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Some Men's Dreams

Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

Chapter One

Literally.

Dr. John Parker O'Neill, the handsome new wunderkind of medicine, who until very recently had made his name in Boston by effecting near-miraculous saves of desperately ill children, had this day decided to introduce himself to Chicago's Memorial Medical Center by pitching for the attending-physicians team that always challenged the residents on the field of battle the Saturday after Memorial Day.

He had, so far, pitched as near-perfect a game as anybody would have expected him to. By the time Gen showed up - late, because of a surprise admission she'd had to finish - he'd helped the attendings trounce the hapless residents by a score of fifteen to one. The residents promptly sent Gen in to pinch hit for their own sadly overmatched pitcher.

For Dr. O'Neill's part, he still looked unwrinkled and unflustered, standing out on the pitcher's mound in perfectly pressed khaki shorts and a peach Izod shirt, his hawk-like features tanned and smiling, his gray-fingered black hair tousled just slightly in the humid breeze of an early Chicago summer afternoon.

Gen, on the other hand, looked as if she'd just pulled a thirty-six-hour shift, which, in fact, she had. Stretching the kinks from a sleep-deprived body still encased in wrinkled, Snoopydecorated scrubs, she tossed her thick chestnut braid over her shoulder and choked up on the softball bat.

"Come on, weenie pitcher!" she taunted, much to everyone's surprise. "See if you can reach the plate!"

Dr. O'Neill's smile, a thing of controlled beauty, widened a notch. He tossed the thick, scuffed ball a couple of times into his oiled and gleaming glove, and eyed his prey as if she were an amusing child.

His first pitch was wide. Gen waited until the ball safely thunked into the glove behind her to give her bat a few more practice swings.

"Big-time doctor can't even find the strike zone," she taunted, which drew howls of outrage from the infielders and another enigmatic smile from her foe.

His next pitch was as sweet a strike as is allowed in slow-pitch softball. Gen watched it arc into the afternoon sun and smiled with delight. She was winding up even before the ball reached its apex. Feet planted, left shoulder slightly forward, whole body tensed for contact. The ball dropped toward her, and she slammed into it as if it were the head of the last surgeon who had called her an idiot.

The crack of a solid hit could be heard into the next diamond. The ball shot straight back the way it had come. Gen never even got the chance to drop her bat or turn toward first base. She recognized imminent disaster before anyone else.

Even Dr. O'Neill.

"Oh, no," was all Gen got to say before the ball, with unerring accuracy, slammed into Dr. O'Neill's forehead and dropped him like a rock.

For a second there was dead silence on the field. Then mayhem. By the time everybody else had dropped gloves, balls, bats, toddlers and girlfriends, Gen was already on her knees in the dust alongside the supine physician.

"Oh, God, I've killed my chief of staff," she moaned, feeling for a pulse, praying for respiration. "And I haven't even been introduced."

He was ashen-colored and stone silent. He was, however, breathing. Gen could feel the flutter of air against her forearm as she reached to discover a heartily reassuring carotid pulse. His heart and lungs were working. Now they could only hope his brain was, too.

Gen barely noticed the people already jostling for position around her. She didn't pay attention to the forest of cell phones raised in an effort to call 911. She didn't attend to the babel of conflicting orders from the chief of every service except the two she needed most, trauma and neurosurgery.

"Pardon the cliché," she said, already having been stepped on twice and losing enough light to keep her from checking Dr. O'Neill's pupils. "But could you guys all move back enough to give the man some damn air?"

There was a rustle, another stunned silence and a small "Oh."

But a space cleared.

"Paramedics are on their way," somebody said. "Don't move him."

No kidding, Gen thought to herself. I bet that guy's a doctor.

"I just put him here," she snapped, even though she knew better. "I'm not going to move him now."

Somebody giggled, a high, scared sound. Gen thought she was going to throw up. Instead, she checked Dr. O'Neill's pupils. Equal, round, reactive to light. Another good sign. His irises were blue-green, as translucent as the Caribbean on a summer morning. The kind of irises that would look just great smiling over wine and flowers.

What a waste.

Now Gen wanted to giggle. This was just so absurd.

"What a perfect end to a perfect day," she said with a sad shake of her head. "This should have been Lee."

"I couldn't agree more," her patient muttered without opening his eyes. "And who is Lee that you would have preferred knocking him into the next time-and-space continuum instead of me?"

Gen's laughter was adrenaline fueled and breathy. "No. I didn't want to hurt Lee.... I mean, I didn't want to hurt you, either."

"Something for which I should probably be profoundly grateful, I'm sure."

Another laugh, all around this time, as others realized that the man on the ground was not only alive but coherent.

"No," Gen continued. "Lee's my sister. It's just that she's the one who's usually in the middle of disaster. I'm the one who usually cleans up the mess."

One eye opened, a bit murky and pain clouded, but deadly gorgeous beneath layers of long black lashes. "So now I'm a mess."

Gen couldn't help but smile. "I know it's going to cost me to say this, but yeah. I'm afraid so."

The eye closed, and the doctor sighed. "I'm going to look like a raccoon tomorrow, aren't I?"

"Actually," Gen countered with a slight scowl, "I'd give it about another hour or so."

"I'd heard you people play softball for keeps in Chicago. I should have listened."

"We just wanted to get your attention."

One eye opened with baleful light, and Gen grinned.

"A memo would have sufficed," he informed her dryly.

Gen couldn't help it. All her panic was fueling her anxiety-driven humor. When other people had panic attacks, they hyperventilated. Gen cracked jokes. "You could have thrown a memo away."

"I'll certainly remember not to throw away one of yours."

Out on the street, a siren could be heard approaching.

"That for me?" her patient-cum-boss asked.

"I hope so."

His frown deepened. "I'm sure you'll understand when I say I really wish it weren't."

Gen patted at his shoulder, as if that could make up for what she'd done. "You probably shouldn't argue about it."

His grin was weak at best. "No, I don't think I will. I still feel as if my head is disconnected. And if I'm not mistaken, lunch should be making a return appearance anytime now."

Gen flushed with new fear. She'd concentrated on the head part and forgotten the rest. "Can you, uh ..."

Both eyes opened this time, smiling. "Yes, young doctor. I can move all my very stunned limbs. No tingling in hands or feet. I can remember who I am, where I am and why, unfortunately, I was here in the first place. What I don't know is, who are you? Or did those weaselly losers throw in a ringer? That was a hell of a hit."

Gen offered another smile, this one not in the least bashful. "Yes, it was, wasn't it? Wyoming allstate pitcher and clean-up hitter two years in a row, thank you."

The siren stopped, no more than feet away. Gen could hear people melting away from the edge of the crowd to guide the paramedics in. Probably going to drown them in an avalanche of advice and orders, too, she thought. She stayed where she was.

"Which makes you now ...?" Dr. O'Neill was asking her.

Gen flinched. "Your rotating fellow. Genevieve Kendall."

It was O'Neill's turn to flinch. "You do know how to introduce yourself, Doctor."

"I meant it," she apologized. "This usually doesn't happen to me. It's usually my -"

"Sister. I know."

The crowd was parting like the Red Sea, which meant the paramedics were there. Gen prepared to give up her spot so her new boss could get off the hot, dusty field.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Some Men's Dreams by Kathleen Korbel Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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