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Bachelor Doctor
Barbara Boswell
This sexy, sought-after surgeon intended on staying single until he was good and ready for marriage. And no woman– especially not one who worked for him– was going to get him to change his mind.But it was taking all his resolve to remain immune to the fierce passion nurse Callie Sheeley' s presence aroused. Even harder to resist was the loving tenderness radiating from the dark eyes of this virginal beauty. Could one sizzling kiss dissolve the last of his defenses and open his heart?



“You’ve Called Me Callie All Evening,”
she murmured, looking thoughtful. “Why? Is your not calling me by my last name part of your effort to work things out professionally?”
“I don’t always call you by your last name.”
“You did until today.”
Trey flinched. When had she become “Callie” and not “Sheely” to him?
A good question. Callie appeared only in his steamy, erotic dreams, while dependable, sexless Sheely remained the perfect helpmate in the OR.
But at some point—he couldn’t exactly pinpoint when—the sexy nighttime dream girl and his faithful daytime partner had fused into one and the same woman. A woman he admired and relied upon.
A woman he wanted.
Dear Reader,
This Fourth of July, join in the fireworks of Silhouette’s 20
anniversary year by reading all six powerful, passionate, provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire!
July’s MAN OF THE MONTH is a Bachelor Doctor by Barbara Boswell. Sparks ignite when a dedicated doctor discovers his passion for his loyal nurse!
With Midnight Fantasy, beloved author Ann Major launches an exciting new promotion in Desire called BODY & SOUL. Our BODY & SOUL books are among the most sensuous and emotionally intense you’ll ever read. Every woman wants to be loved…BODY & SOUL, and in these books you’ll find a heady combination of breathtaking love and tumultuous desire.
Amy J. Fetzer continues her popular WIFE, INC. miniseries with Wife for Hire. Enjoy Ride a Wild Heart, the first sexy installment of Peggy Moreland’s miniseries TEXAS GROOMS. This month, Desire offers you a terrific two-books-in-one value—Blood Brothers by Anne McAllister and Lucy Gordon. A British lord and an American cowboy are look-alike cousins who switch lives temporarily…and lose their hearts for good in this romance equivalent of a doubleheader. And don’t miss the debut of Kristi Gold, with her moving love story Cowboy for Keeps—it’s a keeper!
So make your summer sizzle—treat yourself to all six of these sultry Desire romances!
Happy Reading!


Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Bachelor Doctor
Barbara Boswell

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

BARBARA BOSWELL
loves writing about families. “I guess family has been a big influence on my writing,” she says. “I particularly enjoy writing about how my characters’ family relationships affect them.”
When Barbara isn’t writing and reading, she’s spending time with her own family—her husband, three daughters and three cats, whom she concedes are the true bosses of their home! She has lived in Europe, but now makes her home in Pennsylvania. She collects miniatures and holiday ornaments, tries to avoid exercise and has somehow found the time to write over twenty category romances.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue

One
Operating room one was crowded with observers watching Dr. Trey Weldon, neurosurgeon extraordinaire, at work. The patient’s condition had been deemed hopeless until his referral to Dr. Weldon, who had offered a ray of hope in a daring yet promising experimental procedure developed by the gifted surgeon himself.
“It’s mobbed in here today,” a wide-eyed medical student murmured to no one in particular. “This is the hottest show in the entire med center. Everybody wants to observe the master at work.”
“Yeah. Dr. Weldon rules!” enthused another awestruck med student.
“Quiet!” A nursing student reprimanded the pair. “Dr. Weldon is speaking.” The name was said with hushed reverence.
Dr. Trey Weldon, in the midst of explaining the intricacies of AVMs or arteriovenous malformations—tangled or malformed arteries or veins in the brain that over time became dilated, exerting pressure or bursting—overheard the students and automatically lifted his eyes to meet the eyes of his chief scrub nurse, Callie Sheely.
Their gazes connected for only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Trey to see a flash of humor light those big dark eyes of hers. He knew she had overheard the students, too, knew that she was smiling beneath her surgical mask.
His lips twisted into a smile behind his own mask. He’d known Callie would find the students’ overexaggerated hype as amusing as he did.
There had been a time, not very long ago, when he wouldn’t have seen the humor in such remarks. Of course, he wouldn’t have considered the students’ adulation to be overexaggerated hype, either. Over the years he had grown so accustomed to lavish praise that he simply accepted it as a given.
Until Callie Sheely. From her he’d come to view certain things—like extravagant compliments—from a different angle. Trey thought back to that fateful time he’d spied Callie grinning in the background while some junior colleagues expressed their excessive admiration of him, to him.
When he asked her about it later, she’d snickered, unrepentant. It amused her to hear people fawn over him, she’d said. Listening to his minions try to outdo each other while shoveling the…praise, invariably gave her a hearty chuckle.
Minions? Shoveling? Trey well remembered his own astonishment at her frankness. No one had ever made such a remark to him before, and only Callie Sheely continued to make similar impertinent jests about him, to him.
But instead of being irked—Trey admittedly didn’t tolerate frivolity or nonsense very well—he had found himself seeing the humor. Sharing her amusement.
“Of course, they genuinely do admire you,” she’d also assured him, and Trey had found himself snickering, a rare event in itself. As a rule he did not snicker.
However, Callie’s warm assertion had touched a humorous, previously unstruck, chord within him. As if he cared whether he was admired by junior toadies, as if he needed anyone’s assurance about anything! The very idea was laughable.
And now whenever anyone laid on the compliments or the hero worship a tad too thick, he looked at Callie, and they would share a silent, mutual moment of mirth.
Trey continued performing the operation, explaining the procedure to his audience while he worked, all the while contemplating Callie Sheely’s irreverence toward his lordly reputation.
He had been blessed with the ability to think and do several different things simultaneously, while keeping each separate and exact. It was a gift he took for granted, having always possessed it.
He flicked his finger slightly, and Callie immediately handed him what he wanted, a small sharp scalpel, an instrument he’d redesigned and then had reduced to near doll-size for certain specific uses, today’s operation being one of them.
He rarely had to ask Callie for instruments during an operation, not unless an unforeseen complication occurred and he had to improvise on the spot.
Otherwise, she routinely remembered which one was used for what from previous operations, and when he was going to try something new, he would go over the procedure with her beforehand, taking her through it step by step. She filed away what he told her in her head, using the information to expertly assist him.
Trey admired her excellent memory and OR nursing skills as much as he did her unruffled calm under pressure. He had never worked so well with anyone before, never been so in sync with another person as he was with Callie Sheely during surgery. While in the OR, it was as if she were an extension of himself.
It was new to him, this kind of intuitive rapport. Certainly it had never existed in his personal life and still didn’t. Yet here in the OR he and Callie were as one, working together in uncommon unity and intimacy.
He lifted his gaze to meet Callie’s again. She had the most beautiful, expressive eyes he’d ever seen, a dark liquid velvet glowing with warmth and intelligence, alert with liveliness and—
“Any questions?” Trey deliberately interrupted his own reverie.
Lately, renegade thoughts about Callie Sheely seemed to strike him more and more frequently. Whether in the OR or alone in his apartment or chatting with colleagues anytime, anywhere, random images of Callie Sheely would suddenly pop into his head. He would find himself drifting off on a mental riff, mulling over her memory, her eyes, her humor.
Such thoughts had no place in a professional relationship, Trey reminded himself. And a professional relationship was the only type he and Callie Sheely had. The only kind of relationship they would ever have, and that was the way he wanted it, the way it had to be.
