Teardrop Lane (7 page)

“I am.”

“She told me all about the shop you two are opening when she and her fiancé came to dinner last night. It sounds fabulous. I’m Shannon O’Toole. Welcome to Murphy’s Pub.”

“Thanks. Nice to meet you, Shannon.” Approaching the bar, he pinned Rose with an enigmatic gaze. “Good evening, Dr. Anderson.”

“Mr. Cicero.” She smiled without any warmth. She hadn’t missed the disapproval in his eyes in the wake of Nathan’s death. He probably thought she failed—which, of course, she had.

She fished an olive out of her martini as tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, teethed the olive from the toothpick, and tried not to visibly stiffen when Hunt Cicero took a seat on the barstool next to her. Shannon set a coaster down in front of him asking, “What can I get you?”

“What beer do you have on tap?”

He selected a microbrew from the list she rattled off, and she served it just as the door opened again and a half dozen laughing men stepped inside. Members of the team-building retreat at Angel’s Rest, Rose realized.

With Shannon suddenly very busy and no other locals in the bar, Cicero turned to her for conversation. “So,
‘fudge monkey possum sucking’ is one of the most inventive curses I’ve heard since I worked on a freighter out of Istanbul. Do you have any others?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“I happened to walk by when you were, um, playing tennis the other night.”

Embarrassment fluttered through Rose, and on its heels, anger. She didn’t try to stop herself from going stiff as a scalpel. “You spied on me?”

He met her gaze over the top of his pint. “I rented one of the cottages while the mischief-makers were in town. I was headed for the hot springs.”

“Oh.” Without a comeback for that, she scowled down into her drink. The Angel’s Rest estate was open to guests. He’d had as much right to be there as she.
Wonderful. Just wonderful
. It wasn’t enough that this man had been part of the most horrible day of her life in recent years, he’d managed to insert himself into her meltdown, too. Defensiveness blossomed within her and she lashed out in response. “What’s your problem, anyway?”

“My problem?”

“I didn’t intentionally cause Galen pain, you know. It’s impossible to set an arm without it. I acted quickly and efficiently and with gentleness. I challenge you to find a physician who would have done a better job.”

“I don’t have a problem with your treatment of my nephew.”

“Then why the condemning looks?”

She waited for him to deny it, but he surprised her.

“I don’t like doctors.”

Now it was her turn to lift a brow. “Oh,” she replied, her voice dripping with disdain. “You’re one of
those
.”

A gleam of amusement entered his dark eyes. “Those?”

“People who give more credence to self-diagnosis or
something they read on the Internet than to the advice of their doctor who spent years in medical school followed by a residency.”

“I don’t think anything I’ve said or done supports that thesis. I took my nephew for treatment, didn’t I?”

“Probably were afraid Child Protective Services would be on your butt.”

“Speaking of butts, what put the stick up yours?”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t like glass artists.”

“I’ll mention that to Gabi Romano next time I see her.”

“Damn,” she muttered beneath her breath. He had her on that one. She went for the deflection. “Why don’t you like doctors?”

“Because they’re fake. They like to project the image of being caring and compassionate, but nine times out of ten, they’re hard-hearted and insensitive.”

“I guess you blow your glass with a broad pipe, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re not a painter so you don’t use a broad brush.”

His lips twitched. “Just how many of those martinis have you had?”

She pointed her olive-depleted toothpick at him and scolded. “Generalizations are a poor way to make a diagnosis. Dangerous.”

“I think you’re dangerous, Doctor.”

His words struck like a knife, and while she attempted an offhand manner, the hitch in her voice betrayed her. “That’s me, Dr. Dangerous. Show up in my emergency room at your own peril. You saw that firsthand, didn’t you? I managed to set an arm, but I couldn’t save a life.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he warned. “That’s not what I meant at all. You’re a beautiful woman with a sharp tongue. That’s why you’re dangerous.”

Cicero shocked her when he reached out and covered
her hand with his, giving her a comforting squeeze. “You need to lighten up on yourself. Word around town is that you made a valiant effort, and that nobody could have saved him.”

The kindness of his words and action shook Rose, and again tears stung her eyes. She blinked rapidly as Shannon appeared in front of them then and asked, “Another beer, Cicero?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

To Rose, she said, “Are you ready for your soup?”

“I’ll have another drink, first.”

Shannon gave her a long look, then spoke in a chastising tone. “Rose—”

Rose straightened her spine. Her friend was close to crossing a line. “Are you my mother or my bartender?”

“I’m your friend.”

Rose closed her eyes. The emotions rolling around inside her were ugly. The sense of failure clawed like a demon. She so wanted to escape the images. Nathan’s mother crumpling. The pain on his father’s face when he saw his dead child lying on a cold metal table in her ER. Bitterness and regret produced words that sat on her tongue like poison, words she shouldn’t speak to a friend.

She fought to find some that weren’t so mean. “I was an army doctor, Shannon. I can drink with the best of them.”

Shannon’s mouth flattened, but worry flickered in her eyes as she set about making another martini. After setting it in front of Rose, she took the opportunity to escape to tend her other customers.

Cicero dragged his gaze away from the basketball game on the television suspended over the bar and stared at Rose. “You were in the army?”

She lifted her empty glass in toast. “Hooah.”

“How long?”

“Seems like all my life. I was an army brat, too.”

He gave her a close once-over. “How old are you, anyway?”

Rose had to laugh at that. He wasn’t shy at all.

“You are the rudest man.”

Ignoring that, he continued, “I have you pegged for early thirties. Not long out of medical school.”

Ah, there it is
.

“Because I’m such a craptastic doctor?”

