Red Hot Lovers: 18 Contemporary Romance Books of Love, Passion, and Sexy Heroes by Your Favorite Top-Selling Authors

by Milly Taiden

  Still no explanation. I turned a little so I could see the doctor, tall and stalwart in his white coat. He reminded me of a statue, perfect, chiseled, and cold as granite. I dropped the box of paints on the low table with a satisfying clunk.

  “Hey.” His voice carried an impatient tone that sparked my anger into rage.

  I glared at him. I was ready to give him a real piece of my mind when he switched tactics.

  “Maybe we can start over,” he said with a smile I’m sure he thought was charming. “Hello, Ms. Schwartz. Could I ask you to help me with one of my patients?”

  I hated him with a fury I usually reserved for people who kicked dogs. And my parents.

  I grasped the back of a chair and leaned over it. Menacingly, I hoped.

  “Dr. —” I pretended I couldn’t remember his name and peered at his badge, even though this doctor was pretty unforgettable. A classic face complete with dimples and a jaw of steel. Broad shoulders and a lean body. Well dressed. Most of the doctors here wore scrubs and took a laid-back approach. This Darion dude was clearly on the path to administration, even though he barely looked over thirty.

  “Dr. Marks,” I said, “I treat all the patients who come into my room the same. Each one gets equal attention.”

  “But this one lost her mother,” he said. He adjusted his tie, as if suddenly it was too tight. “Let me show her to you.”

  I tried to avoid noticing how his pale blue dress shirt stretched over his chest as he reached around for his back pocket. He must use the workout room available to staff.

  Use it a lot, actually.

  I felt that familiar pounding that connected my heart to other interested body parts, but that was fine. I could ignore it. Or I could do a one-and-done with the doctor. That was no skin off my back, unless carpet burns were involved. I’d taken in men more powerful than this guy and showed them the door right after.

  That sort of challenge was what made life interesting.

  The doctor opened a hand-tooled brown leather wallet. One glance told me it cost as much as my entire outfit. Probably more, actually, since I got everything at resale shops.

  Dr. Marks flipped the wallet open to a picture of a girl. Even with the mop of blond curls in this image, I recognized Cynthia. Her little head was smooth and bald from chemotherapy now. She used to come to art every day. Sometimes twice, if she could sneak in. I always let her.

  Cynthia had been missing from my class for a couple weeks. She was the first of my patients to leave without warning, and I had been afraid to ask anyone why.

  “I know her,” I said. “She’s very sweet.” I stuck my hands on my hips, purposely showing him some attitude. “Why do you have a picture of your patient in your wallet?”

  This got him. He snapped it shut. “She gave it to me. Couldn’t exactly throw it away.”

  I watched him with suspicion. Keeping it and putting it in his wallet were two very different things. Now that I looked closer, I could see something haunted in those gray eyes. Something that told me he had a past. Maybe not as bad as mine. I was hard to beat. But something had happened to him. Maybe this girl brought it back.

  I felt my disdain soften a little.

  A nurse I knew, Marlena, pushed an empty wheelchair through the door. “Just tucking this in here,” she said.

  I smiled at her, ignoring the doctor. “Who’s it for?”

  “Jake is going to come in on crutches today,” she said, smoothing back her perfect curtain of black braids. “PT went well. But I suspect he’ll be plumb worn out by the end. We’ll have this for him just in case.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “Thanks, love,” Marlena said. She cast a furtive glance over at the doctor, raised her eyebrows at me, then left again.

  When I turned back, the doctor’s face had grown angry. “So, you’ll watch Jake but not Cynthia?” he asked.

  I heaved a long, annoyed sigh, one designed to make a point. I summoned my best whiny, put-out voice. “I already make sure they seem okay, don’t get too upset, that their IVs aren’t tangled or their tubes pinched or their color doesn’t alter or their breathing isn’t labored and a million other things on top of my actual job, which is to help them feel better about being in the hospital.”

