Hollywood Temptation Read online

  “Seacliffe Cosmetic Surgery, can I help you?” He cringed as he said the words. Chances were, he probably couldn’t help. He didn’t even have a clue how the messaging system worked, let alone anything else.

  But luck was on his side; it was an easy request. He lifted a pen and scribbled down a name and address of someone asking for a brochure. Simple. Even he could manage that.

  He replaced the receiver and sat down in the black leather chair. Most of the time he loved his work. The hours were good, the pay even better and, although some people were disparaging about plastic surgeons, there was something nice about having a job that made people feel good about themselves.

  Maybe he wasn’t saving lives on a daily basis, but in the last few years he’d been very proud of some of the work he’d done. The clinic had a pro-bono arrangement for doing facial surgeries on children and they had a bulletin board in the staffroom where pictures were posted of kids smiling. Colt had played a part in that.

  His hand went automatically to his left shoulder—where the most visible of his scars were. Colt had more motivation than most to work in plastic surgery. He loved being part of Seacliffe. He loved the fact he could make a difference to other people’s lives—just the way another surgeon had made the difference for him.

  But someone in the clinic was on the make. Stories had been sold to the press. Seacliffe was a favorite hideout of many of the LA celebs needing a nip here and a tuck there. It was a perfect setting right off the Pacific Highway, just north of Santa Monica. The complex was Mediterranean in style, with white-stucco walls and red-clay roof tiles. With its upscale private spa, day surgery, and small in-patient section with private cottages it was the perfect hideaway. Even the grounds were immaculate, with a sprawling center courtyard and fountain. The whole place just screamed money. Chances were, it might not continue to do so if the leaks weren’t stopped.

  Last month there had been a breach in confidentiality leading to a headline in one of the national newspapers. No one could understand where the leak had come from, but when Colt had caught their latest receptionist texting one of her friends yesterday about who was sitting in the waiting room he’d fired her on the spot.

  One of their receptionists was on maternity leave and another currently vacationing in the Bahamas.

  Leaving them with no admin support.

  And everyone blamed Colt.

  He frowned. How hard could it be to find a receptionist? One who could answer the phones and keep her mouth shut?

  The last time they’d advertised a job, they’d been blown away by the amount of applicants. Turned out two of them had been reporters and one of them a paparazzi scumbag. You just couldn’t get good staff these days.

  A car skidded to a halt outside. He stood up and walked over to the window. It wasn’t the type of car that normally appeared in their parking lot. Not the usual parking spot, either.

  It was usually cars-for-the-stars around here. But this was a run-of-the-mill car. He watched as a blonde bombshell emerged from the car, pressing something to her head. There was a parking lot directly to her left. It was clearly marked. She had practically blocked the driveway parked there. Another woman who thought the rules were made for everyone else.

  She looked upward and he caught his breath. Even in her disheveled state he could see she was a knockout.

  Blond hair around her shoulders, lovely bone structure—the one thing a plastic surgeon always noted—lightly tanned skin, curves in all the right places, and fuchsia-pink lips. His favorite color on a woman.

  He watched as she struggled to straighten her blouse and skirt with one hand, a signature handbag weighing her down as she continued to press something to her head.

  She stumbled. He winced. The last thing they needed was someone to fall on their way into the clinic and sue them. Bad publicity and lawsuits were not what they needed right now.

  Something was caught around her ankle. He could see the bright scrap catching on the stiletto heel of her shoe. She stopped and dumped her bag on the ground then bent down to retrieve the wayward piece of material. Her head shot back up quickly, glancing at all the windows in the clinic. Her face was scarlet.

  It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

  Yes, it was.

  Colt couldn’t stop the hearty laugh he let out as she bent down and stuffed the pink thong into her bag.

  Did that mean she wasn’t wearing any underwear? And fuchsia, his favorite color, whether it was on a woman’s body or her lips.

  Interesting. Very interesting.

  She scuttled into the clinic foyer and pressed the button for the elevator. Seconds later, the door opened and she stepped out into the modern interior.

  Her face was still red and she looked a little shell-shocked.

  Maybe this day was getting a bit better.

  “Can I help you?” At the sound of his voice, she jumped. He was standing with his back to the window instead of behind the reception desk. Her bag and its contents scattered across the floor.

  “Darn it,” she muttered as she bent to retrieve the items, giving him a glimpse of her cleavage. All natural. He could tell at a glance. Unusual around here. From a distance she’d looked interesting. Up close? She was stunning.

  She gathered herself together and took a deep breath. “Yes, thanks. I’m looking to see a plastic surgeon who can stitch my head, please.”

  Her words drew his attention from her hips and curvy figure. A faint trail of blood snaked under the pack she had on her forehead. That explained the parking.

  He crossed the room and put his hand over hers. “Let me have a look.”

  She gazed up at him with startlingly bright green eyes. “Shouldn’t you get me a doctor?”

  He started.

  Of course. He was standing in reception, staring out a window. She thought he was the receptionist. Maybe it was time to rethink his designer Italian suit.

  For a second he was insulted. Then, he was amused.

