Page 110 of The Cajun Doctor

Like I had a choice. Well, I had a choice, as Daniel so aptly pointed out. But to me, there was no choice. “Nick,” she acknowledged his greeting. “I didn’t mean to take you away from work. We could have met another time.”

He glanced down at his scrubs, which did, in fact, have several dark stains, which could only be blood. He pulled that off, as well, the pants and shirt, exposing a white, oxford collared dress shirt with sterling cuff links and a designer tie, tucked into gray, pleated slacks. “No, no, just a routine birth.”

He walked closer and appeared about to give her a hug, but she stepped back. No way was she letting him put his hands on her. Already his Bleu de Chanel cologne was making her queasy, but maybe that was just nervousness.

He raised his eyebrows at her silent rebuff, though why he should be surprised, considering their past history, was a marvel of male cluelessness. Instead, he went to sit behind his desk. He motioned for her to sit on one of the two leather chairs before his desk.

“What do you want, Nick? What was so important that I had to rush here?”

“There’s no need for hostility, Sammie.”

Her upper lip curled with distaste.

Before Nick could catch himself, he grinned. He knew full well how she loathed the nickname. But then he clearly forced himself to be serious. “It’s been a bitch trying to connect with you.” He pretended to wince as if he hadn’t meant to use “bitch” in connection with her. Hah! She’d be bitch to his bastard any day. “Where were you?” he demanded to know.

“The South of France,” she lied. Or South of New Orleans, anyhow. “A little vacation.” In a run-down plantation house with a horde of people and animals . . . including one very sexy doctor. “You could say it was a working vacation.” Now, there’s a truth! “Although I did visit with my mother while I was there, of course.”

“How is the old broad? Still shagging teenagers?”

She didn’t bother to respond, and she could hardly be insulted at the truth. Although teenagers might be a stretch. Her mother, Colette, homed in on twenty-somethings these days. Or, horror of horrors, an aged thirty-five-year-old a few years back, but Enrique only lasted a few months, couldn’t keep up with her mother, or so Colette had said.

“You know she put the moves on me one time?”

“So you said.”

He gave her body and attire a quick, disdainful survey, probably comparing it to a memory of her always elegantly dressed mother. It was not the way Nick would have insisted that Samantha dress while traveling when they were married. Images to keep up and all that nonsense.

She was still wearing the black skinny jeans and white tailored blouse she’d had on this morning, but she’d added a bright silk scarf at her waist as a belt and a pair of high heels that Tante Lulu found in the backseat of her car, which Charmaine had left behind following a party or something. Samantha had arranged her unruly hair into a neat French braid and expertly applied makeup, including foundation to mute her freckles, mascara, eye liner, and lip gloss. She even wore diamond stud earrings that had been in the jewelry pouch she brought with her to Bayou Rose, for safety.

She’d thought she looked pretty good.

Apparently not.

He did take note of her earrings and get the familiar cha-ching gleam in his larcenous eyes. “Why France? Don’t tell me, dear old grandpa is opening some stores there?” The snide note in his voice was not going to gain him points with her, if he only knew. But then, Nick had an over-inflated view of what he could say or do and still appear charming.

“No new stores in France,” she declared, setting her handbag, which held a secondary wiring device, on the floor at her feet. “I have to get home and take care of my animals. What’s up, Nick?”

His eyes went wide, and she realized her mistake. If he was the one who broke into her house, he would know there were no animals there presently.

“A neighbor offered to care for my pets while I was gone. I have to pick them up and bring them home before I even unpack. And, frankly, I’m dog tired, ha ha ha, from my trip. You know how jet lag affects me.” Oh, Lord! I’m rambling. Slow down, Samantha. Let Nick do the talking.

“Actually, I do remember. You slept for twenty-four hours straight after we returned from our honeymoon trip to Paris. But then, you might have been tired out for other reasons.” He grinned knowingly at her.

She felt like hurling the contents of her stomach. Tante Lulu’s beignets and dark chicory coffee suddenly felt like hockey pucks and tar in her stomach.

She stared at him stonily.

“Where’s Angus?” he asked.

“Huh?” She’d been prepared for that question, but she needed to feign ignorance.

“Your brother Angus . . . where the hell is Angus?”

“Angus isn’t really my brother. He—”

“I know what he is,” he snapped. No more Mr. Nice Guy, apparently. “I need to talk to Angus, and I need him now.”

“Why?”