Sleeping with the Playboy

by Julianne MacLean

  Jocelyn moved to the chair and sat down. “I wasn’t anything. I just went to class, got average grades, had a few friends I hung out with most of the time.”

  “Your basic invisible kid, ignored for being normal,” he said, a little too perceptively. “Did you have any boyfriends? Or was the social climbing med student your one and only love?”

  “No, I didn’t have any boyfriends in high school. I had a couple of guys who were friends, and we hung out some times, but I didn’t even go to the prom. None of us did. Looking back on it, maybe we were geeks. I was a bit of a loner. Still am.”

  “But why? You’re gorgeous and funny. You should have been snapped up by now.”

  She sat forward. “It’s simpler this way. I’ve gotten used to living alone and I like to focus all my energy on my work. I don’t have to worry about disappointing anyone when I don’t come home for weeks on end. But hey, who are you to point the finger, Mr. Single-Man.”

  He took the first sip of his milk. “Point taken, but I’ve had some really good excuses. First it was medical school, which kept me busy constantly, then there were years of residencies, where I was sleep-deprived and stressed out most of the time. I haven’t had time for a relationship.”

  “What about now? You’ve been here in Chicago for a couple of years, and you appear to have a social life. You go to the theater and you have women calling you.”

  He took another sip. “Yeah, but I never really got to know any of them.”

  “Who’s fault is that?”

  He gave her a playful look. “It couldn’t be mine. I’m perfect, don’t ya know.”

  Jocelyn smiled.

  “Seriously though,” he continued, taking another sip from his mug, “I know I haven’t seemed like much of a family guy, and maybe I’m not. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”

  “You must have some family. Brothers? Sisters?”

  He shook his head. “I’m an only child. Not that my parents ever intended it to be that way. They died when I was two.”

  A flash of grief flared through her. “I’m so sorry, Donovan. I didn’t know. I mean, I knew they weren’t alive, but I didn’t know when you lost them. What happened?”

  He gazed at his mug as he spoke. “Car accident. I was in the back seat, and we hit a patch of ice and went over a low cliff. Somehow I survived, and someone heard me crying the next morning. A woman found me outside the car, sitting in the dirt, suffering symptoms of exposure. My parents had been dead all night. It’s a miracle I survived.”

  “My God, do you remember any of it?”

  “No. I barely remember my parents, though my grandmother raised me and always talked about them. She was good to me. She died when I was seventeen and I received my inheritance then, which—aside from a small monthly allowance for my upbringing—had been held in trust. This penthouse was part of it. My parents had bought it together when they married, and wanted to spend their lives here. I lived in it with them when I was very small, before they died. Then, like the rest of the estate, it was held in trust. So you see, I didn’t always have money, and I didn’t ask for it, nor do I consider it a part of who I am. I’d give it all away this minute to have my parents back.”

  Jocelyn’s whole body ached with empathy for Donovan’s loss and his lifelong yearning. She had already realized that he wasn’t shallow. This only reconfirmed it. “I had no idea. What about becoming a doctor? When did you decide to do that?”

  “I always knew that’s what I wanted to do. Unlike your ex, it wasn’t because I wanted a fancy penthouse or expensive car. I think it was because I wanted to feel like I had some control over saving people’s lives, because I sure as hell felt powerless after I lost my parents. I didn’t know why I had been so lucky to be spared, and wanted to give something back and make my survival worthwhile. So I used part of the inheritance to put myself through medical school. When I was finished my residencies, that’s when I came back here to live. It was kind of strange—like coming home, even though I barely remember living here when I was little.” He was quiet for a moment. “Too bad air bags weren’t standard back then. They might have lived.”

  Jocelyn got up and went to sit beside him on the bed. She reached forward and stroked the hair off his forehead, then cupped his cheek with her hand. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

  “Me, too. From what I heard, my parents were great people.”

  She rubbed his forehead again. “Is that why you’re trying to raise money for the grief counseling center for children?”

  “Yeah. I know what it can do to a child. The fears and the grief, the abandonment issues and survivor guilt.” He finished the last of his hot milk and sat forward to set the mug on his side table. When he reached across, she saw there was not only a scar on his shoulder—which she had noticed when they’d gone running that first day—but more scars under his arm, along his ribs.

  She reached to touch them while he was still leaning. “That’s two car accidents you’ve been in. These look like they were serious.”

  He raised his arm to inspect them himself. “They’ve healed nicely though, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so.” She continued to touch them, feeling the warmth of his skin, wanting very badly to rub away the pain he must have suffered, both as a child and a year ago when he’d been hit by that other car. “You said a woman went through a red light and rammed you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she live?”

  “No. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt.”

  Jocelyn considered that. “Was she drunk?”

  “No. Apparently she and her husband had just had a fight, and she was pretty messed up.”

  Jocelyn continued to touch the scars, tilting her head to the side as she stared down at them. “What was the date of the accident?”

  He told her.

  “That’s exactly a year to the day before the intruder broke into your house and left you the letter. You don’t suppose…”

  Donovan sat forward. “That the husband has it out for me?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Jocelyn went to get her phone. “I’ll leave a voice mail message with the cop who was here today and have him check it out.”

