LITMIR.BIZ

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      MEAGAN MCKINNEY

      is the author of over a dozen novels of hardcover and paperback historical and contemporary women’s fiction. In addition to romance, she likes to inject mystery and thriller elements into her work. Currently she lives in the Garden District of New Orleans with her two young sons, two very self-entitled cats and a crazy red mutt. Her favorite hobbies are traveling to the Arctic and, of course, reading!

      This book is dedicated to Judd and Jude.

      I couldn’t have done it without you guys.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Epilogue

      One

      “I just figured out why men get smarter during sex,” Lois Brubaker announced in a sly undertone, even though the waiting room was presently empty.

      Rebecca O’Reilly, busy updating patient files at her wide glass-and-chrome desk, glanced up at her friend and co-worker. For a few confused moments she almost replied seriously, “They do?” Then she realized it was a joke, and she flushed slightly at the unintended reminder of her own sexual ignorance.

      But she obligingly fished for the punchline. “Why?”

      “Because they’re plugged in to a genius,” Lois replied in a deadpan manner.

      A heartbeat later both women burst into laughter just as the door to the examination room swung open. Dr. John Saville emerged, escorting an elderly, moon-faced woman who wore a pullover tunic with a broomstick-pleated skirt.

      Rebecca’s laughter died on her lips when John Saville’s eyes, an intensely deep cobalt-blue, seemed to lash at her like whips. He frowned, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows.

      But he stoically ignored her and Lois, walking his elderly patient into the waiting room with its leather-and-chrome furniture and fresh lilacs in wicker baskets. Old-time lithographs of Mystery Valley roundup scenes decorated each pastel painted wall. The decor said homey but high priced, and John Saville’s rates only made the talented young surgeon that much more exclusive and valuable in the eyes of his patients.

      “You needn’t worry about your nightly glass of wine, Esther,” he assured her. “Especially since you have it with dinner.”

      “Glass—or two?” She seemed prepared to bargain.

      That coaxed a smile out of him. “Yes, even two glasses, so long as you don’t mean one-quart glasses.”

      Esther Miller laughed and placed a flirtatious hand on his arm. “I was afraid you might not approve,” she confessed. “You seem so stern, Dr. Saville. Old Dr. Winthrop was a regular talk-show host—you know, always kidding around. A caution to screech owls, as my uncle Stan used to say. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. You seem like a very capable young man. And handsome—my lands! I admit I scheduled my operation early just to meet you and see what all the fuss was about. Next time I may even forego the anesthetic just to watch you in action.”

      For a moment Rebecca gloated when John Saville, obviously nonplussed by such candor, actually flushed until his smooth-shaven cheeks looked sunburned.

      He’s stern, all right, she thought. In fact, the man who prescribes your medicine, Esther, is one bitter pill himself—though it certainly did come in an attractive package.

      “I’ll see you at your next appointment, Esther,” he replied so stiffly that Lois and Rebecca exchanged a secret smirk. The pill never did know how to take a compliment. It would require way too much loosening up, and that was something Dr. Dry-As-Dust never did.

      But even Rebecca conceded that her new employer was handsome—dangerously so. He was the wrong kind of handsome for his chosen profession. His aristocratic face, athletic build, golden tan and intense eyes conveyed the impression of a French tennis star or a soap opera heart-throb, not a dedicated and brilliant surgeon who ran a thriving private practice, was on twenty-four-hour call at Valley General in nearby Lambertville and still managed to present his published research at several medical conventions each year.

      But his good looks were a total, tragic waste, at least where she was concerned. While he was warm and concerned with his patients, with

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