One Reckless Night

Chapter 1

1

JARED

T hey wanted to kill me.

An involuntary twitch tugged at the corner of my mouth, daring me to grin out at the perturbed crowd.

Nobody sipped their fancy champagne from their crystal flutes.

Nobody offered a gracious nod to agree with the words coming out of my mouth.

They did, however, lean toward each other at their respective tables to whisper.

I wondered what they might be saying.

Off with his head? Who let him get hold of the microphone?

Security lined the entrances and several men in black suits spoke into discreet communication devices hidden in their suit-jacket sleeves.

Their eyes scanned the crowd for threats to my person.

Part of me kind of hoped they might find one.

It might make the evening a tad entertaining.

At the end of my speech I stepped back from the podium and gave a half-bow that sent a ripple of irritated murmurs through the crowd.

Grinning, I stepped off the stage and let the fuse burn that I’d just lit.

I could feel the weight of their stares—surgeons, researchers, and donors—burning into my back like I’d just kicked their collective shins and called them uneducated trash.

Which, in contrast to yours truly, they basically were.

If they didn’t like the truth?

Then they could do better.

Not my problem they felt inadequate.

Let them glare. Let them squirm.

I’d spent years climbing to the top of this mountain, and if they didn’t like me looking down at them from my view up high?

Fuck ‘em.

Shawn waited for me at the edge of the crowd, holding out a glass of whiskey like a peace offering, wearing an expression as bland as his gray suit.

“What the hell was that, Jared?” he said in a hushed tone, but I knew him well enough to catch the hint of amusement coloring his voice. “You were supposed to stick to the script. You know, thank the donors, kiss a little ass, maybe throw in a joke about how much you love golf? Even a dorky brain joke would have been better than the bomb you just dropped. Look around; no one is laughing. You sucked the oxygen out of the room.”

I took the glass and downed half of it in one go. “There’s no fun in sticking to the script.” I held up the glass and frowned at it. Could a big event like this not do better than bottom-shelf whiskey? What the fuck? “They don’t want to hear some canned speech. They want a show. And I gave them one. That’s why they give me these meaningless awards.”

Shawn shook his head, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re insane. You know that, right? Half those people out there probably want to strangle you.”

I shrugged, truly not giving a shit what any of them thought about me. If the doctors gathered tonight didn’t want to be called out for their inadequacies, then they were in the wrong field.

Nobody deserved immunity from critique.

We all had plenty more to learn—everyone else in attendance more so than me, admittedly.

“Someone needed to do it. Now at least they have something worth talking about in their operating rooms for the next month.”

Shawn grimaced as he looked at the dark glares being shot in our direction.

“They’re probably conspiring to take you down right now. What if I’m collateral damage? You know some of us have reputations we’re trying to protect, right?”

“Reputations,” I mused, scanning the room.

A fancy word for fear.

The crowd was a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, the kind of people who thought they owned the world just because they could write a big check or wield a scalpel.

I caught the eye of a couple of women near the bar—both stunning, both clearly interested—and flashed them a smile.

They giggled and turned away, but not before I saw the blush creeping up their necks.

Shawn grabbed my arm and steered me toward the bar.

“Come on, let’s get another drink before someone decides to take a swing at you. You’re less combative when you’re buzzed.”

As we made our way through the crowd, I could feel the weight of their disapproval like a physical force.

A group of older men—donors, by the looks of their tailored suits and Rolexes—glared at me as we passed.

Those were the assholes that didn’t know shit about the medical field.

They’d never been in an OR.

They had never told a family their loved one didn’t make it off the table.

The only thing they were good for was opening their checkbook, and that made them feel more important than the people on the front lines doing the real work.

One of them muttered something under his breath about me being an egotistical narcissist, to which I smiled and raised my glass.

“Gentlemen,” I said, my voice dripping with mock sincerity.

“Always a pleasure.”

Shawn groaned and dragged me the rest of the way to the bar.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” I said, leaning against the polished wood.

The bartender nodded at me, already reaching for a bottle of horse piss.

I barked at him to pour me something from the top shelf, and he hurried to oblige.

