hips.
Her heroes wouldn't do that! Oh, yes, they would, she amended to herself. Most of them were arrogant, conceited, masterful, out and out rakes, she supposed.
Well, this wasn't the eighteenth century!
His mouth suddenly gentled, and for an instant, but just an instant, she responded.
"You're such a sweet little thing," he said against her lips, and pulled her closer.
"Sweet little what?" Dear heavens, was that sterling bit of endearment his introduction to bed?
David raised his head, feeling a bit dazed. She squirmed away from him, and he reluctantly dropped his hands from her very nice bottom.
"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I guess I got a bit carried away."
"Do all preppie doctors from Boston act like they're God's gift to women?"
David's wits returned with some rapidity. He stared down at her. She was sounding like the woman he'd first met. He felt frustrated and a bit angry. "I don't think I'm mistaken, Miss Lattimer. You rather liked what I was doing until—" He broke off in amazement. "You're a tease," he said. "A damned tease. You led me on—"
"I'm not a tease! You're a conceited idiot. If you will remember, Dr. Winter, I didn't know you existed before five hours ago! Well, maybe it was six hours. And just because I was nice to you and listened to your stupid jokes, you believe I want to hop in the sack!"
"What I think is that you're weird," David gritted between clenched teeth. "I would think by the time a woman reached your age, she was through with game playing."
Had Chelsea been sitting in front of her computer, her fingers would have been drumming a wild tattoo on the keys. "You might look like a hero," she said, "but your character leaves a great deal to be desired. Now why don't you go to your precious hospital and fondle a patient!"
"Fondle a patient! Of all the ridiculous—"
"Good night, Dr. Winter." She slammed her key into the lock and was thankful when it turned on the first try. "Don't forget to fasten your seat belt!"
David stared a moment at the slammed door. Damn you, Elliot, he thought. How could you set me up with a nut case? And a probable schizophrenic. From obnoxious to fluff-head to tease.
"He's a no-conversation lecher!"
George looked thoughtfully at Chelsea, who was pacing ferociously about the Mallorys' living room the following Tuesday afternoon.
"I think David is rather amusing," George said. "Lord knows he's very nice to look at."
"What do you know about it?" Chelsea said in a nasty voice. "The only person you hear or see is your damned husband. How could you set me up with that—"
"That what, Chels? Talk about changing your stripes! You made the man feel like he was the most marvelous male specimen in the universe. What did you expect him to do? Kiss your hand at the front door and sweep you a courtly bow?"
Chelsea groused under her breath, finally admitting, "Well, maybe I did go just a bit overboard with the fluffy, air-head feminine act, but—"
"But what? I think you're being unfair. David may be just a bit reserved, but according to Elliot, he's an excellent doctor, has a good sense of humor and deals well with the emergency room staff, which I imagine, can't be a barrel of roses."
"Apples," Chelsea said. "Bed of roses. He called me a tease, the jerk!"
"He's a good kisser, huh?"
"I didn't hang around long enough to really check him out. Well, maybe just a little bit, to punish him for being such a nerd." That really hadn't been the case at all, but Chelsea wasn't about to change now. She was on a roll.
George burst into laughter. "Oh, Chels, I wish you could hear yourself! It's too much! Please, get yourself a glass of white wine. I can't bear all this useless energy."
Two glasses of white wine later, Chelsea was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, looking thoughtfully at George. "You really think he deserves another chance?"
"I most certainly do," George said. "Why don't we try again, say this Friday night? And, Chels, why don't you