When Staci Takes Charge Page 5

  Since it was in her nature to be one step ahead of potential trouble—precisely the reason she’d sought help from brilliant problem solver Ryan Donovan when she’d suspected there’d be a manufacturing issue with the surge in sales last fall—she shot off a concise, professional introduction to the good doc via email. Not fully explaining her conflict, just vaguely mentioning she was interested in discussing advancements in high-heeled shoes and requesting he call her at his earliest convenience.

  A triumphant smile tugged at Staci’s lips. It was genius, really, to get a surgeon of this magnitude and recognition behind her shoes.

  She hoped to hear from him soon because Staci was certain that once Dr. Evan Hart learned of her new plight, he would not pass up working with her.

  Chapter Six

  You have got to be shitting me.

  Evan stared at his email, removing his glasses and blinking a few times, hoping he really wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. Staci Kay from Staci Kay Shoes had sent him an email, asking that he call her. The owner of a shoe company.

  Naturally, his curiosity got the better of him, and while he ate a late dinner at his desk, he Googled Staci Kay Shoes.

  And spewed a mouthful of Pellegrino all over his computer screen.

  “Damn it!” He reached for the stack of napkins he’d brought from the hospital’s cafeteria and wiped down the monitor. Then glared at it.

  Glared at her.

  His fantasy. Gazing back at him with the vibrant, pearl-white smile that had set his pulse racing. Instantly.

  She looked quite a bit different than when they’d met. This time, her hair was long and sleek, pulled up on the sides to really show off her sculpted face and almond-shaped, tawny eyes. Eyes he’d stared so deep into that he’d actually gotten lost in them.

  Here was the woman he’d silently invited into his hotel suite, the woman he’d kissed heatedly, the woman he’d been buried inside of, who had made him come so damn hard that the orgasm had echoed in his body and in his brain long after it’d ebbed.

  And she owned a shoe company.

  Not just any old shoe company. Not one that manufactured orthopedic shoes. Not one that sold safe, sensible walking shoes or sneakers.

  This company was all about high heels. The really tall heels. The ones that, on a daily basis, caused various injuries to women the world over. He knew from personal experience. They were his patients.

  “Fuck,” he grumbled. His heart sank. His gut clenched. He’d been suckered. By a woman who’d claimed to be a bit too far out of the game to start playing it now.

  My. Ass.

  His jaw set in a hard line as he thought of how she’d wanted anonymity. He’d been dying to know why. Now he connected potential dots. She’d ascertained who he was and had staged her shoe show to coincide with the podiatry conference he’d been attending. It seemed to be the most plausible answer. And either by luck of the draw or some serious finagling, she’d ended up with a suite right across from his.

  That was his very best guess because it was all too convenient to be coincidental, right?

  Worse, Evan knew exactly what she wanted with him. From him. It had nothing to do with sex. That’d just been the primer, to soften him up to her cause. To hook him and reel him in.

  Evan put two and two together and deduced that Staci Kay was contacting him because Evan was operating on a supermodel and, just recently, he had become extremely vocal about the ill effects of stilettos.

  And Miss Kay wanted him to back off.

  That had to be her goal. The reason she’d been “locked out” of the suite across from his.

  Evan closed the web browser, deleted the email, and blocked her address. He also tried to delete that erotic night at the Four Seasons from his mind.

  Staci Kay wasn’t about to get her wish this time. Hell no. Her reaching out to him now only made Evan more determined to spread the word about sparing one’s feet, instead of suffering for the sake of fashion.

  He was also more determined than ever to pretend he couldn’t still feel this woman’s soft, silky body against his. Hear her moans and sobs. Her pleas for more…

  Christ. What sort of rabbit hole had he really fallen down?

  * * *

  Staci’s thoughts were still divided. She was thinking about her shoe designs, but she also continued to ride the fencepost about her Valentine’s plans and needed to make a decision soon. So when she arrived home around nine, she’d called Jen, her younger sister by three years, who lived in Denver. But Jen was busy baking—her therapeutic vice. One she’d instantly adopted following her explosive divorce.