Still, his unexpected musings were beginning to bother him. After all, Trey Weldon’s finely honed mind did not drift into unfitting flights of fancy.
Except lately, when it did. And inevitably the disconcerting drift was Callie Sheely inspired.
“I repeat, any questions?” He heard the impatient edge in his tone.
Well, he was impatient, though not really with the students who remained silent, perhaps intimidated.
“So I can assume that everybody perfectly understands everything there is to know about AVMs and this procedure?” It was a short step from impatience to sarcasm, and Trey couldn’t resist taking it.
At last one of the med students dutifully piped up with a question. True, it was a stupid question, but then the kid was merely a student. Trey took pity on him and proceeded to answer in painstaking detail.
He determinedly put aside any more thoughts about Callie Sheely’s eyes. He refused to think about her marvelous memory or her invaluable OR skills, either. He particularly refused to ponder their intuitive rapport and the way her sense of humor had somehow infected him.
She was not getting under his skin, Trey assured himself.
They were colleagues. They worked together, nothing more. They weren’t even friends, because friends socialized outside the workplace, and he and Callie Sheely never saw each other except in the workplace.
And that was the way he liked it, the way he wanted it to be.
No, she was not getting under his skin.

Chief OR scrub nurse Callie Sheely listened to every word of Trey Weldon’s comprehensive explanation. As always the mellifluous timbre of his voice stirred her. Only Trey could sound seductive while discussing the complexities of AVMs and their variations, along with inventive ways to repair them.
Callie watched him work, anticipating what he would do next and what surgical instrument he would need, his voice keeping her focused even as it enthralled her. Excited her. Trey Weldon had the sexiest voice she’d ever heard, deep and masculine, mesmerizing, with just the slightest hint of an upper-class Virginia drawl.
If only he sounded like Elmer Fudd, she lamented wistfully. As a diversion Callie tried to imagine Elmer pronouncing arteriovenous. She had to do something to decrease the sensual effect Trey’s voice had on her.
It just wasn’t fair! Not only was her boss good-looking, brilliant and talented, but he had a voice that could net him a fortune doing romance-hero readings for books on tape. And she had to listen to it, to him, by the hour and was expected to remain completely immune to him and his powerful allure.
After all, Callie knew the rules. She was Trey’s coworker, his subordinate, actually, and she knew that was the only way Trey Weldon saw her. Would ever see her.
She viewed their situation as comparable to characters in the old Greek myths, which she’d enjoyed reading as a child on her biweekly trips to the Carnegie library. In those myths, gods who dwelt high in Mount Olympus did not consort with ordinary mortals. Just as upper-class scions like Trey Weldon didn’t socialize with working-class nurses from Pittsburgh. Like Callie Sheely.
Ancient and fanciful they might be, but those myths taught a necessary counterlesson to the fairy tales that Callie had also devoured as a child. In fairy tales, a scullery maid might land a prince, but not in real life.
Real life meant sticking with your own kind. Otherwise the result was culture clash, not romance.
Callie suppressed a sigh, wishing that Trey would lapse into silence so the music could be cranked up to full volume. The OR team took turns choosing what was to be played, and today’s choice had been Quiana Turner’s, the circulating nurse. That meant sassy girl singers, lively and loud and brimming with attitude, just what Callie needed to hear.
But Trey continued to explain what he was doing to the students, and Callie listened and watched as he skillfully wielded the tiny scalpel she’d handed him.
His technique was flawless. As always she was awed by his incredible dexterity, his seemingly effortless expertise. To use such a tiny instrument so effectively in one of the most crucial parts of the brain was true genius. She never tired of watching him perform.
Nobody else did, either. To say that Dr. Trey Weldon, Tri-State Medical Center’s extraordinarily gifted neurosurgeon, was respected by his peers, by his lesser colleagues, by the establishment powers that be and everybody else, was a pallid understatement.
Trey Weldon was a star, a “surgical supernova” to quote a dazzled science reporter from the local Pittsburgh newspaper. The article exalted Trey’s operating prowess and his impressive credentials, also mentioning the determination of the medical center’s administrators to recruit him eighteen months ago.
Callie had saved that article and read it from time to time, particularly when she felt herself in danger of forgetting just how far she was—and would always be—from Trey Weldon’s world. Beginning, appropriately enough, with their origins.
The Weldon family descended from landed gentry in colonial Virginia, whose fortune had been made generations ago while Callie’s forebears were still trying to eke out a living as peasants in the old country. And though different backgrounds often didn’t matter, Callie knew bloodlines meant a lot to the aristocratic Weldon family.
It would certainly matter to them that her blood was the wrong shade of blue—that is, blue-collar blue. She just knew it would, from what she’d gleaned from that newspaper article and some of the casual comments made by Trey himself.
The son of Winston and Laura Weldon—she’d learned his parents’ names from the article, too—had nothing socially in common with her, the daughter of Jack and Nancy Sheely, whose grandparents had left poverty in Ireland and Russia to live in poverty in Pittsburgh. Their brave move and hard work had eventually paid off for their children and grandchildren, but high society they weren’t.
The Weldons were and had been Southern aristocracy for a couple of centuries.
“Holding up okay?” Trey’s inquiry nearly startled Callie into dropping a gauze sponge. Thankfully, her reflexes were too sharp to permit such a lapse.
“Me?” she murmured, trying to suppress her astonishment.
Trey had ceased lecturing and was asking her a personal question. If she was holding up okay. That had never happened before.
She’d been with him in surgery for nine or ten hours straight without him once mentioning thirst, hunger, sore muscles—or even the need for a bathroom break. He didn’t acknowledge such mundane concerns, for himself or others.
“Sheely?” he prompted, and his brow furrowed with what might have been concern.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. But she was perplexed by his unusual solicitousness. Did she look ready to drop or something? Or to drop something? He wouldn’t like that!
“Honest,” she added quickly.
Trey nodded his head and went on operating.
While others withered around him, Trey Weldon just kept on going.
“To watch Trey Weldon operate on a brain is to experience a virtuoso at the top of his game,” Jimmy Dimarino, a first-year general surgery resident—and on some days an aspiring neurosurgeon himself—often enthused to Callie.
Jimmy tried to attend as many of Dr. Weldon’s operations as he could, badgering Callie for scheduling information. As the chief scrub nurse on Trey Weldon’s handpicked OR team for the past twelve months, Callie knew what procedure was slated and when; she was also privy to the emergency schedule.
She shared the inside scoop with Jimmy because they went way back, to the bad old days of elementary school when they’d lived next door to each other. Somehow their relationship had survived a brief eighth-grade romance, too. These days, Jimmy’s long-term fondness for Callie had been elevated to outright admiration—due in large part to her access to Dr. Trey Weldon.
“The AVM has been repaired,” Trey announced. “We were able to avoid any undue disturbance of the surrounding brain tissue, so the patient’s recovery ought to be swift and unremarkable.”
He made it sound like a decree that would naturally be obeyed. Callie smiled behind her surgical mask, then lifted her eyes to see Trey looking directly at her.
For one seemingly endless moment, time stood still as their gazes met and held.
And then: “Fritche, close,” Trey ordered with a nod toward one of the residents. He moved away from the table amidst murmurs of praise and appreciation, even a smattering of applause.
Scott Fritche, a first-year neurosurgical resident, stepped up to close, a task often given to underlings to further their experience.
Callie stayed where she was, assisting Scott Fritche, handing him the necessary instruments, sponges and sutures, subtly guiding him, before he needed to ask for anything.
