“Seacliffe Cosmetic Surgery, can I help you?” He cringed as he said the words. Chances were, he probably couldn’t help. He didn’t even have a clue how the messaging system worked, let alone anything else.
But luck was on his side; it was an easy request. He lifted a pen and scribbled down a name and address of someone asking for a brochure. Simple. Even he could manage that.
He replaced the receiver and sat down in the black leather chair. Most of the time he loved his work. The hours were good, the pay even better and, although some people were disparaging about plastic surgeons, there was something nice about having a job that made people feel good about themselves.
Maybe he wasn’t saving lives on a daily basis, but in the last few years he’d been very proud of some of the work he’d done. The clinic had a pro-bono arrangement for doing facial surgeries on children and they had a bulletin board in the staffroom where pictures were posted of kids smiling. Colt had played a part in that.
His hand went automatically to his left shoulder—where the most visible of his scars were. Colt had more motivation than most to work in plastic surgery. He loved being part of Seacliffe. He loved the fact he could make a difference to other people’s lives—just the way another surgeon had made the difference for him.
But someone in the clinic was on the make. Stories had been sold to the press. Seacliffe was a favorite hideout of many of the LA celebs needing a nip here and a tuck there. It was a perfect setting right off the Pacific Highway, just north of Santa Monica. The complex was Mediterranean in style, with white-stucco walls and red-clay roof tiles. With its upscale private spa, day surgery, and small in-patient section with private cottages it was the perfect hideaway. Even the grounds were immaculate, with a sprawling center courtyard and fountain. The whole place just screamed money. Chances were, it might not continue to do so if the leaks weren’t stopped.
Last month there had been a breach in confidentiality leading to a headline in one of the national newspapers. No one could understand where the leak had come from, but when Colt had caught their latest receptionist texting one of her friends yesterday about who was sitting in the waiting room he’d fired her on the spot.
One of their receptionists was on maternity leave and another currently vacationing in the Bahamas.
Leaving them with no admin support.
And everyone blamed Colt.
He frowned. How hard could it be to find a receptionist? One who could answer the phones and keep her mouth shut?
The last time they’d advertised a job, they’d been blown away by the amount of applicants. Turned out two of them had been reporters and one of them a paparazzi scumbag. You just couldn’t get good staff these days.
A car skidded to a halt outside. He stood up and walked over to the window. It wasn’t the type of car that normally appeared in their parking lot. Not the usual parking spot, either.
It was usually cars-for-the-stars around here. But this was a run-of-the-mill car. He watched as a blonde bombshell emerged from the car, pressing something to her head. There was a parking lot directly to her left. It was clearly marked. She had practically blocked the driveway parked there. Another woman who thought the rules were made for everyone else.
She looked upward and he caught his breath. Even in her disheveled state he could see she was a knockout.
Blond hair around her shoulders, lovely bone structure—the one thing a plastic surgeon always noted—lightly tanned skin, curves in all the right places, and fuchsia-pink lips. His favorite color on a woman.
He watched as she struggled to straighten her blouse and skirt with one hand, a signature handbag weighing her down as she continued to press something to her head.
She stumbled. He winced. The last thing they needed was someone to fall on their way into the clinic and sue them. Bad publicity and lawsuits were not what they needed right now.
Something was caught around her ankle. He could see the bright scrap catching on the stiletto heel of her shoe. She stopped and dumped her bag on the ground then bent down to retrieve the wayward piece of material. Her head shot back up quickly, glancing at all the windows in the clinic. Her face was scarlet.
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
Yes, it was.
Colt couldn’t stop the hearty laugh he let out as she bent down and stuffed the pink thong into her bag.
Did that mean she wasn’t wearing any underwear? And fuchsia, his favorite color, whether it was on a woman’s body or her lips.
Interesting. Very interesting.
She scuttled into the clinic foyer and pressed the button for the elevator. Seconds later, the door opened and she stepped out into the modern interior.
Her face was still red and she looked a little shell-shocked.
Maybe this day was getting a bit better.
“Can I help you?” At the sound of his voice, she jumped. He was standing with his back to the window instead of behind the reception desk. Her bag and its contents scattered across the floor.
“Darn it,” she muttered as she bent to retrieve the items, giving him a glimpse of her cleavage. All natural. He could tell at a glance. Unusual around here. From a distance she’d looked interesting. Up close? She was stunning.
She gathered herself together and took a deep breath. “Yes, thanks. I’m looking to see a plastic surgeon who can stitch my head, please.”
Her words drew his attention from her hips and curvy figure. A faint trail of blood snaked under the pack she had on her forehead. That explained the parking.
He crossed the room and put his hand over hers. “Let me have a look.”
She gazed up at him with startlingly bright green eyes. “Shouldn’t you get me a doctor?”
He started.
Of course. He was standing in reception, staring out a window. She thought he was the receptionist. Maybe it was time to rethink his designer Italian suit.
For a second he was insulted. Then, he was amused.
He held his free hand out to her. “I’m Colt Travers, plastic surgeon, and one of the partners at Seacliffe.” He put an arm around her waist and guided her along the hallway. “Come along to the exam room.”
She nodded and followed his lead, allowing him to settle her on the edge of an examination couch while he washed his hands and donned some gloves.
He lifted the pack from her head and quickly replaced it. The ice that must have been there had completely melted. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out an ice pack out of the freezer.
“Would you mind lying back on the couch?” He shot her what he’d been told was his sexiest grin.
It took all his willpower not to glance up her skirt as she swung her tanned legs up on the couch. He was still curious about the underwear situation.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not really.” She couldn’t meet his gaze.
He bit his lip. Was she a victim of domestic violence? He spent long hours working in Helen’s House, a charity for victims. He wasn’t afraid to ask the question and offer help if needed.
She took a deep breath. “I fell over.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “You fell over?”
Her eyes met his for a fleeting second, then quickly looked away. “I fell over,” she repeated.
“Were you knocked out? We’re not an ER. If you’ve had a head injury, you should see an ER physician.”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t. I swear.”
Could he believe her? He had absolutely no idea. Colt was old fashioned. He might be a plastic surgeon, but he could still run through the basic assessment for a head injury. First rule: orientate to time and place. And maybe find out a little more about this mystery blonde…
“Where are you from?”
“What?” She looked a bit confused. Concussion?
Then her face broke into a smile, and she leaned back against the pillows on the couch. “Oh, I get it, the accent.”
He nodded. The tense mus
cles around her neck and shoulders relaxed. Her eyes sparkled when she smiled, lighting up her face and letting natural tiny lines appear. No Botox here. “I was brought up in Scotland. My mother’s Scottish, but my father’s American. Texan, actually. I’m over here on a working holiday.”
He snapped off his gloves and started washing his hands again. “I see. Scotland.” He nodded. “Nice accent. I like it. Cute.”
“Cute?” Her eyebrows were raised and her voice indignant.
Colt didn’t normally flirt with patients. It was an unwritten rule. But she wasn’t an average patient. So maybe he could be forgiven.