LITMIR.BIZ

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frowned. “That’s a very cynical position to take.”

      “Realistic,” Reilly corrected. He moved his drink aside for the waitress, who set their plates on the table. “Most people are motivated by self-interest, fear or greed,” he continued after she left. “And the ones who tell you differently cause most of the world’s problems.”

      Nell stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, arrested by the discrepancy between his flippant tone and the bitter look in his eyes.

      “Spoken like a frustrated idealist,” she said.

      “Not an idealist. Just frustrated.” He flashed her a Big Bad Wolf grin loaded with innuendo.

      Nell felt a buzz. Not a beer buzz, either. This was more like sexual static. Cheap thrills. His attitude was completely unacceptable. Too pointed. Too personal. Too sexual. But his persistence was flattering.

      She straightened against the high-backed vinyl seat. She had too much at stake to let herself be diverted by the promise or the threat of sex. Even if it had been twenty-two months, five days and…but who was counting?

      She made an effort to drag the conversation back to a clinical, professional level.

      “You have to admit that there are caring, committed people in the world who do make a difference,” she said. “Our volunteers—”

      “Don’t you believe it,” Reilly said. “More harm is done by zealots, by people with a cause, people with good intentions, people who frigging care, than all the bad guys in the world.”

      She sat back. “Wow. Are you speaking from personal experience here?”

      Reilly met her eyes without apology. “Yes.”

      Nell dragged a French fry through the ketchup on her plate. She didn’t want to know, she reminded herself. She didn’t want to know him. But the caretaker in her recognized and responded to the flat echo of his pain.

      “Who hurt you?” she asked softly.

      Reilly raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to turn this interview around on me?”

      Her heartbeat quickened. “I thought the purpose of this dinner was to get to know one another better.”

      He watched her. “If that’s what it takes.”

      There was that buzz again, that jolt, that thrill. These were deep waters. And she was about to wade in over her head.

      Unless—oh, God, that would be embarrassing—unless she totally misunderstood him.

      “For you to get a story,” she clarified.

      “For me to get you into bed.”

      Nell caught her breath. Okay, she hadn’t misunderstood.

      “Gee,” she said dryly. “I’m overwhelmed.”

      “No, I don’t think so,” he said, studying her with those hooded, knowing eyes. “You’re annoyed. But maybe you’re interested, too. Are you interested?”

      Interested, offended, tempted, threatened… She wrapped her hands around her cold mug to keep them steady. “Are you always this blunt?”

      He smiled, baring straight, white teeth. “It’s one of the principles of good journalism. ‘Don’t waste words.’”

      She struggled to swim against the pull of his sexuality, the warm, lazy current in her own blood.

      “Doesn’t your paper have some kind of restriction against journalists having sex with their subjects?” she asked.

      “Probably. If you were underage, or if I put pressure on you to sleep with me so I didn’t trash your clinic in my column, that would be a breach of conduct.”

      Was he serious?

      “Are you actually suggesting I have sex with you to get good publicity for the clinic?”

      “No.” His eyes were bright and very blue. “Would you?”

      Would she? Her mind whirled. She’d slept with men for worse reasons. Not recently, but—

      “Of course not,” she snapped.

      Reilly smiled. Satisfied with her answer? Or pleased that he’d finally gotten under her skin?

      “Then it’s not an issue,” he said. “Once I file the story, I don’t have any rules against taking you to bed.”

      Nell sucked in her breath and almost choked on her beer. She should definitely switch to water.

      “I do,” she said when she could speak. “Have rules, I mean.”

      His gaze dropped to her hands on the tabletop. “You’re not married,” he said.

      “No.”

      “But you used to be,” Reilly guessed. “To a doctor?”

      Nell glared at him. “So?”

      The reporter leaned back consideringly. “So you put the jerk through medical school. Right? And then he…what? Wasted your youth? Cut up your credit cards? Broke your heart?”

      Worse. Much worse. Her ex-husband, Richard, had ruined her career, violated her trust and smeared her integrity. None of which she was about to explain to a been-there, done-that, wrote-about-it reporter.

      “Something like that,” Nell said coolly.

      “Figures,” Reilly said.

      She lifted her chin. “Why? Do I strike you as some kind of human doormat?”

      “Nope. But your ex was a doctor. I don’t like doctors.”

      Nell smiled ruefully. “I don’t like them myself sometimes.”

      “You have a problem with the doctors at your clinic?” Reilly’s tone was easy. His eyes were sharp.

      Oh, no. Nell’s stomach lurched. This is what happened when you let yourself be drawn along on the tide of sexual attraction. Some lean and hungry reporter swam up and bit off your head.

      She was not letting herself be pulled into a discussion of problems at the clinic. Not with her purse beside her, stuffed with the evidence of possible drug diversion. She resisted the urge to pat it, to make sure her lists and printouts stayed safely tucked out of sight.

      “Our volunteer physicians are dedicated to our patients’ care,” she said.

      Reilly grinned, making it personal again, undercutting her best professional facade. “Is that the company line?”

      “It’s the truth,” she said stiffly.

      “Maybe. Or maybe all you doctors stick together.”

      They did. Oh, they did. Nell remembered being called into the chief of staff’s office after he had discovered Richard’s drug addiction. The hospital administrator had been desperate to propose a way to protect his senior anesthesiologist.

      And Nell, shaken, guilty, had agreed to…had agreed.

      She looked up from her half-eaten French fries to find Reilly still watching her. “I’m not a doctor,” she said.

      “You dress like one.”

      Here was her chance to turn the conversation, to steer it back to her work and the clinic.

      “I wear the lab coat because patients like it,” Nell said. “Nurse practitioners can provide the kind of basic primary care—diagnosing illnesses, treating injuries, prescribing medications—that used to be available only from a physician. But most people are more reassured by a white coat than they are by an explanation of my qualifications.”

      “So why not go to medical school yourself? Get the credentials to go with the coat?”

      “I have credentials,” Nell said, more sharply than she

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