Paging Dr. Hot (3 page)

“Elise was supposed to tape an interview today with Dr. Devon Hamme, the Australian celebrity sex therapist who wrote
Orgasmic Secrets Revealed
. I want you to do the segment.” Her shrewd eyes pin me with a look that says
you better do a good job
.

“You want me to interview him today?” I gulp at the short notice.

“Yes, today,” she confirms as if I’m dense. “And starting tomorrow, you take over Elise’s medical beat.”

I am stunned by her statement—more like appalled. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I’d be a medical reporter. I don’t want to be one. Not me, no thanks. I am not your typical hypochondriac who loves to research every medical detail and obsess about it. I’d rather not hear or read about illnesses at all because then I begin to worry I might have them.

Antoinette continues, oblivious of my growing despair at her decree. “We’ve gotten great feedback from your WBCG Heart Miami spots. The testimonials from women who’ve had heart attacks and survived are very popular.”

“Really? I’m thrilled to hear it’s a success.” Wow, this from the boss who never has a kind word—
ever
.

She gives a brisk nod. “We’ve had many calls and emails asking about Bowled Over. Looks like your bowling for heart health event will be a success. Good job.”

I can’t believe my ears, she’s actually giving me validation. “Thanks! All the time spent on this campaign will be worth it if we reach many women and make them heart healthy.”

“Yeah, uh huh.” She doesn’t sound like she’s interested in the health benefits, but then, Antoinette is a numbers cruncher—of viewers. “So it’s perfect timing for you to fill in for Elise.”

“But Elise was going to conduct the interviews. I’m the organizer. She has the medical background, so naturally she’s the best interviewer.”

“Not anymore. Elise’s replacement wasn’t scheduled for another month. Now that she’s on maternity leave, you are up front and center as our medical reporter until she comes back.” Elise’s maternity leave is for two months! Antoinette’s square-shouldered posture dares me to defy her. Man, for someone so petite, she can be pretty imposing.

My inner voice warns me I could lose my job. “Um…okay…but can I keep my job covering the social scene?” I ask after a moment of hesitation.

Her piercing eyes bore holes into mine. Today she’s sporting turquoise colored contacts—last month they were emerald green.

“Think you can handle both?” she challenges in a sharp tone.

Time to suck it up and summon my old motto, “
Fear is not an option
.”

“Absolutely!” I say with all the fake enthusiasm I can muster. I love and value my job too much to give it up—that’s why I tolerate Antoinette’s rudeness. I also need it to pay my bills…and care for my little Romeo.

Antoinette’s iPhone rings and she answers it with a coy, “Hi, Daddy, are we still on for tonight?” She covers the mouthpiece and mouths to me. “That’s all.”

She hands me
Orgasmic Secrets Revealed
and shoos me out of her office. I linger for a moment watching Antoinette transform from a shrill tyrant to a flirtatious girl. Her head is cocked to one side and she’s cooing to her sugar daddy husband, who is twenty years older than she and worth his weight in millions.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, bad boy,” the newlywed Antoinette gushes as she leans way back in her chair and props her red patent leather peep toe shoes on her desk. She twirls her long platinum blond hair and bats her false lashes beneath thick bangs. It’s surreal how much she looks like an aging Alice in Wonderland who has had too much cosmetic work.

When she realizes I haven’t budged, she murmurs into the phone, “Hold on a minute, Daddy.”

Giving me a hard, brittle look, she’s all business again as she covers the mouthpiece and barks at me, “Better hone up on your orgasms. Dr. Hamme will be here in an hour.”

With a sigh, I nod and leave.

As I close the door, I tell myself that this new assignment is perfect timing for my Heart Miami campaign. But deep down I’m dreading it. I am not the ideal person to give in-depth stories about illnesses or medical conditions.

Making the best of it, I try to put my worries aside when suddenly I’m hit with a giddy thought. I just found a way to meet doctors.

It’s temporary, until Elise gets back, but it gives me two months to meet and date as many doctors as I can. Who cares if that seems frivolous? I’m on a mission and it’s not as if I
asked
for this assignment, I was ordered to take it.

