Page 2 of One Reckless Night

“I know.”

He shook his head and leaned on the table before switching topics. “I heard you have a new researcher joining the lab in Key West.”

“You heard right.”

Welch Labs was the research lab at my Key West compound, but not where I spent the majority of my time. Other people did research. I cut. We all had a calling and mine was holding a scalpel. Technically, microsurgical knives or a bovie, which used electricity to cauterize tissue—but that sounded slightly less impressive since no one knew what that was.

“Dr. Pritchard,” he said.

“What?”

“It would be nice if you stopped by and introduced yourself. Dr. Pritchard is the new doctor at the lab.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll send some food delivery vouchers. Researchers are your thing, not mine. I’ll stick to the fun stuff—scalpels, blood, all that good stuff.”

Shawn opened his mouth to argue, but before he could say anything, someone called his name from across the room. He glanced over and sighed. “Duty calls. Try not to piss anyone off while I’m gone, okay? If you’re murdered, a lot of people will be out of a job. And I’m pretty sure I’d be the only guy at your funeral.”

“In that case, it’s worth noting I don’t want a funeral,” I said. “Cremate me and throw my ashes in the faces of my enemies.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “You’re wound more tightly than usual. Maybe find joy in something other than work and you won’t be such a prickly bastard.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being focused on saving lives,” I said, shrugging. “I’m not about to start building model planes or bird watching.”

He laughed. “I meant you should find a girl to thaw that ice cold heart of yours, you cyborg.”

“I get laid plenty,” I said, glowering at him.

“That’s not what I was talking about, but maybe you’re a lost cause.” Shawn shook his head and walked away toward some people we did business with.

I frowned at his back. People said I was too blunt, but Shawn wasn’t pulling any punches with me, either. I appreciated his honesty, even though he was dead wrong about what I needed in my life. Things were just fine, thank you very much.

I finished my drink and decided to wander, not in the mood to be dragged into whatever conversation Shawn was about to have. The crowd parted as I moved through it, some people stepping aside out of respect, but most out of sheer annoyance—or worse.

Neurosurgery wasn’t my only skill. I could read people, and I picked up on the disgust and disdain people felt when I passed them. I’d been called every name in the book by some of the people in this room. Asshole, bastard, clown, poser, jackass, prick—and those were the least creative. But I’d also been called other names from the family members of my patients: savior, blessing, gift, answered prayer, genius, miracle worker. In the end, it more than balanced out, and only half of those opinions meant shit to me.

I found myself at the bar again, this time next to a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting. She was wearing some killer heels that made her legs flex in ways that caught my eye. Her curves could make a grown man weep, and her dress hugged every inch of her like it had been painted on. Her hair was a cascade of dark waves, and when she turned to order a glass of red wine, I caught the hint of a British accent.

Well, well. This just got interesting.

I watched her, studying her profile like she was a specimen that crawled out of the depths of the ocean. Her full breasts bubbled up over the top of her dress in the sexiest way imaginable. Every move she made sent them quivering gently, tantalizing me with visuals of what it might feel like to press my face between them.

Soft and supple, femininity like hers was the ultimate form of power, and she exuded it effortlessly. But it wasn’t just her body that caught my attention—it was the way she held herself. There was a confidence there, a quiet strength that made her all the more intriguing. Perhaps it was her proud and unabashed posture, or the way she held her shoulders back and her chin up. Perhaps it was the bold red lip, the unmanicured nails, or⁠—

She turned slightly, her hazel eyes flicking in my direction, and for a brief moment, our gazes locked. I didn’t look away. I never did. It was almost a challenge, one that she seemed to accept as she raised an eyebrow at me, her lips pressing into a soft line.

“Do you always stare like that, or am I just special?” she asked, her voice smooth and laced with that British accent that made her words sound like a dare.

“Depends on what you mean by special.” I leaned casually against the bar, my drink in hand. “If you’re asking if I make a habit of staring at beautiful women, then yes.”

She rolled her eyes.

I leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral with a hint of spice. “You’re a long way from home,” I said, my voice low and teasing. “What brings you to this side of the pond?”

She turned to look at me, but not like other women looked at me. Her look was more clinical. For a moment, I thought she might actually smile, but she turned back to the bartender. “Just here for the wine,” she said, her tone dismissive. “After all the… colorful things you said up there, I’m surprised you went with the most vanilla and outdated pick-up line out there.”

I wasn’t used to being brushed off. It only made me more determined. “Come on,” I said, flashing her my most charming smile. “You’re telling me you flew all the way across the Atlantic just for a glass of wine? I don’t buy it.”

“Then don’t.” She shrugged.