LITMIR.BIZ

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never did she see Tate treat any one of them without respect or compassion.

      Plus it wasn’t only their outpatient surgical needs—or even their general health needs—he met. He also seemed genuinely concerned for their well-being once they went beyond the peeling walls of the clinic. Numerous times Tanya overheard him ask if the patient had a home in which to recuperate. She saw him slip money to more than a few who clearly needed it. He even took the time to make phone calls to get additional assistance for two patients before he would release them.

      She saw him go the extra mile over and over again, but not once did she have the sense that his actions were due to the fact that she was watching, or just to make himself look good. Most of the time he didn’t even know she was anywhere near, and there were several instances when she learned what good deed he’d done through the nurses talking to each other. She also saw the nurses take many patients’ nonmedical problems to him as if it were a common occurrence for them to enlist him, as if they knew from long before Monday that he was the person to go to.

      By the end of the day Tanya wasn’t ready to paint him as a saint—with people who weren’t under his care he could be demanding and dictatorial. He could be outspoken about any slipups or oversights, and curt with patients’ friends or family members who rubbed him wrong. But she had to admit that he wasn’t what she’d expected. Or anything like what she’d known of him before. The image she’d had of him as she’d grown up on the peripheries of his life was suddenly altered.

      Which didn’t help her personally.

      Because while finding him awesomely sexy in scrubs was one thing, being impressed by him, discovering that he might actually have some substance, some character, some depth, was much more of a bump in the road for her. It made him more the kind of man she liked, which also made him attractive to her on a whole other level.

      Just when she didn’t want him to be attractive to her at all…

      The last patient wasn’t ready to leave the clinic until nearly eight o’clock that night. Then the staff closed up and they all went out together.

      Tate made sure his female coworkers got to their cars safely in the unsavory neighborhood. Once he had, he walked Tanya to hers.

      “What do you say we meet at the guesthouse in an hour and I pay you for your services today with a little dinner?” he said as they reached her sedan.

      It had been a long day and Tanya was tired, but that simple suggestion was enough to wipe it all away. Which she knew was a warning sign and yet she still said, “Dinner?”

      “I’m thinking something quick and easy thrown into my wok after I shower. Are you up for it?”

      Tate McCord owned a wok and knew how to use it?

      “I can’t believe you cook, so I guess I should see it for myself.”

      “Great. Be there in an hour, then,” he ordered, opening her car door, waiting for her to get in then closing it.

      Recalling her manners slightly late, Tanya started the engine in order to roll down her window and call to him as he went to his own car, “Can I bring anything?”

      “Only yourself,” he called back.

      His tone, his attitude, were nothing but friendly. Completely aboveboard. There wasn’t even the vaguest insinuation of anything else. So it was okay for her to have agreed to have dinner with him again, Tanya told herself as she rolled her window up.

      And it was, after all, only for the sake of her story. Only to get to know him better—especially now that she’d learned there was more to know than she’d thought before.

      And if she was instantly looking forward to what remained of this evening in a way she hadn’t been until then?

      It wasn’t about the man. It was about the work and getting to the root of the McCords by getting to the root of Tate.

      And maybe if she chanted that through the entire drive home, it might start to be true…

      At the stroke of nine Tanya was knocking on the door to the guesthouse.

      She’d showered. She’d shampooed the antiseptic smell out of her hair. She’d changed into a pair of white cotton pull-on pants and a peach-colored cap-sleeved T-shirt, scrunched her hair into waves and applied some blush, mascara and lip gloss to improve upon the haggard way she’d thought she looked when she’d arrived home.

      But not because of Tate. Just because she’d wanted to. Or so she’d insisted both to herself and to her mother when JoBeth had voiced her concerns about another dinner with Tate and the fact that Tanya was primping for it.

      “Right on time,” Tate announced when he opened the door in answer to her knock.

      She could tell that he’d showered, too. His hair was still slightly damp, the stubble that had shadowed his face when they’d left the clinic was gone and he smelled of a clean, fresh mountain-air cologne that Tanya couldn’t resist breathing deeply of because the scent was too enticing.

      He’d changed from his scrubs into a plain white T-shirt and a pair of jeans Tanya knew her mother—and his—would consider ready for the ragbag because they were frayed and faded. But even so they looked fabulous on him, riding low on his hips and hugging his rear end like a dream.

      And you have no business looking at his rear end! she reprimanded herself as she followed him into the guesthouse in response to his invitation to come in.

      “There’s wine opened near the fridge over there,” he informed her with a nod in that direction as he went straight to the island counter, obviously returning to what he’d been doing before her arrival—cutting vegetables.

      And once more Tanya recognized the purely friendly overture that didn’t smack of anything inappropriate or the slightest bit flirtatious.

      Which was good. If they both stuck with that everything would be fine…

      She glanced around at the guesthouse that was about the same size as her mother’s bungalow and arranged the same way—the small kitchen space and living area were one wide open room divided by the island of cupboards with the granite countertop where Tate prepared their food. The place was equally as nice as her mother’s cottage but no nicer and it seemed odd for Tate to be staying there when he had space of his own in the luxurious main house.

      “So, you’re living out here?” she fished as she poured herself a glass of wine and then joined him at the island counter.

      “I have been for the last few months, yes,” he confirmed.

      “Why?” she asked bluntly since he hadn’t offered more information.

      He smiled a mystery-man smile and shrugged without taking his eyes off the peppers he was expertly slicing into strips. “Hard to explain,” he said. “I suppose the easiest answer is that I’m not sleeping really well these days. I do a lot of getting up and walking around, trying to go back to sleep, getting up and walking around again. Out here I don’t have to worry about disturbing anyone else. And I guess I just needed some time on my own.”

      He didn’t seem to want to say any more about it because he pointed with his chin toward the vegetables still piled in a colander and said, “Dry those for me, will you?”

      “Sure,” she agreed, setting down her glass of very mellow red wine and using a paper towel to do as he’d asked.

      “Where did you learn to cook?” she asked then, attempting a new subject.

      “Trial and error. During residency, Buzz—do you remember Buzz?”

      “I do. From what I recall, the two of you were inseparable, closer even than you were with your own brother. And I know he was killed in action in Iraq. I was sorry to hear it.”

      Tate nodded but he didn’t remark on her condolences. Instead he went on with what he’d been about to say.

      “During

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