I run to my desk and make a quick study of
Orgasmic Secrets Revealed.
Thank God I became a whiz at speed-reading in grad school. I take a visual picture of the chapters in my mind and then browse through the book, jotting questions as I go along. Lots of testimonials (one lady calls him a miracle worker at energizing lady bits) and lots of graphic pictures keep me flipping the pages.

When I’m satisfied that I have enough material for a decent interview, I glance at Dr. Hamme’s credentials on the back cover. Oxford, then Stanford…pretty impressive.

I open the back cover and check out his photo on the inside flap—thick dark hair, piercing silver eyes like a Siberian husky’s, and a jaw so sharp it could cut glass. He’s almost too good-looking with perfectly proportioned features and an enigmatic expression that lures women to his secrets.

Looking at Dr. Hamme conjures all kinds of sexual fantasies and I begin to lament that I haven’t had a date in the past year.
Is that normal?
I ask myself. Of course, I answer, what do you expect? You’ve been too busy with the move and the new job.

I stare at Dr. Hamme’s hypnotic eyes as if in a trance.
What orgasmic secrets does he have up his sleeve?
I wonder wickedly. And how does he look in scrubs?

“Ahem.” The sound of a man clearing his throat comes from behind me.

Startled, I drop the book on my lap and look up into a pair of dazzling silver eyes peering at me with amused curiosity. Dr. Hamme’s eyes—there is no mistaking them.

“Hello, I’m Francesca Lake,” I say, pretending to be composed as I extend my hand.
Don’t think about the lurid pictures in his book.

He takes my hand and shakes it firmly. No wimpy grasp here. “I’m Devon Hamme. Nice to meet you.” Ooh, women will
love
his Aussie accent—I do.

“It’s a pleasure. This will be an, uh, interesting interview,” I say. Ugh, that sounded lame. Is it obvious I’m a little nervous about the topic?

He smiles indulgently and that’s my cue to glance at my watch. “Showtime!” I say, nearly toppling over as I shoot up from my chair.

Twelve minutes later, the interview is over and I’m impressed at what a natural Dr. Hamme is before the camera. He’s charming and knowledgeable, articulate and forthright. Not at all sleazy. He wouldn’t reveal any of his orgasmic “secrets” but he gave enough hints for me to make his book my bedside companion tonight.

In the green room, Dr. Hamme shares a cup of my favorite pomegranate green tea with me. To my surprise, he invites me to dinner and I accept. My first date with a doctor begins today. I can hardly believe how easy it was.

“Great,” he says, glancing at the address I’ve scribbled on a napkin. “Pick you up at seven.”

He shakes my hand and I enjoy the feel of his firm clasp, admiring his elegant hand and long fingers. When he releases my hand, I feel his middle finger glide ever so lightly across the inside of my palm.

I snatch my hand away and give him a sharp look. Did he do that on purpose? His innocuous smile makes me wonder if I imagined it. I collect myself and watch him leave the room. Is that the way Australian men shake hands with women when they meet them? I don’t think so…

Now I’m having second thoughts about our date. Why did I accept so impulsively? What if Devon Hamme turns out to be a weirdo, or worse yet, a pervert? I was foolish to give him my home address! What do I
really
know about him?

I’m supposed to be dating prospective husbands. Do I really want to be called Mrs. Hamme? Makes me sound like a married version of Miss Piggy. Well…it doesn’t matter—I can keep my maiden name for professional reasons.

Remember all his brilliant credentials, I tell myself to bolster my confidence. He studied at Oxford and Stanford and he’s a public figure—a celebrity. He was on
The Today Show
promoting his book and he acted like a gentleman during our on-camera interview, even though the subject was sensitive.

Okay, I feel better now. Dr. Hamme wouldn’t be stupid enough to pounce on me on the first date.

Would he?

Romeo: Francesca tried on a gazillion outfits while yakking with Fizzy about her date with some dude she’s calling Dr. Orgasm. She finally settled on a red dress and now she’s running around picking up because the sexpert is coming over tonight.

Hey, lady, what about me? I’m trying not to be bitter, Francesca, but your move to Miami tore me away from my delicious little creampuff, Principessa. That mignon bison frisé had me at the first swish of her perky tail.

