Paging Dr. Hot (10 page)

Everything looks cool and inviting as I enter the renowned doctor’s domain. This place is more like a European spa than a cardiologist’s office, I’m thinking, as I take in the dove gray walls and the plush, white leather sofas. Nice…but still a medical office.

I ring the bell beside the closed window of the granite reception counter. Seconds later the glass window slides open and I’m greeted by a young, pretty brunette. Looking at her perfect makeup and perfect French manicure, I can tell her job is more decorative than labored.

“Hi, I’m Francesca Lake, WBCG’s medical correspondent,” I say in my TV reporter voice.

She eyes me in a haughty way. “Do you have an appointment with Dr. Escobar?”

I give her a confident smile. “Not yet.”

“Are you a new patient?” Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down.

I straighten my posture. “Well, not exactly a patient. I was in the area and thought I’d pop in to make an appointment to speak with him.”

From the look on her face I can tell I’ve committed a grave offense. She’s probably thinking
no appointment
? This is not a walk-in beauty shop.

“I’ll see what he has available,” the receptionist says, but from the look on her face it won’t be until next year. While she checks her computer screen for an opening, I overhear one of the nurses say, “Dr. E just called. His car stalled out and he’s waiting for the tow truck.”

“So much for his workout,” another nurse says. “Where is he?”

“Right off Bird Road and Ponce, near the Equinox Gym at Merrick Park,” the other one answers.

That’s all I need to hear. I check my iPhone and then smile at the receptionist, who is not smiling back. “Never mind. I’ll call for the appointment. I just got an emergency text. Gotta go!” I dash out of there before she answers me.

I get back in my car and head down Ponce de Leon Boulevard. Through the windshield, I notice purple clouds closing in on the sun. Looks like we’re in for a downpour. I cruise down Ponce, past depressing Miracle Mile—depressing because it’s the hub of bridal stores. I near Bird Road and see a tall man beside a car on the swale. As I get closer, my heartbeat accelerates when I realize the man is none other than Dr. Escobar standing beside his stalled black Lamborghini convertible.

Dressed in green scrubs, he’s standing with one hip cocked to the side, scowling behind dark green Ray Ban sunglasses as he scans the approaching cars. He looks so intimidating, I’m tempted to pass him by, but he is a doctor in distress and it’s my civic duty to help him. Ha, who am I kidding? This is just the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

I pull my Jetta in right behind his car and my heart starts thudding against my chest.
Calm down
, so what if he looks annoyed? It’s warm and muggy today and he’s probably like most men—obsessed with his wheels.

Okay, deep breath, big smile. Time to work my mojo.

I step out of my car and saunter over, putting a little hip-swaying oomph in my walk. Up close Dr. Escobar is an imposing presence—exotic and sleek like his Lamborghini. His powerful build towers over my five foot four height and he is
muy caliente
. (I didn’t expect any less). I swallow hard against the shakiness in my throat and try not to stare at the tuft of dark hair peeking above the V of his scrub shirt.

“Can I help you?” I ask in an abnormally high voice. “Do you need a ride?”

When Dr. Escobar takes off his sunglasses to peer at me, I’m nearly blindsided by the intensity of his Cuban espresso-colored eyes. His tanned, chiseled face has a stubborn jaw and an equally stubborn cleft in the middle of his chin. He has coarse black hair, close-cropped to tame the wave in it. Whoa, his picture in the newspaper column doesn’t do this Latin hunk justice.

I take a quick glance at his left hand. Dr. Escobar is not only a hunk…he’s single!

His deep-set eyes give my aqua wrap dress a quick once-over and then he turns his attention to my flushed face. “Did the towing company send you?”

No, but I’m here to rescue you just the same, Dr. Dessert.

I clear my throat and pray my voice doesn’t come out squeaky again. “Dr. Escobar, my name is Francesca Lake. I’m the medical reporter for WBCG News.”

He shakes my hand and I am thrilled to have it engulfed in his firm grasp. “What happened to Elise Richards?” His deep voice has a hint of a Cuban accent.