She’d worked with Fritche a few times before, during his general-surgery residency, preceding this one, before she had become a permanent member of Trey’s team. But she didn’t remember Fritche being quite as ham-handed as he was today.
“I swear it took Fritche longer to close than for Trey to perform the entire operation,” complained Quiana Turner, as she and Callie trooped out of the OR, tugging off their masks.
Callie smiled at Quiana’s exaggeration. “We’ve gotten spoiled, working with Trey,” she conceded. “He’s a tough act for anybody to follow, let alone a resident.”
“Fritche sure isn’t the hotshot he thinks he is,” Leo Arkis said, sneering.
Leo did the advance OR work for the Weldon team and also served as backup relief to Callie or Quiana when necessary. “Could that clod have done any worse in there, messing up sutures and dropping sponges like a flower girl tossing rose petals at a wedding?”
“That’s kind of harsh, Leo. Fritche wasn’t all that bad,” chided Callie. “He’s inexperienced and he was nervous but—”
“I wish we’d called Trey back in to watch that jerk at work,” Leo cut in. “It would’ve been a kick seeing the icy wrath of our boss freeze Fritche into a human Popsicle.”
Callie arched her dark brows. “Leo, I know how you feel about Fritche, but ratting on him to Trey is—”
She broke off in midsentence because Dr. Trey Weldon stood in the middle of the newly renovated lounge, which the trio had just entered.
He was pulling his scrub shirt over his head.
The sight of him stopped Callie in her tracks, rendering her speechless. Trey tossed the shirt aside and stood bare-chested, the strong, well-defined muscles of his chest and shoulders revealed in the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. His green scrub pants rode low on his waist, displaying the flat belly, a deep-set navel and a sprinkling of dark, wiry hair arrowing downward.
In the year that she’d been working on his team, Callie had seen Trey Weldon in scrubs too many times to count. But she hadn’t seen what lay beneath them. Until this moment.
Her mouth was suddenly quite dry.
“God bless this new unisex lounge,” murmured Quiana, staring appreciatively at Trey. “Next, I hope they combine the locker rooms.”
“Ratting on who?” Trey asked, his eyes on Callie. “What are you talking about, Sheely?”
It seemed that he had overheard at least part of what she’d said.
Callie’s dark eyes widened, and she forced herself to concentrate. She knew Trey wouldn’t like what they’d been talking about, and she wasn’t eager to be the one to tell him about Fritche’s less-than-stellar-performance. Errors, in general, annoyed Trey, but an error in his operating room…yikes!
Trey Weldon didn’t make mistakes in the operating room, had not even come close to one during the entire year that Callie had been working with him. No, this wasn’t a conversation she cared to continue with him.
“Ever hear the old saying of All’s Well That Ends Well?” she asked hopefully. “Let’s just say it applies in this case.”
It was an optimistic approach, she knew. Trey had no patience with those who wasted his time by not supplying him with the answers he wanted. He was looking impatient now. Impatient—and shirtless and muscular.
“Sheely,” Trey was already verging on testy. He directed a blue-eyed laser stare at her. “Stop talking in riddles.”
Callie flicked the tip of her tongue nervously over her top lip. Why did he have to grill her while standing there, half-nude? The sight was wreaking havoc with her thought processes. “Well, uh—”
“I don’t know if you’d call this ratting, Trey,” Leo spoke up. “But Fritche screwed up in there today. I thought you ought to know,” he added righteously.
Trey’s face went dark as a sky before a tornado was about to strike. “Is my patient—”
“He’s fine,” Callie said quickly. “Fritche made a few mistakes, correctable ones. The patient is fine,” she affirmed. “We would’ve called you the second anything turned bad.”
“That’s not good enough,” Trey snapped. “I expect to be called the second before anything turns bad.”
“Luckily it didn’t even get that far because Sheely was right there before No-Opposable-Thumbs Fritche could do any damage,” Leo hastened to assure him. “Honest, there was no harm done, Trey.”
“Okay, then.” Trey gave Leo a fraternal slap on the shoulder. “I can always count on you to be frank and up-front with me, can’t I, Leo?” His slight smile instantly faded when he turned back to Callie. “What about you, Sheely?” Trey’s expression darkened further. “I want a word with you, Sheely. Now.”
His big hand cupped her elbow, and he walked her a few feet away, turning her aside, his six-foot frame blocking her view of the other two.
His hand stayed on her elbow, and Callie tried hard not to notice. Trey frequently touched her, placing his hand on the small of her back or on her shoulder when she preceded him through doors, curling his fingers around her wrist while enthusiastically describing something neurosurgical, cupping her elbow to guide her wherever.
She pretended to pay no attention to his touch because she knew Trey himself was oblivious to it, as oblivious as he was to her as an individual. As a woman. His touch was automatic and unaware, definitely nothing personal. He would clasp her wrist as one might grip a pencil, she knew that his hand on her back or her elbow was akin to him resting his palm on a railing.
There were times when she wished she actually were the inanimate object Trey Weldon considered her to be. It would be so much easier—on her nerves, on her senses. The warm strength of his fingers on her skin evoked sensations that were hopelessly, girlishly romantic. And embarrassing because it was all so futile.
Sometimes, alone in bed in the darkness of her room at night, Callie pondered the irony of the situation. That she—who had always been so sensible and practical, who’d never suffered any hopeless, girlish, embarrassing yearnings, not even as an adolescent, when almost everybody else did—would be struck with this acute crush at the mature age of twenty-six.
The situation appalled her. She had a crush on her boss! Worse, she was a nurse with a crush on a doctor. Might as well throw in their class differences too; the proletarian yearning for the lord of the manor. A triple cliché, and she was living it. What unparalleled humiliation! Especially since her crush was entirely unrequited.
Callie refused to kid herself, to even pretend that Trey gave her a thought outside the operating room. Of course he didn’t. And though she continually fought her feelings for him, his touch and his penetrating stare affected her viscerally.
There didn’t seem to be anything she could do about that, but she could keep it her most-closely guarded secret. Which she had, quite successfully.
No one, especially not Trey, ever had to know about the sweet, syrupy warmth that flowed through her at his slightest touch. Nor would she ever reveal the sharp ache that sometimes threatened to bring her to her knees when his deep-blue eyes looked into hers.
Except right now those blue eyes of his were hard and cold with anger. If any stare could freeze a hapless recipient into a human Popsicle, it would be the one Trey was directing at her at this moment.
Callie met and held his eyes, a sheer act of will on her part. And not at all easy because Trey Weldon had perfected—or maybe he’d naturally been gifted with—the art of nonverbal intimidation. Not that he was a slouch in the verbal intimidation department, either.
But Callie never crumbled or froze in response to Trey’s ire, verbal or non. Because she knew that Trey expected her to be as tough and unemotional as he was himself? Because she knew he needed her to be that way?
Callie nearly groaned aloud. She was doing it again, seeking evidence that Trey Weldon thought of her as something more than merely a set of rubber-gloved hands assisting him in the OR.
“I expect better from you, Sheely.” Trey glared at her in the coldly unnerving way that had reduced other recipients to tears.
But not Callie. She had once overheard him tell Leo, “Sheely is tough. She’s the only woman I’ve ever worked with who’s never cried. Not a tear, not once.”
It was untrue, of course, further proof of how little he knew about her. She’d wept over their saddest cases, her heart breaking for the devastated families of patients unable to be saved, even by Trey Weldon’s formidable skills.
But she’d never cried in front of Trey Weldon, not a tear, not once. Callie knew Trey’s remark to Leo was a high compliment indeed, and she intended to keep her record of tearlessness in his company intact.
