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

by Milly Taiden

  This would be a battle all her life. And I would be there to help her fight it.

  ***

  Chapter Three: Tina

  I had little time to think of Dr. Darion Marks or his peculiar attachment to his patient as my day spiraled out of control.

  My attempt to teach a set of young teens to paint away their pain had gone completely south when the girls got the bright idea to color themselves instead. Soon I had four giggling rainbow heads and a set of nurses grumbling about the mess.

  I wiped down the tables, still speckled with paint. I couldn’t admit it to anyone at the hospital, but I applauded their misbehavior. They had it tough, running around in hospital garb, no makeup, no dating or school angst or socializing. In their shoes, I would be doing much worse than a bit of temporary color.

  My own teen years were complex and strange. I had gone “goth” and continually covered my pale hair with black dye. I ran with a crowd just like me, full of attitude and railing against authority. Everything had to be about me — my wants, my refusal to assimilate.

  I didn’t get the big picture until life smacked me hard.

  My hand automatically moved to my throat to finger the charm on my necklace, a photo pendant.

  The image was of Peanut, the baby I had when I was seventeen. He was born terribly premature and lived only three hours. Three long, sweet hours.

  His father never acknowledged him or saw him. He ditched me in the hospital during my premature labor. By the time I tracked him down again, he was already poking some other hole.

  I frowned at the dirty cuffs of my sweater, smeared with paint and magic marker. I would love to be able to wear short sleeves to make my job easier, but it seemed unwise. People would notice the scars. I slid the sleeve up my arm. Even five years later, the raised white lines on my wrists were obvious at a glance.

  I’d been so stupid. So young. So unable to think about anything beyond the pain I was in at that moment and how to make it go away.

  A tiny bare head peeped around the edge of the doorframe. “Miss Tina?” a little voice asked.

  Cynthia. Dr. Darion’s favored patient. She wore a pale blue gown and the nubby-bottomed socks the nurses preferred. She wasn’t hooked up to anything today. No drip or oxygen tube. With her quirky smile and cheerful demeanor, she could be any small girl.

  But a closer look revealed the shadows under her eyes. And of course the lack of lashes as well as hair. Her hands were marred with nicks and scars from IVs. If the neckline of her gown shifted just right, you could see the port they had installed for her chemotherapy.

  I pulled my sleeve down over my own scars.

  “Hello, Cynthia,” I said. “You missed class today.”

  “I wanted to come.”

  “Does anybody know you are here?” I remembered Dr. Darion saying she had lost her mother. He hadn’t mentioned a father.

  “I told Aunt Angela.”

  “Is she in your room?”

  “She said I could come.” She slid into a chair. Her body was tiny, smaller than a typical eight-year-old. More like a kindergartner. She propped her chin on her hands. “She went with me on the trip to Houston.”

  My boss had told me not to ask medical questions of the young patients, but to redirect if they said anything their parents might not like non-staffers to know.

  This policy insulted me on several levels. One, it’s pretty damn hard to do art therapy if you’re not supposed to know how or why they are sick. Two, I signed enough paperwork on privacy to fill a file cabinet. And third — why wasn’t I considered staff?

  But I said nothing. If it wasn’t for this job, I’d be serving coffee with Corabelle and Jenny at Cool Beans. At least they had the excuse of not having their degree yet.

  My other option was worse. Going home and living with my parents.

  I’d rather live in a gutter.

  “Would you like to color?” I asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  I slid a piece of paper toward her and retrieved the bin of crayons. I cleaned each one with an antibacterial wipe before handing it to her. That was another difference between this job and other art positions. The absolute necessity of sterility.

  I sat opposite her. “What do you want to draw?”

  “Something pretty,” she said.

  “A beach?” I suggested. “Or maybe a place you remember from a happy memory?”

  She nodded. Her chin was tiny and pointed. “Can I have two kinds of pink?”

  I sifted through the box. By the time I set the new crayons by her paper, she had already drawn a stage with fancy red curtains. “Did you go to a play?” I asked.

  “My mama was a singer.”

  “Really?” I sat opposite her to watch the scene unfold.

  Maybe I didn’t have formal training in this. But I had done a lot of speaking tours about suicide during the past four years, and I had talked to hundreds of people about their best and worst times. I knew that when you sat down and purposefully brought a memory forward, it was usually one that mattered.

  On center stage a woman began to emerge from the squiggles and lines. Cynthia was fairly typical for her age and skill level. Mostly stick figures with two-dimensional details, like the flare of a pink dress, the kick of the elbows. She did understand feet, though, and instead of making the toes go out like a ballerina’s, her mother’s shoes were at a natural angle.

  “What is she singing?” I asked.

  I didn’t expect what happened next.

  Cynthia stood up from the table and held an invisible microphone in front of her chest. Her arms were all bones and elbows, thin, fragile, like a marionette. She drew in a deep breath, and what came out next blew me away.

  She sang her heart out. “I spent my life in old Kentucky. Moved to Cali when I got real lucky in love.”