  Dr. Marks shoved his wallet back in his pocket. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and I had the craziest urge to press my hand to it, to calm him. I shook it off. I was supposed to be getting him out of here, not mooning over his dimples. I was hoping the whiny voice would make him leave.

  He seemed disgusted by what he had to say next. “Cynthia likes you, Tina. She talks about you all the time.” Dr. Marks shoved both his hands in his lab coat pockets. The stethoscope around his neck was cocked sideways, one side longer than the other. If he didn’t adjust it, it was going to hit the floor. I resisted the urge to fix it.

  I was watching him way too closely.

  I relented. “I know,” I said in a more normal tone. “She wraps her arms around my leg and begs the nurse not to make her leave.” The image of the little girl, Cynthia, doing this softened my feelings yet another notch. Maybe this doctor had a similar experience with the child. The nurses doted on her.

  “You’re important to her. Just — just don’t forget that. That’s all I ask.” Dr. Marks wouldn’t meet my eye now and stared down at his polished black shoes. “Your approval or disapproval of her drastically affects her day. How she does with her treatment. How much she eats. You’re important.”

  I had no idea.

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “That’s all I ask,” he said.

  We both sounded different now. Like real people.

  I plucked at my sleeves. “She’s been missing art class. Is she all right?”

  Technically, I wasn’t allowed to be informed about a patient’s medical condition. I wasn’t a nurse, and I had zero medical credentials. I was just an artist with a college degree who had been hired as an emergency measure to fill a vacant slot no one else would take. The pay was crap. My job was temporary and had no benefits. But it was mine. I liked it. I helped patients color, paint, and sculpt to escape the awfulness of their treatments.

  What I did here mattered. Maybe for the first time in my life.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “She went to Houston seeking eligibility for a clinical trial of a new chemotherapy drug. She’s back. We’re hoping her leukemia will go into remission.” His jaw twitched again, and I could tell this time it was from upset, not anger. “It’s basically our only hope.”

  I gave up on my bad attitude altogether. I didn’t know much about leukemia, but I did know Cynthia was fighting very hard. For some reason, this doctor had taken her case to his heart. He couldn’t be all bad.

  I shifted a stack of paper to avoid having to look at him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” I said.

  He got quiet, so I glanced back up. His eyebrows drew together. This was hard for him. I hadn’t seen him around much, although I knew he was an oncologist, one of the hotshots working on a new specialty. I was never sure I could handle such constant contact with so much loss, in children so young. Although, who knows, maybe I was perfect for it. Anything longer than the three short hours my own baby had lived felt like forever.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Time to just play it straight. “You’re welcome, Dr. Marks.”

  “Darion, please.” He flashed a small smile, this one without the forced charm. I remembered our last meeting, when he asked me out for coffee. My friend Corabelle had encouraged it. But Corabelle didn’t know I had a rule I never violated. One date. One night. And that’s it.

  But to do any of that — either the night OR the brush-off — with a coworker seemed like a bad idea. Especially with a devastatingly handsome doctor who was pretending to be a jerk but was really utterly vulnerable.

  “Darion, then,” I said.

  Damn, I might as well climb into his bed. I was done for. The ge
ars of my interest had already gotten engaged. No telling what direction they would grind.

  But there would definitely be grinding.

  One of the volunteers led in two children by the hand. My next group was about to start.

  “Looks like it’s time for me to go,” Darion said. He passed the two kids, patting one on the shoulder, and left the room.

  Marlena returned, this time with Jake. He seemed pleased to be on the crutches, hobbling along. Half of his head was still shaved from his surgery, the suture angry and red but no longer hidden under bandages. He was recovering. It was such a relief when some of them did.

  When the three kids were settled, Marlena said over their heads, “What was Marks doing here?”

  I shrugged. “Just asking about a patient of his.”

  “That boy is as cold as ice,” she said. “He’s been here a couple of months and hasn’t made a peep to anyone other than ‘Where are so-and-so’s test results?’” Marlena shook her head, sending her braids bouncing. “Nobody knows a thing about him.”