“The patients deserve better from you, Sheely,” snarled Trey. “They deserve your best, and when you put anything else ahead of—”
“I put nothing ahead of our patients’ well-being. They get the best that I have to give, Dr. Weldon.” Callie tried to match his cold tones but couldn’t. His particular way of expressing anger through iciness was unique to him.
Which didn’t mean she couldn’t communicate her own anger in her own way. Nothing, nothing infuriated her more than to have her commitment to her patients and to her job disparaged. To have her professionalism questioned.
And for Trey Weldon to do so…when she’d worked so hard for him, for their patients… Callie let her own fury displace the hurt that sliced through her, deep and sharp.
Her voice rose, and her dark eyes blazed, her rage as hot as his was cold. “And as for Scott Fritche, he was simply nervous today, Dr. Weldon. Fritche is in his first year of neurosurgery, he is inexperienced and he was suddenly expected to perform in front of an audience of—”
“Stop making excuses for him, Sheely!” Trey cut in. He held her glare. “It’s unacceptable.”
Neither bothered to blink. Or to move. They stood locked in their own world, anything and everyone else excluded.
Callie pulled off her surgical cap and threw it into a tall laundry bin. Her ponytail, which had been stuffed inside the cap, tumbled free, the ends swiping the nape of her neck.
If you lose your temper, you lose. One of her dad’s adages popped into Callie’s head. Too late. She’d gone ahead and lost her temper, anyway. Now she might as well go for broke.
“Unacceptable?” she huffed. “So are you going to fire me?” It was a dare, a challenge. Callie held her breath.
“Here we go again!” Leo heaved a dramatic groan. He and Quiana had moved closer, the better to listen to every word that passed between Trey and Callie. “It’s like seeing a rerun on TV for the four hundredth time—you know every word of the dialogue. C’mon Quiana, let’s get some lunch.”
“Might as well,” agreed Quiana.
The two exited the lounge, heading for the cafeteria.
“The four hundredth time?” Trey looked bewildered.
“Not even close,” murmured Callie, a pale pink flush staining her cheeks.
Okay, she hadn’t gone for broke, she silently conceded. When she felt Trey was being insufferably imperious, she would respond by getting mad and inviting him to fire her.
The first time, it had just slipped out, and she’d waited in agony, expecting him to fire her outright. But he hadn’t, and then she’d said it again—and again and again—and by now she pretty much knew Trey wouldn’t fire her. Was absolutely sure of it, in fact.
But she hadn’t said it four hundred times!
“No, I am not going to fire you, but—” Trey broke off, suddenly looking almost comically astonished. “So that’s what Leo meant when he was talking about seeing a rerun for the four hundredth time and knowing the dialogue. He was talking about that ‘going to fire me?’ habit of yours.”
“Duh,” Callie muttered darkly. Trey would have to pick right now to finally decipher one of Leo’s stupid jokes. “And it’s not a habit. Leo overexaggerates.”
“Not this time, he didn’t. It’s true. You practically dare me to fire you, Sheely. Did it ever occur to you that sometime I might say yes and just go ahead and do it?”
“Oh, maybe the first three hundred times.” Callie was sarcastic. “But the last hundred times or so, I felt my job was safe enough.”
Trey’s dark brows narrowed. “Nobody talks to me the way you do, Sheely.”
“Is that a threat?” Callie squared her shoulders and lifted her head, trying to make herself as tall and formidable as possible. Unfortunately her five-foot, four-inch frame remained dwarfed by Trey.
“Don’t go nuclear, Sheely, it wasn’t a threat. It was simply a statement of fact. Nobody around here talks to me the way you do.”
“Well, no wonder.” She folded her arms in front of her chest in classic defensive position. Just because she had a crush on him didn’t mean she would permit herself to be crushed by him.
“You’re practically a god around here. Nobody can believe you actually chose to come to Pittsburgh when you could’ve gone to any hospital in the country. Needless to say, without exception, people speak reverently to you.”
“It seems that Leo isn’t the only one on this team who overexaggerates.” Trey looked irked. “And maybe you can explain why Pittsburghers are forever apologizing for the city. Why do they feel the need to put it down, especially if a nonnative says something complimentary about the place? Which brings us to, Why wouldn’t I actually choose to come here, Sheely?”
“Why would you choose Pittsburgh’s Tri-State Medical Center when you could’ve gone to Johns Hopkins or Mass General or Duke or places equally prestigious? Is that a rhetorical question or am I supposed to answer it?”
“You see, you just did it again!” Trey exclaimed. “Another putdown of your hometown. What’s with you Pittsburghers?”
“We don’t like bragging, so we don’t embellish. We simply state the facts—which is what I was doing,” retorted Callie. “You went to medical school at Duke and did your surgical residency at Johns Hopkins, then on to Mass General for your neurosurgery residency and fellowship. You could write your own ticket anywhere. Why would you come to—”
“Don’t forget to mention my exclusive New England prep school and my undergraduate bioengineering degree from MIT, Sheely.”
“Which enables you to custom design the surgical instruments that you—” Callie broke off and stared at him. “You were being ironically droll.”
“And that makes you gape?”
“More drollery?”
“Ah, your jaw drops even farther.”
“All right, I admit I’m stunned. For your to joke about your hallowed credentials is something like hearing a saint wisecracking about divinity.”
“Sheely,” he paused and frowned. “Don’t put me on a pedestal.” She had the usual misconception about the blueness of his blood, Trey realized, and her next words confirmed it.
“I don’t have to, you’re already up there. I expect you were born there—and you’re well aware of it, too.”
A man like Trey Weldon, brilliant, handsome, successful—a man like that, who had it all, had to be aware of his status, his desirability. And not only neurosurgically speaking. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the city—in the entire state of Pennsylvania, not to mention his own native state of Virginia!
Callie herself had seen how women here at the hospital practically threw themselves at his feet. She and Leo and Quiana enjoyed countless jokes about that. At least, Leo and Quiana enjoyed the jokes. Callie’s laughter rang hollow in her own ears. Worse, she could only imagine how very sought-after Trey was in exalted social circles, far removed from the hospital grounds.
She took another long look at his bare chest, and fury abruptly flared within her. “And we aren’t in a…a gym!” she snapped. “Put on your shirt. Please,” she added, because, after all, she was talking to her boss.
Trey picked up the scrub shirt he’d dropped onto a chair and pulled it over his head, inside out. “I’m not following.” He gave an exasperated huff. “What on earth are we talking about now, Sheely?”
Scowling, he ran his hand over his brown hair, a dark-chestnut shade, always cut short for practical and hygenic reasons.
Callie caught herself wondering if his hair felt as thick and springy as it looked. It took a moment for her to remember what they’d been talking about. “We’re discussing your beyond-impeccable credentials,” she said edgily.
Trey gave a wave of his hand, visibly impatient. “Let’s get back to the real subject at hand, Sheely.”
Callie proceeded to describe in detail each of Scott Fritche’s minor but time-consuming mistakes. “It’s not an enormous deal, Trey, though Leo’s done his best to make you think it is. We’ve both watched other residents, with more experience than Scott Fritche, do far worse with no unfavorable results. So you see—”
“What I see is that Arkis and Turner were right. You really did save Fritche’s ass in there, Sheely. Not to mention our poor patient’s cranium.” Trey folded his arms in front of his chest, but the gesture wasn’t a defensive one for him.
