The Doctor's Damsel (Men of the Capital Book 3) Read online

  The Doctor’s Damsel

  Men of the Capital Book 3

  By Cara Nelson

  Dedications

  I dedicate this book to you, my loyal readers. Thank you for all the lovely e-mails, reviews and support. Without you, this wouldn't be possible.

  Table of Contents

  The Doctor’s Damsel

  Dedications

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Thank you for downloading ‘The Doctor’s Damsel’.

  Join my mailing list and receive updates on new releases, free books, and giveaways.

  Click HERE to sign-up.

  Chapter 1

  “I’m definitely changing my name, I think,” Becca said.

  “What? Why?” Her sister Hannah demanded as she flicked absently through a bridal magazine.

  “WHY? Abbracciabene is why. I’m an actress. An actress needs to have a simple, impactful name.”

  “I take exception to that. Leonardo diCaprio has a very distinctive and long name, and it hasn’t held him back.”

  “It can be distinctive, but it has to be simple and impactful.”

  “Did you, like, read those two words in a brochure and they stuck with you?”

  “It was an online article, thank you very much. And I think if I’m serious about my career, I have to commit to a stage identity.”

  “Personally, I think your name is plenty impactful. Which is, I’m fairly certain, not even a word.”

  “I want the right kind of impact.”

  “Are you saying our parents were stupid when they named us?”

  “Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying. If you are going to keep a dumbass last name like Abbracciabene when you’ve never even been to Italy, you do not saddle your daughters with ridiculous names.”

  “Rebecca is hardly ridiculous.”

  “Rebecca Perugia Abbracciabene IS ridiculous. Besides, I didn’t see you using our honker of a last name professionally, Hannah Largent. You totally changed your name.”

  “I got married. That’s why I changed my name.”

  “And when you got divorced three seconds later, I didn’t see you breaking a hip to get Abbracciabene back on your driver’s license.”

  “True. It’s a sucky name to be stuck with. Are you keeping Perugia?”

  “Hell, no. I’m going with Becca Bennett. Bennett sounds kind of like the bene part of our name, but it’s more normal. Also, it reminds me of those girls in that movie Pride and Prejudice.”

  “It’s also a book, you know.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I like that movie. Have you read the book?”

  “No, but I know there is one,” Hannah said defensively. “Do you think this ribbon is ugly?”

  “It’s ribbon. I think it looks like ribbon. I don’t know. Do you love it?”

  “I have no idea. I mean, how do you know if you love ribbon?”

  “I’m not sure I have an answer for that, Han.”

  “You’re maid of honor. It’s your solemn duty to have an answer.”

  “Okay, when you start doodling its name on your notebook in biology class, then you know you love ribbon,” Becca said. “Should I have two t’s or one at the end of Bennett?”

  “Two. You have two c’s in Becca and there are two ns in Bennett. It’s symmetrical that way.”

  “So you have an opinion on consonants but not ribbon?”

  “Yes. Consonants, I’m confident enough to evaluate. Ribbon, not so much.” Hannah sighed and set the magazine down. “Bridal magazines make me sweat. Look at me. I left a sweaty handprint on the cover. I’m calling Annelise about the ribbon.”

  “No. I forbid you to call that secretary again. You’re harassing her. This is an intervention. Give me the phone. You’re not calling her. It’s after ten,” Becca insisted.

  “Oh. Okay.” Hannah shrugged. “So what were you going to tell me? Before we started on the name business?”

  “Oh, Chris met someone else. We’re over.” Becca drooped, slumping in her chair at the thought. Her lithe blonde frame seemed to wilt onto the table. She dropped her head onto a stack of magazines. “I really thought he was the one.”

  “I’m surprised it lasted this long, Bec. I’m sorry you’re so upset, but the guy goes through the waitresses at his restaurant like they’re his personal harem.”

  “He has the most amazing—”

  “Do not give me details. I am your big sister, and I can still wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “Loft. He has an amazing loft,” Becca finished, offended.

  “Right, with the Jacuzzi tub?” Hannah said, vaguely remembering a reference to the fabulousness of the elusive Chris’s dwelling.

