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  “Mr. Keller, please—” the other woman began, but Keller was already sitting up and throwing off his sheet.

  “No, that’s it—I’m leaving.” He stood up, completely healed. But the fact that he was also completely naked seemed to distract the nurses from noticing that his injuries were gone. “Bring me some clothes,” he demanded imperiously.

  “Mr. Keller, please—you can’t just leave!” pleaded the nice nurse, as he was beginning to think of the woman who wasn’t Nurse Janice. “You’ve been injured. You just had surgery!”

  “And now I feel perfectly fine. Do I look injured to you?” Taking a step forward, he let the nurses look him up and down, examining his long, muscular torso, where not even a scar of the previous night’s surgery remained.

  “But . . . but it’s not possible!” Nurse Janice gasped, her eyes still wide and wild. “You had a cast . . . an incision . . .”

  “It’s at least as possible as seeing a prehistoric beast in the middle of the ICU,” Keller remarked coolly, raising an eyebrow at her.

  “But there are tests to run,” the nice nurse protested. “The doctors will have to clear you—”

  “Bring me some clothes right now or you’ll be hearing from my lawyers!” Keller growled. “I could buy and sell this place, and I will if you don’t let me out of here immediately.”

  He had uttered the magic words. Before he knew it he was being given clothes—well, if you could call the ridiculous hospital scrubs clothing—and access to a phone.

  Keller arranged for a car to be sent and left the hospital before the Lady Moon had even reached her zenith. The car took him straight to the airport where he kept his private jet. He always had a change of clothes on hand in the jet, so much to his relief, he was able to change into something decent—and fashionable—before takeoff.

  His fastidious Cat nature satisfied at last, he settled into his seat.

  I’m coming, Samantha, he thought as he buckled himself in and looked out the jet’s window at Lady Moon. I’ll protect you whether you want me to or not.

  Chapter 4

  “Doctor Becker? Samantha Becker?”

  Samantha turned in the direction of the vaguely familiar voice and found herself face to face with a man whose name she could not for the life of her remember.

  “Oh, uh . . .” She smiled to cover her confusion. She’d slept poorly the night before due to more bizarre dreams and the fact that she was in a hotel room instead of her comfortable bed at home. Her brain still felt foggy.

  “Eddie,” the man supplied helpfully. “Eddie Lounds. Drug rep for Pfizer—I got you some free samples for your patients, remember?”

  “Oh yes—Eddie! Of course.” Samantha held out a hand to him and her smile widened, though, to tell the truth, she didn’t really care much for the drug rep, who had been popping up at her home base of Tampa General Hospital for the last few years.

  It wasn’t that Eddie Lounds wasn’t nice—he was almost too nice, in fact. Every time he saw her he offered her free drug samples, tickets to various sports franchises in Tampa, all-expenses-paid dinner cruises, and the like.

  Of course it was nothing new for a drug rep to try and sweeten the deal to get a doctor to switch to their company’s latest drug, but there was just something about Lounds that Samantha didn’t trust. Maybe it was his narrow, weasely face, or the superskinny black mustache that rode just above his thin upper lip. With his slicked-back hair and weird facial hair he looked more like a villain in an old movie than a drug rep—like someone who ought to be tying damsels in distress to the railroad tracks rather than offering free samples of the latest anticlotting agent.

  Still, at least Eddie Lounds was a familiar face in a room full of strangers. Though she’d already attended two lectures that morning, Samantha had yet to see anyone else she recognized. She hoped that would change when she gave her own lecture that afternoon.

  “So how are you?” he asked, reaching for the hand she was holding out. “Enjoying the conference?”

  “Very much. I just sat through a lecture on abdominal vascular trauma—the speaker was—”

  Her words ended in a gasp as Lounds’s hand enclosed her own. The minute his skin touched hers, she got a jolt—much like the one she’d had when her fingers had briefly touched Keller’s bare skin the day before. Only when she’d touched Keller, her whole body had come alive—a bolt of pleasure so intense it had felt like a miniorgasm had arced through her, shocking her with its intensity. Keller had called it a “telling sign,” but to Samantha, it was just plain weird.

