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muscles in his face, making the angles sharper, more defined. “The people I treated were most often unconscious and completely helpless. There wasn’t time for polite conversation.”
    Wow, she’d whipped him up into a real huff. She ought to be ashamed that she’d enjoyed doing it.
    Curiosity had her wondering about the previous job he’d just described, but now wasn’t the time to ask. She was too close to her goal of provoking him to his limit. She tilted her head and queried, “So you’re saying I’m not real?”
    She injected the question with a jesting tone, let the humor she felt twinkle in her eyes.
    Finally realizing he was being purposely prodded, he shook his head. Then he looked down at the floor, chuckling.
    The sound was rich and heady. Catherine liked it. A lot.
    And when he lifted his gaze to hers, he was smiling.
    Smiling.
    A tingling heat permeated Catherine’s entire body.
    â€œNo,” he said softly. “I’m not saying that at all. You’re perfectly real.”
    He draped his stethoscope back around his neck and laced his fingers together at his waist.
    â€œYou should smile more often,” she told him.
    He nodded. “You’re probably right.”
    Silence hung between them, heavy and cumbersome. If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn that the temperature in the room rose several degrees.
    Her grin was smug. “No probably about it. That smile suits you. Loosens up everything. The tenseness in your body—” without thought, her tone lowered an octave “—in our conversation…in the very air.”
    She did feel an easing of the strain in him, both physically and emotionally, and in their conversation. But the air remained dense. Deliciously thick. His irritation was no longer the culprit, she realized. What swirled around them now was something shadowy. Something both mysterious and exciting.
    Catherine hoped he didn’t intend to use that stethoscope to listen to her heart any time soon, because if he did, he couldn’t miss the way it fluttered against her ribs.
    â€œOkay, so maybe we need to start over.” He offered her his hand. “Hello. My name is Dr. Riley Jacobs.”
    She slid her palm against his and curled her fingers around his hand. His skin was warm, his handshake firm.
    â€œI’m Catherine Houston,” she told him, pleased to play along. “My family calls me Cat. But I prefer Catherine.”
    â€œCatherine it is, then.”
    The handshake ended and she felt a twinge of disappointment.
    â€œAnd how are you today?” He measured each word carefully.
    â€œMuch better now.”
    Much better! she thought.
    â€œSo what brings you in to see me today? Did you strain a muscle? Are you sore from overexertion?”
    In a sudden quandary, Catherine remained silent. He was being pleasant now, sure. But as soon as she told him there was nothing wrong with her, he’d probably be peeved that she’d wasted his time.
    â€œWell,” she started out haltingly, “I don’t really have a physical injury.”
    â€œOh?” Uncertainty clouded his eyes, yet at the same time curiosity had his brows arching the tiniest bit.
    â€œI don’t know if you’re aware,” she said, “but I’m a visitor to Portland. I came here because my cousin visited the city not too long ago and he just raved about the place.”
    Her cousin Max had met his wife here in Oregon. And he’d defied convention completely when he’d married Ivy Crosby, too.
    â€œSo I thought I’d escape from…everything—” Thewords snagged in her throat and she gave a small cough. She needed to be careful or she was going to give away her secret. “I wanted to see what kind of fun I could find in Portland,” she finished.
    â€œAnd what kind of fun have you found?”
    He was giving tolerance and patience a valiant effort, but