Paging Dr. Hot (4 page)

“What’s all the bloody ruckus about, mate?” Devon inquires, leaning forward to peer at him. Romeo bares his razor-sharp teeth and growls.

“Maybe if you pet him, he’ll settle down.” I’m shocked at my dog’s volatile reaction to Devon. Romeo is usually outgoing and friendly, but not tonight. For some reason, he’s acting like Devon is Hannibal Lecter. “On second thought, maybe you’d better not.”

Devon nods and heads toward the door. “I’ll wait for you outside. We have reservations in half an hour.”

The minute Devon leaves, Romeo stops growling. I scratch behind his soft ears. “Be a good little angel while I’m gone. Fizzy will stop by tonight to check in on you.”

I grab my purse and kiss Romeo’s head before placing him on his soft pouf beside the balcony. He angles his snout away from me and rests it on his favorite stuffed hamster as he peers out the sliding glass door with a morose expression. I feel bad.

“Aw, don’t look like that. I’ll make it up to you this weekend,” I say, meaning every word.

With a sigh, I acknowledge it’ll take time for Romeo to get used to me dating again. He lived through my last break-up and it wasn’t pretty. The one deal breaker in any husband prospect, doctor or not, is that he must love Romeo or at least get along with him.

Romeo is my baby and he comes first.

Half an hour later, Devon and I are seated at a table at Tantra, an upscale restaurant/lounge in South Beach. The DJ is spinning sensual music, prompting steamy moves on the dance floor. The exotic scent of incense tickles my nostrils as I look up and notice a private VIP room on the second floor with an oversized hammock filled with plush pillows hanging above. A fiber-optic starscape transports you to places unknown.

As Fizzy would say, this place is smokin’. The sultry brunette waitress, dressed as a belly dancer, hands us a menu and the titles alert me that this menu has special powers. Devon doesn’t bother looking at the menu and orders the Tantra Love Apple and the French Kiss as appetizers. The waitress gives him a sly look of approval. For the entrée, he asks for the Moroccan Spiced Lamb for two, and for dessert, he orders the Triple Orgasm. As a finishing touch, he adds a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

When the waitress shimmies away, Devon tells me about the food he just ordered in hypnotic tones. Normally, I wouldn’t be too happy about my date ordering for me, but the foodie in me is intrigued.

“Sounds delicious,” I murmur. His sexy Aussie accent and the deep timbre of his voice alone are sending tingles down my spine. I can only imagine how the salacious sounding cuisine will affect me; as it is, my heart is already racing.

“The ingredients here are selected for their aphrodisiac qualities. Long after you’ve tasted the food, you’ll feel the effects.”

That’s what I was afraid of. I’m wondering about that triple orgasm dessert…

Devon checks his iPhone and rises from the table. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Minutes later, he returns to the table with the first two buttons of his shirt undone, giving me a glimpse of solid pecs. Mortified, I glance around to see the other diners’ reactions, but no one seems fazed. This is Miami after all and he could be any
papi chulo
on the prowl—minus the heavy gold chain and religious medal.

“So…” A smile plays at his cruel lips. I don’t know why I consider his lips “cruel”, but the term comes to mind when I see the predatory way he’s gazing at me. My gaze gravitates to his open shirt and I blink. Am I hallucinating or did his pecs just do a little dance to the music?

“I see you’ve noticed,” he says with a slick smile. “I have control over
every
muscle in my body. I can teach you how.”

Privately I gasp at his offer, but I manage to give him a breezy smile. “No, thanks.”

He meets my cool smile with a warm one. “Come now, don’t be shy. It would be my pleasure.” His suggestive tone leaves no doubt he means it.

“No, really, save it for your patients.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He leans back and studies me so keenly, I have to look away. “Tell me about your orgasms, Francesca,” he says in a conversational tone.

My smile falters. “My what?”

“Your orgasms,” he repeats. “I’m an expert on them. Why be shy about something that feels so good?”

I feel my jaw drop as my eyes bulge in disbelief. “That’s inappropriate, Dr. Hamme,” I say, skewering him with a sharp look.