  Hannah had met Chris once, and even her impressive vocabulary of invectives had been insufficient to the task of describing him to others. He was a sleazebag. Her pretty, trusting little sister was only the latest in a long line of aspiring actress/waitresses to wind up in the restaurant owner’s bed and now proverbial recycling bin as well.

  “I hated him.” Hannah said. “When he was nice to you I already hated him. I knew this was coming.”

  “You always think the worst is going to happen. You’re a doomsayer.”

  “Someone has to be the doomsayer, why not me? Are you okay? I mean, is there anything I can do for you? Ice cream?”

  “Ugh! No! I don’t eat dairy, you know that. It bloats me.”

  “Okay. I wasn’t trying to—bloat you.” Hannah looked at her willowy sister dubiously and saw no signs of bloating of any sort.

  “I could use a place to stay since, obviously, I’m being kicked out of my loft.”

  “It is Slimeball Chris’s loft. You couldn’t burn enough sage to rid the place of his evil spirit even if it was your loft. Which it isn’t. So you’ll have to live here.”

  “There’s no bedroom. You turned the bedroom into a studio. Your bed is in the living room-slash-kitchen. I am not living with you and sleeping in bed with you in the living room-slash-kitchen, Han. I love you, but I remember sharing a room with you growing up.”

  “Yeah, me too. I’m not suggesting it. I’m suggesting I finish moving into Jasper’s since I’m there most of the time anyway. I’ll keep a key and use the studio, but you can sublet this place.”

  “Sublet as in pay for it?” Becca grinned appealingly.

  “No, sublet as in my fiancé is richer than, like, anyone, so you’ll pay the utilities and promise to take care of the place for me. We’ll put it in writing because he and I are going to be out of the country on our honeymoon. If there’s any problem, you need to have the authority to get a locksmith or plumber or whatever,” Hannah said with characteristic practicality. “I’m sure there’s someone in Legal at Cates Corporation whose loyalty I can abuse by forcing them to draw up a sublease agreement for us. Now I’m going back to Jasper’s. You can have the place.”

  “Thank you, sissy. I love you.” Becca threw her arms around her sister’s neck.

  “Because I gave you an apartment,” Hannah teased, hugging her impetuous sister back. Becca was impulsive but irresistible. Hannah had never been able to keep from wanting to help her, even when she was infuriatingly naïve.

  “I’ll walk you down. I have to go to Chris’s place to pick up my crap,” Becca said, jangling her key ring.

  Hannah handed her the spare key to the apartment and watched with amusement as Becca tried to wedge the key onto her sparkly bejeweled pink lips keychain without brea
king a nail. Becca insisted that her gestures were part of her voice as an actor and kept her manicure immaculate. The keys were proving to be a challenge. Hannah resisted the urge to grab the thing away from her and stick the key on the ring. She watched, fascinated, as Becca used the key itself to pry the slats of the ring apart enough to wedge the thing between them. Satisfied with her baby sister’s ingenuity, Hannah led the way downstairs.

  “You want me to go with you to Chris’s loft?”

  “Nah. I’m okay. You go home and crash.”

  “You sure?” Hannah offered.

  “Yeah. Really. There are no hard feelings,” Becca said genuinely. Hannah shook her head. Her sister was forgiving to a fault. She’d probably stay to make Chris and his new girlfriend a nice stir fry dinner, Hannah thought bitterly.

  Becca pulled up outside Chris’s tony building and got the empty boxes and tape roll out of her car. She didn’t think she had much besides her clothes and toiletries there but she wanted to get out as fast as possible. She unlocked the door and dragged her unwieldy burden into the big shiny cook’s kitchen and dining area. She headed for a drawer, got out the two crappy plastic scrapers that were her own, and tossed them in a box. She looked longingly at the nice stainless steel ones she’d used to cook for Chris every night. Maybe the new girl cooked and she’d need those. Becca sighed a little sadly and looked for her skillet. Putting it in the box, she looked around until she found her purple water bottle and packed it, too.

  She was heading into the living room to get her books off the shelf when Aria walked in, clad in a towel.

