Spanish Doctor, Pregnant Nurse

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘You know it’s really over when you sleep in the middle of the bed,’ Ciro said authoritatively, handing her a tissue at a particularly tragic part, because when it was someone else’s life that was in tatters it was easier to cry somehow, easier to let go of the tears and pass them off for someone else.

  ‘I already am,’ Harriet gulped, startled that he had voiced something she had already thought about. It had actually come as a pleasant surprise to find that the bed wasn’t too big without Drew—in fact, it was divine, lying in the middle, stretching like a cat as she awakened with the sun. ‘The very first day I moved in here—that night I moved to the middle.’

  ‘There’s no going back, then,’ Ciro said assuredly. ‘Only forward—at least, that is what my sisters tell me.’

  ‘You have three sisters?’ Finding her voice she resumed the earlier conversation.

  ‘Three very different sisters,’ Ciro elaborated. ‘Cara is the eldest, impossibly dreamy and with the most appalling taste in men—married, drinkers, gamblers. I tell her one day she’ll hit the jackpot and manage to incorporate all three in the same guy. Estelle is studious, swore she’d never settle down until she’d finished her PHD, but she fell in love with a fellow student and now has two daughters, and we found out last week she is expecting twins—girls,’ he added. ‘All my life I am surrounded by women. Do you know that ginger cats are always male?’

  ‘I think so,’ Harriet said, raking her memory and trying to revive this rather useless piece of information.

  ‘My mother bought one for me, supposedly to even things up—it had kittens a few months later!’

  ‘Gosh!’ Harriet blinked. No wonder he was so good with women, the poor guy was surrounded by them. ‘What about Nikki? How is she?’

  ‘She is doing great now, busy working and getting on with her life.’

  ‘What work does she do?’

  ‘She models, which is not the ideal environment for someone who is so delicate, but she seems to be coping well at the moment.’

  So good looks clearly ran in the family.

  ‘And these sisters of yours.’ Harriet took a gulp of wine, nervously broaching a subject she desperately wanted answers to while hoping to sound somehow casual. ‘When your relationships end, do they do the mercy dash with chocolate and wine and slushy movies?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Ciro shook his head firmly.

  ‘Too proud to cry?’

  ‘No.’ Ciro shook his head again. ‘I am not one for regrets, for thinking what might have been.’ He dusted his hands together in a gesture of finality. ‘If it’s over, it’s over.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  He laughed as she flinched. ‘It is much better that way. Most of my ex-girlfriends are still friends of mine. What?’ he asked as Harriet shot him a disbelieving look. ‘You don’t believe me—but they really are!’ Ciro insisted. ‘Just because we are no longer in a relationship it doesn’t mean we cannot still be friends.’

  ‘Ciro.’ She couldn’t help but smile, a tiny sigh of sympathy escaping her lips for all his ex-girlfriends, because, as sure as eggs were eggs, one night in Ciro Delgato’s arms would render any friendship null and void. ‘I guarantee these so-called friends of yours don’t see it that way. In fact, I’d bet that these friends of yours would tumble into bed with you at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘Of course!’ He wasn’t remotely embarrassed and Harriet’s mouth dropped open at his shameless honesty. ‘So long as neither of us are in a relationship, where is the harm?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harriet said feebly, suddenly feeling horribly unsophisticated. ‘It just seems so…pointless, I guess. I mean you know it isn’t going to work out…’

  ‘Harriet, do you read books again?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You have a favourite book that your read over and over?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet agreed faintly.

  ‘Even though you know the ending, those books you once adored can still give you pleasure.’

  ‘Book,’ Harriet corrected briskly. ‘I have one favourite book that occasionally I take down and read again, and then I wonder why I bothered because as it turns out, the ending is absolutely horrible! Personally I’d rather explore pastures new than visit old haunts…’

  ‘I’m teasing you, Harriet.’ He smiled a delicious, lazy smile. ‘And you are very easy to tease. But I am friends with some of my exes, though not Lana.’ He gave a slight wince. ‘That one did hurt a bit.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Ciro shrugged. ‘Now I realise we’re better apart. Lana didn’t want a relationship, more someone on her arm looking good.’ Somehow Ciro could say it without it sounding boastful, and most amazingly of all Harriet actually understood.