He offered a hasty apology when he placed my drink on the bar and I rewarded him with a generous tip to ensure I didn’t have to correct him again.

Shawn and I found a high-top table near the edge of the room, far enough from the crowd to give us some breathing room but close enough to keep an eye on the action.

I kept my back to the wall.

I wasn’t military trained, but it didn’t take a neurosurgeon to know there was more than one arrow aimed at my back.

I’m not going to lie, I loved the negative attention.

It filled my cup to the brim.

I was trained to be this way from the moment I graduated from medical school and started my residency.

Never back down, stand on your intuition, even if it means taking risks.

One of the biggest risks I took early on was shadowing what many believed to be the world’s best—and most controversial—neurosurgeon, Clark Askov.

I trained under him for several years in Geneva before moving back to the states to start my own practice ten years ago.

Since then, I’d earned my title as the undisputed champion of neuroscience and neurosurgery.

Shawn sipped his drink and sighed.

“I can’t believe we’re stuck state-side for the next few weeks. I was supposed to be in Paris right now, you know.”

“Poor you,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“You’ll survive. Besides, you’re coming to Miami with me. I’ve got a couple of surgeries lined up that you’re not going to want to miss. It’s far more exciting here.”

Shawn groaned again, but I knew he was just playing.

He loved the OR almost as much as I did.

“Fine,” he said. “But you owe me.”

“I don’t owe anyone shit.”

He shot me an exasperated look.

“You’re hard to like.”

“I know.”

He shook his head and leaned on the table before switching topics.

“I heard you have a new researcher joining the lab in Key West.”

“You heard right.”

Welch Labs was the research lab at my Key West compound, but not where I spent the majority of my time.

Other people did research.

I cut . We all had a calling and mine was holding a scalpel.

Technically, microsurgical knives or a bovie, which used electricity to cauterize tissue—but that sounded slightly less impressive since no one knew what that was.

“Dr. Pritchard,” he said.

“What?”

“It would be nice if you stopped by and introduced yourself. Dr. Pritchard is the new doctor at the lab.”

I waved a hand dismissively.

“I’ll send some food delivery vouchers. Researchers are your thing, not mine. I’ll stick to the fun stuff—scalpels, blood, all that good stuff.”

Shawn opened his mouth to argue, but before he could say anything, someone called his name from across the room.

He glanced over and sighed.

“Duty calls. Try not to piss anyone off while I’m gone, okay? If you’re murdered, a lot of people will be out of a job. And I’m pretty sure I’d be the only guy at your funeral.”

“In that case, it’s worth noting I don’t want a funeral,” I said.

“Cremate me and throw my ashes in the faces of my enemies.”

Shawn rolled his eyes.

“You’re wound more tightly than usual. Maybe find joy in something other than work and you won’t be such a prickly bastard.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being focused on saving lives,” I said, shrugging.

“I’m not about to start building model planes or bird watching.”

He laughed.

“I meant you should find a girl to thaw that ice cold heart of yours, you cyborg.”

“I get laid plenty,” I said, glowering at him.

“That’s not what I was talking about, but maybe you’re a lost cause.” Shawn shook his head and walked away toward some people we did business with.

I frowned at his back.

People said I was too blunt, but Shawn wasn’t pulling any punches with me, either.

I appreciated his honesty, even though he was dead wrong about what I needed in my life.

Things were just fine, thank you very much.

I finished my drink and decided to wander, not in the mood to be dragged into whatever conversation Shawn was about to have.

The crowd parted as I moved through it, some people stepping aside out of respect, but most out of sheer annoyance—or worse.

Neurosurgery wasn’t my only skill.

I could read people, and I picked up on the disgust and disdain people felt when I passed them.

I’d been called every name in the book by some of the people in this room.

Asshole, bastard, clown, poser, jackass, prick—and those were the least creative.

But I’d also been called other names from the family members of my patients: savior, blessing, gift, answered prayer, genius, miracle worker.

In the end, it more than balanced out, and only half of those opinions meant shit to me.

I found myself at the bar again, this time next to a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting.

