CHAPTER 1
CARMEN
It took only one day for my dream job to turn into a nightmare. Actually, that’s being generous. In reality, it took one fifteen-minute meeting with the hospital president to throw years of studying, planning and dreaming straight out the window into the blistering South Florida sunshine.
Nowhere in the elaborate job description I was given at my interview to be Miami-Dade General Hospital’s assistant director of public relations did the word babysitter appear. Let’s face it, if I’d known what they really wanted me to do, I wouldn’t be wilting in the scorching early-morning heat waiting for Dr. Jason Northrup to arrive for his first day.
“Anything he wants or needs, get it for him,” Mr. Augustino instructed. “Just keep him away from the executive offices.”
“But today’s my first day, too. Wouldn’t it be better to have someone who knows the facility meet and escort him?”
“I want you to do it,” he said, leaving no room for further argument.
“Should I bring him up here to speak with you?”
“I’m with the board of directors all day. Don’t bring him anywhere near the conference room.”
Something stinks to high heaven about this whole thing. Why isn’t the hospital rolling out the red carpet to welcome Dr. Northrup? Mr. Augustino referred to Northrup as a world-class, board-certified pediatric neurosurgeon. If he doesn’t warrant the red carpet, who does? Most puzzling of all is why Mr. Augustino would let the newest person on his staff handle such an important task and not want to be there himself.
My boss’s late directive gave me no time to research my first “assignment,” which has me unprepared and out of sorts as I wait for him. Mr. Augustino gave me a photo of a sinfully handsome man with dirty-blond hair, golden-brown eyes and the perfect amount of scruff on his chiseled jaw. I can only imagine Northrup’s type: privileged, pampered and pardoned for his sins. Now it’s my job to kiss up to him and make him feel “welcome.”
After years of waitressing and taking care of actual children to put myself through college and graduate school, being told to babysit him infuriates me. All the carefully cultivated marketing and publicity plans I put together in anticipation of wowing the bosses on my first day are still stashed inside the leather-bound portfolio I clutch to my chest, useless in light of the task I’ve been given for the day as I roast in dense late-June humidity.
One thing I’ll say for Miami-Dade General Hospital is the grounds are gorgeous, with lush landscaping, colorful flower beds and grass kept green in the summer heat thanks to artfully hidden sprinklers.
Naturally, the good doctor is late, which gives me far too much time to consider my limited options as I try not to completely wilt in heat that makes my armpits feel swampy and has my ruthlessly straightened hair starting to curl. I could go to HR and tell them the position isn’t a good fit after all. With less than a day on the job, it won’t show up on my permanent record, especially since I only just completed the paperwork needed to enroll in the hospital’s payroll system and health insurance program. I could still put a stop to it.
But then I recall how proud my parents and grandmothers were when I landed my first big job following years of school. After moving back home when Tony died, I’m finally on my own again in a new apartment I recently rented near the hospital in Kendall. And there’s the wardrobe of power suits I purchased on credit so I could present a professional appearance at work. Paying for all of that is dependent upon my new cushy salary, which will be lost if I quit.
Quitting isn’t an option.
Not when I haven’t even given the job a chance. Besides, I’m not a quitter. My beloved Abuela would be so disappointed. She and my equally beloved Nona were happier about me landing this job than I was. Not to mention my top goal has always been to make Tony proud of me. I’m convinced he’s close to me, and I want him to see me surviving and thriving, not walking away from a challenge the first time it gets tough. I can’t disappoint everyone in my life by walking away from this opportunity. I’ve restored a bit of steel to my spine by the time the roar of a sports car draws my attention to the hospital’s long driveway.
I watch in disbelief as a sleek black convertible Porsche growls its way up the half-circle drive with Northrup at the wheel and a bottle blonde in a sexy red dress riding shotgun.
“What a cliché,” I mutter as he brings the low-slung black car to a halt two feet from where I stand ready to “welcome” him.
He alights from the car with catlike grace, tall, muscular and even handsomer than his photo—of course. As he comes toward me, he flashes a cocky smile, and damn if every cell in my body doesn’t stand up and sing “Hallelujah” in a loud chorus of tightening nipples and dampening panties, which infuriates me.
I don’t want any part of me reacting to any part of him, but I’d have to be dead not to notice this man. And while I might’ve been mostly numb for the last five years, Dr. Northrup is living proof that I’m still very much a living, breathing woman who recognizes a hot man when she sees one.
He props Wayfarer sunglasses on hair that’s messy from the convertible. On him, messy is sexy. His golden eyes sparkle, his smile is straight out of a toothpaste commercial and his body . . . Wow. He must’ve spent as many hours in the gym as he logged in medical school.
I realize I’m staring but can’t seem to bring myself to blink. Have I ever seen a more perfectly beautiful man in my entire life? The thought makes me feel disrespectful to the memory of the only man I’ve ever loved and snaps me out of the stupor I slipped into at the sight of Northrup.
I clear my throat and clutch the portfolio more tightly to my chest, desperate to hide any evidence of my ridiculous reaction to him. “Dr. Northrup?”
“That’d be me. And you are?”
“Carmen.” I extend a hand that I pray isn’t sweaty. “Carmen Giordino, assistant director of public relations. Welcome to Miami-Dade General Hospital.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Giordino.” Somehow he makes the act of taking my hand, squeezing it lightly and releasing it into an erotic sex act that once again steals the breath from my lungs and the starch from my spine.
I hate him for making me react to him the way every other woman with a pulse has probably responded to him since puberty. I hate him even more when I discover he’s pressed a fifty-dollar bill into my hand. I’m about to ask him what it’s for when he fills in the blanks for me.
“Do me a favor, and please take Betty to the cafeteria, buy her some breakfast and send her off in a cab,” he says in a low tone that only I can hear.
“But—”
“Did someone ask you to meet me and see to my needs?”
The way he says the word needs has me imagining him sweaty, naked and at my disposal, which infuriates me. I’m not sure who I’m more pissed with—him or myself. I feel my face go hot, and when I open my mouth to respond to his outrageous request, nothing comes out.
“What I need is for you to take care of her.” He gives me an imploring look, and it’s all I can do not to swoon. “Okay?”
It’s insulting enough to be asked to babysit a neurosurgeon, but being asked to babysit his bimbo one-night stand is another story altogether. “I’m sorry, but I’m not willing—”