Page 12 of Dr. Bad Boy

“His previous attorneys, who will continue to do some work for him, made it clear to me that he prefers to only discuss his medical practice. The acting is firmly in the past.”

“I understand.” That came across loud and clear in our brief meeting, and would have been good to know more about before I went in there. I shove away the sneaking suspicion that Derrick purposely didn’t give me enough time to fully brief myself.

“Between the two careers, he has significant holdings within his corporation. So I don’t need to tell you how important he is as a client in his own right.”

I shake my head. “Of course not.”

“But on top of that, he has the ear of the prime minister.”

I jerk my head up. “Oh?”

“They were college roommates. Closer than brothers, from all reports.”

The prime minister’s best friend hires hookers.

He hiredme.

Well, this is an epic disaster. I swallow hard.

“So you’ll take good care of him?” Derrick says, in the form of a question, but we both know it’s a directive—and one I can’t refuse.

4

Max

One weekend a month, I’m on call. It’s not this weekend, though, so I’m counting down the hours until Friday night, when Violet and I will have dinner in her office.

With the door closed.

I’m practically whistling as I leave the paeds in-patient ward and head downstairs to my office behind the out-patient clinic. I reach for the ID card hanging on my lanyard, right next to the Sponge Bob Square Pants squeaker that always distracts kids long enough for me to look in their ears or up their nose.

It’s the same reason I’ve got a Kermit the Frog stethoscope.

But both are getting dumped in my desk drawer before I leave tonight, because the role I’m assuming for Violet—Ms. Roberts, as I’m sure she’d prefer I call her now—is something entirely different.

I swipe my card over the sensor and the door buzzes open. The restricted hallway is already quiet, with half my colleagues done for the day, and their assistants packed up as well.

My own assistant is a capable young man named Blair. He was sourced for me by the ever-capable Beth Evans, executive assistant to the prime minister, and my oft-saviour.

Blair is waiting for me, his hands full of pink message slips and his eyes bright. “All done?”

“I have to make a few notes, but we’ll be out of here shortly. Let’s triage those messages, shall we?”

He waves the first three in the air. “Patient calls. Well, parent calls. Not appointment related, and they all sounded like they could use a call back.”

I take them.

He lifts the next one up. “Someone from the hospital foundation wondering if you want to sit on a committee for—”

I shake my head and he balls it up, tossing it toward the trash.

“And two messages from Eliza Black.”

I reach for the last slips of paper. He doesn’t hand them over.

“The Eliza Black?”

I close my fingers on the edge of the message slips and tug. He hangs on. “Blair, let go.”

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