Free A Perfect Fit by Lynne Gentry Page B

strangled their beautiful port. “Nigel here overreacted. He’s handy in a bar fight, but he doesn’t do blood.” He lifted his chin. Chalky powder ringed his pristine blue eyes.
    “Sir, where are you hurt?” Magdalena’s visual exam started at his head. She was usually quite good at guessing height, weight, even injuries, but the thick layer of dust made the task difficult. The injured man was obviously tall, and from his sharp, well-defined features, possibly somewhat handsome. She’d guess him to be no older than thirty, and since he lacked a ring on his finger, not married. She quickly scrubbed that last ridiculous thought from her mind.
    “My injury is kinda personal, pretty lady.” The dusty man winked. “No offense, but I think I’ll wait and tell the doc.”
    “I am the doctor.” Technically, she was only a first-year intern who happened to be assigned to a four-week ER rotation, which she would never disclose, especially to a tourist.
    “You?” His surprise skipped from the dark strands escaping her tidy bun to her white coat. “If I’d known the doctors in Carthage looked like Roman goddesses, I would have jumped down that funerary hole the moment I set foot in your ancient city.” He shook his head, and dust drifted to the floor. “Nigel, my friend, we’ve got to climb out of the lonely trenches more often.”
    Lonely. “I don’t have time for your games, sir.” This was not the first time an American had acted far too familiar for Tunisian customs. Even though she was curious to know if his loneliness was anything like hers, inappropriate flirtations with outsiders were not only foolish but dangerous. “Either you tell me your injury or I strip you down and find it myself.”
    “That could be fun.”
    Magdalena pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and snapped one on. “Not for you.”
    “Okay, doc. You win.” He pointed to his backside. “I’ve got a potsherd stuck in my . . . derrière.” He chuckled at the flush of heat in her cheeks.
    She craned her neck. “In this town we don’t patch up antiquities smugglers.” The back of the man’s filthy dungarees was dark and wet with blood. “We stone them.”
    Nigel squared off. “Doc Hastings is an archaeologist, not a thief!”
    “That’s what they all say once they’re caught with their pants down.” She snapped on another glove. “Put him facedown on that gurney.”
    “I’ve got this, Nigel.” Dr. Hastings limped to the small bed and belly-flopped onto the clean sheet. “Do unto me what you must, fair maiden. All I ask is that you handle my posterior with the same gentle care I lavish upon each and every one of your national treasures.”
    “If you mean you want me to leave your hillsides pocked with holes, I’m only too happy to accommodate.”
    “There’s a little clinic down the road. Want me to cart you there, boss?” Nigel asked.
    “And leave this fair lady in the white coat?” Her patient eyed her as best he could with one side of his face scrunched into the mattress. “Naw. I think we can come to some sort of compromise. Right, Doc?”
    Magdalena shooed Nigel toward an empty chair, then picked up a fresh chart and clicked her pen. “Name.”
    “Dr. Lawrence Hastings.” When he maneuvered his head for a better look at her, he winced. Maybe she should have stabilized his spine. “Now tell me yours, beautiful.”
    Before she could answer she heard, “Dr. Kader.”
    Magdalena turned to see her father’s long, practiced stride eating up the hall. She straightened her shoulders, determined that he see her as a doctor rather than a woman in need of a husband. “Sir?”
    “What have we here?” Her father surveyed her patient’s bloodied trousers and the six inches of potsherd protruding from the left butt cheek. “Young man, this is the very reason frolicking upon the ruins is prohibited.” He took the chart from Magdalena and scribbled his name. “I doubt you’ll have any trouble with