Fortune by Annabel Joseph (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

leering at her. Bloody chick, cool. Idiots. He pushed down her skirt so they couldn’t look up her dress. Stupid, worrying about them gawking at her panties at a time like this. He leaned over her, pressing on the gash, worrying about brain injuries and skull fractures.

“Let me up,” she muttered, pushing at his hands.

“I would prefer not to until I know the bleeding has stopped.”

“I’m still bleeding?”

“Like a fountain. Now be still until the ambulance gets here.”

“Who called an ambulance? I can’t afford an ambulance.”

“The club will cover it. Head and neck injuries are nothing to take chances with. Now hush and lie still.”

“You know I… I really don’t do well with blood…and needles…”

“You’re going to need stitches for a start. And if there’s any cranial bleeding—”

She made a sound halfway between a protest and a plea and promptly passed out.

* * * * *

The first thing Kat saw when she came awake was the jumbled collection of origami figures on the tray beside her. At first she thought it was crumpled scraps of newspaper. Her eyes focused, her mind still fuzzy. Not scraps. Origami. That’s strange. She turned with a start to find a familiar set of dark eyes looking at her, then back down at her chart. The man from Masquerade was standing at the foot of her bed in a white lab coat. Shit.

“So you really are a doctor.”

“I don’t lie, Ekaterina. Ever. Yes, I am a doctor. A surgeon, actually, but let’s not quibble over terms.”

Ekaterina. He knew her full name now, and god knew what else and he was looking down at her in full asshole-doctor mode. What the hell was his name again? Brian? Ryan? She gestured to her chart. “Why are you looking at that? That’s my private information.”

“I’m the neuro specialist on call this morning, so for the moment you’re my patient. Dr. Ryan McCarthy,” he said, flashing his badge at her before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Kat was mortified to think how awful she probably looked. It was impossible to meet his eyes now, with his scrubs and the lanyard of medical IDs around his neck and that curt, bedside-manner way he spoke to her. “How are you feeling?” he asked. He reached out and she thought he meant to hold her hand but he took her wrist instead and pressed his forefinger to her pulse.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Six in the morning. I just came on shift.”

“But you were here last night with me.”

“Yes.”

“When do you sleep?”

“How are you feeling?” he repeated with an edge of impatience.

“Horrible.” The back of her head ached like hellfire. She reached up behind her, remembering her fall and the bleeding.

“Don’t touch.” His voice arrested her. “You’re bandaged up pretty good.”

“Am I bald in the back now?”

He laughed with that easy, white-toothed smile she remembered. “They don’t normally shave patients bald just to put in a few stitches. Most of your hair is still there.”

She vaguely remembered that now, the stitches, the scans of her brain. IVs and ambulance lights and people shining flashlights in her eyes. He made some notes in her chart. “What are you writing?” she asked suspiciously.

“That you’re making conversation and seem relatively alert this morning.”

“Oh.”

“How does your head feel? Sore, achy? Any sharp pain?”

“Just…sore. Woozy.”

“They sedated you last night. You really don’t do well with medical procedures.”

She grimaced. “I never have.”

“No big deal. At least you slept well. How’s your vision?”

She shrugged, watching the way his fingers toyed with the pen in his hand, flipping it around in a circle. Dark tufts of hair on tan knuckles. Big, big fingers. Jesus, Kat. Just chill. “My vision is fine. So will I live?”

“I sincerely hope so. At least try not to die on my shift. They frown on that.”

He pulled a small penlight out of his pocket and turned it on, then took her chin between those big fingers and leaned close, shining it into her eyes. She stared forward, trying not to think about the subtle pressure of his thumb and forefinger, or how near he was to her. Or how shivery both those things made her feel. Good lord, she’d bled all over him last night, whined about the procedures and needles. She’d probably even cried at some point. It’s not like he would feel any attraction to her now, whether he’d flirted with her at Masquerade or not. Had that been just last night that he’d smiled and flirted with her? Just last night that she’d gone pitching down the stairs like a total idiot? It seemed a world away now.

He pulled back, made more notes, all businesslike doctor. Some part of her wanted him to smile that big smile at her again, to acknowledge her as more than his patient, but he was all serious and professional.

“Your brain scans and x-rays look good. They’ll do another set this afternoon and then tomorrow morning, and provided they look the same, they’ll probably let you go home. Your mother will be happy to hear it. She was a little upset last night.”

Kat caught her breath. “A little upset?”

“They almost had to call security.”

As if on cue, her mama swept into the room, waving her arms around in wide, dramatic gestures and yelling at the top of her lungs. Four of Kat’s sisters pushed into the room too and Ryan stepped back from the bed as they crowded around Kat.

“Katyusha! You crazy girl!” her mother shrieked, then turned and glared at Ryan. He was a pretty big man and pretty well built, but he backed away from her. Most men did. “You are still here?”

“I actually work here, Mrs. Argounov.”

Her mother’s gaze fell on the pile of origami figures before fixing back on the man in the white coat.

“What is your name, you? Your name is?”

“Ryan. Dr. Ryan McCarthy.”

“Doctor? So you are her doctor now?” Her mother had a thick Russian accent, so it sounded like duk-ter.

“I’m a surgeon, actually.”

Mama clutched her chest. “She