  He held his free hand out to her. “I’m Colt Travers, plastic surgeon, and one of the partners at Seacliffe.” He put an arm around her waist and guided her along the hallway. “Come along to the exam room.”

  She nodded and followed his lead, allowing him to settle her on the edge of an examination couch while he washed his hands and donned some gloves.

  He lifted the pack from her head and quickly replaced it. The ice that must have been there had completely melted. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out an ice pack out of the freezer.

  “Would you mind lying back on the couch?” He shot her what he’d been told was his sexiest grin.

  It took all his willpower not to glance up her skirt as she swung her tanned legs up on the couch. He was still curious about the underwear situation.

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Not really.” She couldn’t meet his gaze.

  He bit his lip. Was she a victim of domestic violence? He spent long hours working in Helen’s House, a charity for victims. He wasn’t afraid to ask the question and offer help if needed.

  She took a deep breath. “I fell over.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “You fell over?”

  Her eyes met his for a fleeting second, then quickly looked away. “I fell over,” she repeated.

  “Were you knocked out? We’re not an ER. If you’ve had a head injury, you should see an ER physician.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t. I swear.”

  Could he believe her? He had absolutely no idea. Colt was old fashioned. He might be a plastic surgeon, but he could still run through the basic assessment for a head injury. First rule: orientate to time and place. And maybe find out a little more about this mystery blonde…

  “Where are you from?”

  “What?” She looked a bit confused. Concussion?

  Then her face broke into a smile, and she leaned back against the pillows on the couch. “Oh, I get it, the accent.”

  He nodded. The tense mus
cles around her neck and shoulders relaxed. Her eyes sparkled when she smiled, lighting up her face and letting natural tiny lines appear. No Botox here. “I was brought up in Scotland. My mother’s Scottish, but my father’s American. Texan, actually. I’m over here on a working holiday.”

  He snapped off his gloves and started washing his hands again. “I see. Scotland.” He nodded. “Nice accent. I like it. Cute.”

  “Cute?” Her eyebrows were raised and her voice indignant.

  Colt didn’t normally flirt with patients. It was an unwritten rule. But she wasn’t an average patient. So maybe he could be forgiven.

  Most of the time his operating room was filled with minor celebrities or trophy wives. Selena didn’t appear to be either of these.

  He usually liked brunettes. And she might not have the model-girl looks he was used to, but she was cute—in a sort of damsel-in-distress kind of way. He liked it. He’d always fancied himself as knight in shining armor.

  He nodded again, trying to hide his amusement as her skirt was creeping upward on her thigh every time she moved. “I’ll get one of the nurses to come and clean the wound for you. We need to make sure there’s no possibility of infection.”

  Her face paled. “Infection? In my forehead?”

  “You said that you fell over. Floors or sidewalks are generally teeming with germs. We need to make sure there’s no debris inside.”

  “No. It’s okay. It was my shoe—my Christian Louboutin. And it’s never been worn—so there’s no chance of germs.”

  It had to be the most original reason for a head injury he’d ever heard. “You fell onto your own shoe?”

  He could see her frantically deciding what to say next. She even looked up to the left—a clear sign of searching the creative side of her brain for a suitable lie.

  She sighed and sagged back against the pillows.

  “No. I didn’t fall onto it.” She scowled at him, obviously deciding a lie was too much hard work. “Mark hit me with it.”

  “Mark?” His chest tightened. So this was a domestic-abuse case after all. He couldn’t stand the thought of a man hitting a woman. What a pathetic coward.

  She blew out a long breath between her pink lips. “Yeah, he was throwing my things out of his apartment. My shoe hit me on the head.”

  The phone rang outside again. He halted from what he’d been about to say about calling the cops. “Did he mean to hit you? Was it deliberate?”

  “What?” She frowned. “No. Mark probably couldn’t have aimed that well if he’d tried. It was totally random.” She moved the ice pack on her forehead. “So, can you stitch this? Will I have a scar?”

  The tight feeling across his chest settled. This was sounding more like a comedy than a crime.

  He smiled at her. She might be a Scot, but she sounded like a typical LA woman. “I can’t stitch your head while it’s so swollen. Once one of the nurses has cleaned it, we’ll keep the ice in place for a few hours and stitch it then.” He was moving into autopilot, giving her the obligatory talk. He reached for one of the clinic brochures and handed it to her. “You can rest downstairs in our spa area. You’ll be more than comfortable. You’ll also be able to look at the rest of the services we offer.”

  “Will I need to stay overnight?” She clenched the leaflet between her fingers.

  “What? No. A few hours will be long enough. Are you in a rush? Do you have an appointment to get to?”

  This was the story of Colt’s life. Fitting his plastic surgery into the convenience of everybody’s schedules, in between her yoga, dietetic, the gym, and counselor appointments.

  But she shook her head. “No. I’ve got nowhere to go. There’s no appointment.” She bit her lip.

  He felt a little surge of pleasure. She might be amusing to have around for a few hours. He didn’t have any surgeries scheduled for today, just some clinic appointments. Her head could easily be stitched later.

  “Is someone going to answer that phone? It’s giving me a headache.”

