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coffee mug, feeling annoyed with himself for being annoyed at all. It shouldn’t matter to him one bit that an angelic-looking woman who happened to pass through his ER was letting a movie star run her ragged. It was no business of his whether or not she thrived by facilitating someone’s fame. Coffee was all he wanted.
    The door opened after the most timid of knocks. “Excuse me, Dr. Gregory. I’m so sorry to bother you.” The assistant stuck her angel face in the crack and smiled at him hopefully.
    Speak of the devil.
    â€œThis area is employees only.”
    She bit her lower lip with perfect white teeth. “I know, I’m sorry.”
    He set down the empty mug. So, she was appealing. They had nothing in common and would never see each other again after another sixty minutes, give or take, so he called upon his medical experience to act dispassionately and moved to the door.
    â€œI really need to talk to you,” she said.
    â€œThere is nothing you can say that will change how this hospital operates.”
    You stay in your world, I’ll stay in mine. He put his hand on the doorknob to shut it.
    â€œWait.” The angel had more determination than he’d expected. She thrust her whole arm and shoulder in the door. “There are no stairs in her house.”
    He knew, instantly, that she was not telling him about Sophia Jackson’s house. Surprise kept him silent.
    â€œI heard her say so. I’m talking about the woman next to us. The man that was with her hurt her.” She was breathless in her anxiety to tell him what she knew.
    Alex opened the door and ushered her in with a gentle touch on her arm, a brief brush of her soft gray sweater under his hand. He shut the door in an automatic move to protect patient privacy. Still, it seemed intimate to be alone with this woman in this little bit of an inner sanctum. “I understand. That’s why I arranged to have him removed from her treatment area.”
    She didn’t seem reassured. “He’s only filling out paperwork. Spousal consent forms.”
    She really had heard every word, then—and remembered them. “Spousal consent forms are a code in this ER. It means the spouse has to leave the treatment area. I’ve seen enough patients who have fallen down stairs to recognize the hallmarks of that type of injury.”
    â€œAnd she didn’t have them?”
    He shook his head silently. He was bound legally and ethically not to describe a patient’s medical condition to a stranger. The assistant obviously knew some details already, but he couldn’t tell her more.
    â€œHow long does it take for him to fill out the forms? He’ll be back any minute.”
    â€œSecurity will explain that he can’t reenter the treatment area. Doctor’s orders. When the next room with walls and a door opens up, the patient will be moved there. I can’t tell you more than that, but I assure you, she will have a chance to talk to me in private.”
    â€œShe won’t tell you anything.”
    Sadly, the assistant was quite possibly right. Victims of domestic violence were often silent in the hope that the situation would improve if they helped their abuser. “I hope you’re wrong about that, but we’ll give her every chance, every safety net we have available. You and I need to end this conversation now, because—”
    Because of patient confidentiality, of course. But he didn’t finish the sentence, because what had popped into his head was because you’re already too appealing. Her compassion toward a stranger only increased his regard for her.
    It didn’t matter. He had no interest in pursuing a woman when no relationship was possible. Flirting was something else he’d never quite understood. It was a waste of time to indulge an attraction to a woman who lived in another state, let alone a woman who built her life on the shaky ground of fame.
    The