And she should have remembered it too when Declan’s face had been the last thing she’d thought of before she’d fallen asleep. Almost the first thing to flash through her brain as her alarm clock blared. The very first thing, as always, had been the thick thud of loss. The reality of how much her life had changed. The tiny slash of almost white skin where her wedding ring used to be.
But this morning the sharp sting of regret hadn’t been quite so harsh.
Even so, she still hadn’t thought about the barriers Declan had erected, or the way he’d turned his back on her. She’d simply remembered how sweet it had felt when he’d hammered against her barriers with one scorching touch of his mouth.
The same mouth that was now grinning at her as he walked into the scrub room. She put the little heart jig down to excitement at the forthcoming surgery and nothing to do with the sudden scent of soap and spice, or the soft brown eyes, or the way his biceps muscles lengthened as he reached for the tap.
The V neck of his top bared a tantalising amount of suntanned chest and she imagined what might be underneath the navy cotton scrubs... Sometimes a working knowledge of anatomy did a girl nothing but harm. Especially first thing in the morning.
He opened a sterile pack and laid it on a trolley, put on the surgical cap and mask and began washing with the nailbrush, rubbing small circles over his fingers, hands, up his arms.
‘Good morning, Ms Stephens. Sleep well?’
‘Hi. Um... Yes, thanks.’ Liar. Sleeping and thoughts of Declan Underwood were not satisfactory bedfellows.
She dried her hands, pulled on her gown and snapped on her gloves. Took a quick check in the mirror and relaxed. There was no way there would be any kind of sexual vibes happening today—hair in a cap and body in oversized scrubs really didn’t scream goddess or available. Or any kind of hot-for-you. Thank God.
‘And shouldn’t it be top of the mornin’?’
‘A whole millennia of culture reduced to the diddly-diddly. Sure, and we’re all leprechauns.’ He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
That tall, broad body was the furthest thing from a leprechaun she could imagine.
‘And shouldn’t it be g’day?’
‘Cobber. If you’re going the whole reductive stereotype, it should be g’day, cobber. Or sheila. And don’t forget the cork hat.’
‘Same language but not a lot of commonality, eh? That’s a shame. A real shame.’ He dried his hands, gowned up and smiled. ‘Perhaps we should try to forge some middle ground, Kara? There’s a whole lot more I could teach you about Irish culture... In the interests of international relations. Obviously.’
‘Obviously.’ Was that a come on? Or just a joke?
Aaargh. Having been a one-man woman for so long, she didn’t understand the language of flirting.
No matter. She didn’t have time to compute. At that moment he stepped back, catching her unawares in the tiny airless room. His hip brushed against hers and she turned too quickly, slamming body to body against him. Tingles ran the length of her spine as her heart continued a jig that was all diddly-diddly.
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
His gaze met hers and for a split second, maybe two, he watched her. Some weird connection tugged between them. His eyes misted with something akin to confusion, along with an unmistakable heat that seemed to whoosh all the oxygen from her lungs.
His arms were splayed high in front of him, so as not to desterilise them, but that made his face closer to hers. Damn lucky he was wearing a mask or his mouth would have been in frank kissing range.
The heat coming off him was electric, almost palpable. He smiled. Or at least she thought he did—hard to tell under that mask, but his forehead crinkled and laughter lines creased at his temples.
‘Nothing to apologise for, Kara. No harm done. In fact...I like it.’
So did she. And, oh, if it wasn’t enough just to have that soft accent tug on her heartstrings.
She swallowed through a dry throat, pushed the Theatre door open with her hip and gestured for him to walk through in front of her. How the hell would she spend a morning in surgery staring at those eyes, listening to that voice, looking at that body, and get out whole? He was going to reduce her to a hot mess of unruly hormones.
So she would take a leaf out of his book and refuse to engage in conversation about anything other than the task at hand.
Forcing words out was harder than she’d expected. ‘So. How’s Safia doing? When I popped up to see her an hour or so ago she didn’t say much. I got the impression she was hanging out for you to visit.’
He shrugged. ‘She’s okay, I suppose. She’s scared about the operation. Actually, she’s scared about the pain. I did warn her about the initial sting of the graft sites, but we talked about pain relief and I’ve discussed it with Paul, the anaesthetist, so she should be well covered when she wakes up. I’ve warned her we can’t fix it all today, and that she’ll have negative pressure dressings on and to expect lots of tubes.’
‘Great. And the parents? They seemed to think you were going to restore her to her former beauty.’
His left shoulder hiked. ‘I had a long and honest meeting with them last night and showed them the digital blueprint we mocked up of how we hope Safia will look after the surgeries. They understand that we can only do so much, and that a lot is dependent on how Safia heals, the kind of scarring we get, whether she complies with physio. Although I still think they’re a little unrealistic. My main concern is that she maintains function in those hands. But she’s here and agreeing to treatment and that’s the best we can hope for right now.’
He turned as the technician wheeled Safia in.
‘Okay. Let’s go. Hands first and then her face. We’ll start with debriding.’
