THE LAST TEMPTATION OF DR. DALTON

by Robin Gianna

  “I know. But it’s just for a little bit. So I can show you. Then will you take me home?”

  Charlie sighed. The child had the art of cajoling and wheedling down to a science. So much for getting showered and primped up before Trent came for their big date-night. “Okay. But promise me you won’t do this again. You’re not big enough to be running around all by yourself.”

  “I promise.” The words came out grudgingly, but when Lucky yapped her eyes brightened again. “So, look! Sit, Lucky. Sit!”

  The little pup actually did and Patience gave her some morsel as a reward, beaming with triumph as the dog began yapping and dancing again. “See Miss Charlie? She’s really smart!”

  “She is.” She clapped her hands in applause, smiling at how cute and excited the child was. “And you being a good dog trainer helps her be smart.”

  “I know. I—”

  A long, low growl behind her made Charlotte freeze, every hair on her scalp standing up in an instinctive reaction to the terrifying sound. She swung around and, to her horror, a large, feral and very angry dog stood there, its own hackles rising high on its back.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “PATIENCE.” THE HARD hammering of her heart in her chest and her breath coming in short gasps made it difficult to sound calm. But the last thing she needed was for Patience to panic and make the situation worse. “Move very, very slowly and pick up Lucky, then quietly go up the porch steps and into the house. Don’t make any sudden movements.”

  The child didn’t say a word, probably as terrified as Charlie felt. The dog’s lips were curled back in a snarl, showing every sharp tooth in its foamy mouth, and its jaws snapped together as it stared right at her. She couldn’t risk turning around to see if Patience had done as she’d asked, because if it attacked she had to be ready. And it looked like it was about to do exactly that.

  She glanced around for some weapon she could use to bash the dog if she had to. A sturdy stick was lying about five feet away and she slowly, carefully, inch by inch, sidled in that direction, her heart leaping into her throat as the dog growled louder, drool dripping as it snapped its jaws at her again.

  Damn, this was bad. The animal had to be rabid; there was no other explanation for its aggression. That thought brought a horrified realization that this was probably the animal that had attacked and killed Patience’s other dog. It was unusual enough to see feral dogs here and she knew the likely reason this one was still around was because it was very, very sick.

  The sound of her screen door closing was a relief, and she prayed that meant Patience was out of harm’s way. Should she try to talk soothingly to the dog? Or yell and try to scare it? She didn’t know, and the last thing she wanted to do was something that would trigger it to attack her.

  Sweat prickled at every pore, and her breath came fast and shallow as she kept her slow progress toward the stick, never taking her eyes off the animal. She was close. So close now. But how to pick it up when she got there? A fast movement to grab it and swing hard if the dog lunged? Keep her actions slow and steady, so she could get the stick in her hand and maybe not have to use it at all if she could just get back to the porch and in the house?

  With her heart beating so hard it was practically a roar in her ears, she leaned down slowly, slowly, keeping her movements tight and controlled as she closed her fingers around the stick.

  In an instant, the dog leaped toward her, mouth open, fangs dripping, knocking her to the ground, its teeth sinking deep into the flesh of her arm as she held it up in futile defense.

  A scream of panic, of primal terror, tore from her throat. She tried to swing the stick at the dog, screaming again, but her position on the ground left her without much power behind the blow, and she realized the animal’s teeth were sinking even deeper.

  Some instinct told her to freeze and not to try to pull her arm from the dog’s mouth, that it would just hold on tighter, shake her and injure her even worse. Its eyes were less than a foot from hers, wild eyes filled with fury above the jaws clamped onto her arm. It was so strong, so vicious, and a terrible helplessness came over her as she frantically tried to think how she could get away without getting hurt even worse, or maybe even being killed.

  A loud, piercing gunshot echoed in the air and a split-second later the dog’s jaws released her, its body falling limply on top of hers. Unable to process exactly what had happened, she grabbed her bleeding arm and tried to squirm out from under the beast.