Oh, yes, he was infinitely gifted in the body language of intimidation. However, Callie wasn’t intimidated. Instead, observing the way his muscles rippled when he moved his arms, studying the breadth of his shoulders, she was…aroused.
She was practically ogling him! Callie caught herself and quickly averted her gaze, fixing it on the poster tacked up on the wall beyond him.
It was an advertisement for the Hospital Auxiliary’s Annual Springtime Ball, a popular fund-raiser held in early April, when the region’s weather was still more like winter than spring, despite the calendar.
Unlike those charity balls sponsored by exclusive women’s clubs, where the price of admission was astronomically high, thus limiting the guests to the social elite, the Tri-State Hospital’s auxiliary set aside a large block of tickets at lower prices, affordable to the hospital staff.
Everybody from student nurses to interns and residents, from the hospital administrators and lordly attending physicians to various corporate benefactors, politicos and the local pillars of society, attended the Springtime Ball. Somehow, the eclectic mix worked. Each year the ball topped the previous one’s record for ticket sales and attendance.
Callie had gone every year since nursing school. Often with Jimmy, sometimes with other escorts, always friends. This year she’d made no plans to attend. She couldn’t seem to work up any enthusiasm for going.
Her eyes darted to Trey. He was glaring at her.
“Sheely, if it isn’t too much trouble, could you stop drifting off and at least make a pretense of staying on topic? That would be Scott Fritche who endangered my patient in the OR. Remember?”
Callie’s eyes, dark as onyx, grew round as saucers. “The patient wasn’t endangered, honestly.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and took a deep breath. “I was right there, Trey, I knew what to do. Of course, I would’ve called for you the second before anything could have gone wrong.”
Trey straightened, looking even taller to her. “You know I expect my team to be like cogs in a perfectly run machine, Sheely. We simply can’t afford any mistakes and we can’t succumb to—”
“I know. And woe to the cog that slips, even slightly. Leo and Quiana and I—”
“This isn’t about you three, I know how good you are. You’re the best in the area. I watched you for six months before handpicking you myself for my team. But Fritche is another story entirely. If he’s no good, we’ve got to get him out of the neurosurgery program sooner rather than later, before he does irreparable harm.”
“Trey, before we go any further with this, maybe you should know that Leo holds a personal grudge against Scott Fritche. I don’t think I’d be exaggerating to say that if Leo could hurt Scott, he would. Oh, not physically. But he’d certainly settle for doing damage to Scott’s career.”
“Why?”
“Because Scott Fritche dated and then dumped Leo’s cousin Melina. She’s a student nurse here at the med center and was heartbroken when—”
“Sheely, this is not an episode of General Hospital. Please spare me the details of who’s dating and dumping who. I’m only interested in the welfare of my patients, and right now I’m trying to ascertain whether—”
“All right. Fine,” Callie said coldly. “Never mind gathering all the facts and coming to an informed conclusion. It’s clear that you’ve already made up your mind.”
“Sheely, you are—”
“I’m tired of talking about this,” Callie said, boldly cutting him off.
She turned and stalked from the lounge.
“Sheely, come back here.”
She ignored his command and stormed inside the empty women’s locker room. Mercifully, it had not gone the unisex route like the lounge. Each sex still had separate quarters to shower and change clothes.
Moments later a tall, pretty blond nurse joined Callie in an aisle of lockers, by the long bench positioned in the middle. “Sheely, Trey Weldon wants me to tell you that he has to talk to you. He said ‘right now.”’
Jennifer Olsen had been in the class behind her in Tri-State’s nursing school and currently worked in the obstetrics clinic, surrounded by expectant mothers. Jennifer made no secret of her ultimate goal, which was to have her own baby as soon as possible. Her more immediate goal, however, was to find a suitable man to marry and impregnate her. Preferably a doctor, with a sizable income.
At the same moment Callie wondered what Jennifer was doing up here in the women’s surgical locker room, Jennifer must’ve felt obliged to explain her presence.
“I came up to see if Karen wanted to go to the Squirrel Den tonight. There’s a bunch of us going.”
Callie knew Karen Kaminsky, an OR nurse who’d graduated in Jennifer’s class. “You must’ve missed her. She’s probably at lunch.”
“Oh. Hey, Sheely, you come to the Squirrel Den tonight, too, if you want, okay?”
Callie pictured the Squirrel Den, a relic from the city’s industrial dark age, a dank, smoky, gloomy place jammed with cheap old tables and booths. “Uh, thanks, Jen. I’ll try to make it,” she said politely. I just won’t try very hard, she added to herself.
“Sheely, about Trey Weldon, he—”
Callie sighed. “Tell him you didn’t see me in here, Jennifer.”
“But this place is too small for me not to see you. I wouldn’t want to lie to the man.”
“Certainly not,” Callie murmured dourly.
Without a doubt Trey’s credentials met, even exceeded, all of Jennifer’s requirements in a potential husband and father. Too bad, Jen, Callie thought darkly, you don’t fulfill the prerequisites for Weldon class status any more than I do.
Callie sucked in her cheeks and pointed at the window high above the lockers. “You can tell him I flew out that window on my broomstick. He probably thinks I’m capable of it. All I have to do is swap my surgical cap for my tall, pointy, black hat.”
“The doctor is always right, and when the nurse doesn’t agree, she’s a witch, hmm?” Jennifer was sympathetic.
“Exactly. Just a doctor-nurse disagreement. It’s nothing personal.” Callie felt the need to stress that.
Although a little voice in her head pointed out that she was taking her inability to influence Trey in the Scott Fritche matter very personally, Callie instructed the little voice to shut up.
“Well, since he’s waiting out there, I guess I ought to go tell him something.” Jennifer lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Sheely, rumors fly around here, but I’ve never heard any about you and Trey Weldon. Still, I’ll come right out and ask, and I hope you won’t take offense. Are you two involved?”
“In what? A blood feud? No, not yet.”
Jennifer giggled. “You know what I mean, Sheely. Are you and he, um, romantically involved?”
“No.” Callie’s heart lurched wildly. She would’ve liked to toss off a breezy quip about Trey being surgically gifted yet disabled in the art of romance, but the words stuck in her throat.
Because of the disturbing thoughts that flooded her mind.
For all she knew, Trey actually could be one of the world’s great romantics, passionate, sensitive and thoughtful—yet extremely discreet. Possibly, he kept that part of his life so secretive that only the woman who was the object of his desire knew that side of him.
What would it be like, to know that there was a deeply secret, romantic side of Trey? Oh, what she’d give to know!
Thoroughly flustered, Callie forgot to breathe, and then had to inhale sharply.
“Sheely?” Jennifer’s voice seemed to come from some other dimension. “Would you happen to know if Trey is going to the Springtime Ball?”
Callie jerked to attention. She was the one in the other dimension, a foolish one called fantasyland. Jen’s voice came from the real world, and Callie’s return to it was sharp and complete.
She heaved a small sigh. She was pathetic. Her hot, Trey fantasy, coupled with Jennifer’s query about Trey and the big dance, was so junior high school she wouldn’t be surprised to hear the bell ringing to change classes.
“I don’t know, Jennifer. He hasn’t mentioned the Springtime Ball.”
“I know it’s late, the ball is only two weeks away, but the guy I was going to go with had to cancel. He’s a lawyer and has some stupid conference that just came up.” Jennifer added quickly.
“I hate it when that happens.” Callie tried to sound sympathetic.
“And I already have a dress and I don’t want Joshua to think I’ll be sitting at home that night because he can’t make it. Maybe I’ll just go ahead and ask Trey Weldon to the dance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know.” Jennifer smiled, a nothing-ventured-nothing-gained kind of smile.