  The touch of Eddie Lounds’s hand also gave her a sensation. It was just as intense as the jolt she’d gotten from Keller, but with an entirely different feeling attached. Instead of feeling electrocuted by pleasure, Samantha felt as though she’d suddenly been drenched in slime. It was as though thousands of slugs with cold, slippery bodies were crawling all over her body at once.

  Disgusting!

  She ripped her hand out of Lounds’s grip instinctively, and the sensation ended at once. But then she was left standing there awkwardly, with no rational explanation to give as to why she’d pulled out of their handshake so abruptly.

  “Um, excuse me,” she said, trying to think of a way to explain. “My hand—”

  “Of course, as a surgeon you have to take care of your hands.” Lounds smiled widely, his skinny mustache stretching like a hairy rubber band over his upper lip.

  “Oh yes. Of . . . of course.” Samantha cleared her throat. “Well . . .”

  “I was just going down to the casino to kill some time between lectures,” he said. “It’s just a small one, but it’s still nice. Would you like to come?”

  There was nothing Samantha wanted to do less than spend time with the creepy drug rep whose touch gave her such a feeling of disgust, but she’d already been rude to him once.

  “Maybe just for a few minutes,” she said reluctantly. “I really can’t take long, though—I have to prepare for the lecture I’m giving in an hour or two.”

  “Well, playing a few slots or a round or two of blackjack won’t hurt.” Lounds smiled at her and began leading in the direction of the elevators. “Might even clear your head.”

  “I don’t know if anything can do that.” Samantha sighed as she got into the elevator beside him. “I really didn’t sleep well last night. The hotel lost my reservation and I ended up in a dinky little room with a really lumpy mattress.” She sighed and rubbed the base of her skull. “I still have a crick in my neck.”

  “Maybe I can massage it away for you.”

  Lounds reached for her, but just then the elevator dinged and the doors opened, allowing Samantha to skitter out of the reach of his long, skinny hands.

  “Oh, no thank you,” she said quickly. “I just popped two ibuprofen a minute ago—I’m sure that will do the trick.”

  He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Suit yourself. But I give a mean neck massage if you change your mind.”

  “Thank you.” Samantha was feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. As they walked out onto the casino floor, with its flashing slot machines and low-lit gaming tables, she wondered why she’d allowed herself to be talked into coming down here with Lounds in the first place. She promised herself she’d just play one or two slots and then plead a headache and leave.

  The one good thing about the small casino was that Samantha didn’t have to put up with secondhand cigarette smoke, which she hated. The Mandarin Oriental, where the trauma conference was being held, was a completely smoke-free hotel, so the small casino attached was also smoke free.

  The minute they stepped onto the floor, a girl in her twenties wearing a skimpy waitress outfit with a vaguely Asian theme came up and asked their room numbers and names.

  “Just need to be sure you’re cleared to be here,” she chirped when Samantha asked why she needed to know. “We like to keep this area strictly for the guests of the Mandarin.”

  Samantha didn’t like giving up he
r room number in front of Lounds, but she had little choice.

  “I’m in one twenty one,” she said unwillingly. “Dr. Samantha Becker.”

  “And I’m in one twenty-nine—Eddie Lounds. Just down the hall.” Lounds grinned at her, his mustache twitching unappealingly.

  “Okay.” The girl tapped their names and room numbers into a little handheld device and then frowned. “Excuse me, Dr. Becker, but it says here we have something for you.”

  “You do? What?” Samantha was mystified.

  “Hang on—I’ll need to get my manager.”

  The girl scurried off, leaving Samantha to wonder what in the hell was going on. She and Lounds made awkward small talk until the waitress came back with a man in an expensive-looking suit. He was holding a tray, and on it were two stacks of new-looking poker chips.

