One Week in Your Arms (24 page)

B
rett Harris swung his 1969 Plymouth Road Runner into the physicians' parking bay at Lafayette Falls Medical Center. In mint condition, Rhonda the Road Runner was one of five muscle cars that Brett owned. With great affection, he called them his girls. They were fast and fun and they never let him down.

Since it was Friday, the parking lot was almost empty. Over half of the medical staff, including him, took Friday as their day off. He lived for three day weekends.

“It's all about heaven on earth, Rhonda.” He patted Rhonda's shiny blue fender and headed toward the catwalk that would take him to the physicians' entrance.

The brown leather bomber jacket he wore over jeans and a black t-shirt warded off the crisp chill of the November morning. Of course, by midday it would be in the seventies. Great weather for picking up a chick and heading to Covington Lake.

He tapped in his code on the keypad and walked into the physicians' lounge, which was as deserted as the parking lot. Brett followed the scent of freshly-brewed coffee into the kitchenette where his friend, pediatrician Dr. Aaron Kendall, was sitting on a stool, eating a bowl of corn flakes.

“Hey,” Aaron said. Dressed in blue scrubs, the former college baseball player still had the lean build of an athlete and still played ball when he got a chance. “I've asked around and no one knows anything about a meeting this morning.”

Brett frowned. “I can't imagine what Sheldon wants.” An hour ago he had received a cryptic message from the chief of staff, Dr. Neal Sheldon.

It was a simple command with no explanation. Sheldon, being who he was, didn't have to explain his orders. His commands were not questioned. But ever since Brett had received Sheldon's message, he had been considering all the possibilities and come up with nothing.

Aaron gave him a thoughtful glance. “What about the chief of cardiology position?”

“You know I don't have a chance.” It wasn't that he didn't want it. He would give anything for it. He might even give up one of his girls for it.

“You're trained in interventional cardiology. That's a huge plus.”

“Doesn't matter. It's all politics.” More than once the politics had gone against him. He was from the wrong side of town. He'd grown up on Trinity Road, a strip of worn asphalt that snaked through the hills outside the city limits. Trinity Road had once been home to a branch of the Dixie Mafia and it was known for its roadhouses and violence. By all rights he should have never even made it to college, much less through medical school and a cardiology fellowship.

“Lockett will never endorse me and he has enough clout with the hospital board to make certain they'll go against me, too.”

Aaron scooped up a spoonful of cornflakes. “You haven't had words with Lockett again, have you?”

“I haven't spoken to him in three months,” Brett answered.

Lockett was the Ivy League prick who headed up administration at the hospital. He and Brett had clashed since day one. Lockett had said Brett needed to look more like a doctor than a felon, and more than once Brett had been reprimanded for his heated arguments with the administrator.

But, lately, there hadn't been any big blowups between him and the administrator because Lockett was dealing with cash flow deficits at the hospital and the interventional cardiac procedures Brett performed brought in sizable insurance payments. From what Brett had heard, Lockett was holed up in his office, trying to save his job.

“I don't know,” Brett said, still mystified as he got a small cup of coffee. “I don't have any patient complaints against me that I know of.” He took his work seriously and he was good at what he did.

Aaron finished his cereal. “If you get the chance, you should mention the chief of cardiology position to Sheldon. You'd do a great job.”

“The only way I will get it is if everyone else turns it down.”

The position did mean extra work. All the other cardiologists on staff were older than Brett and they had families on top of large practices. They all balked at more responsibility.

“I think Foster will step up and take it,” Brett said. Dr. Roy Foster had been on the staff for more than twenty years. He was well-liked, well-connected and a better politician than Brett.

“Still, you should say something to Sheldon,” Aaron suggested. “Just see what his thoughts are.”

“He'd probably flatten me like a cockroach.” Brett glanced at the wall clock that read 8:45. It never hurt to be early. He tossed the foam coffee cup in the trash. “I'll let you know what happens.”

“Good luck, bro.”

Brett strode down the blue tiled hallway, thinking about the chief of cardiology position. Dr. Collins had held onto the position for twenty-five years. For the past few years, Collins had been biding his time, getting ready to retire. He had let things in the cardiology department slide. He never battled for new equipment or upgrades to the cath lab. Brett had found that frustrating, but the mediocre Collins was Lockett's golfing buddy, and he had the support of the governing board of trustees and the medical staff.

You kiss my ass and I'll kiss yours
.

In the hallway, he passed a couple of lab techs. “Hey, Hot Rod,” they greeted him by his nickname. “TGIF!”

“You got that right,” Brett replied. Who didn't love Fridays? Nothing like a Friday to put a little spring in your step. He usually hung out at the Thunderbird Bar and Grill on Friday nights where the beer was cold and the girls pretty. He had invested a wad of cash into the Thunderbird and it was paying off nicely.

What could he say but that life was good and it just kept getting better?

As he approached the elevators at the end of the hall, the doors to one of the cars slid open and he made a dash for it. He almost ran into Mrs. Rutherford, the hospital's stodgy dietitian, as she stepped out of the elevator.

“Doctor Harris, aren't you energetic this morning?”

“It's Friday, Mrs. Rutherford.” Brett rushed into the elevator car as the doors started to close. Hospital elevator cars were built to accommodate stretchers and medical equipment so they were roomy enough.

He nodded at an elderly Asian couple who were standing near the door. He stepped to the left where the control panel was located and pressed the number seven. The executive offices and meeting rooms were all on the top floor of the hospital. Then he settled in the corner beside the control panel for the ride up.

That's when he noticed the hot chick standing in the right rear corner of the elevator. Long hair, the color of gold dust, rippled over her shoulders and formed an S-curve along her cheek. She wore a short burgundy jacket with embroidered lapels over a silky top, snug jeans, and brown suede riding boots with stacked heels.

