by Lili Valente
A sharp, appraising look creeps into his dark eyes. “So you’re a doctor?”
“A vet,” I say. “But you’d be surprised by the overlap. Animals and humans aren’t as different as most people would like to think.”
“Then you can check me out,” he says, as if it’s the most logical conclusion in the world. “Make sure everything’s healing up the way it should.”
“No, I can’t! I treat four-legged creatures. And I’m not even licensed to treat them in New York. I haven’t had time to file the paperwork since I moved.”
“Moved from where?”
“Georgia.” I frown at the sudden change of subject. “Atlanta, but I don’t—”
“A Georgia peach,” he says, nodding as if that explains something about me.
“I’m nothing of the sort.” I lift my chin, wanting to make it clear I’m no sweet, southern belle who will let herself be bullied by a hockey player too stupid to get his butt to the doctor after he was stabbed. “I was born and raised in the city and got my degree from NYU. I only moved to Georgia because my fiancé was doing his residency there.”
Jake nods. “So how does your fiancé feel about you pretending to be my girlfriend for a few weeks? He okay with another man being all over you? Because Keri’s not going to be fooled by the two of us holding hands and having polite conversation.”
“He’s not in the picture anymore,” I say, refusing to think about Wesley, or about Jake being “all over me.” Both are thought-avenues best avoided. “Which is good news for you because my fiancé would not have been cool with what I’m about to do. He would have been concerned about malpractice and potentially killing someone. But seeing as you’re too pig-headed to go to a doctor and I’m not big enough to throw you over my shoulder and carry you, I guess an exam by a vet who wants you to stay alive is better than nothing.”
I’m expecting more arguments and stubbornness, but instead he smiles.
He smiles—a real, fully-formed, ear-to-ear grin featuring slightly crooked teeth and perfectly placed dimples—and I forget that he’s the most frustrating man on the planet. He’s just so flipping beautiful, so stunning to look at and so sexy that my panties start smoldering all over again.
“Well, thank you,” he says in a deep, kerosene-on-an-open-flame voice. “I appreciate that. The woman I’m dating wanting to keep me alive isn’t something I’ll be taking for granted anytime soon.”
“We aren’t dating, Falcone,” I say sternly. “We’re pretending to date. And there are rules we need to go over before we move forward. But seeing as you’re in need of medical attention, the rest of orientation can wait until I check you out.”
“All right.” He reaches for the bottom of his shirt. “You want to do this here, doc? Or someplace more private? I’m fine either way.”
I arch a brow, pretending to be bored by the prospect of his impending nakedness. “So you’re fine with baring your chest, just not your dirty laundry?”
He grins again. “That’s right. Never been the shy type when it comes to taking my clothes off.”
My cheeks flush, but somehow I managed to keep my voice steady as I point one hand toward the door. “Let’s go upstairs to my place. My supplies are there. There’s not much I can do for you in the garden and if any of the HOA members see me hanging out with a half-naked man in a communal area, I’ll be even more on their shit list than I am already.”
“Your place it is.” He nods, still smiling as he falls in beside me on the winding cobblestone path leading to the building. “And thank you. Again. I’m glad you’ve decided to take my case.”
“You’re welcome.” I nod, trying to play it cool even as the panty fire spreads to burn across every inch of my body and a voice in my head warns that no good will come of this decision.
But I could no more send Jake on his way now than I could kick a dog with a thorn in its paw.
Jake Falcone in dragon mode is a dark, sexy, intimidating force of nature, but Jake hopeful and smiling and thankful for my help is flat out irresistible.
CHAPTER FIVE
Shane
Back up at my place, I motion Jake toward the galley style kitchen on the left side of the room and start toward what used to be Aunt Tansy’s bedroom.
“You can take your shirt off by the island. I’ll examine you there.” I deliberately keep my eyes on the bookshelves and the art on the walls as I cross the wide, open-concept space, looking anywhere but at the drop dead gorgeous hockey player about to be half naked in my kitchen.
