He turns to me and gives me a wink. “Hopefully you can repeat the performance for the benefit of Geriatrics.”

“No.” Max’s voice deepens and he rises to his feet. “She’s not going back on that stage.”

Dr. Drake’s smile fades. “No?”

I tug on his sleeve. “It’s for charity.”

“I said no.” Max folds his arms. The sleeves of his tux strain under the bulge of his flexed biceps.

Dr. Drake raises an eyebrow. “I believe it is Mac’s decision. I might also point out this is a work function and she’s being paid to do a job.”

“I want to help.” I stand up and put my hand on Max’s arm. “It won’t take long, and I promise not to offer any dinner dates.”

“There you go.” Dr. Drake smiles. “She wants to help.” He puts his hand on my bare back and takes a step forward, leading me toward the door.

“Take your hands off her.”

Dr. Drake freezes. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Max grasps my arm and pulls me toward him. I stumble sideways and trip on the hem of my dress. Dr. Drake’s arm snakes around my waist and he catches me before I fall.

Max yanks me out of Dr. Drake’s arms.

“Enough. This isn’t a tug of war.” I twist in his arms but he hugs me to his chest like a child protecting a toy.

“I believe Miss Delaney would like you to release her.” Dr. Drake’s voice is calm and even—a decided contrast to the low, threatening rumble emanating from Max’s chest.

“And I believe if you have any sense of self-preservation, you will walk out that door and find someone else to help with the auction.”

“You are overreacting.” I rest my cheek against his twitching pecs. He smells divine. His cologne is fresh, spicy, and oh so masculine. His body vibrates with the rumble of his voice. He is in full protective mode and it fires my blood. But I can’t let him interfere with my work.

“Are you threatening me, Huntington?” Dr. Drake gives Max an assessing look. “I’ll have you know I was a two-time NCAA champion wrestler in college. I gave up on a professional career to become a doctor, but I still practice daily in the hospital gym.” He air boxes his shadow, giving it a one-two punch. “You want to step outside?”

“No.” I look from Dr. Drake to Max and back again. “I won’t allow it.”

“I wanted to step outside with you a long time ago, Drake,” Max says ignoring me. “You can’t seem to keep your hands off my girl.”

“Is she your girl?” Dr. Drake asks in a cool voice.

“Are you my girl?” Max’s voice drops to a low murmur, and he brushes his lips over my hair.

“Yours,” I whisper.

Max gives a self-satisfied grunt and tightens his arm around me. “She’s mine. She says so.”

“That doesn’t mean obeys Max’s every whim,” I add. “I’m going to do my job and help with the auction. You can glower by the stage and growl at anyone who dares breathe in my direction.”

Dr. Drake chortles. “Looks like she might be too much for you to handle, Huntington. Maybe she needs a real man.”

Max’s body tightens and I slide my arms around his chest. “Don’t—”

“Redemption,” Max bites out. “MMA club in Ghost Town. Tonight after the auction.”

Dr. Drake’s eyes flash and he grins. “I’ll be there. And lucky for you, after your defeat, when you’re moaning in a pool of your own contrition, I will be morally obligated to tend to your injuries.”

He extends his hand and he and Max shake.

“After the auction,” Max snaps, “and you don’t touch my girl again.”

“After the auction. And I will if she wants.”

Chapter 15

You know the rules of the ring

The auction is a roaring success. I walk the catwalk four more times, and my hearts raise another two hundred thousand dollars. Max escorts me on and off the stage. During the breaks, he keeps even Charlie away with his folded arms and menacing stare. I am forced to entertain myself by playing spot Big Doris as she swans around the room in her florescent green suit.

After the auction ends, the floor is cleared for dancing. I catch Charlie planting a smooch on Big Doris in the corner. Big Doris doesn’t look pleased. She slaps him across the face. Good thing we’re in a room full of medical professionals.

“Lighten up,” I say after Max chases away an eighty-something-year-old man in a wheelchair.

“If you want me to lighten up then put on my jacket,” he snaps. “I know what these men are thinking, and I don’t want them thinking it about you.”

“If I wear your jacket, will you dance with me?” Although I have doubts about the kind of music the band is going to play for the primarily post-sixties crowd, I never miss an opportunity to dance.

Max gives me a curt nod and slides his jacket off. He holds it for me and I slip my arms inside. The warm, silk lining glides over my skin, and I close my eyes and revel at the delicious sensation of being totally enveloped in Max.

We hit the dance floor and the band launches into an upbeat, old-time jazz tune. Max takes my hand and we shuffle a slow circle under a potted palm. He hums along to the song, his face soft and relaxed. A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I’ve never seen him really enjoy himself.

“What is this song?”