She was wearing some killer heels that made her legs flex in ways that caught my eye.

Her curves could make a grown man weep, and her dress hugged every inch of her like it had been painted on.

Her hair was a cascade of dark waves, and when she turned to order a glass of red wine, I caught the hint of a British accent.

Well, well. This just got interesting.

I watched her, studying her profile like she was a specimen that crawled out of the depths of the ocean.

Her full breasts bubbled up over the top of her dress in the sexiest way imaginable.

Every move she made sent them quivering gently, tantalizing me with visuals of what it might feel like to press my face between them.

Soft and supple, femininity like hers was the ultimate form of power, and she exuded it effortlessly.

But it wasn’t just her body that caught my attention—it was the way she held herself.

There was a confidence there, a quiet strength that made her all the more intriguing.

Perhaps it was her proud and unabashed posture, or the way she held her shoulders back and her chin up.

Perhaps it was the bold red lip, the unmanicured nails, or?—

She turned slightly, her hazel eyes flicking in my direction, and for a brief moment, our gazes locked.

I didn’t look away. I never did.

It was almost a challenge, one that she seemed to accept as she raised an eyebrow at me, her lips pressing into a soft line.

“Do you always stare like that, or am I just special?” she asked, her voice smooth and laced with that British accent that made her words sound like a dare.

“Depends on what you mean by special .” I leaned casually against the bar, my drink in hand.

“If you’re asking if I make a habit of staring at beautiful women, then yes.”

She rolled her eyes.

I leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral with a hint of spice.

“You’re a long way from home,” I said, my voice low and teasing.

“What brings you to this side of the pond?”

She turned to look at me, but not like other women looked at me.

Her look was more clinical.

For a moment, I thought she might actually smile, but she turned back to the bartender.

“Just here for the wine,” she said, her tone dismissive.

“After all the… colorful things you said up there, I’m surprised you went with the most vanilla and outdated pick-up line out there.”

I wasn’t used to being brushed off.

It only made me more determined.

“Come on,” I said, flashing her my most charming smile.

“You’re telling me you flew all the way across the Atlantic just for a glass of wine? I don’t buy it.”

“Then don’t.” She shrugged.

“Are you here to watch your dad get an award, or…?”

She nearly choked on her wine, her eyes widening in surprise before she burst out laughing.

“My dad?” she said, still laughing.

“God, no.”

“Who are you here with?” I asked.

“Are you an assistant or…”

I left the question hanging.

There was no shame in being a mistress.

“I’m a doctor. Research, specifically.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

She didn’t look like any researcher I’d ever met.

Most of the scientists I knew were hunched over microscopes, their noses buried in data.

This woman looked like she belonged on a runway, not in a lab.

“Research, huh?” I said.

“That’s interesting.”

“Interesting? My least favorite word.”

“Not typically my type,” I said.

“Oh no. What shall I do?”

She was a smartass.

I liked that. “What brings you to this little gathering of the medical elite?”

She shrugged, her expression unreadable.

“Networking, mostly. Though I have to say, your speech was… memorable.”

“Memorable, huh?” I said, leaning in closer.

“Is that your way of saying you were impressed?”

She laughed again, but there was a sharpness to it this time.

“Impressed isn’t the word I’d use. But it was certainly entertaining.”

I couldn’t tell if she was flirting with me or mocking me.

I wasn’t sure which I preferred.

Either way, I was hooked.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a card.

“If you’re not busy tonight, maybe we could continue this conversation over a nightcap.”

She took the card, her fingers brushing against mine in a way that sent a jolt of electricity through me.

“Sorry, I have a flight to catch.”

And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd before I could say another word.

I stared after her, my mind racing.

No one had ever walked away from me like that before.

It was infuriating.

I ordered another drink, trying to shake off the strange feeling she’d left me with.

I found myself scanning the room, hoping to catch another glimpse of her.

There had to be something wrong with her.

There wasn’t a ring on her finger, not that it ever stopped other women from flirting with me.

She didn’t look like a researcher, but maybe she had the personality of a potato.

Who was I kidding?

She was hot and fiery, and I needed to know more.