  ‘Drew was the same. Not at first, of course, but as he got more successful more and more he wanted the trophy wife.’

  Ciro gave a knowing nod. ‘Someone to look the part!’

  ‘Or, in my case, not looking the part,’ Harriet sighed. ‘I never quite managed to look like the gorgeous wife Drew so badly wanted.’

  ‘But you are gorgeous,’ Ciro said as if it were fact, as if it were absolutely unequivocal. She waved him away, stood up, collected the wineglasses and empty bottle and headed for the kitchenette, sure that gorgeous wasn’t the word he was looking for, that his mental Spanish to English thesaurus had somehow misinterpreted the word. Nice? Perhaps. Friendly? Maybe. On a good day she could even muster passably attractive, but she was definitely not gorgeous.

  ‘You are,’ Ciro insisted, walking in behind her, and suddenly the simple became terribly complicated. Rinsing two glasses under the tap and putting the wine bottle in the recycle bin took a mammoth effort of concentration. ‘And, no, I have not got my words mixed up,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘It was the first thing I thought when I saw you.’

  ‘What was the second?’ Harriet asked, embarrassed but pleased, and scarcely able to comprehend that she was prolonging this dangerous conversation, scarcely able to believe she was pushing further.

  ‘Married.’ Picking up her hand, he held it, brushing her newly naked ring finger. ‘And I’m sure you can guess the third thing I thought.’

  ‘No.’ Harriet swallowed, because she could hope she knew the third thing Ciro had thought, could hope that this stunning, sensual man had truly been disappointed by the sight of a ring on her finger. But until he said it, until she heard those words coming from his full, very close mouth, she didn’t dare to believe it.

  ‘Damn,’ Ciro said slowly. ‘And that’s the polite version.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Ciro murmured, and she could have sworn he was about to kiss her, his eyes narrowing in thought as he stared down at her. ‘Should I go?’ She could hear the question in his voice as he smiled down at her, could feel the lust thrumming in the air as he continued to stare, his mouth a mere breath away. She knew he was offering her an out, only Harriet didn’t want it.

  His hand still warm and dry around hers, his face was moving closer but Harriet stood still. In that tiny slice of time her mind processed a multitude of thoughts, a flurry of internal conflict, as his other hand coiled around her waist, slipping under the flimsy fabric of her wrap and meeting the warm sun-kissed flesh, his fingers softly stroking her spinal column, running shivers the entire length of her body, every slow, measured move accelerating her heart rate.

  Her eyes wide in a strange sensual terror.

  This could only end in tears—hers.

  It was too soon, way too soon.

  Surely it could never, ever work.

  But she needed this. With blinding clarity Harriet realised she needed this more than the air she was breathing—needed to experience the weight of his mouth on hers, to feel as divine and gorgeous as Ciro made her feel, to be kissed, tasted, wanted. And if it couldn’t work, she’d just live for the moment. If she was heading for a fall, for now she’d enjoy the ride.

  A hastily drawn-up contract with her i
nner soul was penned in a nanosecond!

  His breath was dusting her cheeks, the heat from his palm radiating through the small of her back, his mere touch, his very presence in her personal space so exquisitely sensual Harriet could feel the heavy stir of her own arousal, and his lips hadn’t even met hers. Could feel her breasts swell, filling the Lycra triangles, her nipples straining against the flimsy fabric, her stomach liquid churning to the pulsing beat between her legs. And now it wasn’t just Ciro moving closer but Harriet, too, her eyes closing in dizzy anticipation, but nothing could have prepared her for the impact of his searching lips on hers.

  It had been for ever since she’d been kissed.

  Really kissed.

