Surgeons, Rivals...Lovers
In bed with her rival… When Dr. Kimberlyn Davis finds herself in the midst of an accident site, it's not just the thrill of saving a life that crackles in the air…it's working with the irresistible Dr. Enzo DellaToro!But when Enzo is revealed as her competitor for the surgical fellowship she's always dreamed of, Kimberlyn is determined to ignore their sizzling chemistry. Yet as tensions rise and Enzo throws down the gauntlet, can she resist the temptation of her rival's sinful kiss?
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For the last two books Iâve written Iâve had the good fortune of working with other talented authors to build a more complex world than you can normally cram into a short category-length book, and I have to say itâs positively addictive. Not just the group brainstormingâwhich is terribly funâbut even better the knowing that I can send a half-coherent email in the middle of the night to double-check something without worrying the recipient will think me crazy.
Before this year I would never have guessed how much fun it would be to drag other authorâs characters into my book, and I must say I might have been spoiled by the experienceâ¦
I hope you enjoy Enzo and Kimberlynâs story, and I hope you will grab the other three in the New York City Docs quartet and follow the rest of the brownstone gang through their last year of surgical residency.
Wishing you health, love and happiness
Amalie
Thereâs never been a day when there havenât been stories in AMALIE BERLINâs head. When she was a child they were called daydreams, and she was supposed to stop having them and pay attention. Now when someone interrupts her daydreams to ask, âWhat are you doing?â she delights in answering, âIâm working!â
Amalie lives in Southern Ohio with her family and a passel of critters. When not working she reads, watches movies, geeks out over documentaries and randomly decides to learn antiquated skills. In case of zombie apocalypse sheâll still have bread, lacy underthings, granulated sugar, and always something new to read.
To my real Cousin Karen:
1. Sorry about the spelling changeâ¦
2. Thank you for all your support and enthusiasm for my books!
3. Childhood would not have been the same without you in it. Xoxo, Duh
Table of Contents
THE SOUND OF screeching tires stabbed Dr. Kimberlyn Davisâs ear. One by one every one of her major muscle groups seized, stopping her cold on the Manhattan sidewalk, tensed for impact. One burst of sound, then another and anotherârubber on asphalt, metal on metalâher every heartbeat shuddering in time with each bone-rattling sound.
Teeth gritted, she twisted toward the street in time to see a body arcing through the air, arms and legs flailing for purchase in the already warm morning sun. A man. A motorcyclist. He tumbled, rolled and came down chest first on the grilleâs edge of a still-moving black SUV. The second impact tossed him backâa human pinball thrown and battered far more than flesh and bones could stand.
Her clamped jaw held back sounds she couldnât control enough to stop, a whimper that burned like a roarâsearing her throat and blazing a trail down her chest to the still-bothersome scar that would forever mar her cleavage.
She shouldâve run when sheâd heard the first sound of squealing tires. Away from the danger. But she had taken an oath.
Before the cascade of car horns died off, before the vehicle heâd flown into had even managed to stop moving, Kimberlyn forced herself to start. One stiff step, then another, each step loosening her muscles and allowing the next to come easier, faster. Off the curb. Onto the street. Within three paces she was running.
Moving cleared her mind. One act of willful defiance in the face of her fear, her memories, let the next one came easier.
âSomeone call 911!â she shouted over her shoulder.
Please, donât be dead.
She kept her gaze before her long enough to plot a course, then through the windows of every car she passed en route to the man.
Sheâs okay.
Theyâre okay.
Awake with head laceration.
Okay.
Okay.
Of course this was how her first week in New York should start.
By the time she reached the motorcyclist he was wholly beneath the SUV and several feet from where heâd landed. Dragged by the front bumper. The driver looked stunned through the shattered glass. He had a gash on his chin and another smaller cut above his left eye, but he was awake, movingâ¦
Over the past year sheâd gone from running from accidents to running toward themâbut it always felt wrong. Even the times sheâd come on the scene after the carnage had been wrought, her very soul had vibrated with the wrongness of it.
Wrongful death. All her fault.
From the first wreck sheâd passed on the highway after her accidentâwhen sheâd been three months post-op, still in a cast, and on the way to yet another session with her physical therapistâsheâd forced her mother to stop the car so she could get out and help. And she hadnât stopped since that accident. Couldnât stop.
Only the top of her current patientâs helmet showed his location under the SUV and the only thing she could feel at all good about was the lack of engine noises. It must have shut off during impact.
