The Passion of Patrick MacNeill by Virginia Kantra Read Free Book Online

right. Dr. Sinclair…" Reluctantly, she turned to face him. "I'm grateful."
    His voice was earnest, his expression, warm . Kate's cheeks heated with pleasure.
    She looked about seventeen when she blushed, Patrick thought, amused. The sight of the decisive lady doctor pink-cheeked with confusion woke a dormant sense of masculine satisfaction. He was going to have to watch himself. With a little encouragement, he might start grunting and thumping his chest.
    "Especially since Jack isn't really your patient," he added dryly.
    "If he were, I'd still check on him. I just wouldn't have coffee with you."
    Her prim attitude tickled the hell out of him. He couldn't help himself. "No? How about sex?"
    "Mr. MacNeill—"
    "Patrick," he said, mildly sorry about aggravating her after her competent intervention and her kindness to Jack. He must be more tired than he'd thought. He gestured toward the cafeteria line, empty except for the bored-looking server and an intern swaying on her feet. "What'll you have?"
    "Coffee. Black."
    She was still ticked, he realized. Well, no wonder. "Come on," he coaxed. "I owe you. And I appreciate the company. Really. Thanks."
    Her smile flickered. She did have the damnedest smile. It lit her whole face and started a warm glow deep inside him. "You're welcome," she said.
    She accepted a tray and a place in line, bypassing the soggy sandwiches and yogurts on ice to help herself to coffee and a cellophane-wrapped slice of Boston cream pie. His surprise must have shown, because her chin angled up again.
    "I missed dinner," she explained defensively.
    "I'd spring for a hamburger, you know. Even a salad."
    "This is all I want."
    And if she wanted to deprive herself, it was none of his business. Patrick shrugged. "You're the doctor. You do have your four major food groups there." Smiling at her blank look, he pointed to the whipped cream with the cherry on top and the spongy yellow cake. "Dairy. Fruit. Carbohydrates. And Jack's personal favorite, chocolate."
    Her chuckle was warm and surprisingly husky. If a man weren't careful, he could waste a lot of time figuring ways to hear it again.
    "Yes, well, Jack can use the extra calories. Burn survivors typically need to replace a lot of weight. I don't."
    Dropping his selection-chips and an apple—onto her tray, he paid the cashier. "You look fine to me." Very fine. Her blue scrubs and limp white coat didn't completely disguise her curvy shape.
    "I don't need compliments, Mr. MacNeill. I have no illusions about my body type."
    He shook his head over her stubborn denial of her own attractiveness. "You do if you think there's a single thing wrong with it. And call me Patrick."
    "Thank you. You can call me Doctor."
    For a moment, he thought she was serious. Jarred, he set the tray down on an empty table. And then he caught the buried mischief in her eyes, and his own grin surfaced in response.
    "My name's Kate," she said, offering her hand.
    Her clasp was like the rest of her, smooth and strong. Patrick bad a sudden image of those soft, competent hands moving over his body and practically broke a sweat.
    Hell. He needed sleep. He needed his head examined. And since the first was unlikely and he'd always strongly resisted the second, he released her hand quickly and sat.
    "You're working late tonight," he observed. "Are you on call?"
    "No. I like to work at night. It's quiet. I can get a lot done." He surveyed her sitting across the table, small and rounded and brown like a sparrow hawk, with a raptor's keen eye and quick intelligence. She wore no rings. She said she didn't date.
    "Your family doesn't object? Your roommate, maybe?"
    She fluffed at that, but her eyes remained sharp and steady. "Are you asking me if I'm living with someone?"
    "Yeah, I guess I am."
    "I have a cat," she offered, deadpan.
    He laughed.
    Smiling, she elaborated. "Well, I told you I don't have time for a human relationship. Dogs need to be walked, and fish aren't great conversationalists.