  “Dr. Becker,” he said, giving a little bow as he came up to them. “Allow me to welcome you to the Mandarin Oriental. Please accept these complimentary chips to make your stay here more enjoyable.”

  He tried to hand the chips to Samantha, but she held up a hand, warding him off.

  “I think there must be some mistake. Why would you give me . . .” She looked at the two stacks, frowning. “Holy crap—two thousand dollars’ worth of poker chips? I mean, thank you but this is way too much for me. I’ll just buy twenty or thirty dollars’ worth of chips if I want them—I didn’t budget to spend two thousand gambling.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Dr. Becker,” the manager said politely. “These chips are complimentary. They come with your room.”

  “What? But I’m in a standard room—not even the junior suite I originally booked.” Samantha frowned. “Hey, is this to make up for you guys losing my reservation? Because I’ve got to tell you, I’d rather have a room with a nicer mattress than chips to blow on the slots and tables.”

  “Let me see . . .” The manager gave the waitress the tray with its two sleeves of poker chips to hold and looked at the handheld device. “I see that you stayed in a standard room last night,” he said after some tapping, “but according to this, you’ve been upgraded, and your things have been moved to your new room.”

  “My new room? And where is that?” Samantha put a hand on her hip.

  “Why, the Emperor Suite of course, Dr. Becker,” the manager said handing the device back to the waitress, who took it and put it on the tray with the chips.

  “The Emperor Suite?” Samantha shook her head. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “I don’t think so.” The manager frowned. “Would you allow me to show you to your suite so you can ascertain that your things are there?”

  “Well . . . I guess so.” Samantha looked around to make an excuse to Lounds—she really didn’t want him following her. But to her relief, he seemed to have drifted away on his own. Good, at least that was one less thing she had to worry about. The drug rep had been seriously creeping her out, especially after that awful handshake. She really hoped she wouldn’t have to see him again during the conference.

  She and the manger rode up in the elevator along with the waitress, who was still carrying the tray with the chips. Samantha felt uncomfortably like she had her own private entourage. At last the elevator dinged at the top floor, and she trailed after them over the plush peacock-blue carpet. They were on the forty-seventh floor, and there were only two doors along the short hallway—one on one end and one on the other. The manager led her to the room on the right and used a keycard to enter.

  “Here we are, Dr. Becker,” he murmured, sweeping the door wide to allow her to precede him into the room.

  “Wow,” Samantha muttered, stepping into the gorgeously appointed apartment.

  It was decorated in an elegant cream-and-brown motif, with sumptuous overstuffed leather furniture in the sunken living room. The living room also featured a floor-to-ceiling plate glass window-wall. Samantha walked over to it, looking down at the busy Strip below, awed by the view. To her right was a full kitchen, fitted out with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, and across from it was a dining room with a black polished table that would seat eight.

  Wandering further into the huge suite, she found a fitness area with a stationary bike and a rowing machine. Beside the exercise room was a bathroom—but what a bathroom. Samantha stared longingly at the sunken tub, bigger than a king-sized bed, which dominated the room. It was lit from within—soft turquoise lighting that would make the water gleam deepest azure when the pool-sized tub was filled.

  Geez—wish this was my room—I’d love to take a bubble bath in there!

  Reluctantly, Samantha left the bathroom, with its gleaming fixtures and lapis-blue tiles and found her way to the bedroom. There, on a California king-sized bed with a plush white-linen spread, was a slightly battered carryon suitcase. It was unmistakably hers—Samantha could see the luggage tag with her name and address on it.

  “Is this your suitcase, Dr. Becker? Is everything in order?” the manager asked.

  “Well, this is definitely my suitcase but everything is not in order.” Samantha frowned. “I didn’t order this room—I don’t even know what a room like this goes for a night.”

  “Ten thousand dollars, I believe, Doctor,” the manager murmured. “There are only two Emperor Suites in the entire hotel—they come at a premium cost.”