  Jen baked everything for everyone. She literally filled baskets full of muffins, cookies, and cupcakes to deliver to neighbors during the week. She single-handedly covered the eight-foot tables set out for bake sales at church and school functions. And took goodies to all the soccer moms and kids out on the field on the weekends.

  So she didn’t have time to chat up Staci—or give thought to whether they both ought to join their parents on the cruise.

  Jen definitely had the freedom to take an impromptu vacay, since she was currently debating a career path after years as a housewife. She had no kids, and was not the least bit interested in remarrying and starting a family.

  She’d been burned that badly.

  Staci felt for her. When she joked about her sister being so perfect, it was because Jen really was perfect. So much so that it’d always grated a bit on Staci’s nerves. Everyone adored Jen’s porcelain-doll looks, society manners, and gentle demeanor. Jen never had verbal outbursts when faced with adversity—except for that one time, when Ken had explained he had to follow his heart and leave her for his male lover.

  Yes. Jen and Ken. They’d been the perfect couple. With one teeny, tiny fly in the ointment: Ben.

  So, yes. Now it was Ken and Ben. No doll company could have come up with a preppier threesome. And speaking of…

  Ken had not initially chosen his lover over his wife. When she’d accidentally walked in on them together, Ken had offered a ménage. Not just sexually, but as a live-in arrangement.

  Staci couldn’t help but snicker over the memory of hearing that tidbit. Jesus, Jen must have flushed from head to toe. And screamed bloody murder.

  For Staci’s part, she was deeply wounded for her sister. But, in all honesty, Staci had seen it coming. No one could be that perfect without some cracks on the surface that eventually led to a harrowing shattering of every fiber of their being.

  She wanted to get Jen on the cruise to break her sister free of her baking routine. Conversely, Staci had a feeling that routine was a necessary part of Jen’s healing process.

  So Staci spent a good deal of time debating the push and pull there.

  How was she to best help her sister during the anniversary of the eruption of her four-year marriage?

  Was Staci supposed to talk Jen into the family excursion, or stock up on wine and chocolate and spend the week in Denver commiserating with her?

  * * *

  By morning, Staci still had not reached a decision.

  Her focus was on work once again while thoughts of Valentine’s plans simmered in the back of her head.

  She had some inquiries from the Board of Directors to address, a couple of conference calls, a charity luncheon, and a few meetings. By the end of the day, she found it odd that she hadn’t heard back from Dr. Evan Hart.

  Perhaps her email had gotten lost in cyberspace.

  She sent another. And phoned his office.

  “Is this regarding an exam or a surgery?” his assistant asked.

  “Neither, actually. I just need to speak with him.”

  “I’m afraid he’s indisposed at the moment.”

  What did that mean, really?

  Staci left her name and number, along with the urgent request that Dr. Hart return her call regarding an important podiatry matter.

  Two more days passed. No word from the surgeon. Staci was perplexed. An
d she was not one to be swept under the rug. Especially when she believed, to the depths of her soul, that this idea of hers was a gem worth mining.

  So she sent another email. Called again.

  Dr. Hart’s assistant, Tanya, asked if Staci could please inform her of the topic on hand so she could vet the call, since Staci wasn’t trying to book an appointment and didn’t have a referral from her physician.

  Staci said, “I’d like to discuss the article published in the American Journal of Medicine that Dr. Hart recently wrote, concerning the adverse effects of high heels on—”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Kay,” Tanya interjected. “I’m afraid the doctor isn’t taking questions regarding that piece. I trust you’ll have a good day.”

  She hung up.

  Staci stared at the iPhone she held in her hand.

  She gaped.

  How rude!

  It took her a few seconds to come around. She hit the redial button.

  “Staci Kay for Dr. Hart,” she said when the call connected.

  Tanya said, “I’m sorry, Miss Kay. Dr. Hart isn’t available. He’s operating.”

