a responsible man who’d actually show up to the club where he’d asked her to meet him.

Nurse Lise Bradshaw looked at her watch for the tenth time in twenty minutes, waved down a server, ordered a mojito, then let herself look somewhere besides the door she’d been staring at since arriving.

Don’t think about him.

Don’t think about any of it.

To heck with judgmental people who had no idea what it was like to date in the current decade and absolutely didn’t support her life plan.

No one here knew she’d been stood up, and even if they figured it out, she didn’t know any of them anyway.

The music was good. Tonight could be an embarrassing footnote to her week, or it could be the fun she’d dressed for. Even if she was there alone, no one was ever really alone on a dance floor in South Beach.

If, by some miracle, her date managed to drag his sorry butt to the club, amid the black and white decor, her slinky red wrap dress would stand out whether it was crowded or not, and it was still too early to be hopping.

In her safe, quiet life, Lise went to work, worked hard, read a lot, and planned for her future—a future where she’d have a family again. She didn’t go clubbing with her coworkers, and had no close friends to speak of since moving from Jacksonville to Miami—so didn’t go dancing with them either. Basically, she didn’t go clubbing. If—no, when—she managed to get her plan rolling, there wouldn’t be any nights in her future for dancing, so she might as well make the most of it.

She’d agreed to the fix-ups not because she ever wanted to replicate her parents’ deadly marriage but because she wanted to fully enjoy her remaining not-pregnant weeks.

Her mojito arrived and she downed half of it before helping herself to the dance floor.

Instruments sat ready on a stage elevated at the far side of the dance floor, promising live music later. But for now the DJ’s choice got her feet and body moving, and they could put the song on repeat for the whole evening for all Lise cared.

Staking out a corner near the stage, she closed her eyes and let the music take her. Most of the lyrics shot past her, but she picked up on enough to get the meaning. The beat filled in the rest, and she let it wash away the week’s frustration and worry, let it warm her belly...or maybe that was the mojito.

Three songs in, the music faded, but another song didn’t start. She stopped her swinging beat and opened her eyes, her gaze landing on musicians striding past her to the stage.

A tall man in a three-piece black suit and shirt—jacket missing—and a black fedora pulled low met her gaze as he walked past her.

Eyes black as his suit connected with hers, and Lise felt the thrill of shared attraction before recognition seared through her.

Those eyes. She knew those eyes. Her breath stuttered, heat flaring in cheeks and racing down over her neck and chest.

Dr. Valentino.

While not technically her boss, she worked too closely at his side in surgery with masks covering everything but those eyes for her not to recognize them.

She would have even if she hadn’t also been ignoring an unwelcome lusty crush on the good doctor for the past two years. He looked at her like he wanted to sweep her into his arms and learn her curves right there on the dance floor, like a sugar addict at an all-you-can-eat ice-cream bar. Tempted, with intentions forming...

He’d never looked at her like that before, and she’d always tried hard not to look at him like that.

For all their time working together, she knew next to nothing about him. Great surgeon, freakishly sexy, sometimes testy, and she knew which instruments and techniques he preferred.

Some voice in the back of her mind shook her out of her staring. Go back to your table, dummy.

Her feet stayed stuck, like her eyes.

Dr. Valentino headed for a piano at her end of the stage. As he stepped over the bench his gaze connected with hers again, and her stomach bottomed out.

That was desire. Real desire. An honest-to-God, I-want-you-hot-on-this-piano heat, those gorgeous eyes filled with dirty, dirty promises.

How did he do that?

Had he always felt that way but been too proper to show it at the hospital? He could obviously hide things—like musical ability. Like him being in a band and wearing real, non-scrub-like clothing better than anyone had a right to. Who wore a three-piece suit to a nightclub—assuming there was a jacket somewhere around the establishment?

A rush left her feeling powerful and sexy, something she’d not felt in a long time. This was the emotional payoff for the red dress, which had been giving her courage and confidence all evening.

Her date may have stood her up, but she barely gave him a passing thought when Dr. Valentino looked at her like that!

Suddenly his brows snapped down over narrowing dark eyes. A scowl darkened them further and thinned his usually fine mouth. His storm shutters came down hard as he sat at the piano.