  I set a piece of construction paper in front of each of the children. I could see how people would find him cold. He had walked in that way. But later, not so much. He’d been sort of emotional, actually. And he had that picture in his wallet.

  The man was definitely a mystery.

  A very intriguing mystery.

  ***

  Chapter Two: Dr. Darion

  The art teacher was definitely on my mind as I made my rounds through the oncology ward. Such a funny girl, with her striped stockings and bohemian style. I’d never known anyone with a college degree who wore their hair in pigtails.

  Still, something about her was refreshing and easy. Not her attitude, certainly. Borderline insolent. But she let you know where you stood, good or bad. I could talk to her.

  Showing her the picture in my wallet was probably a mistake. And I couldn’t afford many.

  But it had worked. Cynthia would be looked after. For some reason, the two of them had a bond. I couldn’t question anything that helped her with this struggle. Cynthia needed as many people as possible in her corner.

  I made sure I nodded cordially at the nurses who passed. Despite my best efforts since arriving two months ago, I had already gained a reputation for being a stoic.

  I wasn’t sure how anyone could be emotionally involved in this specialty. More and more, it seemed the cases that were assigned to this floor were palliative and not curative. I spent more time establishing a comfortable, lingering decline than trying to make anyone healthy and well.

  But St. Anthony’s was a subspecialty clinic within the bigger hospital. The people who came here were at the end of their cancer battle, seeking experimental treatments and any last shred of hope.

  I recognized Harriet Parker trundling down the hall. Her husband rolled an IV alongside her. She must be coming from the chemo room. She’d asked to be able to take it with the outpatients. Anything to be among other people. I understood that.

  I carefully memorized each patient’s name using alliteration, a trick I learned from a middle school teacher I dated briefly in med school. Harriet was always in a hurry, so I nicknamed her Harried Harriet.

  “Hello, Harriet,” I said. “You haven’t slowed down a bit.”

  She straightened her orange flowered head cap. “Oh, I’m not as spry as I was when I went through this as a kid.” She banged the metal stand of her IV. “Sloppy seconds are no fun.”

  I tried to laugh, but I knew it wasn’t convincing. Harriet had beat childhood leukemia only to get secondary cancer as an adult. Nothing about any of this was really funny, although I could appreciate Harriet’s willingness to find humor in her situation.

  “I’ll be down to see you in a bit,” I said.

  She waved her hand. “No rush, Dr. Marks. I got nowhere else to be.”

  I turned the corner of the hallway, this one bustling with nurses and aides. All the outpatient chemotherapy rooms were stationed along this corridor. Bedraggled family members sprawled on chairs in the waiting lounge, knitting or reading or staring up at television screens. Treatments could take hours, depending on the drug and the protocol. And the aftermath was often worse.

  I knew this all too well, when my own mother went through it. Multiple cancers erupted at once, as though her body just gave up on fighting. I was midway through my residency. My involvement with her illness led to switching to oncology. While we struggled to manage her condition, I learned how important holistic care could be.

  We added at least a year — a good productive year — to her life because I was there to help the doctors talk to each other. We coordinated everything from surgery to chemotherapy to nutrition to mental health as a team, even though I was not allowed to oversee her care myself due to the family connection.

  But I ruffled a lot of feathers. Several doctors felt I should have stayed out of it and resented non-medical caregivers recommending changes to her protocol.

  I vowed that from then on I would work only someplace that incorporated holistic care. St. Anthony’s wasn’t quite it, but life had led me here after Mayo turned me down. I’d make the best of it.

  I paused at the desk in the hub of the ward to log in and check which patients I needed to visit, but more importantly, to see if I had a moment to drop by and visit Cynthia before going on the longer rounds.

  Something about talking to Tina made me want to see Cynthia sooner rather than later. I knew she was exhausted from the trip to Houston.

  But we’d been treating her for two years. Inductive therapy. Radiation. Stem cell transplant. She couldn’t go on forever. Damage to her remaining kidney was becoming serious. She’d go into failure soon and end up on dialysis and a donor list. Then everything would change. The minute I stepped up to donate, whether a kidney or another round of stem cells, everyone would know our relationship.

