The Trouble With Paradise (5 page)

THREE

 

You’re the doctor?”

At the question from his dripping wet patient, Dr. Christian Montague sighed from the depths of his irritated soul and strode across the small room to the sink. This was his second patient before they’d even set sail. The first, his so-called “emergency,” the one that had gotten him on board a half hour early, had suffered from—stop the presses—a paper cut. She’d turned out to need nothing more than a Band-Aid, though her eyes had wanted something else.

He was used to that. It had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with the fact that he worked on a boat that catered to the extremely wealthy, which often equaled spoiled. He was a single man, a doctor to boot, surrounded by exotic, lush landscape that inspired certain emotions, one of them being lust.

But Christian didn’t mix business and pleasure. Ever.

At least this bedraggled patient wasn’t coming on to him. She seemed to be in honest distress. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous as Brandy had been. She wasn’t smooth, suave, or sophisticated as their guests often were.

Instead, she stood there, her dress stained and wet and dripping on his floor, wearing a tote on her shoulder that was nearly as large as she was, looking uncertain, with her wide chocolate eyes broadcasting her naivety.

Didn’t she know what that doe-eyed, innocent expression did to most men? Turned them into assholes, that’s what. The transparency of her drenched dress didn’t help. She was a walking please-take-advantage-of-me waiting to happen.

He couldn’t have said why this annoyed him, it just did.

Oh yes, there was that. He flipped on the tap at the sink and scrubbed his hands. “I’m Dr. Christian Montague,” he said, and yanked out a paper towel, turning to face her as he dried off.

“Dorie Anderson.”

Okay, he
could
say why she annoyed him. It was those devastatingly dark eyes that gave away her every thought. He wanted to tell her to close them, before he took advantage of what she didn’t even realize she was offering. “What can I do for you?”

“Uh...” Her wavy, somewhat wild flyaway brown hair was half out of its clip, and she lifted a hand to shove it away from her eyes, her fingers shaking.

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Hurt?”

When she didn’t answer, he attempted to curtail his irritation. “What seems to be the problem here, Ms. Anderson?”

He knew what
his
problem was. This room was small. Make that tiny, postage stamp tiny. They were within two feet of each other without even trying.

“Dorie,” she whispered. “You can call me Dorie.”

She smelled like lemon. Lemon iced tea to be exact. Not a scent he’d have considered a turn-on by any means, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her, or breathing her in. The woman barely came to his shoulder. She was drenched. And there were those eyes, those drown-in-me, heal-me, I’m-so-sweet-I’ll-kill-you-slowly eyes . . .

Not his type, not even close.

“My problem,” she finally said, “is that I tripped on the dock.” Her cheeks went pink. “I nearly lost my luggage, and then I spilled iced tea—”

“You don’t need a doctor for any of that.”

At the base of her throat her pulse beat like a humming-bird’s wings. He found his gaze trapped there.

“I hurt my ankle.”

Okay, now they were getting somewhere. He gestured to the bed. “So have a seat.”

Dragging her teeth over her lower lip, she glanced at the bed. “Um.” She slid her hands behind her, over her bottom, and winced. “I prefer to stand.”

“I can’t look at your ankle while you’re standing.”

“I—” The boat lurched. She gasped, and her arms flailed out, and so did the huge bag over her shoulder, which smartly connected with his jaw.

The thing must have rocks in it, because he actually saw stars.

He also saw her falling, damn it, and grabbed her as those huge pools of melted chocolate landed on him.

“What was that?” she asked.

“We’ve just left the dock.”

Pressed against him, hair wild, eyes locked on his, her dress soaking into him, she took in the unmistakable sensation of the boat moving over the water. “Oh. Right. I didn’t think. It’s...”

Scary. Sickening. Unsettling.
He waited for her to say any of those words, or a dozen others, but after another beat, she let out a surprised smile. “Lovely.”

She had a smile on her, he’d give her that. The kind of smile he didn’t see every day—real. He tried to back away, but she had a grip of steel on him.