First desire—let’s have naked fun with this marshmallow fluff kind of dirty, playful sexiness. Then...

It took her a second to riddle it out, and the tipsy alcoholic butterflies in her belly figured it out first, and a ripple of something wrong stole her breath for an entirely different reason.

He hadn’t recognized her until he’d sat.

She’d probably been looking at him exactly like she’d been striving not to for two years—suggestively goofy, with added appreciation of his dirty looks. But he’d only just recognized her.

The man never said much outside of delivering orders or maybe some narration for the surgery recordings, so she’d learned to read his eyes, often the only part of his face she could see.

If she’d seen that look over a patient, she’d be readying for the worst.

Her alcoholic butterflies definitely needed another mojito. If the laws of physics could at least be counted on—as it seemed possible they could have suddenly turned against her too—going back to her table to get another glass of liquid forgetfulness would move her far enough outside the glow of spotlights for him to see her. Or how the color of her face currently probably rivaled that of her dress.

Lise unslung the small purse from across her torso, fished out her phone, and set it on the table as the music began. Soon she had another mojito in hand, and having things to fiddle with helped her settle in to listen without worrying about what his scowl had meant.

The music that had been playing before the band had taken to the stage had been modern, Latin pop—mostly Spanish and some Spanglish songs. But the band played something different, and it took her a moment to classify the bright, fevered jazz that rolled off the stage and through the speakers.

It helped a little, though, the idea of leaving tempted. If she ran away, she could have three whole days for him to forget before the usual Monday morning surgery.

But Jefferson might still show up. There existed a slim chance that he’d gotten stuck in traffic or forgotten what time they were going to meet. A terrible accident could excuse not phoning or texting to bow out. If she left now, knowing her luck today, he’d show up and she’d have to reschedule rather than just getting to mark this third date officially off her to-do list without further delaying her life plans.

The band had either practiced daily or had been playing together for years. The arrangements gave all instruments and stylings a chance to shine, and no matter the major personality trait Dr. Valentino displayed in every other interaction she’d had with him, he didn’t try to dominate the music like he took over everything else.

That awful scowl left him before the first song finished. Tension flowed off him, brows and posture relaxed. He enjoyed it, clearly, and was good.

By the time the set finished just over an hour later, she’d almost convinced herself that he’d only scowled because he’d given her The Look, and she was a coworker. That was all it could be, she hadn’t done anything to earn his ire. Could he look at her with unhidden interest then hold it against her because she’d shared it?

Nah... It was consternation over a case of mistaken identity.

But if she trafficked in lies, now would be the time to claim to not have recognized him. The fact that she even considered lying showed how far away from him and his sexy looks she should stay. Lying was a slippery slope. Lies that started out hard to tell became easier, became reflexive... This was just the power of a sexy dress and mojitos mixed with her lusty crush. It made her react uncharacteristically, and she’d own it.

If it came up.

She would not become her parents.

As soon as the lights lowered at the end of the set, his gaze found her again and she did the only thing she could think to do: lift her now-empty glass in a socially ludicrous toast.

He stood, no sign of the scowl, hopped down from the stage, and made a beeline directly for her.

“Another drink, Bradshaw?”

Last names. Yes. Good. Like at work.

“I wasn’t asking but, sure, if you like. I was just apparently trying to wave or toast you with an empty glass because I wasn’t paying proper attention, Dr.—”

“Dante.” He cut her off as he sat, gesturing to the server, to her, and then back to himself. Two mojitos ordered, he focused on her. “When I’m here, it’s Dante.”

“Dante...” she repeated, but her tongue felt woolly and unequal to the task of calling him anything other than what she always called him. Having his first name in her mouth felt dangerous, like she could break all her rules. “Thank you, Dante, for the mojito.”

* * *

Dante inclined his head. “It’s just a drink,” he said. It was in him to say more, but he had time, and her phone started to buzz. Instantly, he picked it up and checked what was incoming. Text. Jefferson.

Dante knew he tended toward suspicion—he’d learned young that suspicion kept him sharp and alert—and sometimes that alertness was the only thing going for him. If her being there was what it looked like, he just didn’t want to have to handle it. Who knew where he’d find another place to relax in peace if his connection with The Inferno was discovered?

