One Night with the Doctor Page 3

  “You’re up next.” The balding stage manager with a walrus mustache motioned Poppy forward. “Break a leg.”

  Offering the man a shaky smile, Poppy smoothed suddenly sweaty palms on the skirt of her dress. What had she been thinking when she agreed to participate?

  Granted, she loved to sing. That was the reason she’d joined the church choir. In fact, it had been after one of the evening rehearsals when Lexi had ambushed—er, pulled her aside—and innocently asked if she wanted to volunteer for a Jaycee fund-raiser. Being civic-minded, Poppy had immediately said yes. When she learned what she’d agreed to do, she’d considered pulling out. It had been years since she’d set foot on a stage.

  How could she possibly perform with only a few weeks to pick her song and practice? But then, she reminded herself to stop setting impossibly high standards. The performance didn’t need to be flawless or perfectly choreographed. This was a fund-raiser, not a Broadway musical.

  From where Poppy stood just offstage she could see that not only were all the tables full, there were people standing in the back. Of course, she reminded herself, more people meant that a community organization, which did a lot of good, could do even more.

  When she heard the applause for Anna Randall and saw the midwife take a bow, Poppy’s stomach quivered. Adrenalin mixed with a healthy dose of fear surged. In less than a minute she’d be the one standing under that spotlight.

  She reminded herself that the only person she might disappoint tonight was herself. Unlike most of her fellow contestants, Poppy didn’t have anyone in the audience who’d come specifically to hear her.

  “Please put your hands together for Poppy Westover.” David Wahl, an emergency medicine physician and emcee for the evening’s event, held out his hand to her.

  Poppy took a deep breath and strode onto the stage to a smattering of applause. She glanced over the crowd and froze. The man whose torrid kiss had never been far from her thoughts the past two weeks sat at a small table in the front row.

  Benedict saw the look of startled surprise in her green eyes before she looked away.

  “She’s happy to see you,” Tripp observed, then took a sip of beer. His lips twitched.

  Shock was closer to the word that had come to Benedict’s mind. Had he been mistaken about the desire he’d seen in her eyes two weeks ago as he’d left the party? Still, she didn’t look angry. That was some consolation. Though he now had to wonder if the gesture he’d made before leaving the office had been a smart move.

  Since it was too late to change anything now, Benedict took a pull from the bottle of Dos Equis and sat back, ready to enjoy the show.

  It took only a few notes for Benedict to realize that Poppy had a voice suited to this style of singing, warm with a bluesy richness. As the song continued he leaned forward, mesmerized.

  She drew out the final note and the crowd rose to their feet. Cheering filled the bar. Even as he clapped, Benedict turned to Tripp. “She’s as good as any professional.”

  “Poppy had the lead in several musicals when we were in school. She’s even better now.” Tripp shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone topping that performance.”

  The words barely registered. Benedict’s entire focus remained on the stage. He gave Poppy a thumbs-up and she blushed.

  When Poppy bowed one last time, Benedict didn’t take his eyes off her. He’d been given a second chance to make an impression.

  This time he wouldn’t blow it.

  Chapter Three

  After her performance, Poppy headed straight to the dressing room. She reached the small table with her name written on a strip of paper taped to the mirror and came to an abrupt halt. The makeup brushes littering the tabletop had been pushed aside. In their place sat a crystal vase holding a dozen long-stemmed burgundy roses.

  She brought a hand to her breast and glanced around. “Are—are these for me?”

  Although she’d spoken to no one in particular, Cassidy Kaye, owner of the Clippety Do-Dah salon, looked up from the supplies and brushes she’d been stuffing into an oversize purple bag.

  The silver sparkles in Cassidy’s atomic blue eyeshadow glittered in the artificial light. “And you told me you weren’t dating anyone.” Her shocking pink lips curved up in a smug tilt. “You had to know I’d find out.”