“Elise gave birth to twins.”

“She did? When?” He eyes me with curiosity.

“Uh, recently,” I say, stalling. No sense in divulging more when I’m the one replacing her. “I’m covering for her temporarily,” I explain, hoping that doesn’t lessen his interest in giving me an interview.

He still looks put out at being stranded. “So why are you here?”

Why am I here? Because I’m single and you’re perfect.

Stop thinking nonsense and get on the ball, Frankie, your job requires it.
But who can think of work now? The man is simply divine.

I give him an appreciative glance. “I am a
huge
fan of your column,” I say, feeling like a teenage groupie. “Your work in epidemiology is amazing.” Dr. Escobar’s medical pedigree is awesome. He’s a cardiologist
and
an epidemiologist, which gives him advanced knowledge about the cause and prevention of human disease.
It’s quite a boon for his patients with coronary disease.

“Oh? You’ve read my articles?” He is not smiling—yet—but I detect a certain softening in his demeanor and definite interest.

“Your articles and your book,
Trans Fat—The Heart’s Enemy
. Fascinating,” I say reverently.
And so are you, Dr. Dreamboat.

“Thank you.” Dr. Escobar’s expression brightens and the hard contours of his mouth relax a bit. “Why does epidemiology interest you so much?”

In a rush, I tell him about my mother’s recent heart attack, how I am spearheading the WBCG Heart Miami campaign, and that it would be an extreme honor to interview him on our news show.

When I finish my breathless ranting, I notice he’s staring at me. “When would I be on TV?”

Wow, he gets right to the point. “As soon as you like,” I say right away. “I have control over this campaign. It’s my baby.”

He shifts his stance and takes out a white linen handkerchief to mop the sweat from his face. “Damn, it’s hot out here.”

You’re hot.
“We can wait for the tow truck in my car, if you like,” I offer.

“Good idea.” He nods and I’m happy to see the stiffness is gone from his shoulders as he takes a step forward.

I’m so eager when he agrees that I drop my keys, and when we both lean forward to pick them up, we bump heads hard.

“Sorry.” I sheepishly rub my head. “You okay?” Great, now he knows I am a klutz who spazzes out when I’m nervous.

“I’ll survive,” he says wryly, handing me the keys.

Get a grip now or you’re going to blow your chances with Dr. Escobar.
Clutching my keys, I click the car lock open. When we’re inside, I turn on the ignition and hike up the air conditioning fan to the highest level.

“Now that’s more like it.” His stern mouth relaxes into a stunning, white-toothed smile. I can’t believe my luck. I am sitting in my car with none other than Dr. Alex Escobar.

I nod in agreement. “Thank God for air conditioning. I recently moved down from New York and I’m still getting used to the heat here.”

“I did my residency in New York. It’s a great city.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, amazed that we’re sitting here shooting the breeze.

Dr. Escobar’s attention is diverted by the arrival of a tow truck. “Oh, good, he’s finally here.”

Nooo
, don’t leave, not when we’re getting along so well. “I’ll be happy to give you a ride to your office, if you like,” I offer with a cheery smile, hoping he’ll agree.

He flashes another megawatt smile. “I’ll take you up on that. It’s a short drive from here.”

“I know, I was just there.”
Oops.

“Oh? I’ll let the receptionist know I’m on my way.” He calls his office. “Monique, I’ll be there shortly.”

Dr. Escobar starts speaking to Monique in Spanish and I love the sound of it, so exotic and romantic. I’ve been listening to Spanish CDs in my car ever since I moved down to Miami, trying to learn the pronunciation and not sound like a
gringa
. When she hired me, Antoinette told me to learn it because most of Miami’s social scene is bilingual. Good thing I listened to her. Gazing at Dr. Escobar, I decide my new goal is to be fluent in Spanish. I need to learn everything I can about the Cuban culture too.