It was like watching an artist at work. A study in concentration, he was efficient but thorough. Instead of the brash rock music favoured by a lot of surgeons she’d worked with Declan chose something that was uplifting but gentle. There was a positivity to it, something that soothed yet entranced.
Or was that just him? Kara couldn’t tell.
Even though he was the senior member of staff he treated everyone in the room with the same respect and took his time to explain his procedures.
‘See here?’ He gestured to Safia’s damaged cheek. ‘If we want to get a good result we have to consider the whole area as a unit, not just the part that’s damaged, otherwise the scarring will be ridged. It’s a multi-thickness burn—only second degree here, but here, where her face hit the dashboard, it’s deeper. So I’m going to have to use a split thickness graft.’
‘And attach it with absorbent stitches? Or glue?’ She passed him some gauze just as he reached out for it. The third time she’d anticipated his next move.
‘In this case, I’d say stitches.’ He shook his head, as if trying to get rid of a wayward thought. ‘What did you do in Sydney?’
‘Oh, this and that. Music concerts, swimming, going out with friends. My husband was away a lot so I was able...to...study...’ She slowed right down and noticed all eyes were on her.
Surgery.
That deep, luscious voice was asking about the Croftwood’s choice of surgical closure techniques—not about her private life. Her chest tightened. Duh. There went her credibility.
‘Er...usually stitches. But glue if we thought the dressing wouldn’t be knocked or slip easily. Really it depended on the patient and the damaged area.’
She flatly refused to look him in the eye. Flatly. But she knew she was the single beacon of bright red in an otherwise white and sterile environment.
‘Husband?’
The accusation hung in the air along with the ghost of that kiss. As she turned to look at him his eyebrows rose.
God. She focused instead on the tube of antibiotic ointment in a dis
h to her left. Did he really think she’d have kissed him if she’d had a husband? When she’d entered her marriage it had been with an innocent and pure belief in forever. Too bad forever couldn’t happen.
‘Not any more.’
‘Okay.’ Declan’s voice was impassive. ‘Great work, team. Thanks for your help. She’s good to go to recovery. I’ll head up to have a chat with Mum and Dad after the next surgery.’
The technicians got busy taking Safia out and preparing for the next patient, leaving Kara alone for snatched minutes with Declan. Goddamn, the man stirred a smorgasbord of emotions in her. Right now it was a huge dose of embarrassment.
‘Er... About before...’
‘Kara...’
He glanced up from the surgery list he was reading. About what? his look said. The kiss? The husband?
He removed his surgical mask, his mouth tipping up halfway to a wry smile. ‘Your life is your life. You don’t have to explain.’
‘I shouldn’t have rabbited on.’
‘Oh, no, to the contrary, we were all riveted. Concerts? Swimming?’
The omission of husband made her faux pas even more mortifying.
She shrugged. ‘What can I say? We’re a nation of water babies. Sydney’s by the ocean.’
‘And it gets very hot and there are snakes and spiders and lots of things that could kill you. I know.’ His voice had developed a harder tone now. ‘It’s also a very long way from here and people can get lonely.’
Was that what he thought? That she’d hooked up with him because she was homesick? Because she missed her husband? Because she regretted everything that had happened?
Well, wasn’t it? She didn’t know any more.
* * *
Four days later Declan was sitting at his desk making a poor show of doing the paperwork, checking staffing levels for the Hunter Clinic and keeping track of patients’ results.
He exhaled long and hard as the paper stack wobbled. It had been a very long week so far and tomorrow promised no let up. There were more surgeries booked, no doubt a scuffle through the media camped outside and a report due for Leo when he returned from honeymoon.
So why the hell, when he was supposed to be working, was he daydreaming about soft lips and green eyes? About a junior surgeon who anticipated his every move in Theatre, whose scent he could recognise at fifty paces, who seemed to have a direct line to his brain.
And his groin.
And was married. Or had been. Still, she wore no ring, and she’d been adamant that it was over.
He smiled at the thought of her ill-concealed blushes. She had a cool exterior, and could handle herself very well, but there was an unexpected softness about her too. A vulnerability that she hid, or tried to hide.
So he’d stayed out of her way as much as possible, because she was a heady mix of things that seemed to attract him more than they should. But avoiding contact with her hadn’t worked; he couldn’t get the damned woman out of his head.
‘Hey. Just passing by en route to an emergency surgery. All good here?’
Friend and colleague Ethan Hunter stood in the doorway, his usual reluctant smile playing hooky. Dressed in scrubs, he looked primed for action. And Ethan always took that very seriously.
He’d been offered the position of Hunter Clinic head in his brother’s absence but had somehow managed to persuade Declan to take that particular mantle, talking up Declan’s silky PR skills. Declan had agreed—it was all good management experience. And, given the trauma Ethan had been through and his fight back to health, Declan hadn’t wanted to refuse.
But this was also the guy responsible for Kara invading his thoughts. Declan could either tell him the truth—that she was quietly driving him mad—or get on with it. The very private Ethan wasn’t exactly the kind of guy to confide ‘deep and meaningful’ to.