  Samantha sucked in her breath. As a successful trauma surgeon, she made a good chunk of change each year, but not enough to go blowing ten thousand dollars a night on hotel rooms.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But this is a mistake. I’m not paying ten thousand dollars a night, no matter how nice this room is. And believe me, it’s really nice but still . . .”

  “Dr. Becker, this room has been paid for already,” the manager insisted.

  “By who though?” Samantha demanded. “I don’t know anybody who’s got the money to pay for this!”

  “Excuse me, Doctor?” The waitress, who had been standing quietly, holding the tray of chips all this time, pointed to an envelope on the bedside table. “Maybe that will explain things,” she said to Samantha. “It looks like it’s addressed to you.”

  Samantha went around the broad, cushy mattress and snatched up the cream-colored envelope with Samantha Becker printed on it. Inside was a plain, cream-colored card made of thick, silky card stock that felt decadent under her fingertips. Opening it, she found a note addressed to her in a fluid, masculine hand.

  Samantha,

  I hope you enjoy the room. I’ll be watching out for you.

  L.K.

  “L.K.?” she muttered aloud, turning the envelope over to see if it said anything else. It didn’t. “Who in the world is . . . oh no. Oh, no way.”

  L. K.—Liam Keller. It has to be! Geeze, Sadie said he was rich, but I didn’t think he was that rich. This is ridiculous.

  “Dr. Becker?” The manager looked at her, obviously concerned. “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes, there most certainly is a problem! I know who did this, but there’s no way he ought to be able to do it,” Samantha said, frowning. “He ought to still be in the hospital—in fact, he has to be! He . . .”

  She stopped abruptly, struck by the sight of a gorgeous gold-and-silver inlaid clock hanging on the wall.

  “Dr. Becker?” the manager asked again.

  “Oh my God,” Samantha muttered. “Is that really what time it is?” She consulted her own watch and cursed. “Damn it! I don’t have time to straighten this out right now. I’m supposed to be giving a lecture in fifteen minutes, and I’m not even dressed for it yet!”

  “We’ll leave you to it, then.” The manager gestured for the waitress to leave the tray of chips on the table and they hastily withdrew. “You can call down later if you wish to talk more about the situation. But for now, please know that this room is paid for and you are a valued guest of the Mandarin,” he said, putting the key card down beside the chips.

  “Right. Thanks,” Samantha muttered.

 
She was already digging through her suitcase, praying that her best black dress wasn’t too wrinkled. She would have to deal with Keller later—she would call the hospital in North Carolina and let them have it for allowing him to get on the phone and screw around with her hotel reservation. In the meantime, she had a trauma lecture to give and almost no time to get down to the place where she was supposed to give it.

  She just hoped she could keep her thoughts on the topic at hand instead of her fantasies of giving Keller a piece of her mind.

  Chapter 5

  Keller stood at the back of the auditorium, watching from the shadows as Samantha walked up to the podium. He wanted to find a seat, but the place was already packed—clearly the good doctor was an excellent speaker.

  Samantha had on a businesslike black dress that still somehow managed to be sexy, and black pumps with high heels that raised her from a diminutive five foot three to a respectable five foot six, at least.

  Her blond hair looked tousled, as though she’d been running her hands through it, and her eyes were slightly red, as though she hadn’t gotten much sleep recently. Still, she looked gorgeous as always, and she held her chin high, looking confident as she strode to the front of the packed auditorium and laid her notes on the podium.

  “Good afternoon,” she said in a clear, calm voice. “I’m Dr. Samantha Becker and today I’d like to talk to you about the myth of nonoperative management of liver trauma. How many times has this happened to you? You have a patient brought into your ER with a lacerated liver . . .”

  Keller leaned back and let her words wash over him. God, she was smart! Which was so damn sexy—at least as far as he was concerned. It was one of the things that had drawn him to Rachel during his last year of college—her brilliant mind, her sharp wit . . .

  He pushed the thought away abruptly. Rachel was gone—out of his life forever. And it was just as well she was. They had been bad for each other—toxic. It was Rachel who had taught him not to trust . . . not to love.