  Like a fine wine, some people got better with time. Others, well... Poppy sighed. The hairstylist was just as nosy as she’d been back in high school when she’d written the Loose Lips gossip column.

  Dressed in skintight purple pants and a bright emerald green sweater, Cass still marched to her own beat. Her blond hair, jagged to her shoulders, currently held a streak of fuchcia. Canary yellow glasses were tipped up at the corners and studded with rhinestones.

  Even when she’d been small, Cassidy had exhibited a bold, eclectic and totally unpredictable fashion sense. In kindergarten, she’d regularly worn a Halloween catsuit to school in lieu of more traditional attire. In sixth grade she’d come to school with her hair buzzed, demanding they call her Sinead.

  Not everyone had been kind to her.

  Remembering, Poppy felt her irritation ebb. She reached out, rubbing a soft, fragrant petal between her fingers. How long had it been since anyone had sent her flowers? Years, she decided.

  She wished these beautiful blossoms were hers. But she’d learned long ago wishing didn’t change reality.

  “I bet these were simply placed on the wrong table.” Regret filled Poppy’s voice.

  “The flowers are yours.” Cassidy’s chin lifted. “I was here when they were delivered.”

  Poppy widened her eyes at the stylist’s defensive tone. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “See.” Cassidy plucked a card from the bouquet and shoved it under Poppy’s nose. “Your name is right here.”

  Conscious of the curious glances from the other contestants now directed her way, Poppy took the envelope from the stylist and glanced down. Her name in elegant cursive stared back at her.

  Unable to contain a shiver of anticipation, Poppy broke the seal with one finger and slowly pulled out the card nestled inside.

  “Break a leg” had been scrawled in bold masculine strokes followed by a single name, “Ben.”

  The warmth that rushed through her was chased by a prickle of alarm. Doctor Benedict Campbell wasn’t someone she wanted to notice her, much less buy her flowers.

  Cassidy jostled close, rising on tiptoes to peer over her shoulder.

  Biting back annoyance at the woman’s obvious attempt to see what was on the card, Poppy casually dropped it into her purse. The last thing she wanted was for rumors to get started about her and Benedict.

  “Who sent them?” Poppy demanded.

  “A friend.” Poppy’s tone came out light and breezy, just as she’d intended.

  “Puh-leeze.” The stylist rolled her eyes and emitted a braying laugh. “I’m not stupid.”

  “It happens to be the truth. Regardless of what you may think, Be—” Poppy stopped and cleared her throat. “The man who sent the flowers is merely a friend. Really a friend of a friend. Actually, more of an acquaintance.”

  Cassidy hooted and glanced meaningfully around the room, but found herself playing to a dwindling audience. Without an immediate answer the other contestants had quickly lost interest in the “who sent the roses” game.

  “A guy would never send something that pricey to a woman he considered an acquaintance or even a friend.” The stylist spoke loudly. “A gesture like that has lover written all over it.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw Anna Randall cast a sympathetic glance in her direction. Anna had gone to school with her and Cassidy and was well aware of the stylist’s predilection for drama.

  Poppy retrieved the cardboard carrier and the cellophane the floris
t had left next to the dressing table. Although she knew better, she clung to the hope Cassidy would give up the snooping and wander off. But when she looked up, the woman was still there.

  Cassidy tapped a finger against her lips. “A dozen long-stemmed set this guy back plenty,” she said as if thinking aloud. “Florists jack up the prices something fierce around Valentine’s Day.”

  Poppy simply shrugged and pretended to check her makeup. As she leaned close to the mirror, rose petals—soft as cashmere—caressed her cheek.

  Now that the bouquet was up close and personal, Poppy realized that, unlike some of the inbred varieties, these roses possessed a wonderful scent, sweet without being cloying. Giving in to impulse, she buried her face in the fragrant blossoms and inhaled deeply.