Leaving him behind, I dart into my bathroom to gather my survival bag.
A side effect of having so many people die on me, I like to be prepared with something more badass than the average first aid kit. My survival bag is packed with everything I would need to perform minor surgery and clean up the mess after, in addition to an assortment of pharmaceutical products obtained by less than legal means. I could get in trouble with the authorities for a number of the items in my bag of tricks, but at least I don’t have to worry about Jake going to the police if my doctoring does more harm than good.
If the man will let people stab him and keep quiet, for God’s sake, he’s not going to turn in someone who’s trying to help him.
It makes me wonder what led to his cop phobia in the first place. I’ve had a few unpleasant experiences with the NYPD—verbal sexual harassment, that one time I got roughed up at a peaceful protest, and the unfortunate sighting of a penis when a drunk cop wandered by my private school in eighth grade with his, ahem, nightstick poking out of his unzipped fly—but I’ve been grateful for the police more often than I’ve been less than thrilled with their presence. Without our police force, the city would degenerate into a dangerous state of chaos. By and large, the cops are the good guys, men and women who put their lives on the line to keep our city safe.
Do they handle every case perfectly? Of course not, they’re only human, but there’s no logical reason for Jake to be so anti-boys-and-girls-in-blue.
So what happened to get his stubborn mind set against police intervention? Did he have a run in with one of the bad eggs that scarred him for life? Or did he do something worth the police coming down hard on him?
Bash did an extensive background check on Falcone—revealing nothing more damning than a couple of speeding tickets and a citation for disorderly conduct after a bar brawl got out of hand in college—but Bash’s records only go back to the day that Jake turned eighteen. If he committed a crime as a younger person, those records would have been sealed.
I hadn’t thought about the possibility of a juvenile record before, but I’m considering it now, and considering urging Bash to do some shadier poking around into Jake’s past. Bash isn’t just another pretty face; he’s also an accomplished hacker, skilled at getting the dirt on just about anyone. Even if Jake’s juvenile record is sealed, Bash could still find his way into it.
Pulling my cell from my back pocket, I type out a quick text—Can you get me Jake Falcone’s juvenile arrest records if there are any? Preferably ASAP?—only hesitating a moment before hitting send.
Sure, Jake seems like a good, albeit intense, person, but I’ve only known him about an hour. And in that time I’ve realized that the chances of him answering personal questions he would rather not answer are slim to none. He clearly doesn’t want to share why he’s anti-po-po, but if I’m going to be able to help him while also protecting myself, I need to know what’s behind his resistance.
I only have to wait a few seconds before Bash texts back—On it. Are you okay? If you need backup, Aidan is in Central Park training Nate, the new guy. They can be there in five minutes. Ten tops.
I’m fine, I respond. Jake seems nice. I’m just curious as to why he’s so reluctant to go to the police for help. Judging by the intake paperwork, I assume you weren’t aware that his ex stabbed him with a kitchen knife before he kicked her out of his apartment?
WTF? Bash texts. No! He said she broke into his apartment, got vio
lent, and that he had to use force to get her out, but I had no idea. Shit! Why do people think it’s okay to lie to me? Do I have a face that says “lie to me” Shane? Is that it? Do I have “sucker” tattooed on my damn forehead?
I throw a clean towel on top of my bag, knowing I need to get back to the kitchen. Relax! He was probably just hesitant to put anything in writing. He’s a very private person. And that might be the only reason he doesn’t want to go to the authorities about Keri. I just want to make sure. But look, I have to go. He’s waiting for me to look at his stab wound because he won’t go to a doctor, either.
My phone rings a second later, Bash’s name flashing on the screen.
I bite my lip, torn, but in the end, I silence the ringer. I don’t have time to talk to Bash right now, and I don’t want to risk Jake overhearing what should be a private conversation. I’m having a hard enough time earning his trust even without his knowing I’m poking into his past.