  She made the phone call from the kitchen, then returned to Donovan’s bedroom. She was about to tell him not to think about it anymore, to try to get some sleep, but she didn’t have to.

  She approached the bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and heavy.

  “See? Hot milk works.” She bent forward and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

  She pulled the covers up over his legs and watched him for a moment, gazing at the perfection of his face—the strong line of his jaw, the straightness of his nose, the beauty of his eyes, even when they were closed.

  He was handsome, yes, but there was so much more to him than that, she thought, her heart still aching from what he’d told her about his parents.

  She imagined him making the decision to start a grief counseling clinic for children. He must have spent his whole life pondering and mulling over his childhood and upbringing, longing for what had been taken from him, and wishing someone had been able to ease the pain. Now, he wanted to help other children, to help ease their pain.

  Jocelyn swallowed over the huge lump in her throat. There was a very big heart in there, she realized, gazing down at Donovan’s chest, fighting the urge to lay her hand upon his skin and feel his heart beating. It was a fragile, wounded heart that had never found the courage to love anyone. It was no wonder. I know what it can do to a child. The fears and the grief, the abandonment issues.

  She suddenly understood what he’d meant earlier that night, when he’d said he wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t a playboy. He obviously had some understanding of the damage done to his heart, and blamed that for his single lifestyle.

  Feeling suddenly sleepy, Jocelyn pulled the covers up to Donovan’s shoulders and turned from the room. Something tugged inside her—an int
ense, aching desire that shot through her soul like a rocket. A desire to protect this man, no matter what it took, no matter how long.

  Never in her career had she experienced anything like it.

  Eight

  The next night, they returned home to Donovan’s penthouse after a long, stressful day at the hospital. Stressful for Donovan, because of the two back-to-back surgeries, and stressful for Jocelyn, who didn’t relax or let down her guard, even for a minute, grilling everyone and anyone who wanted to get within ten paces of Donovan, and constantly watching over her shoulder. Realizing her limitations, she had called Tess to look into retaining a few more operatives to make this a team detail and increase security temporarily, at least until they gained some leads on the stalker.

  Shortly after they entered the penthouse, the phone rang. “I’ll get it.” Jocelyn answered the telephone in the front hall. “Hello? Sergeant O’Reilly, have you learned anything?”

  Donovan approached, watching her and waiting, curious about what the police had managed to discover during the day.

  “I see.” She looked at Donovan. “Yes. We were lucky. I’m not sure yet. Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you for letting me know.” She hung up the phone.

  “What happened?”

  Jocelyn moved toward him and placed her hand on his arm. “You won’t believe what I’m going to tell you. Maybe we should go and sit down.”

  She led the way into the living room, where they both sat on the sofa. Jocelyn took Donovan’s hand in hers, and held it. “The man whose wife died in that car accident is the man who’s stalking you. His name is Ben Cohen.”

  For a long time, Donovan gazed at her. “How do the police know?”

  “Because after I gave them the information, they went to his apartment to question him. He wasn’t there, but the landlady told them some things that gave them enough reason to get a search warrant, and when they got inside, they found pictures of you on his wall, newspaper articles about the accident, pictures of your smashed SUV, among other things.”

  “Did they arrest him?

  “That’s the problem. He wasn’t there, and he hadn’t been there for a while. The landlady said a week or two. The police don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been to work in a week, either. Hasn’t even called in sick.”

  “It sounds like he wants people to know he’s the one.”

  “Yes, which makes him all the more dangerous, because he has no fear. This is a personal vendetta for him, and he doesn’t care about the consequences. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s going to lose his job or his apartment, and most likely go to prison.”

  Donovan cupped his forehead in his hand and squeezed his pounding temples. “The accident wasn’t even my fault. She was the one who ran the red light.”

  “I know, but he’s obviously not rational. He wants someone to blame, and from what the police found in his apartment, he’s angry about the issue of SUVs being like tanks on the roads. He thinks it’s a conspiracy to wipe out the lower classes, and the fact that you’re a rich doctor only added fuel to that fire.”

  “This is crazy!” He stood up and paced around the living room. “I didn’t get an SUV to kill people! I got it because it was good in the snow and in my line of work—trying to save people—I can’t afford to get stuck on the way to the hospital.”

  “I know, I know,” Jocelyn said, rising to her feet and going to his side. “None of this is your fault. He’s a nut, but at least we know who he is and the police are keeping an eye out for him. They’ll catch him. It won’t take long.”

  “But in the meantime? Am I supposed to go about my life, waiting to get shot at again?”

  She took his hand in hers. “No. You’re not supposed to go about your life, not if I have any say in the matter.”

  He met her gaze directly. “What are you suggesting?”

  “It’s my job to protect you, Donovan, and the risk-level—now that we know what’s going on—has skyrocketed in the past twenty-four hours. You can’t continue to do the things you normally do, because he’s been watching, waiting for the chance to strike—like yesterday on the sidewalk. I don’t want you to be a sitting duck. I want you to come away with me.”