  Staci boiled. “Please tell him that I called. Again. It’s important.”

  “He’s a very busy man, and I’ve already told you—”

  “I understand that he’s a very busy man. But I have something…dire…to discuss with him.”

  Tanya sighed over Staci’s persistence. “I’ll let him know.”

  Staci shook her head as she dropped her phone on the leather blotter on her desk.

  She tried Dr. Hart again the next day. It was Friday, midafternoon.

  Tanya told her, “I’m sorry”—surely she had to be tired of that phrase—“he’s prepping for a series of lectures at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”

  “Okay, Tanya,” Staci said in a dour tone. “Level with me here. Does this man really exist?”

  “Of course he does,” came the curt response.

  Exasperated, Staci said, “So Dr. Hart is like…what? Willy Wonka? Too eccentric to return a call or an email?”

  “He’s a very—”

  “Busy man,” Staci completed for the assistant. “Right. Gotcha. Just…tell him I called, please. Yet again. Staci Kay from Staci Kay Shoes. It’s really—”

  “Important,” Tanya mimicked her. Not in a snarky way. Staci sensed a hint of sympathy on the other woman’s end. “I’ll deliver the message directly to him.”

  “Fabulous. Thank you.”

  Staci disconnected the call.

  Okay…What the hell? The guy was all about solving foot problems. Now, so was Staci. So why couldn’t she get him to respond to her?

  Worse, Staci wasn’t accustomed to being stonewalled. When she wanted something, she went after it. Precisely the mentality and ambition that had driven her to start her own company.

  If Dr. Evan Hart thought he could skirt her, he was in for his own rude awakening.

  Whatever his glitch in the system was when it came to contacting her, Staci would break through the barrier. Her sense of duty to her customers burned brighter every day, and she wouldn’t be brushed aside by someone who could help her.

  She turned to her computer. Researched Dr. Evan Hart once more, typing in lecture schedule as additional keywords.

  A Mount Sinai page dedicated to the almighty podiatric surgeon popped up. Along with a full roster of upcoming speaking engagements.

  Staci’s eyes feasted on the most current one—San Diego, tomorrow morning at the convention center.

  She reached for the landline on the desk and hit the button for her own assistant. “Courtney,” she said, “I need to be on a plane tonight to San Diego. Try to send me out of BWI so I don’t have to take the train into DC. I’ve got some packing and planning to do.”

  “Where would you like to stay?”

  “Someplace nice by the convention center.”

  “Got it. I’ll send the itinerary and confirmation numbers to your calendar.”

  “Thank you.”

  Staci printed out the focus group summaries, then powered down her laptop and stored it and the documents in her bag. She left the building and drove to her three-bedroom Baltimore Harbor condo. The spare rooms were for her sister and parents. They didn’t visit all that often and, as usual, that thought left Staci feeling a little lonely and isolated. But she didn’t dwell on the melancholy threatening to seep through her veins.

  She was a woman on a mission.

  And Dr. Evan Hart was not going to evade her this time.

  * * *

  “How are your accommodations at the Four Seasons?” Tanya asked as Evan took her call.

  “Just fine, thank you. The jet landed in Carlsbad a little ahead of schedule, and it was a quick limo ride here. I appreciate the amenities you had delivered to the villa.” Including a fruit and cheese platter.

  The Four Seasons Aviara was a residential rental property. As upscale and meticulously appointed as the brand suggested, but with a bit more of a homey feel that Evan preferred when he was on a grueling tour, with back-to-back lectures, book signings, and social engagements…and little time in between to return to his New York residence.

  He’d be living out of his suitcase for the next two weeks, with the exception of the jaunt he’d make back to Manhattan for two surgeries on his calendar. A thirteen-year-old female gymnast with Olympic potential, save for the fact that she had delicate anklebones prone to snapping if she didn’t hit her dismounts spot-on. And Regina Hines, the supermodel who’d been forced into an early retirement from her runway career because she’d suffered numerous hairline fractures from her ridiculously tall shoes and had never once had them treated. She now had difficulty moving her toes. The woman was only twenty-three.