Callie suppressed the urge to grimace. She fumbled with her locker combination, hitting the wrong number, having to start over again.
“See you later, Sheely,” Jennifer called brightly, gliding out of the locker room.
Callie yanked the top of her scrub suit over her head, while dropping the pants to the floor. The suit was at least three sizes too big for her.
“Don’t think you can hide in there and sulk, Sheely. You are going to listen to me.”
“Trey, Dr. Weldon, you can’t go in there!”
Callie heard the locker-room door open and slam hard against the tiled wall. She heard Trey’s voice, angry and frustrated, followed by Jennifer’s high-pitched protest.
But it happened so fast, in just a split second, that she didn’t have time to process all the information until Trey was standing directly in front of her.
And she was standing in front of her locker, clad only in her white cotton bra and panties.
Trey seemed to freeze in place. Callie gasped and reached for her scrub top. She instinctively held it in front of her, shielding herself from his startled blue eyes.
Jennifer shrieked.

Two
Trey remained stock-still, as if he’d been turned to stone. It felt that way. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak.
He especially could not divert his gaze from Callie. So he just stood there, staring at her, watching as she snatched the scrub pants from the floor to hold them in front of her for additional cover.
But her alluring image already had been seared in his brain. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the smooth bare skin of her belly, her legs, her breasts. Her belly was flat, her navel intriguingly deep; her legs were shapely, slender and well toned, her breasts pleasingly full.
Amazing how much detail he’d managed to absorb in those few burning moments.
He could accurately visualize her bra and panties, too, pristine white cotton, quite modestly cut. Plain, functional and practical underwear, the polar opposite of those sensual confections labeled lingerie, the stuff that was supposed to inspire male fantasies.
It seemed that Trey needed no such inspiration. Simply the sight of Callie Sheely in her serviceable underwear sent a shock wave of arousal through him so fast that within moments his body was hot and hard.
Instinctively he took a step closer to her.
“Trey, just in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in the women’s locker room,” Callie informed him through gritted teeth.
Trey’s eyes widened and he was suddenly aware of the hyena-like screeching in the background. He cast a quick glance at the blond nurse, then looked back at Callie.
And blinked. “What?”
Callie groaned. “I feel like I’m trapped in an especially stupid episode of a very bad sitcom. I would’ve never thought you were capable of looking dim, but somehow you’ve nailed that ‘huh?’ the scene requires.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” growled Trey, gathering his wits. It took longer than expected, and he blamed the surreal atmosphere. “I don’t watch much TV and I certainly don’t waste my time on bad sitcoms. And why would anyone bother to watch an especially stupid episode of anything?”
“Maybe to find a way out of a ridiculous situation—like this one,” Callie said tersely. She shot a glare over his shoulder. “Jennifer, please stop screaming. Remember, he’s Trey Weldon, not Dracula.”
“Are you two having a big fight?” the blonde demanded a bit hoarsely. “A domestic-dispute kind of thing? Did he come raging in here after you, Callie?”
“Damn,” muttered Trey. “Is that the story she’ll spread all over the hospital?”
“Well, there’s always the stock sitcom solution to fall back on,” Callie murmured. “Shall I try it?”
Trey wondered if the dim “huh?” expression she’d accused him of had reappeared on his face. “Try what?”
“You took the wrong door by mistake, Dr. Weldon.” Callie’s voice was clear and firm. “You made a wrong turn and ended up in here instead of the men’s locker room.”
“Oh sure, like I’m going to believe that!” Jennifer was scornful.
Trey couldn’t blame her. “As excuses go, that’s exceptionally poor, Sheely.”
“Of course it is. That’s the point, I think. The excuse is so dumb, it somehow works,” Callie whispered back to him. “Or else the scene fades to a commercial break. Too bad we don’t have that option now.”
“What were you going to do to Callie, Dr. Weldon?” Jennifer’s voice had a definitely accusing edge. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?”
Trey decided her inquisition was worse than her shrieking, because the questions raised disturbing ones of his own. What would he have done if Jennifer hadn’t been screamingly present?
He felt another flash of sexual heat streak through him. What in the world was happening to him? Here he was in the women’s locker room, after deliberately barging in on Callie Sheely, not even caring that she had retreated to a place off-limits to him.
She had run off in the midst of their argument, leaving him frustrated and exasperated, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t experienced frustration and exasperation before.
He had, plenty of times. It came with the territory when you were the smartest—and usually the youngest—in any class since the age of three. But for his feelings to turn physical, sexual, driving him to act impulsively like some kind of macho hothead…
Such behavior was totally uncharacteristic of him; he’d made sure of that. He saw himself as a thinker, a planner, a careful strategist, and that’s exactly what he had become. Cerebral and controlled. The quintessential neurosurgeon, if one ascribed to the surgeons’ personalities matching their specialties’ stereotypes.
“He simply walked in here by mistake, Jennifer,” Callie kept insisting. “Dr. Weldon is a brilliant surgeon, but he is pathetic when it comes to knowing his way around. He’s always getting lost, takes a left when he should go right and a right when he means to go left. I think he could be classified as directionally challenged. Right, Trey?”
Trey almost automatically denied it. He had a superb sense of direction and prided himself on it. He’d had no trouble adapting to Pittsburgh’s one hundred plus bridges crossing the three rivers, or to all the hills and winding streets, many of them one-way. He didn’t bemoan the infamous lack of road signs that caused so many motorists, even lifelong residents, to get hopelessly lost. He didn’t need them.
No, one thing he definitely was not, was directionally challenged.
He glanced down at Callie, about to lodge his protest. She rolled her eyes heavenward and grimaced.
“Oh, yes,” he said quickly. “Right.”
How could he forget, even for a split second, that Callie was making excuses for him, in order to convince the melodramatic Jennifer that she’d drawn all the wrong conclusions?
Which meant that once again he was faced with the question that plagued him, tantalized him, too. Without Jennifer’s presence, just what would he have done with Callie Sheely?
Sheely, his ever-reliable assistant, his capable second-set-of-hands who’d stood before him, her bare skin so smooth and silky, her no-nonsense underwear covering more than it revealed, paradoxically inflaming him more than any racy black thong or see-through brassiere.
Trey swallowed, hard. “Sorry. I, uh, made a wrong turn. A mistake. I’m…distracted today.” He turned and abruptly strode off.
Inside the women’s locker room, Callie and Jennifer faced each other.
“He made a wrong turn, did he?” Jennifer said archly. “He came in here by mistake? So that’s your story and you’re sticking with it?”
“Pretty much.” Callie shrugged. She hoped it appeared artless, that she seemed unconcerned.
Which she most definitely wasn’t. Her insides were churning. She could still see Trey’s intense blue gaze fixed on her. She could still feel his eyes on her, as if he had physically touched her. If Jennifer hadn’t been here….
“I noticed that his shirt was inside out,” Jennifer persisted. “Like maybe you’d been in the middle of—something physical—and then you ran away and he pursued you into—”
“We were in the middle of neurosurgery for the past six hours or so, Jen. You can check that out if you want. And I…I didn’t notice his scrubs or how he was wearing them. It’s not something I ever pay attention to.”
Jennifer snickered her disbelief. “If you say so, Sheely.”
Callie quickly snatched her sweats from the locker and pulled them on. She caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror. Her body was lost in the baggy navy pants and Penn State sweatshirt, which she’d thrown on this morning for the drive to the hospital.
