M.D. Most Wanted

She shook her head and instantly regretted it. “From being London Merriweather, Ambassador Mason Merriweather’s wild daughter.” That was how her father thought of her, she knew. And how the headlines had once viewed her.

She didn’t seem so wild right now, Reese thought. She looked almost frail and vulnerable, although he had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate that observation. “Simpler ways of doing that.”

The streak of rebellion that had become her constant companion since the day she lost her mother raised its head at his words. “Such as?”

Seemed obvious to him. “Such as you could do away with the wild part.”

Everyone seemed to have an opinion on how she was to live her life. “Will this lecture be itemized on the hospital bill, or does it fall under miscellaneous?”

He had better things to do than spar verbally with a spoiled brat who happened to be very, very lucky as well as extremely gorgeous.

“It falls under common sense.” Reese turned and once again began to walk away. “You might think about getting some.”

“I don’t like people who insult me,” she called after him.

He stopped by the door. “And I don’t like people who are careless with their lives. Especially when they have everything to live for.”

Where did he get off, saying things like that to her? He knew nothing about the pain in her life. Nothing about the emptiness. “How would you know that?”

Reese didn’t know why he was bothering. Except that she was his patient and she was in pain. Pain that went deeper than the lacerations and bruising she had sustained in the crash.

“Because most people have everything to live for, Ms. Merriweather. The alternative is rather bleak and, to my knowledge, completely nonreversible.”

With that he left the room.

Chapter 4

He’d almost lost her.

For a long moment, his soul troubled, he stared at the mural that dominated one wall of the small studio apartment where he lived. The mural was comprised of all manner of photographs in all sizes, both black-and-white and color. There were newspaper clippings, as well, though those were few.

His eyes lovingly caressed the face he saw before him. The photographs were all of the same woman.

London Merriweather.

London, the daughter of the ambassador to Spain. The daughter of the former ambassador to England. It was there that she was born twenty-three years ago.

Returning to the task that he had begun, he shook his head in mute sympathy as he cut out the latest clipping from the Times. It was a relatively small article describing the accident that had almost taken her out of his world. He had larger articles, and better pictures, but he kept everything, every scrap, every word, every photo. They were all precious.

Because they were all of her.

What kind of father names his daughter after a place he’s living in? he wondered not for the first time. After something that was associated with his line of work? Where was the love there?

It was simple. There wasn’t any.

Her father couldn’t love her the way he could. The way he did.

No one could.

He tossed aside the newspaper, smoothing out the clipping he’d just liberated from the rest of the page.

Very carefully he taped the clipping with its accompanying photograph in one of the last free spaces on the wall.

The mural was getting larger. It was taking over the entire wall.

Just like his feelings for London were taking over everything in his life. His feelings were evident in every breath he took, every thought he had. They all revolved around London, around his possessing her.

Loving her.

She was going to be his.

Some way, somehow, she was going to be his. He knew it, sensed it, felt it in his very bones.

He just had to be patient, that was all. Once she realized, once she saw how much he loved her, how he could make her happy, she would be his. And everything would be all right again.

He sat down in his easy chair and felt her image looking at him from all angles, all sides. He returned her smile, content.

Waiting.

The feeling of oppression hit Reese the moment he stepped off the elevator onto the top floor of the hospital tower.

He was already annoyed. He didn’t get that way often, but having his professional authority circumvented was one of the few things that was guaranteed to set him off. His orders had been countermanded by the hospital chief administrator, Seymour Jenkins, because Mason Merriweather had come in and demanded that his daughter be taken out of the ICU and placed in the tower suite that the head of London’s bodyguard detail had already reserved for her.

Granted, the woman was getting better and he was about to order the transfer of rooms himself, but he didn’t appreciate being second-guessed, or more to the point, ignored, because a VIP was on the scene making demands.

Seymour Jenkins didn’t ordinarily interfere in any of his doctors’ cases, which was what made this such a complete surprise.

He’d looked infinitely uncomfortable when Reese had burst into his office after having gone to the ICU and found London’s bed vacant.

“I would have understood if you’d needed the bed,” he’d told Jenkins. “But it was empty. Why the hell did you move my patient without first checking with me?”

A dab of perspiration had formed on Seymour’s upper lip. He’d run his hand nervously through the thin strands of his remaining hair. “The ambassador got on the phone himself—”

Reese watched the man’s Adam’s apple travel up and down his throat like a loose Wiffle ball.

“And what? He threatened to huff and puff and blow the hospital down if you didn’t instantly obey him and put her in the tower suite?”

Jenkins rose from his desk and crossed to Reese in an effort to placate him. He was more than a foot shorter than the surgeon. “Please, be reasonable. Look at it from my point of view. Ambassador Merriweather is an influential man, he has connections, and we’re a nonprofit organization—”

Why did things always have to come down to a matter of money rather than ethics and care?

Thinking better of approaching him, Jenkins decided to keep a desk between them. “I’ve never seen you like this,” the man protested nervously.

Even though not completely seasoned, Reese Bendenetti was still one of the finest surgeons on the staff at Blair Memorial, which was saying a great deal. The ninety-year-old hospital, which had recently undergone a name change from Harris Memorial because of the generous endowment from the late Constance Blair, prided itself on getting the best of the very best. The last thing Jenkins wanted to do, for the sake of the hospital’s reputation as well as for practical reasons, was to alienate the young physician. But neither did he want to throw a wrench into possible future contributions from the ambassador and any of his influential friends.

“There’s a reason for that. I’ve never been completely ignored before.” Reese leaned over the desk, bringing his face closer to the other man’s. “She’s my patient, Jenkins.”

The man drew himself up, finding a backbone at last, albeit a small one.