“Does this happen often?” Sam couldn’t believe he’d asked her that. He clamped his jaw tightly. As a physician, he had taken an oath to treat all patients equally, but this one struck a chord, and the danger of looking upon her as a warm, desirable woman was strong.

“Meet men when I’m nude? No!”

He laughed outright at that, relieved. “I guessed as much.” Carefully he lifted up the tissue sheet at her waist and placed his fingers on her abdomen, suspecting he would find rigidity and tenderness at McBurney’s point, halfway between the navel and the crest of the hipbone.

“Actually, I’ve been feeling better the last couple hours,” Marjorie said hurriedly, hoping to suggest that whatever was wrong was curing itself. His hand felt cool and soothing against her heated flesh, and she closed her eyes. However, the instant he glided his fingers to her side and pressed down, her eyes shot open at the excruciating pain searing through her like red-hot needles.

She swore loudly and jumped from the examination table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, her hands crossed protectively over her stomach. The agony lingered, and she nearly doubled over with the force of it.

“Miss Majors—”

“And what were all those platitudes about not needing to suffer?”

“Miss Majors, if you’d kindly return to the table…”

“Are you crazy? So you can do that again? Forget it, buddy.”

“I may be able to forget it,” he said solemnly, with a hint of chastisement, “but you won’t. The pain isn’t going to go away. In fact, it will get worse. Much worse. You should have seen a doctor days ago.”

“It’s already worse, thanks to you.”

“Miss Majors—”

“For heaven’s sake, call me Marjorie.”

“Marjorie, then. Running out of here like a terrified rabbit isn’t going to make everything all right.”

So he’d noticed the way she was eyeing the neat pile of her folded clothes. She wouldn’t run, because that would be silly and stupid, but she couldn’t keep from looking at the door longingly.

“You have an inflamed appendix.”

She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. The shooting pain hadn’t ebbed; if anything, it had gotten steadily worse from the moment he had touched her tender abdomen. Oh dear heaven, her appendix. She didn’t need a fortune-teller to explain what would happen next. Surgery. The sound of the word was as ominous as that of a trumpet in a funeral march.

“Your temperature is rising, and my guess is that your white cell count is sky-high,” he continued. “A blood test will confirm that easily enough.”

A weak smile wobbled at the corners of her mouth. “My appendix,” she repeated.