Dr. Hottie: Bad Boy Doctors Book 2

by Virna DePaul

  The woman who I’d called my lovely and so many other endearments looked down at me. I tried to read the turmoil behind her blue eyes.

  There was a hesitation there. A sadness? Willingness and yet stubbornness. Whatever emotions there were in her large, beautiful eyes, they were honest, and they were her.

  But then, like a wall erected before my eyes, her guard came up, and she laughed. “Sure, you’ll get to know me better.”

  Maybe I’d read it wrong. Maybe she was ready to open up to me. But then she plinked my nose playfully.

  “So, who shall we be tomorrow?”

  I didn’t know much about this strange woman, but I did know one thing: she wasn’t stupid. She knew that wasn’t what I’d meant.

  “I was thinking,” I said, “that maybe we could just be ourselves.”

  Her body stiffened on top of me. To hide the flash of pure fear I’d seen, she forced a smile back onto her face.

  “I’m going to go grab a drink of water,” she said.

  She moved off me and waded out of the pool to our pile of stuff at the edge of the pool of water. I watched her, wondering if I’d made a mistake. Maybe I’d just messed up a good thing. Why couldn’t I let this be what it was? A fun vacation fling with a smoking hot, interesting woman. Why wasn’t I satisfied with that?

  I should have been. Hell, I had been several times before. I was living not just my dream but every guy’s dream: to fuck and to fuck and to have zero strings attached and to then fuck some more. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t satisfied with that.

  When she returned to the pool, she cuddled up next to me in the water and smiled like nothing was wrong.

  “What should we get for dinner, Phillip?”

  And with that, we were back to play pretending.

  We didn’t make it until tomorrow.

  The second we returned to my suite after a stunning dinner on the rooftop bar, she leaped into my arms and whispered in my ear. “Bedroom.”

  Her tits bounced perfectly as she rode my cock and her nails dug into my chest. When I was ready to scream her name, I realized I’d only called her pet names that day.

  “Wait,” I gasped as she rocked her hips against my cock and cupped my balls. “What name should I use?”

  “What?” she said, her breath strained and her hair matted against her forehead.

  “What’s your name?”

  She opened her eyes and looked down at me, laying her hand against my heart. “My name’s Raegan.”

  I came with the name Raegan on my lips. She came immediately, as well, almost as if me groaning out the name had triggered her own orgasm, and her pussy walls clenched around me. We writhed together in utter bliss until she collapsed against my chest, quivering and sighing. I rubbed her back gently.

  When I sat up, she squeezed her arms around me tighter. “Just a minute longer,” she whispered.

  I tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

  I dragged my fingers through her hair and rubbed her back again. When I felt her tears against my chest, I held her in my arms. Minutes later, her breathing evened out. As carefully as I could, I eased her onto the bed next to me and pulled the sheet over her shoulders.

  Before I got up, I admired how truly beautiful she was. In the moonlight, her eyelashes looked like delicate snowflakes against her cheeks. I didn’t know there was a perfect shape for lips until I’d seen hers. I only wished I knew what she was hiding.

  I got ready for bed, showered, and brushed my teeth. When I came back to bed, I slipped in and tried my best not to disturb her. But at the first rustle of sheets, she stirred, and when I settled into bed, she moved over to lay her head on my chest. I wrapped my arm around her and breathed in the scent of her hair. It was like the wild jungle, the waterfall, the sun on our skin.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered into the still of the night.

  I waited to see if she’d continue, but she didn’t.

  “You can talk to me, Raegan,” I said.

  She shifted her head up so she could look at me. “Do you like the name Raegan?”

  “I like any name you have. But you’re more than a name. I mean, I’d love to know your real name. But I want to know you. And I don’t understand why you won’t let me do that.”

  She nodded. “It’s just that…at the end of this vacation, I have to be me. And I can’t have distractions or anything outside of work. Not these kinds of pleasures”

  She said the word “pleasures” as if it was painful.