But I don’t feel bad about my choice.
This is about personal safety. I’m on my own in the world, and I have to watch my own back, especially when wading into deeper waters than I anticipated. I agreed to play someone’s fake girlfriend for a few weeks, after all.
Nowhere did I sign off on getting hurt—or worse…
CHAPTER SIX
Shane
Conscience quieted, I emerge from the bedroom to see Jake still wearing his shirt—damn—and flipping through the yoga magazine on the counter. “You do yoga?” he asks as I set my bag down next to him. “My conditioning coach keeps telling me to try it, but I haven’t been able to find the time.”
“Yes, I do. Practice every day. Recommend it to everyone. Life changing stuff.” I open the bag and begin pulling out the items I might need, including materials to clean and bandage the wound, a thermometer to check Jake’s temperature, and stitch tape on the off chance that it will do any good this long after the initial injury. “I like to practice up here.” I pat the marble countertop. “Keeps me focused.”
“How so?” he asks, amusement in his voice.
“Knowing I could fall helps with my concentration.”
“So you enjoy a little danger.” His hands go to the bottom of his shirt. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
A response starts to assemble itself in my head—something about how I don’t enjoy danger, I use it as a tool when I need a boost in my give a damn—but then Jake strips his dark blue sweater and undershirt over his head in one smooth movement, and my words get lost on the way out of my brain.
Holy abdominal muscles, Batman.
And pectoral muscles and shoulder muscles and bicep muscles and all the other muscles. So many flipping muscles.
It’s a muscle smorgasbord. The man is a fit and toned masterpiece, so perfectly made it takes a long, drawn out beat for me to remember that I’m looking at his chest for reasons other than pure admiration.
When I do, I clear my throat and swallow hard. “So the entry wound, is…”
He lifts his left arm slightly, revealing a pink, puffy slash above where his arm begins to curve down into his armpit. “Here.”
“Hmm.” I slip gloves on as I move in for a closer look.
“Like I said, it’s not serious,” he says as I gently probe the area around the inch-wide slash, my awareness of him as a tall, dark, and delicious sex god fading as I slip into exam mode. “It went through skin. Might have grazed the muscle a little, but it doesn’t hurt bad enough to be serious.”
“Is it tender here?” I push down on either side of the wound. The area is hot to the touch and pinker than I would like.
He grunts. “A little, not bad.”
“But more than it hurt yesterday?” I press on the skin farther out, noticing a marked change in firmness as I return to the swollen flesh near the puncture point.
“Maybe.” His breath stirs my hair as he exhales. “It doesn’t feel great when you push on it like that.”
“That’s because it’s getting infected. I can tell without even bothering to take your temperature.” I frown as I reach for my bottle of rubbing alcohol and a gauze pad. “I’m going to clean and bandage it, but you’ll need a round of antibiotics to make sure a little infection doesn’t become a big infection. Do you have a general practitioner you can—”
“I can’t go to a doctor.” His chest muscles clench as I apply the alcohol soaked pad to the wound, making me think the tenderness is worse than he’s letting on. “By law they have to report knife and gunshot wounds to the police.”
I sigh heavily, congratulating myself on asking for the expanded background check. Something is up with this man and the cops, and I intend to figure out what that is before we get in much deeper. “That’s only if it’s an assault situation. Couldn’t you just tell your physician you fell on a knife while you were cooking supper or something?”
He lifts a brow. “Fell on a knife and stabbed myself under the armpit?”
“Stranger things have happened.” I replace the alcohol pad with dry gauze and reach for my bandage tape. “You should hear some of the stories I’ve heard from my people-doctor friends. Humans get into much more creative trouble than other animals.”
“I’m sure we do, but I don’t need a doctor. Or antibiotics.” He lifts his chin. “I’m fine. My body can kick the infection on its own.”
“But what if it doesn’t, you stubborn goat?” I glance up at him with a frustrated huff to discover his face only a few inches from mine.