  Screw it. I would see her now. I whirled around and headed quickly back through the ward. Now I knew my reputation was preceding me, as my pace and determination made everyone move out of my way without greeting.

  I couldn’t help that.

  When I got to Cynthia’s door, I paused. Drawings in paint and marker and crosshatched pencil covered all the available space. The art teacher did not seem to realize that the person Cynthia drew holding her hand in so many of the images was her. She probably assumed it was a member of the family.

  I focused on one of the drawings. In it, Cynthia had drawn all three of us — me, Tina, and herself. She positioned herself between us, all holding hands. My throat tightened a little. She deserved so much more than what life had handed her.

  I knocked on the door in case a hospital nurse was with her, but when I stepped in, only Cynthia and the private nurse I had hired were inside.

  “Dary!” Cynthia cried. She disentangled her legs from the sheets and gingerly stepped to the floor to come over to me.

  My heart hurt, as it always did, when her small bare head buried into my belly. She was eight, but her thinness and slow growth made her seem younger. The only thing that kept me going as she fought this battle was that I could be here to manage her care, like I had our mother’s. Rules be damned. I had seen too many doctors with too big a caseload miss important things.

  Nurse Angela adjusted a pair of lime green glasses to peer at her notes. “She’s eaten a little today. Urine a bit concerning.”

  I held the back of Cynthia’s head. “I’ll order a blood test.”

  Cynthia’s face popped up. “Not another one!”

  “You have a new port,” I said, pointing to the neck of her gown. “No more sticks now that it’s working again.” Her central line had stopped functioning while we were in Houston, but I had a new one put in the minute we got back. It was a risk, a surgery when her immune system was down, but we needed to be able to put meds in her, and so many of her veins were already blown.

  Cynthia touched her shoulder. “That’s right,” she said. “My space port is operational.”
She laid her cheek against me again, clinging like it was hard to stay standing.

  “She still seems a bit tired, so I canceled her extra activities today,” the nurse said.

  Cynthia popped her head up again. “But I get to go to art, right?”

  “She should go to art,” I told the nurse.

  Angela lowered her glasses and glanced at the clock. “She’s already missed it.”

  “Dary! You promised!” Cynthia’s hands scrunched the fabric of my lab coat.

  “You’ll get to go tomorrow,” I told her. “I’ll make sure.”

  I scooped her up and carried her back to the bed. “I heard about a special kind of marker today,” I said. “One that if you cross one line over the other, it makes a new color.”

  “Ooooh,” Cynthia said. “Can we get some?”

  “We can,” I said. “If you eat your dinner.”

  Cynthia frowned. “But it makes me sick.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Just do the best you can.” I glanced up at Angela. “All okay with the staff?”

  When we were readmitted after the trip, one of the nurses seemed to suspect Angela wasn’t family after all. We created an elaborate ruse that Angela was Cynthia’s aunt. No one could know that Cynthia was my sister, or I’d be taken off her case.

  “It seems all right. I made up a big ol’ story about all the crawfish boils I took Miss Cynthia to when she was a baby.”

  “I even drew a picture,” Cynthia said. She sorted through a pile at the foot of her bed, producing an image of a blood-red crab diving into a pot.

  I hated that she had to be involved in the lie, but she couldn’t tell anyone I was her brother. “That’s real good, Cyn,” I said.

  I had to get back on rounds. Sometimes it felt like an illicit affair, the time I would steal to sneak in and check on Cynthia. I knew of no other way to work these long hours and still stay close to her. “I’ll see you before you go to sleep.”

  “Okay.” Cynthia leaned back against her pillows, pale and fragile with shadows under her eyes. I cursed the genetic marker I’d discovered in both my mother and my sister, one that bypassed me. The tumor suppressing gene T53 was mutated in them both. Mom made it to her fifties before it caught up with her. But Cynthia hadn’t been so lucky. She was only six, just two years after Mom died, when she started showing symptoms of leukemia — deep bruising, weight loss, and fevers.