At 6 a.m. on a dark, chilly March morning, when she would go immediately to the locker room to change into OR scrubs, it didn’t matter what she wore. She didn’t care what she looked like now, either, Callie tried to convince herself.
So what if Trey was waiting for her outside the locker room and she looked shapeless and rumpled? Another glance in the mirror revealed her tousled bangs; her ponytail definitely needed to be brushed, too.
Well, she wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t going to primp, because Trey undoubtedly wouldn’t be out there waiting for her. He’d already done the unthinkable today by rushing in here after her. Cool, stringently self-disciplined Trey Weldon would never do the unthinkable twice!
What if he did? Callie’s heart jumped.
Her dark eyes appeared feverishly bright to her in the mirror. Her cheeks looked as flushed and hot as they felt. Her lips were pale and bare, her lipstick long gone after the grueling hours in surgery.
There were two tubes of lipstick in her purse, but Callie wouldn’t allow herself to retrieve either. She was not going to apply any makeup in the off chance that Trey Weldon might see her.
She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “Bye, Jennifer.” She hoped she’d achieved a credibly cheery tone.
“By the way, I’m not going to ask Trey Weldon to the Springtime Ball,” Jennifer announced. “I am not the type who goes after another woman’s man.”
Jennifer thought Trey Weldon was her man. “As if,” Callie murmured under her breath.
She tried to ignore the lonely little voice deep in her secret heart that cried, “If only.” It was juvenile and silly and—
“Sheely.”
The sound of her name stopped her cold. Callie whirled to see Trey standing beside the wall, just a few feet away from the locker room door. He still had his scrub shirt on inside out. Not that she paid attention to how anyone wore their scrubs.
Instantly a picture of Trey in his low-slung scrub pants, shirtless, flashed before her mind’s eyes, clear as a photograph.
Too jittery to keep still, Callie started walking.
Trey fell into step alongside her. “I guess your friend is already cooking up some gossip that will speed through the hospital faster than a rumor on the Internet.”
“You think?” Her lips twitched into a smile she couldn’t suppress.
There was a civil war going on inside her, between euphoria—he had waited for her!—and her common sense trying to dispel it. For a few moments euphoria won, and she savored the sensation of walking beside him, their shoulders lightly brushing.
Until Trey moved a few steps away, making any accidental physical contact between them impossible. That successfully dissolved Callie’s silly burst of joy.
“I apologize for putting you in a position that might possibly be misinterpreted, Callie,” Trey said stiffly.
He’d called her Callie. For the first time.
She wondered if he was even aware of it.
Callie stole a furtive glance at him. She was always “Sheely” to Trey. During the entire year they had been working together, he’d called her nothing else.
Her surname was also used by most hospital personnel and had been since her nursing school days. It seemed that certain people were inevitably known by their last names while others were forever called by their first; Callie wasn’t sure why, but that’s the way it was.
She was pondering this, along with how odd yet wonderful “Callie” sounded coming from Trey, when he spoke again.
“I created—an embarrassing situation, Sheely. I don’t blame you for being angry.” Whether intentional or not, his voice held a cajoling note.
Callie realized that he had misinterpreted her silence.
“I’m not mad at you,” she blurted. “Actually, when you stop and think about it, the whole thing is pretty funny.”
“Hilarious,” Trey muttered. “Can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. That woman’s screams were a virtual comedic highlight. And my ears are still ringing.”
“That woman?” Callie repeated drolly.
“I think I met her before, but I don’t remember,” grumbled Trey. “Should I?”
“Her name is Jennifer Olsen, and she was about to ask you to the Springtime Ball when you came charging through the door like a…rhino in scrubs.”
The taunting sound of her voice was as disconcerting to Callie as the words themselves. They had tumbled out before she’d had a chance to censor them.
“Ask me to a ball?” Trey looked aghast. “Give me a break, Sheely.”
“You don’t like to dance?” Callie dared to bait him. “Or you don’t know how?”
Insight struck. So this was why she’d mentioned the ball and Jennifer’s near invitation…in the hope that Trey would react exactly this way, appalled at the prospect. He didn’t want to go with lovely, tall, blond Jennifer. Callie tried hard not to look pleased.
“I can dance.” Trey was grim. “It took four miserable years of Miss Martha’s Ballroom and Etiquette Classes, but I mastered it.”
“Miss Martha’s Ballroom Classes, plus etiquette, too,” repeated Callie dryly. “I learned to dance watching the older kids at teen night at the VFW hall. It was pretty easy, but then, we didn’t have to master the intricacies of ballroom etiquette.”
“Not just ballroom etiquette. We also had to learn these arcane rituals that might have been relevant a century ago but—” He sighed. “I understand the necessity of instructing youngsters in the basics, and knowing how to dance is useful I suppose, but I swore that as an adult I would never subject myself to further torture along those lines.”
“Miss Martha must have run those dance classes like a gulag commandant. Dancing is supposed to be fun, not torture.”
“Is it?” he challenged. “Do you think dancing is fun, Sheely?”
“I guess it all depends on who you’re dancing with,” Callie heard herself reply.
And was promptly horrified with herself. She couldn’t have said something as blatant as that! Why, she sounded like her ditsy sister, Bonnie, a compulsive flirt since the age of ten—and probably the least-subtle flirt in the universe, too.
Having watched and winced over Bonnie for years, Callie had made a studied effort to be her opposite. To hear herself throw out such an obvious come-on line made her cringe.
Worse, she could feel Trey studying her, his expression unreadable.
She was certain he was patronizing her when he replied in cool, measured tones, “And who do you like to dance with, Sheely? Scott Fritche?”
“I’ve assisted Scott Fritche in the OR from time to time. I don’t dance with him.”
“But you’d like to?”
“Oh, please, give me credit for having a little taste. Scott Fritche dates teenage student nurses. Any woman over twenty-one is too mature for him. He’s a perpetual adolescent.”
“Well, Fritche is sounding less and less like neurosurgery material.” Trey frowned, his mind back on the surgical track. He seldom left it for long.
Callie was inordinately relieved. She’d come close to making a fool of herself with Trey, not that he seemed aware of it. One of the advantages of his never taking any personal notice of her, she decided wryly.
They reached the bank of elevators at the end of the corridor and could either leave the OR floor or go back to where they’d come from, the lounge and locker rooms adjacent to the operating and recovery rooms.
Trey glanced at his watch. “We do the astrocytoma with the laser in less an hour.”
Callie nodded. “The patient is Doug Radocay. I, uh, mentioned that his grandmother lives in my old neighborhood near my parents’ house.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. Among other things that I won’t go into. Feel free to thank me for my restraint, Sheely.”
She was fairly sure he was kidding but not sure enough. “Thank you,” she replied seriously. “It’s very diplomatic of you to resist bringing up…those other things, especially since we agreed to disagree on them.”
“If you say so, Sheely.” Trey arched his brows. “Did I tell you that I happened to overhear you on the office phone when you bullied Mr. Radocay’s HMO into approving the referral to me? They were against it, but you persuaded them to loosen the purse strings and pay up. You were impressively alarming, Sheely.”
“I was simply following your lead, Dr. Weldon.”
“Were you?”
“Uh-huh. I asked myself what would you say in a similar situation since you always manage to make those pencil-pushing bureaucrats on the end of the line bow to your will. I imitated your technique, right down to the blood-chilling tone and not-too-subtle threats.”
“Thank you. And let me return the compliment, Sheely. In proper form, you too can freeze the blood of the pencil pushers.”
He pressed the call button to summon the elevator. “I’m grabbing a bite to eat from the cafeteria. Are you going there?”