“Do you usually answer other people’s phones?” she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice and a billboard of irritation on her eyes. As she spoke, she leaned toward him across the small round table, making it hard not to look down that amazing cleavage.

“When they show up at my club, unannounced, on a night I’m playing. Did you take pictures?” Not recognizing the name Jefferson, he didn’t immediately open the message, but he did pull his eyes back to the screen and flipped to photos.

Focus on the facts, not the astoundingly luscious body she’d kept hidden in baggy scrubs.

“Your club?” she asked, then his questions seemed to sink in and the confused look morphed into a scowl, shadowing her incredibly pretty features. “No, I certainly didn’t take any photos of you.”

The words out, she snapped her fingers and held out her palm for the phone, the jerky arm movements making her jiggle in her well-filled dress.

Which he would ignore.

Stick with the plan. Handle this. If it was something innocent, he could entertain entertaining her after.

The photos tab contained lots of sunset skies and ocean, along with progress photos on a yellow-painted duck-themed nursery.

Huh.

But no pictures of him or the club. “Call or text anyone to say you’d found me here?”

“Why would I do that? Are you in the witness protection program or something? Just give me my phone, Dante.” Her frustration...or her drinks...made her practically sing his name, but in a manner he’d not heard since high school. Annoyed. A bit too pointed. Sarcastic.

He ignored it, but had to remind himself who he was speaking to—the best surgical nurse he’d ever worked with. Not someone usually prone to...well, any displays of emotion.

“I don’t like my professional and personal lives to cross. No one knows about The Inferno, and I plan to keep it that way. If it’s truly coincidental that you’re here, you don’t need to speak of it with anyone at Buena Vista.”

“Don’t tell anyone you’re in a boy band. Got it.”

Boy band. He laughed despite his intention to intimidate her into following through with his demands. Bradshaw always seemed so calm and professional at work—this smart-mouthed and angry version really shouldn’t tickle him.

“You know I don’t sit around waiting to gossip about you anyway.”

Her squinting eyes got nowhere close to convincing him. How many drinks had she had?

The message. If she was reporting to someone...

He lifted the phone again and read the message. “Who’s Jefferson?”

Lise, I’ve heard many good things about you, and that was the reason I initially agreed to our date. But I’ve had second thoughts. It seems unfair to lead you on when I’ve just never been into Large Women.

Unknown name, frankly horrible message—she was telling him the truth. It was only coincidental that she’d happened to come into his club.

“He’s no one important,” she said, but held her hand out for her phone again. Something stabbed him in the gut—he’d say it was guilt, but, with the things he’d done in the past, only one thing had the power to shame him. No, more like vicarious embarrassment. He hit the back arrow to clear the message from the screen and placed the phone in her upward-turned palm.

“You know, you only ever have to ask me for anything once.”

If that. She was his favorite surgical nurse for good reason. He scheduled his most difficult surgeries on Mondays and Thursdays—the days he’d been able to claim her from the surgery rotation. He’d even once bribed another surgeon to get her on a Tuesday.

Even without medical school, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear of her conducting surgery on the side. With her in the OR, it was almost like having a second surgeon on standby. She anticipated his needs.

It was hard to think of this sexy, sarcastic creature as the same person. Even when she got quiet and the embarrassment he’d known was coming wiped the sass right off her face.

“He stood you up?” Dante asked, more gently than anything else he’d said to her.

“He was supposed to be here an hour ago, but it seems he magnanimously bowed out after leaving me to wait for over an hour, so I didn’t meet him and fall helplessly in love...because he’s never been attracted to Large Women. Capital L on that.”

Like he hadn’t read it already.

Large with a capital L. Yeah, that had to hurt.

The mojitos arrived and she took a deep drink. He followed suit, for once not sure what to say. Stood up by someone she’d never met, and she’d worn that dress? That’d have made an impression on the man.

She hit the drink hard and eyed the dance floor again. “They make great mojitos...”

Uncomfortable. Speaking to fill the air with words, any words.

“I always hire good people.” He tried again. “Why were you meeting a man you didn’t know wearing that dress?”

“You haven’t heard the rumor mill?” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, to speak closer. “I’m surprised. Someone questions or lectures me about it nearly every day now.”