  “So,” she continued, “pretending to be someone else, it’s easier to let go. It’s not me. When this all ends, I haven’t lost anything. But if I am me, the real me, I have to say goodbye. I have to live with the what ifs. What if I wasn’t who I was? What if I didn’t have the job that I have? What if I gave it all up to have him? I can’t live with the what ifs when all of this ends.”

  We laid together in silence. After hearing her words, I wanted more than ever to memorize how her body felt against mine. When she hadn’t spoken in a while, I lifted her chin so I could look at her.

  “But why does it have to end? Why do you have to give anything up to have me?”

  She started to protest, but I continued.

  “Why can’t we spend the next few days being each other, the real us, and see where it goes?”

  “But–”

  “Raegan.” She stopped. I wasn’t sure I even felt her breathing against my chest. “Raegan, I really like you. I think you are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. You are smart and funny and intriguing. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re goddamn hot and fuck like a goddess from the sea.”

  She laughed, and I ran my thumb across her cheek.

  “I want to see where this goes.”

  Her eyes searched mine. I still saw hesitation there. I didn’t want to push her toward something she didn’t want. But I also didn’t want to miss out on something I knew we both needed. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I’d felt it. I could feel it when she grinned at me, so challenging and daring and wild. I could feel it when she touched me, so soft and tender and yet dangerous and hot. I could feel it as she laid in my arms.

  There was a connection. Under all the guises and secrets and play pretend, there was a real connection between who I truly was and who she truly was.

  “Listen,” I said gently, “let’s talk about it in the morning, okay? Tomorrow, if you still want to be someone else, I’ll be someone else with you, all right? You want to be jewelry thieves from the Ukraine, we’ll be jewelry thieves from Ukraine. You want to be fashion models from Paris, I’ll speak to you all day using all three words of French I know. If you want to be normal Joes from El Paso, I’ll grab that fanny pack and never let it leave these sexy hips of mine.”

  Her eyes flickered down my chest and she shrugged. “They’re all right.”

  I tickled her sides, and she laughed.

  “But,” I said, trying to convey how earnest I was, “if you wake up tomorrow and you want to just be you, whoever that is, I’d be honored to meet you, okay?”

  In the dim light, she looked up at me and nodded. I pulled her in tightly and she nestled closer. I’d have to wait until the morning. I’d have to wait to see who I woke up next to.

  I just hoped she’d like the me she woke up to as well.

  Chapter 10

  Raegan

  I listened to Noah sleeping. It was the only peace I felt as a battle raged inside my mind. Part of me wanted to tell him. Tell him everything.

  Including the fact my real name was Raegan Reynolds.

  I could almost see his face. He’d try to place where he’d heard the name. I’d see the realization slowly crossing his face. I’d nod. Yes, I’d say, that was me.

  I was the heart surgeon who’d miraculously saved the life of award-winning movie director Benjamin Richter. I was the same surgeon who then got pulled into the celebrity life—attending parties, modeling on magazine covers, and even d
ating the country’s favorite leading man, Oliver Joyce. I was even going to be in my own reality television show.

  But then, I’d disappeared.

  I wanted to tell him that was who I was, but also not. Most of all, I wanted to tell him who I wanted to be.

  I wanted to focus again on what was important: healing patients. I wanted to stay away from the glitz and glam of Hollywood and the judgment of the public eye. I wanted cameras and their critical lights away from me and my work.

  And I wanted to be honest with him about what I feared.

  By committing so strongly to work, I was afraid of what I’d miss out on. I was afraid I’d miss the parties and champagne and elegant dresses. I was afraid I’d yearn for passion and excitement and adventure. I was afraid I’d want to be someone else.

  I was ashamed of myself for that, and I didn’t want to tell him.

  So, I decided, I’d rather wake up in the morning and be the jewel thief or the model or the nobody. It was safer to pretend for as long as I could.