Declan shuffled some paper. ‘All good, I suppose. Trying to get to grips with the accounts for when Leo gets back.’
At the mention of his brother’s name Ethan stiffened. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage fine. Hey, how’s Kara fitting in? I’ve heard good reports.’
Declan shrugged, trying not to give too much away. If he was struggling with anything he wouldn’t let anyone know. And surely Ethan knew about their kiss at the ball? It was public knowledge.
‘Okay. But I’ll be happy when Karen gets back. She knows the routine—how I like things.’ And she didn’t pre-empt everything he did.
But the way Kara’s eyes had swirled with a zillion different emotions—none of them warm and fuzzy ones—when she’d spoken about her husband had drawn him to her even more. Having nursed his sisters through enough broken hearts to add more than a few grey hairs to his head, he knew better than even to ask Kara what her story was...but for some reason he was beyond intrigued.
‘Hmm. I did wonder about allocating her to you, but short-staffed is short-staffed...’
So Ethan must know about the kiss. It was Declan’s own stupid fault for mixing work with fun.
Ethan frowned. ‘It’s not like you to not gel with someone...’
Oh, yes. He gelled okay. Too damned much. Gelling wasn’t the problem. Un-gelling was. ‘Ah, well, you know...’
‘I presume you’ve had the setting the guidelines talk? Taken the “this is how I do things” approach?’
‘We’ve been busy. You know what it’s like with a media circus on your doorstep.’
‘So demarcate some time—take her for a quick coffee, a drink. There’s nothing wrong with her medical practice, though?’
‘Hell, no. She’s an excellent surgeon. But as it’s probably only a short rotation with me I don’t think we need bother with all that getting to know you stuff.’
‘No?’ Ethan ran a hand over his jaw. He looked tired. And hassled. ‘Try to get on with her, Declan. There’s been too much bad blood running through this place for too long.’ He checked his watch. ‘A drink. A coffee. I don’t care what you do. Just do it. I want to hear things are going smoothly, right? I could do without the stress of more work-related worries.’
Declan guessed Ethan was referring to the complicated relationship between the Hunter brothers.
‘Okay, boss.’
The man must have been a force to be reckoned with in the army. Fighting the urge to salute, Declan slammed the laptop shut and shoved it into his backpack, made his way to the hospital exit and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with disappointingly stuffy city air. What he needed was a good long ride on his bike to clear the cobwebs. A cosy chat be damned. What he needed was a Kara-free life.
Thankfully the car park was devoid of journalists, leaving him a clear path towards his motorbike. He strode ahead, helmet in hand, the evening sunshine glinting off the chrome handlebars.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement. Someone else leaving the hospital, heading quickly—or as quickly as she could in a pair of red satin stilettoes that made his heart stutter—towards the bus stop. Not quick enough, though, as the bus sailed past, leaving her stamping her pretty shoes against the tarmac.
At closer inspection he confirmed it was Kara, her hair loose down her back, which drew his eye to her slim waist, nipped in by a fitted cardigan and then lower, to her perfectly shaped backside encased in skinny black trousers. A shot of heat fizzed through him as if someone had flicked a switch in his body.
So he should have just ridden away. But before he knew what he was doing he’d strolled right on up to her.
Ethan’s orders, right? Taking one for the team for the sake of no bad blood. ‘Hey. Dr Down-Under.’
‘Watch it!’ She jumped round to face him, at the same time lunging at his throat in a well-practised self-defence karate chop move, her palm almost connecting to his chin.
In a knee-jerk reaction he took a step back and grabbed h
er palm. He didn’t think for one minute she’d have a qualm about trying to floor him and using her stiletto as a weapon. ‘Hey! Overreaction, much?’
‘Oh. It’s you. You nearly gave me a heart attack.’ She shook her hand free from his grip and frowned.
‘Lucky we’re outside a hospital, then.’ A short, hot kiss of life sprang to the forefront of his mind.
‘Do you often jump out at women from dark corners, wearing...’
Her eyes widened as her gaze travelled over his dark grey T-shirt and jeans. A suit and tie were all well and good for an office day, or a riding the underground day, but not for a bike to work day.
Her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed. ‘Wearing...a leather jacket...’
‘Only on special occasions.’ When she’d stopped staring and had seemed to gather her wits again he grinned. ‘You missed the bus.’
‘Thank you, Einstein.’ A deep V formed along her forehead. ‘He must have been blind not to see me. I was waving enough.’
‘Blind, indeed. Any man worth his salt would have stopped just for those shoes. But you were quite a distance from the bus stop—maybe trainers might be a better choice for running next time.’
She looked down, raised an ankle and turned it this way and that to look at her shoes. He followed her every movement, mesmerised. She had damned fine legs.
Purely an objective observation. Obviously.
An eyebrow peaked. ‘Ah, come on—never, ever compromise fashion for practicality. Oh...’ Her eyes toured his body again and landed on his jacket. ‘You just did.’
200 Harley Street: The Shameless Maverick Page 4