  With Drew, more and more it had been a perfunctory thing, had made her feel as sensual as an old maiden aunt with a hairy chin that one was forced to kiss at Christmas—the only thing he hadn’t done had been to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand afterwards. Yet with Ciro it was as if he couldn’t get enough of her, tongues mingling, lips swelling against each other. And not just lips. The drag of his rough unshaven skin against her cheek, pulling the soft skin, the utter size of him engulfing her, holding her fiercely, making her feel more of a woman than she had ever felt.

  And if this was a rebound, Harriet gasped as his hand pulled her closer, as she felt the muscular firmness of his thighs pressing against hers, the swollen heat of his arousal nudging into her stomach, if this was a rebound then bring it on. If this was the cure for a broken heart, balm for raw wounds, then she wanted it, needed it.

  Faint with longing, she mumbled with protest as he pulled away, her lips stinging, her body alive.

  ‘I have to go,’ Ciro said in that low, husky drawl that had her insides turning.

  ‘Do you?’ It was bold and it was brave and it was completely out of character, but it was exactly how he made her feel, caution thrown to the wind. But Ciro deftly caught it and handed it softly back.

  ‘I do,’ he said slowly, as he stared down at her, his eyes infinitely kind, taking away the sting of embarrassment at her earlier boldness. ‘And you have to be very sure that this is what you want.’

  She did want.

  But in a flash of self-preservation Harriet didn’t voice it, just nodded back at him, chewing on her bottom lip as he went on.

  ‘This has been a wonderful evening, Harriet, and it would be very easy to…’ He gave a small shrug. Maybe he didn’t know the right word, or maybe he knew that if he voiced it, made it real, then it would be even harder just to walk away. ‘I don’t just want to console you, Harriet. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Dumbly she nodded, watching as he picked up his keys and left.

  Heading back onto the balcony, Harriet sat in the darkness hugging her knees to her chest, listening to lapping waves. Slowly her breathing evened, slowly sensibility crept in, bravado fading with every passing second.

  Ciro might be worried that she’d regret it in the morning, that this was a mere rebound, but Harriet already knew from just one kiss that it was way more than that.

  Pulling her wrap tighter around her shoulders, she shivered for a moment, the absolute magnitude of what was taking place only just starting to hit home.

  Ciro had been right to halt things, he had been right to insist that they take things slowly.

  It would be so very easy to fall.

  But almost impossible to get up again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘HARRIET!’

  The same voice that filled her dreams was summoning her from sleep, a loud banging on the door snapping her into consciousness. Harriet stumbled out of bed, desperately trying to orientate herself, recognising the urgency in Ciro’s voice, that frantic call for assistance she had heard from more doctors than she could remember.

  But she wasn’t at work.

  It took a moment to find the light switch, a moment to comprehend that this wasn’t a dream and that she wasn’t at work, that she wasn’t even at home, but it was definitely Ciro knocking loudly at her door and from the urgency in his voice this was no time to try and locate her gown.

  ‘Harriet!’ His shout didn’t fade as she flung open the door draped only in a bathroom towel, blinking at the bright hall lights of the apartment block, squinting at Ciro who was crouched in her doorway equally suitably undressed in a pair of dark boxers. He was pulling on a pair of runners. ‘Those kids that were partying on the beach…’ Footwear on, he was heading for the stairwell, giving her just enough information to act before he bolted down the stairs. ‘I’ve called for an ambulance, they’re in trouble.’

  And that was all the information she needed. Berating the fact she wasn’t tidier, Harriet located her shorts from her bedroom floor and pulled them on before yanking open her chest of drawers and grabbing the first T-shirt that came to hand. For the sake of speed and safety she followed Ciro’s cue and spent thirty seconds pulling on her own runners so she could race down the stairs and out into the night. The air was cool now, the foreshore eerily dark without the familiar glow of the cafés. There were just a few streetlights to guide the way. The moon was hidden behind low clouds, bobbing out occasionally to give Harriet a view of what lay in store as she ran along the beach. And it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  Ciro, waist-deep in the water, was diving in, swimming towards a surfboard that an exhausted swimmer was trying to drag to shore, an inert body lying, floppy and prone, on it. Harriet knew, even from this distance, that the victim was in serious trouble. However, causing her even more concern right now was the group of hysterical teenagers that were shouting and swaying on the beach, screaming frantically for Ciro to hurry, one even trying to run into the inky water. Harriet was genuinely concerned that this already bad situation could turn into a complete disaster.