  “Oh, it’s you. Chris said you might come by.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here. I would’ve knocked,” Becca said softly.

  “No problem. I was in the Jacuzzi. I wouldn’t have heard you anyway. Need any help?”

  “No, I don’t have that much. Jacuzzi’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Becca mused.

  “It’s crazy. Sooo relaxing. I can’t believe I live here now!” Aria said. “Chris is so romantic. He insisted I move right in! I’m cooking him dinner later.”

  “He doesn’t like rosemary in anything, and skip the onions. He’s kind of picky,” Becca advised.

  “Really? Thanks.” Aria seemed surprised.

  “Yeah. I’m just going to grab my books now, and then I’ll get my clothes out of your way.”

  “I used your grapefruit shampoo. It smells good. I hope you don’t mind.” Aria said. She was about twenty-one years old, pretty, and seemed sweet. Becca had seen her at the restaurant, but they’d never had a shift together yet. She hoped things turned out better for Aria than they had for her.

  “It’s okay.”

  Becca picked out her titles from the bookshelf. She was going to pick up her latest issue of Bazaar to read later. She saw that Aria had it open on the couch so she decided to leave it. Aria went into the bedroom and changed into a silky nightie. Becca favored old-fashioned pink cotton nightgowns. She could see how Chris would prefer the silky nightie girl. Her shampoo, make-up and flatiron joined the books in a box. Aria picked up the tape roll and started closing the full box for her.

  “Thanks.” Becca said, wondering if the girl wanted her gone faster or if she was just being unexpectedly kind. Becca decided it was the latter.

  She went into the bedroom and saw that Aria already had clothes hanging in the huge walk-in closet, mixed in with Chris’s.

  “I did that, too, Aria. He doesn’t like it. He keeps his stuff lined up just so,” Becca warned. She pulled her own stuff off hangers and stuffed it sloppily into a box. She put the shoes in a separate box so the heels wouldn’t snag the fabric of her dresses. On top of that, she piled her vintage magazines, a stack of old movie publications she’d gotten at flea markets. She loved to flip through, looking at the starlets’ ensembles and read about their journeys from a farm in Kansas to the studio roster at MGM. She liked to imagine young girls reading them, tacking pages up on their walls and trying to imitate the hairstyles, rolling a twist of hair and pinning it up just right.

  In the back of the closet was a box of her stuff that she’d never unpacked, the secondhand, mismatched dishes and cups and utensils that she hadn’t needed because Chris’s stuff was so much nicer. She’d given her futon to her old roommate, so it was a good thing Hannah had a bed she could use. She wondered sadly how she’d got to the point where, at twenty-seven years old, she was single, unemployed, and crashing at her sister’s place. She scooted the box out and dragged it to the front door.

  “Chris—he likes his dry cleaning sent out twice a week, and you can only wash socks with his underwear or he gets really pissed. Don’t ever, EVER eat in his car, either.”

  “Ok. Thanks,” Aria said, flicking through Becca’s copy of Bazaar idly while watching a reality show.

  “Good luck. I hope—you know, it was really hard when he broke up with me. but I hope it’s because you’re the one for him. That you two are just meant to be together,” Becca said earnestly.

  Aria didn’t even look up from the magazine as Becca slid her boxes out the door and left her key on the counter. She rode down in the elevator and loaded her boxes in the car, wishing really hard that she’d had a new boyfriend to help her carry them and make unpacking them a lot more fun. Now it felt like they were relics of the life she’d been evicted from, like something she dreaded opening and sorting out.

  Back at Hannah’s apartment—my apartment, Becca corrected herself—she dragged the boxes up the steps one at a time and then had to go move her car before it got towed. Chris would be getting home about this time, she mused. He and Aria would eat dinner and they’d watch whatever he’d DVR’d that evening. Probably some crime drama. Then they’d make love and go to sleep. It made Becca feel impossibly lonely to know that routine but no longer to be a part of it.

  Every time she ended up alone, it was worse. She knew it was because she was getting older, but she was afraid that she’d stop believing one day, that she’d become like everyone else who thought men were just cheaters who couldn’t be trusted. Someone who didn’t think love could conquer anything at all.