  “Charlotte.” Trent was there, right there, his foot heaving the lifeless dog off her, crouching down beside her. “Damn it, Charlotte. Let me see.”

  “Trent.” Her voice came out as a croak. It was Trent. Trent carefully holding her arm within his cool hands, looking down at it. Trent who had saved her life.

  Her head dropped to the ground and she closed her eyes, saying a deep prayer of thanks as she began to absorb everything. Began to realize that the danger was past.

  “Charlotte. Look at me.” His gentle hand stroked her hair from her forehead and cupped her jaw, his thumb rubbing across her cheekbone. “Let me see.” He tugged at her wrist and she realized she was still clutching her arm. She loosened her grip, feeling the sticky wetness of her blood on her hand as she dropped it to the ground. “You feel faint?”

  “Y...yes.” Stars sparkled in front of her eyes as she stared at the jagged gashes. At the oozing blood.

  “Hang in there with me, sweetheart.” He looked only briefly at her wounds before he yanked his shirt open—a nice, white button-down shirt, she processed vaguely—and quickly took it off. He wrapped it around her arm and applied a gentle pressure then lifted her hand up and placed it where his had been. “Squeeze to help stop the bleeding. I’m getting you to the clinic.”

  She could barely do as he asked but she tried. The screen door slammed behind them and Charlie became aware of the sound of Patience crying.

  “Mr. Trent! Is Miss Charlie okay?”

  “She’s okay, but I need to take care of her. You stay in the house and I’ll call your dad to come get you.”

  “O...okay.”

  The door slammed again as Trent lifted Charlie into his arms and strode in the direction of the hospital. She let her head loll against his muscled, bare shoulder, at the same time thinking she shouldn’t let him haul her all the way there. She might not be big, but she wasn’t a featherweight either.

  “It’s too far for you to carry me. I can walk.”

  “Like hell. For once, will you let someone take care of you? Let yourself off the hook for being in charge of the world?”

  “I don’t...I don’t think I do that. But I admit I’m feeling a little shaky.”

  He looked down at her, his blue eyes somehow blazingly angry and tender at the same time. “A little shaky? You were just mauled by a rabid dog. You’ve lost a lot of blood. It’s okay for you to lean on me a little, just once.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  He gave her a glimmer of a smile. “Now that’s what I like to hear. Keep pressing on your arm,” he said as they finally got to the hospital and he laid her on an exam table. He placed a pillow beneath her head then made a quick call to John Adams. She watched him pull the pistol from his waistband and place it on the counter, wash his hands, then move efficiently to various cupboards, stacking things on the metal table next to her.

  “Thank you. I...don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come when you did.”

  “I don’t want to think about it either.” His lips were pressed together in a grim line, his eyes stark as they met hers. “When I heard you scream, my heart about stopped.”

  “Why did you have a gun with you?”

  “I work in plenty of unsafe places in the world, and always pack my thirty-eight. I had it with me because you left yours upstairs last time when you were s
upposed to be ready for a burglar, remember?”

  She thought of how the dog had been right on top of her and shuddered. “How did you learn to shoot like that? Weren’t you afraid you’d hit me instead?”

  “No. Even though I was scared to death, I knew I’d hit the dog and not you.” A tiny smile touched his lips as he placed items on the table. “I was on the trap and skeet shooting team at Yale. Rich boys get to have fun hobbies, and this one paid off.”

  Rich boys? She was about to ask, but he handed her a cup of water and several tablets. “What is this?”

  “Penicillin. And a narcotic and fever-reducing combo. It’ll help with the pain. I have to wash out your wounds, which is not going to feel good.”

  He lifted up her arm, placed a square plastic bowl beneath it and began to unwrap his poor white shirt from it, now soaked in blood. Those little stars danced in front of her eyes again and she looked away. “Tell me the truth. How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough. I’ll know more in a few minutes.” His expression was grim. “Because that dog was obviously rabid, I have to inject immunoglobulin. I’m also going to inject lidocaine because—”

  “I know, I know. So I won’t feel every stitch. Do it quick, please, and get it over with.”