Looks like I won’t be getting any action today—again. Ruff. I need to get out more. Time to implement Plan A…

Chapter Three

I’m pacing my living room, feeling antsy about my date with Dr. Hamme, when my cell phone rings. I check caller ID and answer.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry, I can’t talk too long. I’m going out in a few minutes—with someone.”

“With someone…on a date?” she guesses before I utter a word.

Should I tell her about Dr. Hamme? Mom means well, but she gets overly excited whenever I mention a guy. And getting overly excited isn’t exactly good for her heart.

“Yeah. Kind of a date,” I say in a blasé tone.

“What does he do? How old is he?” she inquires in an eager tone.

“He’s a doctor. I think he’s thirty-nine.”

“Nice age difference and he makes a good living.” There is sheer delight in her voice. Mom calls out to Dad, “Fred dear, pick up the other phone. Frankie has a date with a doctor tonight!”

Sheesh, she sounds positively giddy. She’s probably hoping he’ll be “the one”. Nothing would please Mom more than to see me married, with babies, so she and Dad can dote on them. She
adores
babies. She would have had more, but she suffered several miscarriages before having me. As their only child, she and Dad call me the “little miracle” in their lives. It’s a tad intimidating to live up to.

Dad gets on the phone. “Hey, guppy.” Dad’s a marine biologist and he’s more comfortable around sea creatures than most humans, except for Mom, his “siren”, and me, his “guppy”. He’s our rock and our biggest fan. “You’re dating a doctor? What’s his name?”

“It’s only the first date. His name is Devon,” I offer, hoping they won’t ask for his last name.

“And his last name?” Mom asks…of course. There goes any hope of keeping it on the down low. I imagine her fingers poised above the keyboard, ready to Google the name and run it through Intelius.

I sigh. If I don’t tell her, she’ll hound me to death. Why did I even bring up the date?

“Hamme.”

“Devon Hamme? What kind of name is that?” Dad blusters. “It sounds like a British delicacy.” Dad is stuck in a time warp—so is his wardrobe. But you gotta love the black horn rim glasses and the pocket protector—they suit him.

“His name doesn’t matter, Fred. What kind of a doctor is he?” Mom asks.

“He’s a psychiatrist and a therapist. He has a best-selling book.” I might as well tell them, they’ll find out as soon as Mom hits the Internet. “Oh, and he’s Aussie.”

“An Australian doctor. He must be handsome.” There’s a smile in Mom’s voice. “I can’t wait to tell your Aunt Peggy.”

“Please don’t say anything yet. It’s our first date. Knowing Aunt Peggy, she’ll be posting on my Facebook wall before we even get to a second date.”

The doorbell rings, saving me from further interrogation as Romeo starts barking.

“He’s here. Gotta go. Bye.”

“Have fun!” my parents cry out in unison.

I hang up and take a deep breath before I answer the door. As I pass by Romeo, I implore him, “Be good, baby. Show Dr. Hamme what a sweet little lamb you are.”

I open the door with Romeo yapping at my heels. Dr. Hamme’s strong cologne is the first thing that hits me. Even Romeo seems to notice as his shrill barks alternate with sneezes.

Devon’s silver eyes give me a scorching once-over. “You look beautiful, Francesca.”

“Thanks, you look nice too.” Nice is an understatement. Devon rocks a cobalt blue dress shirt tucked into black dress pants that skim over lean hips and muscular legs. His thick black hair is cut like a British rock star’s with long layers that reach his collar. “Please come in. Don’t mind Romeo, he’ll calm down once you pet him.”

Romeo is circling Devon and his thin lips are pulled back over fierce, pointy teeth as he gives him warning growls alternated by rabid yelps. I wait for Devon to win Romeo over with a kind word or a gentle pat, but the moment he steps forward, Romeo snarls and lunges at his pants leg. In the nick of time, I pick Romeo up before his teeth sink into Devon’s ankle.

“Be nice,” I cajole. “Who’s a good boy? You are, Romeo, you are!” In a lower voice, I hiss, “Behave or no doggy park tomorrow.”