I pull in a breath, but my words get lost again as my focus narrows to the heat from his lips warming mine, and the smell of earthy cologne and powerful, in-the-prime-of-his-life man rising around me. He smells like heaven, so good all I want to do is lean in, press my nose to his bare skin, and draw the electric smell of him down into my soul.
And after I’ve smelled him, I would press a kiss to the center of his chest, right above his heart. I would kiss him, slip my tongue out to taste him, bite one flat, light brown nipple and then the other before tilting my head back and—
“I’ve got fish medicine.” The words emerge as a strangled croak as I struggle to beat back the heat licking across my skin.
I suspect this man is hiding a dark, maybe criminal secret about his past, but even if he isn’t, lusting after him is still dangerously bad news. Forget that he’s my client; he’s also a womanizer of the highest order. He’s dated at least six A-list celebrities in the past year alone. One of them even wrote a song about him—“Ice Cold Dragon Heart”—which doesn’t paint a flattering picture of Jake’s sensitivity or let-’em-down-easy skills.
I would be as dumb as a box of cold rocks to let this lust burn unchecked. I need to put out the flames, get my head in the game, and remember that the only person I can trust to do right by me is me.
“Fish medicine,” he echoes, his gaze fixed on my mouth, making me think I’m not the only one with a fire down below.
Shit. I have to rein us both in. Now. Before we get off on the wrong foot and can never get back on the right one.
“Fish medicine. Antibiotics for fish,” I stammer as his mouth dips closer and my breath comes faster. “Most people don’t realize it, but the antibiotics used for animals are made in the same factories where they make human medicine. Same ingredients, same pill design and color coding, same everything except that you don’t need a prescription to buy pet meds.”
He props his hand on the counter, so close to mine that our fingers brush and fresh electricity zips up my fingertips. “So you want to give me fish antibiotics.”
“No, I don’t want to give you fish antibiotics.” I take a step back, hoping it will help calm my racing heart. “But if you refuse to go get medicine from your doctor, then I will give you fish antibiotics and tell you how to use them. Though, honestly, I would rather not take my human doctoring that far. I’ve taken pet meds myself several times, but I’m more comfortable experimenting with my health than yours.”
“That’s sweet.” He steps clos
er, until my entire body is toasting in his furnace-like heat. “You’re sweet.”
“I am not. I’m stupid,” I huff. “I shouldn’t give in to your stubborn nonsense.”
“You’re about the farthest thing from stupid I can imagine.” He reaches up and brushes my hair over my shoulder with a gentleness that makes my bones melt. “It doesn’t seem fair that you get to be sweet, beautiful, and a genius doctor, too.”
“I’m not a genius doctor.” I tilt my head back, mesmerized by the heat in his eyes. “I’m a spineless, uncertified vet, and I should make you go to the emergency room.”
“You can’t make me do anything, Miss Willoughby.” His fingers thread into my hair, triggering a clench of awareness low in my body. “I’m an immovable object.”
“And I’m an unstoppable force,” I murmur automatically, though it’s the furthest thing from the truth. Right now I’m at a standstill, breathlessly waiting to see what this man will do next.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shane
Jake smiles—a sexy, secret smile that makes me melt. “If you say so, Shane, but my gut says that’s not true.”
I pull in a deeper breath, shocked by how hot it is to hear him say my name.
“My gut says that you’re looking for a reason to stop,” he continues, his lips so close I could be kissing him in half a second. “A reason to slow down and get out of your pretty head once in a while.”
“You don’t know me,” I whisper, willing myself to take a step back, which my feet inform me won’t be happening. “I’m not like that at all.”
“Your friends never tell you that you think too much?”
“No. I talk first and think about what I’m saying when it’s too late to do anyone any good. I don’t usually try so hard to say the right thing.”
“Should I feel special?” His hand molds to my ribs through my soft sweater, making my nipples tighten. “Or insulted?”