  He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re something else.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, before his eyes met hers, all traces of amusement gone. “Ready? This is going to hurt like hell. Hang in there for me.”

  She nodded and steeled herself, ashamed that she cried out at the first injection. “Sorry,” she said, biting her lip hard. “I’m being a baby.”

  “No, you’re not. I’ve seen big tough guys cry at this. You’re awesome. Just a little longer.”

  When it was finally over, she could tell he felt as relieved as she did. “That’s my girl.” He pressed another lingering kiss to her head. “This next part is going to hurt, too, but not nearly as bad as that.”

  He poured what seemed like gallons of saline over her arm. He was right; it did not feel good. She thought he’d finally finished until he grabbed and opened another bottle. “Geez, enough already! What could possibly still be in there?”

  “Is there some reason you have to keep questioning the doctor?” His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “With all the technology and great drugs we have, thoroughly washing wounds like this—any animal bite, but especially when the dog is rabid—is the best treatment there is. But this is the last jug, I promise.”

  “Thank goodness. I was about to accuse you of making it hurt as much as you possibly can.”

  “And here I’d been giving you credit for being the bravest patient ever.” His smile faded and he gave her a gentle kiss, his eyes tender. “I’m really sorry it hurts. Good news is, it looks like there’s no arterial damage and the bites didn’t go all the way to the bone. I’m going to throw some absorbable stitches into the deep muscle tears to control the bleeding then get everything closed up.”

  Instead of watching him work on her arm, she looked at his face. At the way his brows knit as he worked. At the way his dark lashes fanned over the deep focus of his eyes. At the way he sometimes pursed his lips as he stitched. Almost of its own accord, her hand lifted to cup his jaw and he paused to look at her, his blue eyes serious before he turned his face to her palm, pressing a lingering kiss there.

  “Are you going to use a bunch of tiny stitches so I don’t have awful scars?”

  “I can’t this round, sweetheart.” He shook his head. “This kind of wound has a high risk for infection. We have to get the skin closed with as few stitches as possible, because the more I put in the more chance of infection. After it’s healed completely, though, I can repair it so it looks better.”

  Except he wouldn’t be here then. Their eyes met as the thought obviously came to both of them at the same time.

  “I mean, one of your plastic surgeons can when the new wing is opened.” His voice was suddenly brusque instead of sweet and tender.

  She nodded and looked down, silently watching him work, her heart squeezing a little. How had she let herself feel this close to him? So close she would miss him far too much when he was gone.

  When it was all over and her arm was wrapped in Kerlix, taped and put in a sling, he expelled a deep breath. “How about we head to your house and get you settled and comfortable? I’ll carry you.”

  “I really am okay to walk.” She didn’t trust herself not to reveal her thoughts and feelings if he carried her, folded against his chest. “I need to.”

  He looked at her a moment then sighed. “All right. So long as you let me hold you in case you get dizzy.”

  Trent held her close as they walked slowly toward the front porch of her house and she let herself lean against his strength. The dog’s body was gone, thank goodness, though there were bloodstains in the dirt. John Adams must’ve taken care of it. She was glad she didn’t have to look at it and remember its wild eyes; see again those teeth that had ripped her flesh and held her tight in their grip.

  “I feel kind of bad for the dog,” she said.

  “You feel sorry for the dog?” He stared down at her, eyebrows raised.

  “Rabies is a pretty horrible way to die, isn’t it? You shooting it was the best way for it to go.”

  “Yeah. It’s one hundred percent fatal after it’s been contracted. It’s a good thing we have the vaccine to keep you safe from the virus.” He looked away, his voice rough when he spoke again. “After you get settled inside, I’ll come out and rake up the dirt. Don’t think you want to be looking at your own blood every time you come in and out of your house.”