  “What?” He’d been distracted—by her legs. Her shapely, tanned smooth-skinned legs. “Oh, the phone. Don’t worry about it. And that won’t be giving you the headache. That’ll be your heel. I’ll write you up for some painkillers while we wait for the swelling to go down.”

  He opened a drawer and pulled out a prescription chart and instruction sheet for the nurse. Normally this type of stuff was done before he saw a patient. He lifted his pen and then stopped. His pen was poised above the page. “Your name, you haven’t told me your name.”

  She tilted her head to one side, looked at him with her big green eyes, and extended her slim hand. “Selena Harris. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Her warm hand fitted easily inside his palm. He grinned. “I can assure you, Selena, the pleasure is all mine.”

  Chapter Two

  “Yaaooowww!”

  The nurse smiled. “Please hold still, Ms. Harris. This will only take a minute.”

  Hold still? Sheesh. What Selena really wanted to do was to tell the nurse to leave her alone—not to touch the baseball-sized lump on her head. But Colt’s words about infection had terrified her. She tried to be calm as the nurse swept another swab across her forehead. Relaxing didn’t come naturally, so she went for the first thing that distracted her. “What’s the problem with your phones? Doesn’t anyone answer them around here?”

  The nurse dropped the waste into the disposal bag attached to the dressing tray and gave a huge sigh. “The calls have been transferred down to the spa since the receptionist upstairs was fired. I don’t think any of us realized how much it actually rings. It hasn’t stopped all day.”

  “And it was Dr. Travers who fired her?” She was guessing, but from the guilty look on his face earlier this had something to do with him.

  The nurse raised her eyebrow. “Yes, it was Colt.” The ice pack was pressed back on her head. “Keep that in place. The swelling’s actually gone down a little already. Another few hours, and we’ll be able to stitch it.”

  “This place is beautiful.” Selena’s gaze was fixed on the Pacific Ocean outside.

  The clinic was set high enough to show the sweeping expanse of bright blue ocean with the thinnest strip of sand below. A few white yachts were bobbing up and down with the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves.

  “It is, isn’t it?” The nurse started clearing away the waste. “I never get tired of looking at the view. And what’s more, the hours are good and the pay’s good, too.”

  “Really?” Selena’s ears had picked up automatically. Too bad she wasn’t a nurse. She could do with some money. She picked up the brochure Colt had handed her. “What type of work do you do here?”

  LA was full of clinics. Some specialized in liposuction or boob jobs. Some in face lifts. Some in Botox. There had been a few clinics along the Pacific Highway, the first couple she’d dismissed as looking a bit rundown. This one had just oozed class. More importantly, her ice had melted and her head was still swelling—she had to find somewhere, fast.

  The brochure was as she’d expected. All glossy, with lots of shiny, happy people plastered across the pages—one of whom was Colt Travers, looking particularly sexy in a pair of scrubs.

  “I think the question is, what do you want? We do everything here.”

  Something looked familiar. Seacliffe Cosmetic Surgery—she had heard the name before. Of course. It had hit the headlines last month. Some gossip about celebrities.

  Truth be told, when she’d been driving up the highway she’d passed a few other clinics she hadn’t liked the look of. This one was impressive. Set back from the road with an array of beautiful buildings all looking out over the ocean.

  When she’d entered the pristine reception area she’d almost turned around and ran back out—scared of dripping blood on the cream travertine floor. This area was much more relaxed, with its brighter-colored furnishings and comfortable looking chaise lounges.

  “Can I get you something to eat while you w
ait? Here’s our menu.” The nurse had finished clearing the dressing tray and was heading out the door with it. “If there’s nothing you like, I can send the chef to speak to you.”

  Wow. Selena tried her best not to let her mouth hang open. The menu was as thick as a book; who couldn’t find what they wanted in there? And she was hungry. Her last latte must have been a lifetime ago. Could she even afford one here?

  A world of choices and her mind went blank. Poof.

  The nurse sensed her hesitation. It was almost as if she could read her mind. “It’s all complimentary for patients.”

  Perfect. She said the first thing that came into her head. “Can I have a peanut-butter sandwich and a diet soda?”

  The nurse’s amused expression spread across her face. “I’ve waited ten years to hear someone say those words. Of course you can, honey.”

  She disappeared out of the door.

  Selena felt about five years old. It was what she always ate when she came to see her father. It was automatically the first thing she looked for when she set foot on American soil. Yeah, she could buy peanut butter back home in Scotland, but it didn’t taste the same.

  Two hours later, she was peanut buttered out. She’d had two giant sandwiches and a never-ending supply of diet sodas. Someone had come in and given her a pedicure while she was waiting. They would have given her a massage but didn’t want to change her position while she was waiting to get her head stitched. They really did know how to look after a girl here.

  She’d watched the view. Had a look around the pool and Jacuzzi area. Pressed her nose against the window and looked at the luxury lodges. There was a small restaurant and bar. A range of treatment rooms. It really was the lap of luxury, and she felt like an imposter particularly in her stained shirt.

  Wouldn’t it be perfect if she could just stay here?

  She flicked through a hundred cable channels and closed her eyes for a second when she felt a tap on her shoulder.