  “I can’t tell you where I’m going,” Donovan said to his friend, Dr. Mark Reeves, over the phone, “because I don’t know. She won’t tell me.”

  “I had no idea it would get this serious,” Mark said. “I half thought the intruder was a burglar, like the police wanted to believe, and thought maybe the letter was unconnected. Or maybe I was just hoping.”

  “Look, don’t worry. Jocelyn is a professional. She knows what she’s doing and I have complete faith in her.”

  “So you’re on a first-name basis,” his friend said with a curious tone.

  Mark was single, but didn’t have many women in his life. Not that he didn’t have his share of females trying to bang down his door. He was just too busy with his work to stop and smell the roses. Which was why he enjoyed hearing about all of Donovan’s dates. Donovan supposed it was Mark’s way of having a vicarious love life.

  “You’re not just making this up, are you?” Mark said. “So you can take off with her on a wild Jamaican weekend while I cover your patients?”

  Donovan rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “No, Mark.”

  “Don’t fault me. A guy can’t help wondering. She’s a looker, and I’ve seen the way you looked at each other at the hospital. There’s heat between you—the sizzling kind. Is she still sleeping in the guest bedroom?”

  The direction of the conversation unnerved Donovan suddenly. He tried to laugh it off. “Mark, you need to get a life. I’ve got to go.”

  “But wait, why won’t you tell me anything?”

  Donovan considered that with more than a little profundity. Why wouldn’t he say anything? Because this was deeper and more personal than any affair he’d had in his past? Because he didn’t want to jinx it? Or because he himself was still completely in the dark about what was going on?

  “This is different, that’s all,” he replied with the intention of being vague. “She’s my bodyguard, and just for the record, she is still in the guest room.”

  Mark whistled. “No kidding. She must be pretty tough. I haven’t known a woman yet who’s been able to resist you.”

  “Well, she is an original, that’s for sure. I’ve never met a woman like her.”

  Mark’s voice lowered. “I was right. There is something going on between you. Just tell me this, are you going to lure her out of the guest room any time soon?”

  Donovan stared down at the dial pad on the phone, shaking his head at his friend’s typical tenacity. I’m doing my best, he thought.

  “Enough nosy questions, Mark. My kiss-and-tell days are over. Thanks for covering my patients, and I’ll see you when I get back.”

  Donovan hung up the phone, anxious to get on the road with Jocelyn, to wherever they were going. He was looking forward to being alone with her. Somewhere safe, where she would be able to relax a little and, for once, let down her guard.

  He didn’t mean professionally.

  After a long, careful trip out of Chicago in a rented car under Tess’s name, Jocelyn turned up the winding, woodsy road that led to the cabin. No one would ever be able to trace them here, and it had the added benefit of being familiar to Jocelyn, who had come here twice before. It was the perfect hideout.

  They drove through the shady woods for a few miles, churning up dust on the dry road while rays of sunshine gleamed like dappled light through the trees.

  Donovan looked out the window. “This is really isolated. “You’re sure we’ll be safe here?”

  Safe from the stalker, yes. Safe from her growing attraction to Donovan? Not likely, considering this was probably the most romantic place on earth.

  “Positive.” She tried to sound confident and ignore her personal feelings. “No one knows where we are, and I took the necessary precautions when we left the city.”

  T
hey finally pulled up in front of a cedar, prow-fronted cabin overlooking a lake, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows and a multilevel deck with patio furniture, a round table with a sun umbrella and a barbecue. Rich green grass went all the way down to the water, where a small cruiser was tied up at a private wharf.

  “This is beautiful,” Donovan said. “You sure know how to pick a spot.”

  “Well, I figured if we’re going to be forced to leave town and be inconvenienced by Cohen, we might as well at least be comfortable, and maybe even enjoy ourselves.”

  Enjoy ourselves. She shouldn’t have said that. It inspired all kinds of inappropriate images in her mind.

  Jocelyn turned off the car. The silence was astonishing. All they could hear was a single bird chirping, and the sound of a light breeze whispering through the pines and leafy elms.

  Donovan stared up at the cabin. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Twice, yes. Wait till you see the inside.”

  They opened their doors and breathed in the clean scent of the woods, then stepped onto a carpet of soft, brown pine needles in the driveway. Fetching their bags out of the trunk, they made their way up to the door, where the key and a welcome note from the owners were waiting for them in the wooden mailbox. Jocelyn opened the door and let Donovan enter first before following him inside.

  Nothing had changed since the last time she’d been here. Everything was rustic pine—the kitchen table and chairs, the hutch full of china, the plank floor and the pine walls, as well as the honey-pine ceiling, supported by solid cedar timbers.

  “Wow,” Donovan said, looking up at the cathedral ceiling in the great room and the huge, gray stone fireplace. “Looks like we’re going to get that vacation we’ve both been needing. How long do we get to stay?”

  She set down her bag. “That depends on how long it takes the police to find Cohen. Could be twenty-four hours, could be a month.”