“Rubbish, we’re adults. Call me Dev,” he says with a wink.

Dev as in devil?
I’m tempted to say.

“Look around,” he continues smoothly. “Haven’t you noticed this is an adult playground?”

How could I not? From the live grass floor and softly lit waterfall to the rhythmic beating and humping sounds coming from the spin DJ, the place is a pleasure dome to lure and seduce even the slightly repressed (me).

I recall the restaurant menu’s suggestion,
“Close your eyes and concentrate on tasting each morsel. Savor the full range of succulent, sweet, salty, smooth and crisp flavors and textures.”

I’m starting to feel short of breath and my throat is parched. I gulp down the champagne, but feel worse as the bubbles rise up to choke me. At this point I just want to get through dinner, finish the champagne (no sense in wasting it), and get out of here!

My phone vibrates and I almost cry out in relief. It’s Fizzy, my savior. Earlier today, she had promised to call and give me an out in case Dr. Hamme turned out to be Dr. Strangelove.

“I’m sorry, but I have to take this call.” I give him an apologetic smile. “It’s important.”

Devon smiles benevolently. “Go right ahead.”

“Hi, Fizz, everything okay?”

I listen to her snarky giggles as she asks how it’s going with Dr. Orgasm. Keeping a straight face, I pretend she’s talking about Romeo.

“What happened?” I chew my lower lip and show concern in my eyes. After a pause, I exclaim, “Oh, no, that’s awful! Is he okay now?” I look alarmed and a few seconds later, I say, “Thanks for taking care of him. I—”

The server places mouth-watering appetizers on the table, interrupting me in mid-sentence as I cave at the feast before me. I might as well finish dinner before ending the evening. Aphrodisiacs or not, I’m famished.

“Gotta go. Call you later,” I say and hang up.

“Is there a problem?” Devon asks.

“Problem?
No, this looks divine.” I take a bite of the decadent Tantra Love Apple and manage not to swoon out loud at how delicious it tastes.

Devon arches a brow. “I meant the phone call. It sounded like—”

“Oh, that. It was my dog sitter, Fizzy who called.” I shake my head and resume a look of concern. “Romeo is sick.”

“Sorry to hear it,” he says in a bland tone, his piercing gaze on me.

“It must be why he was acting up tonight.” I’m not happy that I invented an illness for Romeo, but it was the first thing that popped into my mind.

Devon takes my frigid hand in his. “Nervous? I’m not going to bite you…yet,” he amends with a chuckle, his perfect white teeth poised to do that.

“I’m not your type,” I inform him, snatching my hand from his warm grasp. “I’m too straight-laced for you and I’m a hypochondriac. I worry about everything.”

“Your pheromones are irresistible,” he counters. “I specialize in Tantric rituals. One afternoon with me will loosen you up and cure you of all your inhibitions.”

Dr. Hamme is being so outrageous that I wonder if he’s toying with me. I meet his gaze squarely and catch the wicked gleam in his eyes. The devil. He
is
getting a kick out of taunting me.

A half hour later, we’ve devoured the Moroccan Lamb and I’m about to call it an evening when the Triple Orgasm arrives at our table. The chocoholic in me is too weak to resist it. Dark chocolate bourbon cake, black cherry liquor, warm hazelnut chocolate sauce, Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream and fresh blackberries.

The heavenly concoction entices me more than Dr. Hamme. Every bite is exciting and addictive—somehow I make it through dessert without having an orgasm. Devon’s gleaming eyes watch me devour the chocolate triple threat with a cunning smile playing at his lips. After I overindulge, I close my eyes and sigh, feeling as if I’m in a trance.

When I open my eyes, Devon is signing the bill. He ushers me out of the restaurant toward the valet where he tips him generously and helps me into the car.

I hope the aphrodisiacs don’t kick in against my will because I think I drank a bit too much champagne. Who could blame me? It was Veuve Clicquot! And after that enthralling dessert, I am flushed and feeling kinda jittery. Are the sexy ingredients that potent? What if I get palpitations?