  “Give me a hint,” Cassidy said the second Poppy lifted her head. Apparently deciding to go with the subtle approach, the stylist used a persuasive tone that invited confidences. “Who is your mystery man, Poppy? Do I know him?”

  Poppy was spared the need to respond when she and the other contestants were called back to the stage. After considerable fanfare, David Wahl announced she was the winner of the competition. Poppy stared in stunned disbelief when he pressed a small silver microphone trophy into her hand and presented her with a check for $50. She kept the trophy but promptly donated the money to Community Safety Net.

  The crowd cheered loudly. As she glanced over the enthusiastic throng, Benedict, er, Ben, gave her another thumbs-up and she offered him a smile, not a flirty one but the kind you’d give your grandmother or the helpful stranger next door.

  But when his eyes held hers an instant longer than comfortable, friendly didn’t begin to describe the jolt. Poppy realized with a twinge of alarm that she wanted this man. Not in her life, oh most certainly not there, but in her bed.

  It was a startling revelation. She’d had many opportunities for trysts since her divorce, but no interest. It was as if her desire for sex had died when she discovered her husband had been unfaithful for most of their married life.

  Now, one smoldering look from Benedict had stirred those embers. No, not just stirred. The spark in those gray eyes had ignited a bonfire hot enough to paint the sky in bold red strokes.

  Being blindsided by this unexpected desire didn’t change the fact that, for Poppy, sex had always followed love. And Benedict wasn’t the kind of man she would allow herself to love.

  Once bitten...

  There was one more round of applause for all the contestants before they were ushered off the stage. She told herself not to look but Poppy couldn’t help it. She cast a quick glance in the doctor’s direction.

  He was gone.

  She shoved aside something that felt an awful lot like disappointment. It was a blessing, she assured herself. Always best to have temptation out of reach.

  Once she reached the dressing room Poppy scooped up the roses along with her purse, trying to block the other contestants’ excited chatter about their evening activities.

  She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt blue. After all, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plans. Exciting plans that included a bowl of ice cream and a favorite DVD.

  After declining a last-minute offer to have a drink with Cassidy and a group of her friends, Poppy slipped out the back door, telling herself quite firmly that Colin Firth on screen would have to do. Rolling around on the sheets with Benedict wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not any night.

  Though for a moment, the thought of a spontaneous night of pure fun made her heart quicken.

  With fear? she wondered. Or excitement?

  Not that she’d had much experience with fun times in bed. After the initial honeymoon phase, sex during her marriage had been...disappointing.

  With the vase of flowers tucked securely in the crook of her left arm, Poppy strolled across the parking lot toward her car. Though she’d left the bar alone, when she was a few feet from the vehicle a prickle along her skin told her she had company. She glanced toward her left in time to see a man dressed in black step from the shadows.

  Poppy’s heart slammed against her ribs. Tense muscles rippled. She lifted the vase, poised to fling the flowers in the mugger’s direction and run.

  But before she could get her arms to move, the light from a full moon played over the handsome face. Her fear deflated as quickly as a balloon pricked by a sharp pin.

  “Ben.” She lowered the vase, pressing her hands firmly against the crystal to still their trembling. “You startled me.”

  “Apologies.” His cultured voice reminded her of expensive bourbon, the kind that slid down smooth but packed a wallop. “You were stunning tonight. Your voice is tailor-made for sexy, sultry songs.”

  On the surface, he’d offered a simple compliment. But the look in his eyes told her it wasn’t just her voice he found sexy.

  The truth was, she found him sexy, too. When she saw him sitting in the audience, dressed simply in black pants and a sweater, her heart had quaked. This was a man who looked good in everything...and probably even better in nothing at all.

  Poppy’s cheeks heated. She dropped her gaze toward the roses, now protected from the cool night air by a tent of cellophane. “Thank you for the compliment. And for the lovely flowers. They smell every bit as good as they look.”

  When Benedict didn’t immediately respond, a horrible thought struck her. What if he wasn’t the “Ben” who’d sent them?

