Lamont Stedman and Benjamin Kryszka, both men pushing forty, were the other two ED physicians on duty. Marissa Landower, an attractive woman about ten years older, was the resident pediatrician. While any of them would fuss a bit over him, none would fall apart like a dewy-eyed debutante.

He peered at her, looking like a lopsided raccoon. “I should get hazardous-duty pay.”

“If it will make you feel better, I’ll give you one of the kids’ sugar-free lollipops. Cherry or grape?”

“Can you lace it with a painkiller?” he asked, his voice hopeful.

“Sorry.”

“Then I’ll pass.”

Sierra braked the wheelchair beside the bed. “Do you want to hop up here or stay where you are?”

“I’ll stay right here, thank you very much. It’ll save on wear and tear when you send me to my car. So I can go home,” he finished pointedly.

“What? And miss a trip to Radiology?” She tutted. “Now, Dr. Donovan—”

“This is so unnecessary,” he grumbled. “I have a minor bump on my head, my chin’s not bleeding nearly as badly as it was and I wrenched my knee. Nothing that a few ice packs and a bandage won’t cure.”

She leaned over to study the gash, fully aware of how wonderful he smelled. “You’re right about your chin. A butterfly bandage should take care of it. As for the rest of your aches, we need X-rays.”

“No, we don’t.”

His expression reminded her of a little boy whose wishes were being thwarted. If he crossed his arms and stuck out his lower lip, the picture would be complete.

The diagnosis was in and it was definite—Dr. Donovan was a lousy patient.

“Yes, we do,” she said, hiding her amusement. “How would it look if I sent you home with a subdural hematoma, a concussion or a torn ACL?”

“I didn’t tear my ACL,” he said. “Anterior cruciate ligament tears would be more painful and I would have heard a distinct pop, which I didn’t. I also didn’t fracture my skull and I absolutely, positively, do not have a concussion.”

“Here’s your ice pack, Doctor.” A nurse thrust the cold bag at him and he placed it on his face with heartfelt thanks.

“You know your brain wasn’t scrambled because…?” She waited for his response.

“I’ve had a concussion before and my current headache doesn’t come close.”

“That’s good to hear, but while you may have Superman’s X-ray vision, I, as your physician, do not.” She motioned to one of the nurses to begin taking his vital signs. “So your opinion is overruled. We might even spring for an MRI of your knee.”

“You’re making far too much of this.”

“Risk Management and Workman’s Comp all require a thorough exam, which is what I’m trying to do. As one of the hospital’s finest and most illustrious staff members, you should sit back and enjoy the attention.”

“I’d rather be at home, licking my wounds in private.”

While his injuries were obviously painful, she suspected they were strictly of the minor variety. “You’ll get there soon enough,” she predicted. “Meanwhile, let’s slip you into a hospital gown so we can take a look at—”

“Not a chance.”

“It’s either that or cut off your pants leg,” she warned. “I can’t see through fabric either.”

“Grab your scissors,” he said firmly. “Losing a pair of pants is not worth the indignity.”

“Okay, but it’s a waste of a perfectly good garment.”

“They’re mine to waste. Cut.”

With an order like that, she couldn’t refuse. She began snipping through the cotton, careful to avoid puncturing his skin. Each slice revealed more of his muscular leg and caused her mouth to suddenly go dry.

To make matters worse, she was oddly unsettled by her task, which was ridiculous because she’d cut off clothing before without a second thought, and on a number of men more handsome than Trey. If she wasn’t almost finished, she would have turned over the job to one of the hovering nurses, who clearly would have been thrilled at the honor.

“Do you run?” she asked, trying to deal with her view of his leg clinically.

“Yeah.”

His knee was too swollen for her to pull the free leg off, so she sliced the fabric lengthwise and laid it open. “You’ll have to postpone your daily jogs for a while.”

“You think?”

She smiled at his sarcasm. “You really are holding true to the stereotype about doctors being lousy patients.”

“I’m entitled. This whole thing was so stupid! It should never have happened.”

The guilt she’d been holding at bay reappeared. “Maybe next time you’ll let me handle it.”

His battered face didn’t hide his skepticism. “And what would you have done? Ended up at the bottom of the pile with me? Or, worse yet, instead of me?”

His outrage was obvious and she understood why. Men hated appearing weak. Being caught off guard and injured because of a misplaced punch would, in their opinion, epitomize the very trait they hated. Now, if he’d earned his wounds because he’d thrown a few blows of his own, they would have become badges of honor.

“Maybe you’re right,” she conceded, “but you shouldn’t feel embarrassed either. In fact, once news gets out, you’ll become more popular than you already are.”

“I guess.” He didn’t sound too happy about his new status, which surprised her. David had always preened under extra attention and she’d expected Trey to do the same.

“Can I have some ibuprofen and ice for my knee now?” he complained.

“The ice is coming right up,” she said. “We’ll save the pain reliever until after your CT scan.”

“BP is one forty-five over eighty,” the nurse broke in to report. “Pulse is sixty-eight.”

“Your blood pressure is a little high—”

“Of course it is,” he snapped. “Getting caught in the middle of a fight will do that.”

Sierra exchanged a wry glance with Roma. Clearly the charge nurse held Sierra’s opinion about Trey’s attitude. She looked as if she was ready to comment when another nurse brought a fresh ice pack, breaking the moment.

Sierra secured the bag to his knee with elastic wrap. “This’ll hold it in place while you’re visiting Radiology. After you’re back and Dr. Abernathy sees you, we’ll wrap your knee more securely.”

“What? No Lachman’s? No pivot shift test?”

She smiled as he referred to the two tests performed to diagnose an ACL injury. “Knowing an orthopedist will do those himself, do you really want me to manipulate your knee and leg just to prove I know how? “

“True. Good idea to wait.”

Sierra stepped aside. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

For the next hour, past the time Sierra’s shift should have ended, a steady stream of staff members approached her to ask how Trey was doing. Even the people who were just reporting for duty had heard of the mishap and begged for details.

The two prisoners stopped her in the hallway to gruffly pass on their apologies to Trey before their caretakers herded them to jail.

“What was all that about?” she asked Ben and Lamont, who acted rather pleased with themselves as they perched on the counter beside her.

“We let it be known they’d better be on their best behavior if they ever come here again because we don’t take kindly to our staff getting hurt,” Lamont replied. “The next time they lose their cool and need something more than a few stitches, we’ll use drugs that produce some unpleasant side effects.”

“Like impotence, incontinence, hair loss, skin blemishes, boils, diarrhea and blurred vision,” Ben chimed in.

“Not to mention anal leakage and flatulence.”

Sierra looked at her two colleagues in amazement. “You didn’t.”

“We did,” Lamont assured her, before he exchanged a wide grin with his partner-in-crime.

She laughed. “You guys are awful. You both look so meek and mild-mannered, but underneath you have an evil streak.”

“Hey,” Lamont protested without heat, “we protect our own. Now that we’ve done our good deed for the day, we’re going home. Are you sticking around?”