Okay, stop. You’re with a doctor, remember?

Devon starts the ignition and speeds off. He glances at my bare legs and gives a low growl of approval. I follow his gaze to the hem of my dress, which hiked up when I got into the car.

When he sees me struggle with the hem, he winks at me, and then puts the top down of his gun metal gray Corvette convertible and gazes at the sky.

“The stars are out, but they don’t compare to your sparkling eyes, Francesca.”

“Thanks,” I murmur.

Where does he get these lines? Sparkling eyes? It’s my cleavage he’s entranced with and now I regret wearing this red dress. Why did I let Fizzy pick it out for me? So what if she called me a prude? I knew it was too revealing.

He stops at a red light. “I, too, have a pet. Would you like to meet him?”

Get me out of here now—it’s probably a python. “Maybe some other time.” I refuse to ask about his “pet”. I don’t want to go there. “I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you.”

“Thank you?” he repeats. “Why,
Francesca…the night is young.”

“Not for me. I need to get home. Romeo is sick,” I say firmly.

“
Now
you show concern?” he asks in a suspicious voice.

“Yes, it’s critical,” I fib, crossing my fingers. “Please take me home.”

His jaw tightens. “Fine.” He sounds annoyed.

When we arrive at my apartment, I lean over to give him a dry peck on the cheek. I try to escape or rather bolt, but Hamme is already on the sidewalk.

“I’m walking you to your door,” he says, invitation in his low tone.

“That’s not necessary. Let’s say good night here.”

“I bloody well insist,” he blusters, placing a hand on the small of my back and nudging me forward.

“No need to come upstairs. I’m a virgin and I plan to remain that way tonight,” I blurt out. That should douse his raging libido.

“I love challenges,” he says, silver eyes glistening.

Great.

He follows me inside and when Romeo takes one look at him, he flips on his back. My poor pup writhes so wildly, I’m afraid he’s going to throw out his back! His pink tongue is hanging out of his mouth and his eyes look like they’ve rolled back into his skull. He’s making raw, gurgling noises as if he’s strangling on his tongue.

“Oh, my God! What’s wrong with him?” I scream, clutching Devon’s open shirt.

“Don’t worry.” Devon’s hand slides down my spine and pats my hip, taking advantage of my closeness.

I recoil from his touch. “What do you mean don’t worry? You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a veterinarian, but it looks like he might be having a seizure.” He leans down to touch Romeo who promptly bares his pointy teeth and snaps at him.

Devon snatches his hand back.

“Please leave. I need to call the vet. Romeo is very upset.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Devon plants a warm kiss on my lips, but I’m too frantic to let it bother me.

I barely notice his exit—I’m too busy speed-dialing Harrison’s cell phone.

“Answer the phone, damn it!” I cry before I realize he has already answered.

“Who is this?” he asks sounding puzzled.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” I mumble, hoping he hasn’t heard me cursing. “Harrison, it’s Frankie. I know it’s late, but my dog Romeo is sick. I need your help!”

“Where are you?“

“I’m home.”

“I’m on my way to the office. Wrap Romeo in a blanket and bring him over.”

Harrison gives me the address and I’m relieved that it’s not more than a ten minute drive. I wonder why he’d be heading to his office at one in the morning, but what difference does it make? It’s nice of him to meet us there.

“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

“No worries. See you soon.”

Romeo starts to howl and I wonder if he might be hyperventilating. Should I put a paper bag on his snout and make him breathe into it? No, that might scare him. This is what I get for concocting a story about my dog being sick. It’s all my fault.

I carefully pick him up and wrap him in a little blanket. “Shhh, don’t fret,” I croon, “Mommy’s taking you to Dr. Taylor. He’ll take good care of you.”

Cradling Romeo to my chest, I grab my purse and race out into the night.

Romeo: Wooooof, took you long enough, lady! I can’t believe the lengths I have to go to get a little attention. Good thing you got rid of that horny Hamme hound and his tacky cologne. The look on his face during my feigned seizure was priceless. I deserve a Tony Award.