  Cynthia nodded and winked at me, and I knew she was playing the role of her mother onstage. She sang with sass and self-confidence. Her voice took on a hint of a twang. “He took me home and showed me lovin’. We had a lotta love but a whole lotta nothin’ but love.”

  Cynthia turned in a slow circle, holding the microphone out, arms outstretched. I could almost hear the interlude of a piano, or a guitar, as she made her way around. “Then you found a whole new love to make you happy. T’weren’t another woman but a job overseas. You traded workin’ for my love.”

  Cynthia took on a sober expression, and the next verse slowed down. “I held our baby tight on the night that you left me. My little golden boy with the eyes of gray. My only love. My own sweet love.”

  I clapped as she bowed. “Wow, Cynthia! I’ve never heard that song before.”

  “My mama wrote it.”

  I stopped clapping. “Really?”

  Her face got all serious. “Her husband left her to get a fancy job in England.”

  “Was he your daddy?” Illegal question, but I asked it anyway.

  She shook her head. “I don’t have a daddy.”

  An elderly nurse stepped into the room. “Cynthia? What in the world are you doing in here?”

  Cynthia turned around. “Where’s Aunt Angela?”

  “Out looking for you,” the nurse said. She placed her hands on Cynthia’s shoulders. “Come on now.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “She’s neutropenic and high risk,” she said. I had no idea what that meant.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You should have reported her to the nurses’ desk immediately. I’ll be speaking to your supervisor.”

  I stood up from the chair. She was right. I should have buzzed them as soon as I saw her. Pediatric patients were not allowed to wander. Damn.

  “I don’t want to go!” Cynthia cried. “I want to be here with Tina!”

  The nurse firmly turned her toward the door. “You can come back when it’s time for your class,” she said.

  Cynthia looked back with a mournful gaze, staring at me until she was out the door. My heart clenched for her. I
hated rules too. There were always so many things standing in the way of what you wanted.

  I picked up the image of her mother singing. So, if the song was true, then Cynthia’s mother had another child, a son. Probably not much older than Cynthia, I’d guess. Ten, maybe twelve. I wondered where he was. With his father, maybe. Must be quite a story there.

  I set the image high on a cabinet. I would take it to Cynthia’s room later and apologize to the undoubtedly worried aunt. See if I could salvage the situation. My position at the hospital was perilous at best. I had to do better if I wanted to keep it. Even if only to keep my promise to Dr. Darion.

  I leaned against the cabinet, picturing the doctor standing in the middle of my room. That familiar ache pulsed in me again. It had been a while since I’d gotten tangled up with a man. My sociology professor, actually.

  He had so not been worth it. Clammy hands, and gave me a damn B in the class. After that, there had been the rush of moving out of the dorms, scraping up enough cash to sublease the equivalent of a closet in a house owned by a cat lady. It was dumb luck that Corabelle took me to the airport a month ago, then wound up in the hospital around the same time the social services director was giving up on filling this slot with someone who had real credentials.

  I was lucky. I knew it. I could use this experience for something better, as long as I could keep the job long enough for a recommendation. I’d been given a chance to do something real. I couldn’t waste it on attitude or screwups.

  Or blow it with a passionate one-and-done with a handsome doctor.

  ***

  Chapter Four: Tina

  I saw Corabelle’s car in front of her apartment, so I wasn’t surprised when she turned up in the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry to be here so late,” Corabelle said. “I just needed to grab a few things.”

  “It’s your place,” I said. Corabelle had moved in with her boyfriend, Gavin. Their wedding was just a month away. I was living in her apartment until her lease was up or I got fired, whichever came first.

  I was starting to lean toward getting fired.

  “You look sort of strung out,” Corabelle said. Her black hair was tied up on top of her head, so thick and tall even in a bundle that she reminded me of a geisha. She plunked herself down on the sofa.

  I sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. It was a small room without a lot of furniture. None of us had much money, although our friend Jenny had found some rich movie director guy who kept buying her pink furniture and jewelry.

  I kicked off my shoes and set them next to the wall so I wouldn’t trip over them later. “Every day I leave that hospital, I’m shocked I haven’t been fired yet,” I said.

  “It’s because you’re good,” Corabelle said. “Anybody with half a brain would see that you really help those people.”

  I shrugged. “Hospitals are all about pieces of paper. Credentials. Diplomas. And nepotism. Always the nepotism.” I had nobody watching my back whatsoever. It couldn’t possibly last.

  “So, get the paper,” Corabelle said.

  “Paper’s expensive. And time consuming.” I tugged the ponytails from my hair and ran my fingers through the strands. It was getting long. I should cut it all off again. Maybe dye it black again.

  Except, expensive. Blond I would have to stay, unless I found my own sugar daddy.

  “Any sign of that hot doctor?” Corabelle asked.

  She questioned me about this at least once a week. She had been in the room when Dr. Darion first showed up and asked me out for coffee. She thought he would be good for me. Right. Like a needle full of rat poison.

  But I wouldn’t lie. “He showed back up today.”

  She sat up instantly. “What? Really?”