He shot her an irritated scowl. “I understand you being down right now, but don’t be stupid.”

Intrigued, Rose asked, “So then, how did you come to the conclusion that I’m younger than I am?”

“Other than how you look?” He raised a brow.

She didn’t reply, just took a sip of her drink and let her tongue skirt over her bottom lip.

His stare zeroed in on her mouth. Distractedly, he said, “I’ve been around a lot of doctors over the past year and you’re years—decades—younger than any of them.”

Pleased with herself, Rose held up her index finger.

“He offers a clue. ‘A lot of older doctors.’ I suspect that means you’ve been spending time with specialists. Why is that?”

Even as she asked the question, the answer formed in her alcohol-slowed mind. Celeste had told her that he’d lost his sister to cancer. “Ah, Galen’s mother. So that’s why you don’t like doctors. What type of cancer did she have?”

“Do we really have to be having this conversation?”

“You brought it up. Somebody tells me they don’t like me, I want to know why.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say I didn’t like you.”

“You said you don’t like doctors. I’m a doctor. You don’t like me.” Why was it bothering her? Did she want him to like her? Deep down, maybe she did.

Anderson, you’re a fool
.

“Maybe I like you too much.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Precisely.”

Rose frowned at the dark-eyed devil. This conversation confused her. Maybe she should switch to club soda. Were they fighting or flirting?

“Do you play darts?” he asked.

“Sure. I spent plenty of evenings in a pub when I was stationed in England. You want to be the target?”

He laughed, the sound a slow, sexy rumble that skittered along her nerves. “On second thought, how about a game of eight ball? Probably be safer for me.”

Did she dare? He may as well have a danger sign flashing over his head. Yet Rose found herself reaching deep inside for her poker face.

“I’m not as talented at billiards as I am at darts.”

The gleam in his eyes told her she might not have pulled that one off.

“Neither am I.” He slid off the barstool. “That should make it fair to wager.”

“You want to bet?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Money?”
Ka-ching, Ka-ching
, she thought.

“Nah, something more interesting. Do you cook?”

“Only if I’m out of poison.” After one more sip of her martini, she slid off the stool and onto her feet. She took pride in the fact that she didn’t wobble one little bit.

“You are an interesting woman, Doctor. Okay, then. Home-cooked meals are out. Babysitting when the monsters visit this summer.”

Hmm
. That wasn’t such an onerous bet. She liked children. She’d liked those particular children, based on the little she’d seen of them. Besides, on this bitter cold February night, summer seemed like a very long time away.

“That doesn’t solve the question of what I’m going to win from you when I whip your butt.”

“Dream on, baby.”

“I’m not your baby.”

“No, you’re going to babysit my sister’s babies.”

“You’re not listening. Or else, you’re very slow. A wager requires a bet, Mr. Cicero.”

“Call me Hunter.”

“Why is it that seems to fit you so well?” she mused. “What am I going to win from you, Hunter?”

Now he was grinning openly.

“In the wildly unlikely event that you defeat me in a game of eight ball, I will create a piece of glass especially for you.”

Rose attempted to veil her excitement at the thought. Though she wouldn’t admit it to another soul, she’d visited his website. His work was fabulous. She moved to the head of the pub’s pool table.

“I guess that’s a fair enough bet. Want to lag for the break?”

“So, you have played the game. You know the lingo.” He positioned himself at her side and chose the solid yellow 1-ball.

Rose chose the solid red 3-ball. “You might just be surprised at how much I know.”

At her nod, they both rolled the balls toward the opposite end of the table. As they bounced off the bumper and rolled back toward them, he said, “Actually, buttercup, I don’t think I would.”

“Rose. My name is Rose. Rosemary, actually.”

“Beautiful name.” He gestured toward the pool balls, which had rolled to a stop, the yellow ball closest to where they stood. “I break. Rack ’em, sucker.”

She shrugged, and did just that. He broke, sank two stripes, and proceeded to run the table, sinking the 8-ball after calling it in the left center pocket. “Don’t
forget your doctor’s bag when you babysit. My nephews and nieces are quite rambunctious.”

She wanted to bare her teeth and growl at him. She refrained, saying instead, “I really don’t like you.”

He moved like a mountain lion and backed her against the table, his arms bracketing her on either side. She smelled the clean, masculine scent of sandalwood soap on him. It was her favorite fragrance in Savannah Turner’s local soap shop, Heavenscents.

“I really don’t like you, either,” Hunt Cicero said, his voice a low, predatory purr. “Want to go back to my place and have sex?”

Yes. Heaven help her, but yes, she honestly did.

Cicero didn’t plan the proposition, and when the words slipped out, he knew he could pass it off as teasing. Except, he realized he wasn’t teasing. He seriously wanted to take Dr. Delicious to bed.

That he felt that way was no great shock. He often met women he wanted to take to bed; he had a well-earned reputation as a player. But something about this particular thorny Rose appealed to him more than most—despite his prejudice against members of her profession.

And judging by the look in her eyes, she might just take him up on the idea.

So he waited for her response with a surprising amount of anticipation, even though he knew he’d been an ass to ask the question. She’d been drinking and her emotions were a mess from having lost a kid on her ER table less than a week ago. An honorable man wouldn’t take advantage of her.

Just call me Cad
.

“Rose!” called a feminine voice from near the pub’s front door. “Finally! I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

Cicero never took his gaze off the physician, so he saw
the flash of emotion in her eyes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t put a label on it before she turned away.

“Why?” she asked of the newcomer with long, curly auburn hair and lovely green eyes a shade lighter than Rose’s. “Is there a problem?”

“No, not on my end for a change. I’m worried about you.”

Rose waved off the concern. “I’m fine.”