She looked like she had just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. All cool and classy. Like she belonged at a polo match or on a sailboat or in his bed, he thought with a grin. She held a couple of large white pastry boxes from the hospital cafeteria.

He reflexively checked her hands. Delicate clear nails and no wedding band or engagement ring. He grinned. Maybe it was his lucky day.

The elevator stopped on the second floor and the couple got off. While the elevator was stopped, Brett took the opportunity to move to the rear of the elevator so he and the Ralph Lauren model stood in opposite corners.

She looked directly at him and smiled. Her face went perfectly with her lean body and stylish clothes. Full lips painted a soft mauve color, a perfectly straight nose, and bold blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires as she pinned him with a gaze that would have fired up the pistons in any man.

She was fine and he was available.
So there you go
.

“I've heard we're going to have great weather this weekend,” he said, throwing a little bait her way. He tapped the elevator railing. For the first time ever, he wished the elevator would move a little slower.

She batted those baby blues at him. “There's a storm coming.”

He had watched the weather report on TV before he left his house. Sunny autumn weekend, high in the seventies, no rain. “I don't think so.”

“Oh, I'm fairly certain of it,” she insisted. She had a breathy voice with a slight lilt. She didn't sound local. Her accent was more cosmopolitan without any accent like a newscaster.

She flashed him a tempestuous smile. “I love storms. Thunder and lightning can be very sexy at night.”

Whoa. Damn.
He raked back his dark hair. The elevator passed the fourth floor. With his motor running, he cut his eyes toward her and she didn't shy away from direct eye contact. She gave him a once-over as if she were sizing him up. Then she wet her lips. Kind of like she was silently saying:
I'm great at oral sex
.

I love bad girls!
If he had been a Christmas tree, every light on him would have been glowing. Where had she been all his life?

The elevator passed the fifth floor. There was no time, so he decided to go for it.

He had not been born humble.

“I'm going to be at the Thunderbird tonight. If you're out that way, stop by. I'd love to have some company.” He didn't make a big deal of it. Subtlety had its merits, but inside his pulse had dialed up a few notches.

“You're totally Type A,” the Ralph Lauren model said as she shifted her hands on the boxes she held.

“Type A?”

“Assertive.”

He nodded. Yeah, he was assertive. He didn't lack confidence.

“Ambitious,” she added.

“Definitely.” If he hadn't been ambitious, he would not be where he was today. Ambition fueled him. He cut his eyes toward her and hoped the next attribute would be attractive.

“Asshole,” she said as the elevator came to a halt on the seventh floor with a familiar bump. For the first time, he realized she had ridden all the way to the top floor with him. She moved from her position in the corner and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Brett could see the flecks of violet in her blue eyes and he caught the soft scent of her breezy cologne.

He blinked. Something seemed familiar about her. Then again, not.

“Some people say I'm an asshole.” When he thought he was being jerked around, the Trinity Road in him came out. He let his gaze linger on her face. “But if you got to know me, you wouldn't think that.”

“I do know you,” she said as the elevator doors slid open. “And I do think that.”

Then she was on the move, heading down the carpeted hallways toward the executive suites. Bewildered, he stepped off the elevator. He watched her trot ahead of him.
Long legs and nice ass.

He caught up with her. “What do you mean you know me?” He was certain they had never met. He had never been so drunk that he couldn't recall who he'd picked up and he couldn't imagine not remembering her.

“Coach Vanderford's biology lab.” The Ralph Lauren model stopped in the quiet carpeted hallway. The top floor only housed medical staff offices, conference rooms, the medical library and a rarely-used observatory.

“Coach Vanderford?” Mentally, he had to sweep the cobwebs from memories buried for years. Coach Vanderford had been one of his high school science teachers. “You're talking Lafayette High?”

“You were always such a smartass, Brett.”

“I was a teenager,” he countered. Teenagers were cocky. They had an attitude. “There were a few guys a lot worse than me.”

“Not to Natalie Layton.”

His face screwed up as if he'd just taken a dose of quinine.
Natalie Layton. The senator's daughter. Platinum blonde hair cut short like Tinkerbelle's. Mega-watt smile. The stuff of wet dreams. Voted Cutest Girl and Class Favorite. Always hanging onto her jock boyfriend or riding on a parade float in a lavish gown. Everyone had loved her but him.

He had nearly crapped when Coach Vanderford had handed out lab partner assignments and he got stuck with Natalie. If all that was required had been cuteness and charm, Natalie could have aced it, but if it required any effort and intelligence, you could forget it. She kept her head in the clouds.

While he was working his ass off, maintaining a 4.0 grade average so he could get a full scholarship and go to college, she spent half her time in class staring out the windows in some sort of fantasy world. Or drawing pictures instead of taking notes.

He had resented everything about her, including the fact that a boy from Trinity Road had no chance with a girl like her.

“When it came to Natalie Layton, I just didn't suck up to her like everyone else did and I didn't bow down because of who she was. I said exactly what I thought and I guess I was blunt. Were you one of her friends?” Everyone had claimed to be her friend.

“It's me, Brett. Slacker,” she said, nudging his memory again.

Slacker?
That was the nickname he'd given Natalie when she was his worthless lab partner.
What's your ambition in life, Slacker? Trophy wife? If daydreaming made you smart, Slacker, you'd be the next Einstein. Hey, Slacker, maybe you can become a professional float rider.

“Natalie?” His eyes widened as the realization dawned on him. “You're Natalie?”

“In the flesh.”

He couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that the woman who stood before him was the same girl he'd known in high school. She had made some sort of unbelievable transformation. Her voice, her hair, her manner, and even her face seemed different.