  An ache pounded in my head, so I slipped out of bed and found a packet of Advil in the kitchen. I sipped a glass of water and swallowed the pill and pondered what I was going to do in the morning. Who was I going to be?

  I tossed the trash in the bin and was about to tiptoe back to the bedroom when I noticed a letter on the hotel’s stationary. I wouldn’t have looked twice had it not been for the two letters in front of Noah’s name. Two letters I’d never expected to see: Dr.

  Dr. Noah Alexander.

  The very first time we’d met on the trail I’d hurt my ankle. I should have known then the way he’d expertly handled me that he was a doctor. Everything he did to check it was by the book. He was a doctor. A fucking doctor.

  Now that I knew it, I wanted to know everything else about him. Where did he practice? What did he practice? Were we in the same field and would we end up running into each other at a conference? I had to know.

  My cell phone was in the side pocket of the backpack I’d tossed on the living room couch. I knew I shouldn’t Google him. That wouldn’t be fair. My mind argued with itself: You won’t tell him who you are, you can’t cheat to figure out who he is. Let him tell you.

  I ignored all of it.

  Hoping my bare feet didn’t smack against the cold marble floors, I headed right toward the answers I suddenly couldn’t resist. I quickly logged onto the hotel’s free Wi-Fi, cursing its slowness while I anxiously waited for his name’s search results. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a link to the hospital he worked for and a publication or two.

  I certainly wasn’t expecting the onslaught of social media and articles and pictures lighting up the screen like a Vegas party.

  I clicked on his Instagram first and almost threw up at his profile: Stopping hearts and starting hearts 24/7. God. So that meant he was either a cardiologist or an ER doctor, I figured.

  But I still scrolled through. Picture after picture of Noah with stunning international models, Noah with expensive sports cars, Noah with celebrities, Noah with puppies. Noah in Barcelona, Noah in Mexico City, Noah in Johannesburg, Noah in LA.

  I’d come to know him, or at least some version of him. This man, smiling back at me from inside a Lamborghini or a rooftop pool or a private jet, just wasn’t that man. Of course, we’d been pretending, but this felt like the lie, this felt like the dress up, and this certainly felt fake.

  Who was this person?

  There was more. So much more. Story after story of his playboy antics in and around Los Angeles. He was popular. He was very rich. He was influential.

  But what kind of doctor was he?

  It wasn’t until I got to the third page of links that I finally found his credentials. He’d studied at the Washington University School of Medicine in St. Louis. But when I finally found his profession, I shoved my fist in my mouth.

  Cardiothoracic surgeon.

  A heart doctor. Just like me.

  Feeling numb, I read parts of his blog next. It apparently had a large following. He bragged about his successful surgeries. He came across as arrogant, cocky—a peacock. He showed off how much money he raised for various charities. He sounded more like a game show host than a real doctor. I clicked another link and my heart sank when I saw his post about his upcoming vacation to the Dominican Republic.

  According to that post, Noah was looking forward to lounging on the beach, gulping fruity drinks that would ruin his strenuous diet and six-pack, and finding a few beautiful girls in “itty, bitty, teeny, weeny yellow polka dot bikinis to spend time with.” A winking face followed that statement.

  It made me feel dirty. Was that all I was to him? Tits in a skimpy bikini? Soft skin and a smile to waste away the hours with on a beach?

  All these questions raced through my mind, but one stuck around, and I couldn’t shake it loose: who was right?

  Was the internet right or was I right about who Noah truly was? Was he the man I thought I’d come to know over the past few days, or was he the man who flashed his perfect white teeth all over the internet?

  I was about to turn off my cellphone when I noticed his most recent blog post: Exciting News to Announce!

  When I read it, my blood went cold despite the humid night air. I had to read it twice to make sure. I read it a third time hoping, somehow, that I’d misread something. Anything.

  I stared at my phone in utter shock.

  Oh, god—I’d just fucked my competition.