We enter the office through a side door and I notice that Dr. Escobar’s staff looks like a model’s runway for clinical attire. They’re all such gorgeous model types, I have to wonder if it’s a pre-requisite for employment in his office.

Dr. Escobar greets them with, “
Hola, chicas.
We’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Come, Frrrancesca.”
Frrrancesca.
I love the way the r’s roll off his tongue as he says my name in his Cuban accent.

He puts a hand on the small of my back as he turns to the receptionist. “Hold my calls, Monique. I’ll let you know when to send in the first patient.”

Monique’s perfect, waxed eyebrows shoot up and I can see she’s less than thrilled to see me again, especially with him.

“Yes, Dr. E,” she replies with an adoring smile.

I smile sweetly at Monique and sail past her, relishing the curious looks from the rest of his staff. Figuring it doesn’t hurt to flirt with him a little, I add some
boom cheeky boom
to my walk before I enter his office. Unfortunately, I end up tripping over a wastebasket beside his desk and collapsing into a chair, my arms and legs akimbo.

Dr. Escobar laughs. “Are you okay? You seem a little jumpy.”

“Maybe a tad. It’s the setting, I have white coat syndrome. I get nervous when I go to the doctor.”

“You do?” He looks surprised.

Okay, that was
way
more information than I needed to divulge about myself. “Pretty lame for a medical reporter,” I admit with a self-deprecating chuckle. “But don’t worry—I’m a seasoned TV interviewer. I won’t let you down.”

He smiles. “I’m sure you won’t.”

What a nice vote of confidence. I look around his office and notice the impressive diplomas and awards. My gaze settles on a mounted photograph of Dr. Escobar flanked by an older woman and two young ones, all of them dark haired, beautiful and glamorous.

“Is that your family?” I ask.

“Yes, my mom and my sisters. We’re pretty close, like most Cuban families.”

“I’m close to my mom too. When she recently had a heart attack, I…”

Dr. Escobar glances at his sporty Rolex. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Francesca, but I only have a moment to chat with you about the interview. There’s a room full of patients waiting to see me.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” Gosh, that was awkward. I wish he hadn’t cut me off like that, but I’m sure his afternoon is jam-packed with patients. “Well, I don’t want to take up your valuable time. Can we set up an appointment to talk about the heart campaign?”

“Sure.”

I decide to go for it. “How about lunch tomorrow? Are you free?” I ask boldly, holding my breath.

“I can probably join you around noon after my rounds at the hospital. But it has to be close by. Where do you want to meet?”

A light bulb goes off in my head. “How about Samantha’s Salads?”

“I have a better idea.” Dr. Escobar grabs the prescription pad from his desk and scribbles something on it. He hands me the prescription sheet.

“We can work on your white coat syndrome,” he says with a wink.

“Okay,” I agree, not knowing what he means, but the way he says it gives me a naughty thrill. I glance down to hide the tell-tale blush on my face. I read the paper and see he’s written, “Ortanique tomorrow night at 8”.

My questioning gaze shoots up to meet his steady one. “Drinks?” I ask, trying to control my excitement.

“And dinner,” he promises, flashing his movie star smile.

I smile back and wrack my brain for the word in Spanish that means delighted. “
Empanada!
” I say triumphantly.

He gives me an indulgent smile. “I’m not sure if they serve
empanadas
,” he replies.

“Huh?” What does he mean by that?

When I get back in my car, I check my pocket Spanish/English dictionary. Oh, no!
Empanada
means “filled pastry” in Spanish. Sigh. I should have said
encantada
which means “delighted”.

How embarrassing
.

Back at the station, Antoinette summons me to her office and it’s all I can do not to cringe at her latest getup. Perched on high-heeled yellow patent leather Mary Janes, she’s wearing a black mini jumper dress with a silky black-and-white-striped blouse with short puffed sleeves and a flouncy yellow bow. I feel as if I’m talking to a bumble bee and wonder if I might have to reach for my EpiPen.

“Dr. Hamme was a hit. Everyone is clamoring to bring him back—especially the women,” Antoinette says.