  She sank down onto the bed for a minute, wishing she’d had the nerve to take the magazine out of Aria’s hand and make some great soap opera speech about how Aria had taken away her man, but she’d never take her love of fashion and celebrity. Or that she could have her leftovers, both male and magazine...she wasn’t sure which was the better speech, but she felt certain she ought to have ranted about something to show off her self-respect.

  She looked around the room: front door, bed, couch, refrigerator, oven, and kitchen cabinets all in one room. Hannah had exiled the bed to the front room so she could convert the one bedroom into a soundproof studio for her sound engineering and voiceover work, in her trademark reclusive style. Now Becca had to sleep in the living room/kitchen. She sighed. She was lucky to have a place to live. She just wasn’t thrilled with the furniture placement.

  Instead of moping, she decided to unpack her stuff. If she didn’t do it now, she might never empty the boxes and get rid of the cardboard. She could totally see herself just picking her clothes out of the pile and leaving the rest there. She felt sad and slovenly, so the only thing to do was be industrious and put things in order. Becca couldn’t pick the tape off the boxes because it would ruin her nails. She dug around in the kitchen drawers until she found a box cutter. She sliced the blade along the box, taking out her shoes and arranging them in the bottom of the coat closet. Since the real closet had become part of the recording studio, the narrow coat closet was it for clothing storage. She had to move a box of material out of the closet to fit her shoes in. It looked like white rags stuffed in a fancy box. Her sister was sort of strange, she reasoned, so maybe she kept her cleaning stuff in a pretty gift box for aesthetic purposes.

  Turning back to her boxes, she decided to see what exactly she’d kept in the back of Chris’s closet. She set the blade of the utility knife to the tape, but it
stuck halfway across the box. She picked the tape stuck around the blade off in exasperation and pushed it back into the box lid. It stuck again and she yanked, dragging the diagonal blade across her own hand in the process.

  She let out a yelp, tears springing to her eyes as she saw blood well from the deep cut. She threw the box cutter down and dropped down onto her knees, discouraged. First, the play she was understudying had closed. Then she hadn’t even gotten a callback for the toothpaste commercial. Her boyfriend had dumped her for a younger model, and now she’d cut her hand with the damned box cutter while she was unpacking her stuff. It felt distressingly like she was doomed.

  She felt the heat of blood running down her arm and she groped for something to press against the cut and stop the bleeding. It really hurt. She grabbed one of the rags out of Hannah’s box and wrapped it around her hand. It soaked through very quickly and she grabbed for another thin rag. When she pushed it against her cut, she saw delicate embroidery. For a moment she was puzzled as to why her sister would clean with embroidered rags. Then it dawned on her that these were the special Irish linen napkins and tablecloths that one of Jasper’s associates had sent as an engagement present. And now Becca had bled all over them. They probably cost thousands of dollars, and now stupid Becca had ruined them. She cried all the harder.

  Recalling her first aid course that she’d taken as a teen, she applied pressure with the ruined linen tablecloth and held the arm above her head as she sobbed. She watched the clock. After five minutes, the bleeding hadn’t slowed. She knew she needed to go to the ER, but it seemed like one more indignity. She wouldn’t call Hannah, make her luckier sister stir from her lover’s bed late at night to tend to a bleeding hand. Plus, it wasn’t like a sound engineer had a whole lot of medical training.

  Pushing herself up to her feet, she kicked the box cutter out of spite and stepped into her flip-flops. Grabbing her keys off the counter and picking up a dishtowel to replace the bloody tablecloth she was trailing behind her, Becca set off for the emergency room. As she pulled into the parking lot, she glanced at her reflection in the rear view mirror. Her mascara was smeared under her eyes and she looked puffy from crying. Her hair was sweaty and coming out of its ponytail. She awkwardly wiped her face with a tissue and grabbed a scarf out of the backseat, wrapping it around her neck to make her tank and cutoffs look a little more stylish. She couldn’t fix the ponytail with only one hand so she took it down, letting blond hair fall across her shoulders in unruly waves. Shaking it out, she felt a little more presentable, enough to go face the night receptionist at the ER.