“I hit you.” She touched his jaw. “Or my purse did.” She let the bag slip to the floor, where it landed with a loud
thunk
.

Definitely rocks. Unfortunately he couldn’t think about that because her warm, soft curves were pressed against him, and he became so hyperaware of that, nothing else penetrated. For all the people he came in daily contact with, for all the people
he
touched during the course of his work, he was rarely touched in return.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, hands still on him. “I have a terrible habit of doing that.”

“Hitting people?”

“No.” She laughed nervously as he untangled himself from her. “Being clumsy.”

“Speaking of that...” When he pulled his wet shirt, it came away from his chest with a sucking sound. “What is it, tea?”

“Yes. Iced.” Reaching out, she brushed a hand over his chest, but he stepped back, free of her touch.

“Sorry,” she murmured, her gaze flying to his. “That’s going to stain. I’ll pay for it, of course—”

“Forget it.” Needing a change of subject, he patted the bed. “Sit already.”

“Oh. Um—”

She shut up when he lifted her to the bed himself, where she winced big time. “I thought it was your ankle.”

She blushed. “It
is
my ankle.”

“And...?”

“And nothing.”

Nothing, his ass. Or, more accurately,
her
ass.

But she suddenly became fascinated by something on the floor.
Fine.
She didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t care less. Shifting to the end of the bed, he put his hand on her lower leg, over her wet dress, determined to get this over with.

But at his touch, she sucked in a breath. A low, husky sort of sound really, but similar to the sound she’d made on the plank, and as it had then, it zipped right through him. He ignored it. This touch was about healing.

Not
sexual.

Yet she’d brought an innate sensual earthiness right into the room, like a third person. Almost against his will, he looked into those huge eyes, and was seriously leveled.

He still had his hand on her leg. The material of her dress was soft and gauzy, thin. He could feel the heat of her body beneath. “I need to see the ankle.”

When she nodded, he pushed the hem of her dress up a bit, and was blinded by brilliant pink toenail polish. Sliding the dress hem up a bit more, he revealed her legs from the knees down. She did indeed have a contusion and swelling around the ankle, and he slid a hand beneath her foot.

“Ouch.”

“Yes, it’s a good one.”

“I think the dock’s uneven.”

“And I think it’s the silly shoes.” He unbuckled her ridiculously high-heeled sandal and slipped it off. “You did realize you were going to be on a boat, right?”

“Yes, but I was thinking
Love Boat
, not
Gilligan’s Island
boat. And these sandals, they’re made by—”

“They could be made by God himself, I don’t care. Your feet weren’t made for four-inch heels, no one’s were.”

“Tell that to Jimmy Choo.”

“Who?”

“Not much of a shopper, I take it?”

He found himself letting out a laugh. “I live on a boat, remember?”

“Well then I can admit that these aren’t really Choos.” A quick smile crossed her lips. “They’re Shop-Mart specials. I got them with my employee discount.”

“No Shop-Marts around here.”

“I know.” She went quiet while he studied her ankle some more. Her skirt had slid up to her knees, revealing her pale legs. She was not used to being in the sun, as evidenced by how dark his tanned hand looked against her lily-white skin.

“Your life must be fascinating,” she said softly, and when he looked at her, she smiled. “At least to me it is. I’m a clothing designer working at Shop-Mart, I don’t get to the South Pacific much.”

He ran his fingers over her bruise, doing his damnedest not to notice her skin was the softest he’d ever felt. Or that his touch had given her goose bumps up her legs.

And her arms.

He absolutely wasn’t noticing that her nipples—visible through her now sheer dress—were two pebbled peaks. “Maybe you should try designing a more practical shoe for women.”

“Did I break it?” She whispered this, her voice husky and low.

“Hard to tell without an X-ray, but I don’t think so.” He was whispering, too, and he had no idea why, so he cleared his throat and forced himself to look her in the eyes. “You need to ice it and stay off it for a few days.” Relieved for the excuse to turn away, he reached in a drawer for an ACE bandage. “I’ll have ice sent to your room.”