  “Yep. Right back with the old favor he wanted the first time. Help with a kid patient.”

  “You said you’d do it, right?” Corabelle’s eyes were lighting up like a neon sign.

  “Well, not right away…”

  “What?” Corabelle scooted forward on the sofa, her hands clasped together. “Why not?”

  “The doctor is a jerk!” I said, although admittedly only when he first came in. Still, I didn’t want to encourage her.

  “Oh.” She sat back again. “Then screw him.”

  Now I felt like defending him. “It wasn’t that bad. He just has this gruff exterior. It’s probably hard, all these dying patients.”

  Corabelle watched me carefully, as if trying to figure out which parts were true, my disdain or my understanding. “So, there was something good about the doctor,” she said.

  I wasn’t up for being questioned. I didn’t know how I felt myself.

  ***

  Chapter Five: Tina

  “Tina! You’re here!” Cynthia’s eyes lit up from her position on the bed when I walked into her room the next morning.

  I had an hour at the start of each day when I was expected to write reports on patients who might need additional mental health referrals. That took no time at all, so I usually wandered the hospital a bit.

  “I brought you your picture,” I said, holding out the image she had drawn of her mother singing.

  “Thank you!” Cynthia struggled to push herself to sitting. She seemed weaker than yesterday, even though her smile was huge.

  A woman seated near the bed peered at me over green glasses. “So, you’re the famous Tina?”

  “Are you Aunt Angela?” I asked. “I am so sorry I didn’t let the nurses know Cynthia had escaped to my room. She was singing the cutest song.”

  The woman waved my words away. “I knew where she went. It would have been fine if that bossy nurse hadn’t wanted a urine sample just then.”

  I relaxed a little. If the family didn’t make a fuss, then it would probably be okay. When no one came for me yesterday after the incident, I wondered if I had managed to escape trouble.

  “Are you Cynthia’s mom’s sister?” I asked.

  Angela’s expression froze for a second, and I worried I had been too nosy.

  “I’m more of a distant aunt,” Angela said.

  I didn’t know what to make of that. “I loved that song her mother wrote. Such a sad tale of love!” I hoped this might prompt some details about how the lyrics related to the family.

  Angela looked behind me, her hands so tight on the arms of the chair that her knuckles were turning white.

  The voice that came from the door was like an icy blast. “Do you have any more personal questions that are completely out of line for your relationship with my patient?”

  I whipped around. Dr. Darion stood in the door, glowering like a gargoyle.

  “I—I was just asking about a song Cynthia performed for me yesterday.”

  His eyes narrowed. I wondered what I possibly saw in him before, because now he was clearly the biggest jerk in the universe.

  He snatched my arm and dragged me from the room.

  I tried to wrench free as he moved us down the hall. “What is going ON with you?” I asked.

  “Hush,” he said.

  We turned down a narrow corridor, and he buzzed us through a door with his ID. I had never been in this part of the hospital and tried to figure out where we were. The back side of ICU, maybe.

  He shouldered open a door marked Surgical Suite B. The room was dim and empty. Boxes were stacked along one wall, and it had an unused smell to it, stuffy and antiseptic. A pair of gurneys were pushed together next to a line of cabinets.

  “What is this about?” I asked, jerking my arm out of his grasp.

  “Why were you in Cynthia’s room asking questions?”

  “Why are you dragging me through the hospital like a lunatic?”

  We were only inches apart, me defiantly on my toes to try to eliminate the advantage of his height.

  “You have no business questioning my patients or their family.”

  “She’s my patient too.”

  “You don’t have patients. You are not practicing anything but how to draw a go
ddamn picture.”

  Oh, I wanted to punch him. My hand curled into a fist. My voice came out bitter and hard. “It was just a friendly conversation,” I said. “Cynthia snuck away to the art room and got in trouble.”

  I was so close I could feel his breath on my face.

  When he didn’t comment on that, I said, “I wanted to make sure she was okay.” I poked his shirt front with each word. “Like. You. Asked.”

  Darion exhaled like a tire leaking air. “When did that happen?”

  “About an hour after you came to see me yesterday.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. His anger seemed to be evaporating. “The nurse kept her from going to art class.”

  I plopped back down on my heels. “Really? A nurse? Which one was authorized to cancel her therapy?” I had been told that only doctors could override the schedule except in an emergency.

  This got him. His mouth opened. Then closed. “Actually it was her aunt Angela.”

  I crossed my arms. “Really?”

  Something was wrong here. The woman in her room seemed fine with the girl sneaking off to see me. But not go to class?

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up, then down, like he had swallowed something nasty. “I’m sorry I dragged you down here,” he said.

  I shoved at his chest. “Sorry? You just embarrassed the hell out of me! No telling who saw that. And I’m already in trouble for not reporting your precious patient after she came to see me!”

  I pushed him again. I was really in a fury. “Are you TRYING to get me fired?”

  He backed up against the wall. “I’ll talk to the head nurse. Take responsibility.” He seemed a little panicked. I had no idea why.

  “You better!”

  His hands went back to my arms, gentler this time. “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”