  Right there was the irrefutable proof. Noah was another finalist for the position at Graton’s Gift Hospital in Denver. It was highly possible that one of us would land the most coveted position in the country for a heart surgeon.

  “Fuck,” I whispered under my breath.

  I shoved my cellphone in my backpack and ran my hands through my hair. All I’d wanted to do was get back to work after swerving so terribly off course five years ago. I wanted to focus on my patients and nothing more.

  But that wasn’t what I’d get—not if the public connected me to Noah. My panicked mind came up with every farfetched scenario in which this might happen.

  If I went through with the interview and he didn’t get the job, his fans—and yeah, that surgeon had fans—might research who did get the job, and when they inevitably found old press on me, I’d be in the spotlight again.

  Or he would get the job, and his fans might find out I’d lost to him and lampoon me anyway.

  Or neither of those things would happen, but Noah would learn my identity and that I’d interviewed against him, and he might try to keep seeing me on a personal level. And given how I felt about him, I’d give in. It wasn’t until that moment I realized how much I wanted to give in, how some small part of me had actually been fantasizing that before my vacation ended, Noah would wear me down, find out my real name, and convince me to give us a shot.

  But I knew now, irrevocably, that couldn’t happen.

  No way. Everyone would say I’d found myself the next Oliver Joyce, the next famous man to hitch myself to. They’d say I don’t care about my work or my patients, and instead only care about my fame, my money, myself.

  Newspaper tabloids had basically destroyed my life. Spinning drama between Oliver and me. Reporting I was partying and drinking. Printing pictures of me allegedly hung over while at work.

  I had been horrific. Humiliating. Half true and half not.

  I looked across the living room into the bedroom. Noah was still sleeping peacefully. Everything would fall apart if I stayed with him. And now, even as part of me knew it wasn’t true, I believed that everything would fall apart if I dared to interview for a job against him.

  Quickly, I slipped on a dress and pulled my backpack over my shoulder, searching through my pockets for my room key. When I stepped outside and called the private elevator, the ding seemed like a gong. Under the fluorescent lights in the elevator, I buried my face in my hands and tried not to cry.

  It was ruined. It was all ruined.

 
On my way out, I was fast. I was sure I’d left things behind, but I didn’t care.

  Once the driver loaded my bags into the back of the cab, he climbed back into the car and leaned over the seat to look at me.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  I glanced at the area of the hotel where I knew Noah, Dr. Noah Alexander, still slept, entirely unaware.

  “Ma’am?”

  I looked at the cab driver.

  “The airport.”

  Chapter 11

  Noah

  Almost a week after making love on that waterfall in the Dominican Republic, I got back to my condo in Los Angeles at exactly 4:12 a.m. I’d trudged through the door, dropped my bags, and collapsed on the couch without even turning on a light.

  I’d sat there in darkness. The darkness had faded as dawn approached and soon the first rays of morning light were slicing through my blinds, yet still I sat there. Shadows shrank and colors returned and still I’d sat there.

  It was now 10:31 a.m.

  After Raegan left—that was how I was thinking of her, since it was the last name she’d given me—I’d spent the remaining days of my vacation on the hotel balcony, staring sightlessly out over the ocean and wondering why.

  Why had she left? Why hadn’t she told me? Why had she hurt me like that?

  I’d spent the duration of my cab ride to the airport wondering how.

  How did I miss the signs? How did she disappear without me knowing? How was I going to forget her after what we shared? How was I supposed to move on?

  In the TSA line, I’d wondered about when.

  When did she decide I wasn’t worth it? When would I stop thinking about her? When would I stop dreaming about her? When would I stop imagining a life we could have had together?

  Finally, on my flight, I’d worked my way through the whats.

  What had I done wrong? What could I have done differently? What if I’d said this instead of that, that instead of this? What was she doing right now? What was she thinking about?

  In LAX, I’d numbly followed the signs to baggage claim, numbly waited for mine to circle around, numbly stood in line for a cab, numbly stared at my hands while I was driven home.