“I don’t chat at work, makes it easier to keep things clean.” Which was supposed to make it easier to keep his two worlds separate and ignorant of one another. “So what’s the rumor?”

“I’m being fixed up on five blind dates by the more insistent nurses on Eight Blue.” The neurological unit at Buena Vista. Their unit. “None of them have been all that thrilling, though. The first two couldn’t carry on a conversation if their lives depended on it. Then that jerk, and, you know, I don’t care if he didn’t show up, he counts as number three. They get two more fix-ups, not three. Not my fault they picked so poorly.”

“Why have they focused their attention on you?”

The question she’d been dreading—it had started to feel like a trap anytime anyone asked it—but Lise liked to live her life in the open, so she’d answer. She didn’t hide things. She didn’t keep secrets. She didn’t lie. If someone called a woman Large, Lise would’ve at least made commentary on people being rude. Unlike Dante.

Whatever. She couldn’t waste time working out what was going on in his head. Better to be open, and let the chips fall where they may. It was preferable that people reject her for who she really was than to be fooled into loving her then turn her life inside out when they found out she wasn’t perfect.

“Because I decided to start a family on my own, and they’re all basically horrified that I’m sperm-shopping or, as they call it, ‘giving up on love’ and ‘not waiting for my soul mate.’” She rolled her eyes, and looked back at the dance floor.

Chatting with Real Living Dante was much less satisfying than sharing the sexy imaginary banter that occasionally took place in her head when she wasn’t busy doing something important. Imaginary Dante would’ve already convinced her that she was perfectly shaped and that he loved the way she looked. Imaginary Dante would’ve compared her to Venus, and Venus would’ve come in second.

Imaginary Dante was definitely better.

“I see.” He said it like he agreed, pulling her gaze back to him, and there was a look—not The Look, a judgmental look. “That’s why you have yellow duck nursery photos in your phone?”

“Maybe...”

“Sounds like you’re having a bad evening, Bradshaw.” He leaned his elbows on the table, like they were close friends who talked close. Definitely not like he was about to kiss her, that’d have been an Imaginary Dante move.

So she leaned back again. “Lise. If I’m calling you Dante, call me Lise.”

First he failed to discount the notion that she was overweight, and now dissing her Maternity Manifesto and the awesome, adorable, happy and cheerful ducky room?

Enough.

She didn’t have to sit with him, pretending not to be bothered by Jefferson’s abject failure to arrive, followed up by his text-based slap in the face. This wasn’t the hospital, it was a dance club. Dr. Valentino wasn’t even there. He was probably off being cold and indifferent while heroically and brilliantly saving lives somewhere, and she didn’t like Dante, dance club owner, bar band pianist.

“This night’s getting less thrilling by the minute. If you’re going to try and speed up the evening’s deterioration by lecturing me too, you can...you can just shut it! Because you’re rude, and I was going to tell you how wonderful the music was too. But now I’m not going to!”

Because her good friend mojito said it didn’t count if you said it like that.

“And, for the record...” she lifted a finger when he opened his mouth to speak, shouting over the music from across the small table “...if a woman says someone called her Large, Big, or even Rotund, and she’s not, you’re supposed to say that other person is delusional. And even if she is, you have to say something about the other person being rude. That you did neither means you think I’m a Large Woman too, with all the capitals. I’m not. So...good day, Dante.”

Another song popped onto the house system, perfectly timed. Lise grabbed her purse, slung it back across her torso to leave her hands free for Mr. Mojito, and stepped past him toward the dance floor.

She’d gotten only one foot onto the polished tile floor when a large, warm hand clamped around her free wrist, stopping her escape.

“You’re not a Large Woman, Lise. But you do a good job of hiding in oversized scrubs at work.” She didn’t look back at him, but he spoke the words over her shoulder, so near her ear that goose bumps raced up her arm, away from that warm, talented hand.

Even if he was taking up for Sandy. Sandy, the one who’d picked Jefferson. Sandy, who must’ve been the one to label her Large.

“They’re scrubs. And, if you haven’t noticed, I’m just a little top-heavy.” She turned to face him, and he took the opportunity to catch her mojito before she sloshed the contents on one or both of them, then tilted it back to drain the rest of the minty liquid before dropping the tumbler onto the tray of a passing server.

