The Thunderbolt - Lori Wilde Page 0,1
her and placing one hand on her shoulder. “Let me help you.” Reaching over, he tugged the corner of the gown from her foot. “There we go.”
He looked down at her.
She peered up at him.
All he could see was a pair of soft, beguiling blue eyes the shimmering hue of lazy summer dreams peeking at him over the top of her scrub mask. Sumptuous eyes framed by impossibly long lashes that zeroed in on him with the precision of a laser beam.
Bennett blinked at the sudden sensation piercing his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged.
“Do you hear music?” she murmured.
“Music?”
“Bells ringing, birds tweeting, angels singing?”
“Angels?”
“You know, those heavenly creatures with wings.”
Thoroughly scientific Bennett cleared his throat, but damn if he didn’t hear a faint refrain of hallelujah somewhere in the back of his brain.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
“You’ve both broken scrub.” The circulating nurse’s voice cracked through the enchanting spell. “Get off the floor. Scrub in again.” She clapped her hands. “Hurry. The patient is in holding, and Dr. Laramie will be here within minutes.”
Bennett rose to his feet and held out his palm to the cupcake-size scrub nurse. She reached up and took his hand.
It was an extraterrestrial moment. An R-rated version of ET. Out-of-this-world woman touches man, generates ethereal glow, causes hot sparks deep inside his groin.
Very hot sparks.
Impossible.
He couldn’t even see her entire face. This sensation had zilch to do with the young woman at his feet and everything to do with the fact he’d eaten a chocolate-chip muffin for breakfast. His blood sugar had crashed after the sugar rush.
Yeah, that was the ticket.
Not a testosterone overload. Not an endorphin rush. Bottoming out blood sugar. He needed protein. Good thing he kept beef jerky in his locker.
He tugged her off the floor.
She righted her cap and avoided his eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and started for the door.
“Wait,” he said. “You’ve got something stuck on the back of your scrub pants.”
“Where?” She turned her head and tried to peer behind her.
“Allow me.”
Not knowing what demon possessed him, Bennett placed one hand at her hip to hold her steady. A soft, inviting hip that could easily have modeled gauzy, blink-and-they’re-not-even-there undergarments.
He took his other hand and grabbed hold of the sticky red label plastered to her world-class tush and pulled.
Audibly, she sucked in her breath.
He was startled to discover she was trembling. His heart stuttered, and he realized his blunder too late. He should not have touched her in such an intimate place. Not when he was having lascivious thoughts about that delightful bottom.
“Here you go.” He cleared his throat and kept his voice neutral, belying the chaos rioting inside him. He placed the label in her hand.
It read: Volatile, Handle with Care.
Was that a message or what?
“Th-thank you,” she stammered.
“Scrub in again. Both of you.” The circulating nurse barked from across the room and pointed in the direction of the scrub sinks. “Now.”
They stood side by side at the deep stainless-steel sinks in the scrub area, scouring first their fingers, then their hands, and lastly their arms with stiff-bristled plastic brushes and reddish-brown antiseptic solution.
Neither had spoken, but Lacy felt as if she was ready to explode.
Bennett began to whistle.
The sound pushed excited shivers under her skin. She cocked her head and listened, trying to identify the tune. When she did, she almost dropped her scrub brush.
“Hooked on a Feeling.”
Was his whistling this particular old-fashioned song some kind of sign? Possibly a subliminal expression of his internal thoughts?
The Thunderbolt.
This had to be it. Nothing else explained her reaction to him.
Wait a minute, Lace. Hold your horses. For all you know this guy is married or engaged or gay or too wrapped up himself…
She glanced at his left-hand ring finger. Bare. But that didn’t mean anything. Most surgeons didn’t wear rings. Then again, the guy was a surgical resident, and few residents were married. Still, a naked ring finger was no guarantee.
Lacy couldn’t believe fate would so cruelly lead her astray. Surely Cupid wouldn’t send her a married man. Because that’s exactly what this felt like. As if she had been shot straight through the heart with the winged cherub’s love-dipped arrow.
Her friend down-to-earth friend CeeCee would call it “insta-crush lust” but Lacy knew this was different.
She recalled the feel of Bennett’s hand at her hip, his fingers plucking the sticky label from her backside. An electrical thrill shot through her, tingling all the way to her toes.
Stunned,