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So today, she’d woken up feeling better. Although Ian had tried to make her have oatmeal for breakfast.
What was he trying to do? Kill her?
“What does her sex life have to do with her hip?” Ian interrupted Dr. Evans as he was droning on about her previous and current sexual partners.
She was glad he’d interrupted, because she didn’t know whether to be horrified or amused.
The older doctor started spluttering. “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to be in here, Mr . . .”
“Blackstone. And I’m her bodyguard, so yes, it is.”
“She’s in no danger from me, I can assure you.”
“What if I’m one of her current sexual partners?” Ian asked. “Do you have some questions to ask me about STDs and birth control and whether I’m active with more than one person?”
“You’re not, are you?” she asked.
Then she smacked her hand against her forehead. God. Why did she ask that? What is wrong with her?
“No, Little Misfit. I’m not. And don’t hurt yourself.”
“You hurt yourself? How?” Doctor Evans asked.
“I don’t hurt myself.”
Liar.
She hadn’t pulled her hair in a day or two so maybe she was getting better.
“I’m confused,” he said. “Did you give yourself this current injury?”
“Are you for real right now?” Ian snapped.
Uh-oh.
Red alert.
“I got this injury five years ago in a car accident when I shattered my hip,” she told him coolly. “Sometimes it flares up and gives me problems when I walk on it too much or get really stressed and don’t take care of myself.”
“Right . . . right . . . well, I will examine it.”
She put up with his clammy gross fingers on her. He didn’t say much, at least. But he definitely gave her the creeps.
Maggie really wished Jameson was still her doctor. After an x-ray and ultrasound, she was feeling exhausted as she was wheeled toward another room by an orderly. Both Doctor Evans and Ian had insisted on the wheelchair. She got the feeling that if Ian hadn’t been on bodyguard duty, he would have carried her.
She wanted to go home and check on Uncle Willy. Jack had been sending updates to Ian. Apparently, they’d played a game of gin rummy, watched a dreadful reality TV show about hoarders, and now he was having a nap.
She was worried that they weren’t going to get the photos they needed done, even though Ian had reassured her that the princes and Pippa weren’t upset, she couldn’t help but worry.
“All right, we’re going to do an MRI now,” Doctor Evans said.
Panic gripped her.
“Nope. No, we’re not,” she said hastily, grabbing hold of the chair’s wheels as the orderly started pushing her into the room. “Back it up, buddy.”
Doctor Evans frowned down at her. “We need an MRI. If you’re worried about the cost, your insurance will cover it, I’m sure.”
“No. Nope. It doesn’t cover it. So I can’t have it. Let’s go, buddy!”