  ‘Stop him,’ Harriet shouted, pointing to the drunk teenager who was already knee-deep. But her voice was carried away in the wind. Her only option was to run faster, to stop him before he drowned himself.

  Accelerating harder, her breath caught in her lungs, the salty air stung her nostrils, her heart pounded in her chest, and she tried to ignore the pull of her recent stitches as she stretched the boundaries of gentle postoperative exercise.

  She could feel the waves whipping around her ankles and already her trainers were making running even heavier. But if she wanted to stop him there wasn’t time to take them off. The ground suddenly shifted beneath her, the water waist-high now, and Harriet took a final lunge at the young man, deciding in her own mind that if she couldn’t reach him there was no way she was going in any further, the water was just too deep, the surge too strong for her in her already exhausted state.

  ‘Get back to shore.’ His arm was wet under her grip, shrugging her off.

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘Not this way,’ she shouted. ‘They’re bringing him in. That man’s a doctor. You’re going to end up needing to be rescued yourself.’

  Mercifully he didn’t take another step out, but neither was he heading back to the safety of the shore, and Harriet knew she only had a small window of time to persuade him before foolish bravado took over and he headed back out.

  ‘You can help him,’ Harriet shouted, ‘by going to the street and directing the ambulance.’

  ‘But Vince needs his mates.’

  ‘He needs medical help,’ Harriet said urgently. She was freezing now, struggling to keep her footing. ‘You need to wave them down and show them exactly where we are. Come on,’ she insisted, heading back to the shore and praying he would follow her lead.

  After a small hesitation he saw sense, wading through the waves to his waiting friends, urging them to the street. But Harriet’s real work had barely started. Ciro was swimming back now with the other rescuer, both men attempting to guide the surfboard, but Harriet could see it was growing increasingly difficult as they neared the shore, the breaking waves making the task more difficult. She watched with her heart in her mouth, knowing from her brief foray in the
water just how exhausted Ciro and the rescuer must be, but knowing that unless they hurried they weren’t going to make it back in time, that already it might be too late to save this victim.

  ‘Stay there, love.’

  Sheer relief flooded her as she heard the welcome sound of reinforcements. Three burly men, alerted by the distressed teenagers, were rushing past her, heading out just as Ciro had done, with no thought for their own safety, willing to help a stranger in trouble. And many hands did make light work. They dragged the victim those last exhausting metres and as they lifted him out of the water, not for the first time Harriet thanked her lucky stars that these men had arrived. The victim was a thick-set, burly guy and it would have been an almost impossible feat in Ciro’s and the rescuer’s depleted state to drag him the last few metres to where Harriet was waiting. Wasting no time, Harriet set to work, sweeping his airway clear, palpating his neck for a pulse and then pinching his nostrils and extending his neck. She delivered two swift breaths into the patient before commencing cardiac massage.

  ‘I’m coming.’ Ciro was nearby, his hands on his knees, coughing, choking on the salty water that must surely be filling his lungs, trying to somehow summon the energy to complete the task.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Harriet said, pushing on the large chest, but though her words were brave she needed help. This guy was big. It took a huge physical effort to effectively massage his chest and all her breath was taken up giving him the kiss of life. She could feel the pull of her incision, knew she couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

  ‘Where the hell’s the ambulance?’ Harriet called, between expirations.

  ‘It’s coming,’ someone shouted. ‘I can hear the sirens.’

  But Harriet couldn’t hear anything except the sound of her own pulse pounding in her temples, the scorching sting of every breath as she worked on. Even though he was nowhere near ready, Ciro must have recognised her desperation because he knelt down beside her and pushed her hand away, not wasting a single precious breath to tell her he was taking over, just extending his arms and pushing down hard on the man’s chest. Harriet moved up to the head, her eyes trained on Ciro’s hands, watching for the tiny pause so she could push in her exhaled air.