  Which made Evan particularly hot under the collar when Tanya told him, “The CEO of Staci Kay Shoes is still trying to reach you.”

  “That woman does not give up.”

  “You were legitimately unavailable each time she phoned. But I see she’s emailed you as well.”

  “Yes, I saw that, too. My guess is that she’s looking for some sort of sound bite from me regarding Regina’s injuries, which Miss Kay likely believes she can somehow denounce publicly, in the name of fashion and for the sake of her industry’s reputation.”

  “I don’t know,” Tanya said with a hint of hesitation. “Wouldn’t her PR people be the ones to make that sort of call? And she has expressed a sense of urgency.”

  “Which completely ties in to the fact that I’m operating on a runway model with severe numbness in her feet because of the heels she’s been wearing. Staci Kay has some nerve contacting me.”

  Christ, it went far beyond that. And his agitation grew.

  Evan shook his head at how easily he’d been duped. Not something he was accustomed to. And it grated even more that, because of his intense, burning desire for Liz, he’d gone against personal convictions and had embraced all the risks inherent to one-night stands.

  He’d had to have her. It had been as simple as that.

  And it was just as complicated. Because everything about that encounter stuck with him, even though it shouldn’t have. Seeing her breathtaking face on his computer screen and now knowing how to contact her, how to see her again, made it so much worse for him.

  In every sense, she was the enemy. The opposition in his professional fight to heighten awareness about the types of shoes she purported as empowering for—not debilitating to—women.

  So yes, he was damn pissed off at her for what he presumed to be her locked-out-of-her-room ploy. Even more pissed off at how gullible he’d been—for falling all over himself from that very first look at her.

  “Well, anyway,” Tanya continued, not knowing the true or full source of his contention when it came to Staci Kay, “for what it’s worth, she did sound a bit distressed that she couldn’t speak with you. It’s entirely possible she has something important to say.”

  Evan shoved a hand through his hair in a
gitation. He was in desperate need of a haircut, but couldn’t find the time.

  That wasn’t his most immediate, pressing issue. Nor was Staci Kay.

  Evan had plenty of professional initiatives to focus on. The least of his concerns was a proponent of six-inch heels wanting to defend her product to him.

  He dealt with the aftermath on a regular basis. High-society women pounded down his door every day, pleading with him to cure their aching feet so they didn’t have to give up their beloved shoes. Unfortunately, Evan never gave them the news they were dying to hear after he ran X-rays and determined they experienced more than sore arches, bunions, and corns.

  The human foot was simply not designed to spend endless hours at a ninety-degree angle. Toes were not meant to be pinched by pointy-tipped shoes. But none of them wanted to accept this. And he was certain Staci Kay—Liz—was just like all the rest of them!

  “Look,” Evan said as he reached for the decanter of scotch at the fully stocked wet bar, “if she calls next week, tell her I’m completely unavailable for the month. That’s not untrue. I honestly don’t have time for her. She’ll get the hint and move on. In the meantime, I’ve got to finish my speech for tomorrow’s convention.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry to upset you.”

  Now he felt like an ass. “Tanya, it has nothing to do with you.” He splashed the amber liquid in his glass. “She’s the problem; I’m the solution. No need for us to interact. And that’s not your fault or concern. Just politely inform her once more that I’m indisposed. I’m juggling plenty of cases along with giving lectures on new, cutting-edge treatments. I can’t lose my focus or be distracted by someone who merely wants to refute my stance on the dangers of stilettos.”

  Evan would never discount the fact that the shoes held a certain allure…but at what cost? In his mind, they just weren’t worth it.

  Case closed.

  Chapter Seven

  Staci really hadn’t believed that the San Diego Convention Center would be wall-to-wall foot specialists and their groupies. This was home to the ultra-cool Comic-Con, for God’s sake!