  “No. I don’t.” She looked up him and marveled at his consideration. “Who knew you were Mister Thoughtful and not the full-of-yourself guy I was convinced you were?”

  “I’m both thoughtful and full of myself—multi-faceted that way.”

  His eyes held a touch of their usual amusement and as she laughed her chest filled with some emotion she refused to examine.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TRENT KNEW THE narcotics would have worn off and Charlotte would be in pain again this morning. He’d slipped from the bed and gone downstairs to make toast and coffee for her, wanting something in her stomach before he gave her more fever medication, and the narcotic, too, if she needed it.

  When he came back to her room with a tray, he had to pause inside the doorway just to look at her. Her lush hair tumbled across the pillow, the sun streaking through the windows highlighting its bronze glow. Her lips were parted, her shoulder exposed as one thin strap of her pretty nightgown had slid down her bandaged arm, leaving the gown gaping so low, one pink nipple was partly visible on her round breast.

  He deeply inhaled, a tumble of emotions pummeling his heart as he stared at her. To his shock, the foremost emotion wasn’t sexual.

  It was a deep sense of belonging. Of belonging with her.

  He wanted to stay here with her. He wanted to wake up in her bed, in her arms, every morning. He wanted to see her, just like this, at the start of each and every day.

  Her eyelids flickered and she opened her eyes and looked at him. She smiled, and that smile seemed to reach right inside of him, pull him farther into the room. Pull him closer to her.

  He managed to speak past the tightness in his chest. “Good morning, Charlotte.” He set the tray on her nightstand and perched himself on the side of the bed. He stroked her hair from her face, wrapped a thick strand around his finger. “How’s the arm feeling?”

  “Not so great.” She rolled onto her back, her lips twisting.

  He ran his finger down her cheek. “I figured that. I brought you some toast and coffee and more meds.”

  “Thank you.” Her good arm lifted to him and her palm stroked his cheek. He wished he’d shaved already, so the bristles wouldn’t
abrade her delicate skin when he kissed her. “But all I want is the fever stuff. I can’t spend the day all doped up. I want to know exactly what’s happening.”

  He nodded. “If you decide you need it later, you can always take it then. Why don’t you sit up and have a little bit to eat first.” He started to stand, but her hand grabbed the front of his shirt and bunched it up as she tugged him toward her.

  “I am hungry again. But not for food—for you.”

  “Charlotte.” He wanted, more than anything, to make love with her. But she was in pain and the need to take care of her, to keep her arm still so she wouldn’t be in worse pain, took precedence over everything. “You need to rest.”

  “I’ve been resting all night. I slept very well, thanks to the drugs you gave me.” She smiled at him and pulled harder on his shirt, bringing him closer still, and he could feel his resolve weakening at the way she looked at him. It was as though she was eating him up with her eyes and he knew he wanted to eat her up for real. “I do need to feel better. And you’re very, very good at making me feel better.”

  “Well, I am a doctor. Took the Hippocratic Oath that I’d do the best I could to help my patients heal.” He smiled, too, and gave up resisting. He gave in to the desire spiraling through his body. “What can I do first to make you feel better?”

  “Kiss me.”

  Her tongue flicked across her lips and he leaned forward to taste them, carefully keeping his body from resting against her arm. It took every ounce of self-control to keep himself in check, to touch her and kiss her slowly, carefully.

  “Does it make you feel better if I do this?” He gently drew her nightgown down and over her bandages, then lifted her arm carefully above her head to rest it on her pillow. He traced the tops of her breasts with his fingertips, slowly, inching across the soft mounds, until he pulled the lacy nightgown down to fully expose her breasts.

  The sunlight skimmed across the pink tips and his breath clogged in his throat as he enjoyed the incredible beauty of them. Of her. He lowered his mouth to one nipple then rolled it beneath his tongue, drew it into his mouth and lifted his hand to cup the other breast in his palm.