Her Russian Billionaire(5)

I couldn't help but wonder how his flesh would feel naked under my touch, as I explored his lean toned body. Once again, I thought about grabbing handfuls of thick, dark hair, pulling his face between my thighs. I had climaxed to the thought of his tongue against me, crying out in pleasure as I imagined the feel of his mouth against my most sensitive places.

The chime of the elevator brought me back to the moment and I grimaced as I realized that I was growing damp between my legs at the memory of my fantasies.

The guy is awful-and probably about to fire you, I reminded myself in an attempt to stifle the lust building within me. It was much easier to convince myself of this fact while sober, and by the time I made it to room 1258 (with an ominous sign on its door: Alexey Makarov, Chief Executive Officer), I felt nothing but dread and contempt for him.

"Go right in. He's expecting you," Makarov's secretary said with a smile once I gave her my name. She was a young, slender blonde woman, and I couldn't help but wonder if Makarov was the type to go after his assistants. I wanted to believe that he was, only because I was desperate to think the worst of him, yet I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy at that thought as well. Shaking that feeling off, I entered his office.

Makarov was behind a desk in a huge corner office with large windows stretching across two walls behind him. He stood as I entered, sporting a confident smile at me while I made my way towards his desk. That damn smile again. Stop it, Michelle!

"Dr. Carter," he said, motioning to a large chair across from him. "Please have a seat. What a pleasure to see you again," he continued once I was seated, the grin still on his lips. I had no idea what he was playing at, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm-even if he had figured out a way to have me fired. And even if I couldn't stop but find his hint of an accent just a tiny bit attractive.

"Yeah … " I replied, but couldn't think of anything else to say.

We sat for a while in uncomfortable silence. I willed myself to remain calm and still, with an inscrutable (I hoped) expression on my face.

"I've been thinking about our conversation yesterday," he began after an awkward few moments.

"About what, exactly?" I asked, hoping that he didn't think I could cut it as a doctor in his hospital.

"What you said, specifically, about me not having gone to medical school-not having a medical degree."

"Oh," I replied, recalling how-angry and more than a little buzzed the night before-I'd let my mouth ramble. What could I say to him now?

"You see," Makarov continued, the smile still on his face, "operating table fatalities are a sort of …  interest of mine, you could say. This hospital doesn't see many of them, but I like to look over each one personally."

"Aren't there people hired specifically to do that?" I asked, knowing I should keep my mouth shut but finding myself unable to do so. "People with medical degrees?"

"Well …  yes. But I like to do it as well-just for my own peace of mind. However, you are right, I'm not a doctor." He smiled even bigger than before as he continued. "That's why you're going to help me."

"What?" I sat forward, not even sure what he meant.

Makarov rose from his chair and picked up a box from the floor by his desk, placing it right in front of me.

"This is every operating table fatality in the last few years. I've already gone over them, of course. But I thought, since I didn't have a medical degree, you could see if you noticed anything out of the ordinary-anything we could improve upon to prevent a recurrence."

"I don't think I would be able to take time off from the ER," I replied, trying to find a way out of working with him any more than I'd had to already.

"Of course not," he agreed. "I've already assured Viola Grimes that this would be done in your own time, outside of your regular shifts."

"Outside of my twelve-hour shifts?" I tried not to sound as angry as I was. When would I be expected to sleep, I wonder?

"Yes, of course. Surely you could look over a few files each week. We could meet once a week to go over your findings. Dr. Grimes has already been informed. She explained that you would be more than capable and would jump at the chance to learn a new experience."   





 

"But why me? I'm just a lowly intern in the Emergency Department, not even a surgery resident." I was grabbing at straws now, and I hated that I probably came off as lacking confidence. I was sure of my achievements, my background, but the shy anxious Michelle still came through now and again. It was probably the uncertainty of the whole dynamic between me and the CEO of the hospital that brought these negative thoughts out.

"I chose you because I was impressed with how you held your own during the M&M conference. You were accosted by all these experienced attendings, even before I began questioning you. And you just stood there, so poised and elegant," he cleared his voice and looked away, as if regretting saying something he shouldn't have.

His confidence in me was almost soothing. Not very many people felt that way about me, even after all of my achievements-getting into med school on the first try, graduating at the top of my class, landing a very coveted internship position. Even my parents still downplayed my success, always hinting that I could stand to lose a few pounds ("since you have so much determination, Michelle!"). They were both in their fifties and very slim and toned, thanks to their twice weekly tennis sessions. Having such critically inclined parents was probably what drove me to succeed in life in the first place, and despite not being too close with them, I was glad their attitude helped propel me to where I was today.

I didn't know what to say to Makarov. He'd already cleared the project with Dr. Grimes. There was no way I would be getting out of it, so eventually I just nodded my head in defeat.

"Okay," I said.

"Great!" he replied, opening the box and handing me a stack of files. "Here, start with five for now. We can meet near the end of next week to go over them."

I took the files and tried my best to return his smile as I got up to return to the ER.

"I can't believe you gave me so much hell just now. I have to admit, people usually go out of their way to give me what I want. And I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I respect that, Dr. Carter. See you next week," he said as I left, and I could have sworn there was glee in his voice.

I seethed through the rest of my shift and all the way home. I dropped the files on my coffee table and glared at them over a bowl of ice cream-my routine dinner as of late.

He's trying to punish me, I was sure of it. He's trying to make me pay for pointing out his lack of expertise. That, or he is trying to make me quit, since he can't have me fired. Either way, he is trying to make my life miserable.

But there was another voice inside my head, one I was trying my best to ignore. This voice was a little too excited to be working closely with Makarov. This was the same voice that kept reminding me of pale grey eyes and a cocksure smile, or hard muscles beneath an expensive suit. This voice called up urges in me that I didn't want to feel, and I tried my best to silence it, or at least ignore it. Unfortunately, this wasn't as easy as I hoped it would be.

Grumbling angrily, trying to ignore my own traitorous imagination, I eventually leaned forward and picked up the first file. I would not let Makarov win!





Chapter 6





The next week passed in a flurry. The Emergency Room was surprisingly busy with the usual summer calamities-surfing mishaps, lawnmower accidents, and the like. My free time was taken up with a careful examination of each case file Makarov had handed me.

In my gut, I was sure that this task was some type of a punishment, a way to get back at me for my snide comments at the bar. My deepest fear was that this was Makarov's way to manipulate me into leaving my internship. I, however, couldn't help but see it as a test, of sorts-a test of my endurance, my drive, and an overall test of my ability to analyze medical procedures.

Though Makarov hadn't asked for it, I wrote up a short report on each case, which included a brief summary of what happened, reasons why the fatality may have occurred, and suggestions on how a similar occurrence might be avoided in the future. I forced myself to do this for even the most clear-cut cases. I read and reread each report multiple times, until I was absolutely confident in my work.

I also made sure to complete this task earlier in the week. I knew I would risk giving Makarov the impression that I could be given more cases next week, but I needed to prove to him that I couldn't be intimidated.

Wednesday morning, before my shift, I made my way up to the twelfth floor and left the files, along with my reports, with Makarov's secretary.

"You sure you don't want to deliver them in person?" she asked. "He just got in and doesn't have another appointment at the moment."   





 

"I'm sure," I said in a voice that was probably a little too convincing, but she just smiled at me knowingly and nodded.

I questioned that decision later on that morning, however, when Dr. Grimes cornered me in the break room.

"I just got off the phone with Lex Makarov," she said with a smile. "He seemed really happy with the work you'd done for him. He said to send you up to his office at the end of your shift to discuss your findings and receive more cases."