The man had drunk her mojito. What did someone even say when their mojito was stolen from their own hand?

Keep talking. Being speechless only proclaimed, I’m out of my depth and not smart enough to keep up with this insane conversation.

Anything that would keep her from staring at his mouth, and thinking about the kind of lusty crush fantasies that mouth definitely could fulfill if he were so inclined.

Pathetically adolescent and showing how badly she wanted company—enough to go on blind dates. Enough for drinking-glass-inspired lust. Pathetic.

Just. Say. Something.

“These stupid things affect what sizes I can wear, but the scrub tops are standard design, and everyone—even people who are actually proportionally built—looks dumb in them. Except you, you look good in scrubs for some reason. I’d say you sold your soul for it but we’re both already in The Inferno. Besides, they’re comfortable, so it’s easy to work in them. And if I ever got tops fitting my hip dimensions I’d suffocate in my own cleavage.”

Great. Great visual, strangled by bosoms.

Dante grinned down at her, her second brush with amusement in his eyes, twice in fifteen minutes.

She still couldn’t tell if he was laughing with her, or at her.

Before she could say anything else to embarrass herself, he slipped his arm around her waist and took her newly mojito-free hand, flawlessly maneuvering her into dancing position and steering her backward onto the dance floor.

Breathless, and more than a little gobsmacked, Lise allowed herself to be led. “We’re dancing now? Arguing makes you feel like dancing?”

Maybe it was good he’d drunk her mojito, she’d clearly had too many.

The firm arm around her waist pulled her close enough to demonstrate the need for her admittedly tent-like scrub tops—her lower half didn’t touch his, but her breasts pressed against the heat of his chest, and her still-free arm went automatically around his shoulders.

“That dress is spectacular, and it fits you very well,” He said, hand firm on her waist to turn her into some dance her feet didn’t know. “Follow me.” He slowed down, stepped back enough for her to see his feet, and after she’d mimicked the pattern a couple times, his firm hands were on her again and he steered her in slow steps around the edge of the now much more crowded dance floor.

Why was she going along with this? She’d gone to the dance floor to get away from him. And because she wanted to dance.

But even with that rude phone business, the man was still incredibly sexy, and she’d been stood up. Dante was a satisfactory stand-in for sure.

Don’t overthink it. Just dance with him.

“Why this dress when you don’t know Jefferson?” he asked again, like she hadn’t heard him before and had chosen to answer the other, more important part of his question.

Trying to understand him over the loud music meant she had to stare at his mouth, the corner of which had quirked up.

Everything about this felt out of line.

Stare at his mouth to understand and sound sane. Solid plan.

Pretend to dance like she wasn’t the offspring of an ostrich and a three-legged goat.

Ignore the tide-like sensations rushing up her arms and over her body from having his hands on her.

No problem.

“I did. And it’s new,” she admitted, and, as she’d done, he focused his attention on her mouth as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking of these dates as a kind of last hurrah before motherhood. Because I never really go out. Or date—mostly because it’s just way too much trouble. But I thought maybe if Jefferson played his cards right and wasn’t...”

“Ugly?”

Lise winced, but nodded.

She should definitely stop talking. If she talked, the truth would come out. If she just didn’t say anything, that wasn’t lying, even if it was a slippery-slope sort of deception.

Also, she should stop licking her lips.

No matter that recognizing her before had put a damper on his wolfish expression, Dante seemed to have changed his mind. He looked at her mouth longer than she spoke, but his brows had come down in a completely different fashion, sex-laced anticipation darkening his eyes.

She felt her ankle wobble and released his hand to throw both arms around his shoulders, holding tighter to him. The wobbly ankle added one more thing for her to concentrate on than her frazzled brain could handle.

If she wanted—and if she could rationalize hooking up with him in any way that could be considered safe or sane—Dante would be her last hurrah.

A last hurrah of epic proportions. He might even come with mojitos.

Dante didn’t say anything, he just pulled her a little closer so that his mouth was at her ear and she could feel the slight stubble on his cheek as he sang the Spanish lyrics softly along with the music.