Simon waited as the women continued their chat, then cleared his throat.
They looked up. The blonde doctor’s green eyes widened in recognition.
Simon nodded. “Hello again.” Their gazes remained locked before he managed to turn his attention to the receptionist. “Do you know how much longer Dr. Shepard is going to be?” Simon asked.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“Right.”
He felt the gaze of the other woman on him and looked back at her. She smiled.
She had an incredible smile.
Attraction once again morphed into something else. Desire. Need.
He made up his mind to ask her out. Maybe she wasn’t into casual sex, but he could always get lucky, right?
Then he noticed the badge now hanging around her neck.
Nina Whitaker, MD, PhD. Psychiatry, Psychology.
A psychiatrist.
Just like Lana. Only Nina Whitaker was a twofer. An MD and a PhD.
She’d truly made it her life’s work to help the mentally ill.
Air left his lungs and the damned pain wormed its way upward again. Silencing a swearword, he turned away without returning her smile.
* * *
AS THE TALL, BROODING man stalked away from the receptionist’s window, Nina reached past Sandy to close the sliding Plexiglas window.
“God, isn’t he gorgeous?” the receptionist gushed.
That, Nina thought, is an understatement. For the second time that day, the brief glimpse of the man had gotten her motor running. “Gorgeous, sure, but he also has a major chip on his shoulder.” Her heart had nearly exploded out of her chest at seeing him again, but despite the renewed spark of interest in his eyes, she hadn’t missed how his expression had grown disdainful once he’d seen her name tag. “What’s his name?”
“Simon Granger. Isn’t that just hunky?”
The strong name fit him, she thought. “Who’s he here to see?”
“Dr. Shepard.”
Ah. That made sense. Kyle worked primarily with military and law enforcement. And since Simon’s hair was on the longer side, that meant... Nina nodded. “He looks like a cop.”
“Yep. You wanna talk to him? Who knows? Maybe he could be of service.” She grinned. “Seriously. Didn’t you say your meetings with the police chief had stalled?”
More like hit a brick wall, Nina thought. Karen had been wrong. Even given Nina’s experience with establishing the MHIT program in Charleston, she was having little luck convincing San Francisco officials that spending time and money to train officers on advanced strategies to deal with the mentally ill would be worth it in the long run. The police chief hadn’t disputed the training could make a difference for the suspects, but thought it would likely jeopardize his men more than it would help them.
“My men are trained to use force only when it’s absolutely necessary to protect themselves or others. They don’t need to be second-guessing themselves by considering the mental health complexities of the suspect in question. That’s something that becomes relevant once the suspect has been contained and any threat he poses diminished. In the moment, it doesn’t matter why someone’s acting dangerous, only that he is,” he’d said.
Nina had heard the same argument again and again. And in all fairness, it had some validity. But protecting police was only one aspect to be considered. Those same cops had to make distinctions between the suspects they apprehended all the time. They handled men and women and children differently. They approached things differently if someone was elderly, had an established record, or had never been in trouble with the law a day in his life. They considered how someone was dressed, how they walked, how they talked. An understanding of someone’s mental condition was another aspect that should be considered when entering a situation, and glossing over it was the easy answer.
Bottom line, however, was most cops hated the idea of coddling a criminal and were resistant to seeing one in a compassionate light. Maybe it was because it made it harder for them to do their job. But that was no excuse for ignorance.
She looked once more at the gorgeous guy in the waiting room. “Too bad I don’t do cops,” she murmured only half-jokingly.
Sandy laughed. “You don’t do anyone, Nina. Good thing I do.”
Smiling, Nina straightened. She’d leave the flirting to the receptionist. As sexy as Simon Granger was, he was still a cop. One who obviously disdained what she did for a living. “I’ll be on the geriatric floor.”
“Ms. Horowitz still there?”
Nina pictured the elderly woman who’d gifted her with the DVD Simon Granger had seen and who had a penchant for