“I guess.” She glanced down at her less-than-flattering outfit. “I meant to bring my lunch and eat in the lounge today but I forgot it. I, uh, I didn’t expect to be seen in public looking like this.” She shifted uneasily from one foot to another.
“You look fine,” Trey said, as if on cue.
Callie’s head jerked up. “That wasn’t a bid for a compliment.”
But it had sounded that way, she chided herself. “I look like a slob and I know it,” she added sternly.
The elevator arrived, and they stepped inside the empty car.
“Let me put it another way, then.” Trey pressed the button for the cafeteria located in the basement, and the doors snapped shut. “A suitably uncomplimentary way. You don’t look any worse in that getup than you do in those oversize scrubs, Sheely.” He grinned. “Better?”
Callie stared up at him. Trey didn’t smile often. Quiana had once accused him of rationing his smiles, and he had somberly agreed that he was not the smiley sort. Therefore his grin—teasing, lighthearted—packed a potent wallop.
She felt slightly dazed. “Those scrubs are marked One Size Fits All. I’ve often wondered ‘all’ of what?”
“Gorillas, maybe?” suggested Trey.
“So if you happen to live on the Planet of the Apes, they really would fit all.”
“And be worn in simian ORs,” murmured Trey, his lips quirking, as if picturing one.
He successfully warded off the impulse to smile again. “We need to eat and get our blood sugar levels up. We’re verging on giddy.” His face was devoid of any further trace of amusement.
“Don’t worry, Trey. Nobody would ever accuse you of being giddy, or even verging on it.”
She glanced up at him, and their eyes met again. Callie tried to suppress the frisson of heat that raced through her. Trey looked calm and collected, and immaculate as usual, despite the grinding hours of surgery and disconcerting locker-room scene. Not even his inside-out scrub top detracted from his aura of dignity.
Callie ran a self-conscious hand along her bedraggled ponytail and then attempted to smooth down her bangs. Even with a concerted effort, could she ever acquire a tenth of the elegance that Trey seemed to naturally possess?
The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened. A crowd was waiting to board. The cafeteria was only a few yards away, and Trey and Callie walked toward it.
“Sandwich line?” he suggested. “Since Swiss steak is today’s hot special.”
“Sandwich line, definitely. Their Swiss steak is only for the very young and foolish, with ultrahardy digestive tracts. I remember eating it during my student nurse days, which are long gone—along with my ability to consume Tri-State’s Swiss steak.”
“You’re not that long out of nursing school, are you, Sheely? You look like a kid.”
“Thanks, I think. But I haven’t been a kid for a long time. I’m twenty-six,” she admitted. “As of last month,” she added, because being twenty-six was still hard to fathom.
There had been a time when twenty-six seemed ancient to her. Now that she’d actually reached it, it did not feel old at all.
You’re on the wrong side of twenty-five now, Callie, her sister, Bonnie, had joshed, as Callie blew out all the candles blazing on her birthday cake. Bonnie, four years younger, still considered twenty-six to be ancient.
“Last month? Uh, happy birthday, Sheely. Belatedly.”
Callie didn’t bother to respond to the perfunctory wishes. She knew very well that he had no interest in things like staff birthdays; he’d made it his personal rule not to participate in the inevitable collections for cards and/or cakes.
“Twenty-six.” To her surprise, Trey picked up the thread of their conversation. “That’s still young, Sheely. At least it is to me. I’ll be thirty-three in October.”
He looked slightly astonished by the fact, and Callie knew exactly what he was feeling.
“You’re very young to be regarded as a respected authority and leader in your field,” she pointed out. “But that’s to be expected since you graduated from college in less than three years and medical school in only—”
“You’ve been reading the med center’s press releases about me, Sheely. Gearing up to hit me for a raise?”
Callie blushed. If Trey only knew how much she knew about him, had read about him…he would probably peg her as an obsessed fan!
“I just wanted to remind you that you’re still considered the Boy Wonder around here.”
“Boy Wonder,” he repeated. “That was my identity for a long, long time, but once you’re thirty, you stop being a boy anything.”
“Some men don’t ever stop being boys,” Callie said, with a touch of acid. “No matter how old they might be—which goes to prove you don’t have to be young to be foolish, I guess.”
She thought of Scott Fritche and his penchant for young student nurses, of her brother, Kirby, a year and a day younger than her, a self-described slacker living rent free in their parents’ basement while he pondered what he wanted to do when he grew up.
“You’re right.” Trey looked thoughtful. “And it works the other way, too. Kids can be quite sagacious. I was, and I’m sure you were too, Sheely.”
“Well, I never actually saw myself as a ‘sagacious’ sort of girl,” joked Callie. And if she had been one, it was too bad she’d grown up to be a foolish woman, she added silently, one harboring a futile, unrequited crush on the unattainable Trey Weldon.
“Don’t make light of your accomplishments, Sheely. I don’t believe in false modesty. You were the valedictorian of your high school class and of your nursing school class, too. Those are not the accomplishments of a foolish girl.”
“How did you know about all that?” She had never mentioned her scholastic achievements to him, though it was hardly a secret if anyone cared to check.
“I checked, of course. Before I offered you the position as scrub nurse on my team.”
“You told me at the time that you’d been observing me in the OR and my experience there was why you—”
“I also checked your academic records, Sheely. I wanted to make sure you were the real thing, the complete package. Knowledge and character supported and enhanced by skill. I had no intention of choosing anything less for my team.”
“Oh, that’s me, the complete package.”
Grabbing a tray, she took her place in the sandwich line. There was a backup at the grill, with only one short-order cook working today, when at least three were needed.
Knowledge and character supported and enhanced by skill? Trey could very well have been describing Sister Benedicta, the stalwart principal of her old alma mater, Guardian Angels High School.
Could he make it any plainer? She did not evoke any romantic feelings within him at all. Callie unsparingly faced the truth: her insipid crush on him was even worse than hopeless, it was just plain absurd. Thank heavens nobody knew.
And then she thought of the glint in Jennifer’s eye in the locker room earlier.
I am not the type who goes after another woman’s man, Jennifer had said. Hadn’t her expression been just a shade too perceptive?
Callie flinched, imagining the speculative gossip that might already be spreading via the ever-efficient hospital grapevine. When confronted, would a breezy laugh of denial be enough to counter the rumor, or should she offer some sort of explanation?
“You are, you know,” Trey said quietly.
Callie’s train of thought, already derailed by the probability of gossip, wrecked completely as Trey came to stand closely behind her.
Her senses seemed to take over, making her intensely aware of everything about him. Of the feel of his chest brushing against her back. Of the size and strength of his muscular frame, which seemed to surround her.
When she inhaled, his scent filled her nostrils with a musky mix of male sweat and pungent, antiseptic OR soap.
The temptation to lean into him, to press back against the hard heat of his body was so fierce that Callie came dangerously close to giving in to it. To throwing caution and restraint aside and acting on her feelings, showing him that there was more to her than knowledge and character supported and enhanced by skill.
There was desire and need, and it was all for him. What if she were to take a chance and let him know?
“Dr. Weldon.” A male voice sounded behind them.
Callie jumped and turned her head to see Scott Fritche approaching Trey. Hot color suffused her skin, right down to the tips of her toes. Her head abruptly cleared. She was herself again, and she offered mental thanks that she had not—impulsively and unprofessionally—nestled against Trey. She was horrified by her near lapse in sanity.
“Fritche.” Trey frowned at the younger man who’d joined them. “I intended to talk to you sometime today. I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

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