  Before she could backtrack, his lips stole upward in a pleased smile. “The florist assured me you’d get them before the competition started. I’m happy to see he kept his word.”

  Break a leg, the note had said. Yes, Ben would have wanted her to receive them before she stepped onto the stage. Poppy saw no purpose in telling him the roses hadn’t arrived until after her performance.

  “I was cheering for you tonight,” he added in a deep, sexy rumble. “Congratulations. You deserved the win.”

  Although Poppy had friends in the audience tonight, most—like Tripp—were there to support other contestants. The fact that Benedict had been there for her thrilled and terrified her.

  “It was fun. Definitely a good cause.” Poppy moved around him to open her car door, trying to ignore the alarming rush of sheer physical awareness at his nearness.

  In a self-preservation move, she took an obscene amount of time placing the flowers—secured in the cardboard carrier the florist had left—on the passenger-side floorboard. Yet when she straightened, Benedict was still there.

  Poppy raised the collar of her coat and shoved her hands into the pockets. Taking a steadying breath, she cocked her head. “What is it you want?”

  Her question was blunt, to the point and totally unnecessary. The look in his eyes proclaimed in big neon letters exactly what he wanted, or rather who he wanted.

  He wants me. She fought a surge of pleasure at the thought, a pleasure that sharply spiked when Ben pulled her to him.

  “I’d like—” he paused and a slight smile lifted his lips “—to know if you have plans for the rest of the evening?”

  He smelled like soap and an indefinable male scent that made her want to lean into him. Instead she made herself focus on the question.

  Plans? Yes, she had plans. Of course she had plans. But what were they? And why, now basking in the heat from his body, did they suddenly seem so irrelevant?

  “I—I do,” Poppy finally managed to stammer.

  His hands dropped and he moved from her, taking the warmth with him.

  “I wasn’t aware you were seeing anyone.” An emotion she couldn’t identify flickered in the molten silver of his eyes. “Who is he?”

  “Rocky.” Her grin came quick and fast, surprising them both. “Rocky Road.”

  Beneath the expensive cut of his dark wool coat, Ben’s shoulders relaxed. The harsh planes of hi
s face softened, making him look younger and more vulnerable. Approachable.

  “You may not be aware—” He reached out and adjusted her collar. When his fingers brushed her neck, Poppy was disconcerted to feel her breath quicken. “—that Rocky and I are well acquainted.”

  “Yeah, well, Rocky gets around.”

  He chuckled, a low pleasant rumbling sound, his gaze lingering on her lips. “Have dinner with me. Rocky can wait.”

  “Ben.” While he hadn’t given her permission to use it, the name came easily. Poppy liked the way it felt on her tongue. Liked it a little too much, she realized.

  Poppy started to rake her fingers through her hair then stopped when she realized she’d muss the waves Cassidy had labored so hard to perfect. God, she was confused.

  The only certainty was that accepting a dinner invitation from this man would be a first step down a path she had no intention of traveling. Spontaneous was one thing. Foolhardy quite another. “I don’t believe our having dinner is a good idea.”

  Poppy immediately realized her mistake when puzzlement filled his gray eyes. She should have simply lied and said she’d eaten before the show. Or been completely honest and confessed she was fighting an urge to feast on him.

  “Why isn’t it a good idea?” he asked, leveling a steady gaze.

  While Poppy was telling herself to shut this down and get in her car, Ben shot her a wolfish grin showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth.

  “I promise I won’t bite.” He lifted his right hand and offered a two-fingered salute. “Scout’s honor.”

  The thought of this prominent physician ever sleeping in a tent or starting a fire with sticks brought a laugh to Poppy’s lips. “You were never a scout.”

  “I made it all the way to Eagle.”

  “I was a Brownie.”

  This time it was his turn to laugh.

  Poppy tilted her head. “Do you have badges?”

  “A whole box of them,” he said with a sheepish smile. “How about you?”