He had to put his hands back on her to wrap up the ankle. He didn’t like the fact that her breathing had changed, or that in the deafening silence, his breathing sounded loud and choppy as well. He tucked the ends of the bandage into itself and tried not to look into her eyes.
“L’aspirine?”

“What?”

His French tended to come out when he was ruffled, and for some reason, he was definitely ruffled. “Painkiller?”

She managed a smile. “You have something for my klutziness?”

“Sorry.”

“Oh well. I have my own aspirin, thanks.” She pointed to her bag. “In my purse.”

“That’s not a purse. That’s a weapon.”

She laughed. “Just inside is a small leather pouch...”

Reluctantly, he crouched by the bag. The mysterious depths of a woman’s purse had always terrified him, but steeling himself, he opened it. The thing was filled to the gills; brushes, makeup, a wallet, hair bands . . . Damn it—tampons, right on top of an opened sketch pad featuring a pencil-drawn sundress that he’d seen before—on his current patient.

“The pouch is peach,” she said from the bed.

He dug past the tampons and found a big box of . . . “Condoms.”

Her gaze swiveled to his, her cheeks red. “I like to be prepared.”

He hoisted the mega-box. “Just how many guys did you think would be on this cruise anyway?”

“The peach pouch,” she reminded him.

He set down the condoms and resumed his search. “Peach is a fruit.”

“A light pumpkin sort of color, then.”

“Also a fruit.” But he kept digging.

“There,”
she said, looking over his shoulder and pointing. “Right there.”

Orange.
Why hadn’t she just said orange? Tossing the thing to her, he straightened and went to the small refrigerator in the corner, because suddenly he was thirsty, dying for a drink. Something stiff would be best, but he grabbed two bottles of water, one for his patient, except she’d already dry swallowed the pills like an old pro. Then she wriggled to the edge of the bed and tentatively hopped down, gingerly putting weight on her right foot.

“What about your other injury?”

“What?” She slid her hands to her butt. “I don’t have another injury.”

He let out a low laugh. “Did you fall on it?”

Looking away, she sighed. “Yes.”

“Bruised? Or even . . . cracked?”

Her head whipped toward him, and at his raised brow, she rolled her eyes. “I’m okay.”

She didn’t look it. She was in real pain, and some of his amusement faded. “Maybe I really should take a look—”

“No!” She blew a stray strand of hair from her face and forced a smile. He knew it was forced because it was short of the sheer volume of her real smile, which could singlehandedly knock him off his feet.

“It’s fine,” she insisted, and hobbled to the door. “Really. Thank you. Thank you so much. Just let me know how much I owe you—”

“Nothing. My services are on the house.”

“Oh.” Her eyes were doing that thing again, that killing him slowly thing. “Well that’s incredibly kind of you.”

Kind?
No.
Necessary?
Unfortunately.

He had one year left of being nothing more than a glorified indentured servant on this gig, and then he was free to live his life how he wanted. He’d be free to go home to his native France if he chose, to ER work, back to everything he’d left behind. No more nomadic lifestyle, no more bandaging paper cuts and twisted ankles.

He could get back to
real
medicine.

“Well.” Dorie flashed a small smile. “Thanks again.” Then she backed right into the door. Jumping, she blushed again, fumbled with the handle, and then quickly left.

Christian moved after her, sticking his head out the door to see if anyone else was waiting for him.

And ended up watching her walk away.

Actually, she was limping away, yet not all of the limp was from her ankle. She had one hand on her ass.

A very nice ass, most definitely, but hurting. He shook his head.
Women,
he thought, just as another one passed Dorie and sauntered right toward him.

“Well, hello,” she purred.

Brandy Bradelyne, paper cut victim.

She lifted her Band-Aid-less finger. “I could use another fix, Doc.”

Most men would not have objected. She was built like a supermodel and looked like one, too, with her artfully messed golden hair and lean, willowy, tanned limbs exposed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and an even tinier red halter top.