Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘Claire, I meant what I said about you being best trainee I’ve ever had. I can teach you and make you even better, but if we’re going to make this work, we need to be a team. We need to be on the same page.’

  Her heart added a beat. ‘I came close to throwing away my chance, didn’t I?’

  ‘Put it this way. You’re lucky you’re so talented and that I’m so easy-going.’ He gave her a wink as he set down his now empty bowl, wiped clean with the bread. His face settled into serious lines. ‘Is there anything else you’re finding difficult about working with me?’

  Her mouthful of curry stalled mid-swallow as their shared kiss flashed like a neon light in her mind.

  He means aside from the fact your body goes on hyper-alert whenever you think about him. Aside from the fact you kissed him senseless.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Ah, no. Um, well, not that I can think of right at the moment.’

  His eyes did that intense staring thing that made her feel as if he could see down to her soul. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, trying to sound cool, calm and detached instead of a quivering mess of liquid lust. ‘But I give you my word that I’ll discuss any problems with you if and when they arise.’

  A wide and reassuring smile broke across his face and she saw immediately why his little patients and their parents trusted him implicitly. Almost everything she’d ever believed about Alistair North had just been turned on its head.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve had this conversation. It’s important we’re on the same page and it’s going to make the ball a much more enjoyable evening.’

  The ball. Her stomach flipped. So much had changed between them since she’d insisted he attend the ball and he’d turned the tables on her by buying her ticket. Thank goodness she’d already told Victoria to seat her on the opposite side of the ten-seat table from Alistair. The width of the table meant conversation between them would be impossible.

  Seriously? You’re worried about conversation? Be worried about the close proximity of a bloke who will rock a tux.

  ‘Indeed,’ she somehow managed to say and sound professional.

  ‘Excellent. Consider this conversation your first staff assessment, which, by the way, you’ve passed. I’ll get around to writing up your report, but first, I have a paper to write before nine tomorrow morning.’

  An hour ago she’d have been tempted to take a crack at the chaos his procrastination had caused him, but given how generous he’d been to her that would be grossly unfair.

  He scratched his head and blew out a sigh as he took in the sea of papers. ‘Where to start exactly,’ he said quietly as if he was thinking out loud.

  As wonderful as the idea of sleep was, she’d have to be blind not to notice the dark rings under his eyes. She didn’t have a monopoly on a sleep debt and to walk away now and leave him dealing with the project after he’d just gone beyond what was expected of an understanding boss wasn’t something she could do.

  ‘To the uninitiated it looks like a mess but I promise you there’s a system.’

  ‘I believe you, but thousands wouldn’t,’ he said with a laugh in his voice. ‘Were you able to draw any conclusions from the data?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’

  This time she laughed. ‘I’ll tell you what I discovered, if you convert it into flowing words that are spelt correctly.’

  ‘You’re on.’ He opened up a new document on his computer. ‘And there’s a silver lining to all of this, Claire.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Sure.’ He gave her a bone-melting smile. ‘At the end of a long night, we’ll be rewarded with a perfect view of dawn breaking over London.’

  She tried not to think about the fact that she had a perfect view in front of her right this minute.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LONDON HAD PUT on a warm, starlit evening for the Paddington Children’s Hospital fundraising ball and from the balcony overlooking the Thames the scent of gardenias wafted on the air. The evening was in full swing—the dance floor was crowded, some potential couples seeking a quiet tête-à-tête lingered on the curve of the elegant art nouveau staircase and the liveried staff busily cleared away the remnants of the main course.

  The opulence and grandeur of the nineteenth century Paris salon–styled ballroom was equally matched by the massive floral arrangements of white roses, gardenias and hydrangeas as well as by the crowd. Alistair was used to seeing his staff in their PCH uniform or scrubs. He was used to seeing Claire in her utilitarian white blouse, black skirt, white coat and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. He sure as hell wasn’t used to seeing her in a full-length ball gown with her hair piled up onto her head in a way that emphasised her long and slender neck. A neck that just screamed to be kissed.

  Many of the women wore strapless dresses exposing acres of skin and generous cleavages that drew and glued the gazes of most of the men in the room. Usually, he’d have enjoyed the spectacle—hell, he’d probably have toyed with the idea of later in the evening burying his face deep into their pillow softness—but not tonight. Somehow, Claire, in her high-necked sleeveless gown with its beaded bodice and full skirt, was sexier than all of them put together. The combination was doing his head in and the irony of the evening wasn’t lost on him either.

  Two weeks ago when he’d insisted on bringing Claire to the ball it had been a personal challenge to see if the buttoned-up woman with the acerbic tongue was capable of enjoying herself. Back then his plan had been to crack her façade, get her to smile and, as her boss, show her that there was more to life than just work. Fate, however, had thumbed its nose at him again.

  Of all people, he knew better than most how life could change in a heartbeat. Or, in his case, a lack of one. With that information etched onto his heart and soul it stood to reason that he should have anticipated how much could happen in two weeks. He had not. Tonight, he was faced with the reality of change.

  For starters, there’d been that kiss neither of them was acknowledging and then they’d had their frank conversation in his office. Since that night, the stressed-out and snarky woman he’d thought was Claire had almost vanished. Tonight, in her place, was a woman he barely recognised inside or out.

  Since he’d learned about her dyslexia and they’d pulled a companionable and constructive all-nighter on the paper for the symposium, the two of them had reset their working relationship. Now that he understood her struggles with the written word, he’d taken back the lion’s share of the report writing, leaving her with an amount she assured him she could handle. With more sleep, the dead weight of hiding a secret being lifted and a workload she could manage, Claire Mitchell’s general demeanour had softened. In the last fourteen days, without even trying, his professional respect for her work and his admiration for what she’d achieved against steep odds had tipped the scales. He liked her.

  That’s not a crime, he told himself before his subconscious could berate him. I liked her predecessor, Harry, too.

  But you didn’t kiss him.

  He had no comeback to that. All he knew was that if Claire was going to the same lengths as he was not to act on the wide current of attraction that arced between them every time they stepped into each other’s orbit, then she was well down the road to insanity. This thing between them lived and breathed. It flickered and flared like firelight and it tantalisingly danced and sparkled like sunshine on water. No matter how hard he tried to ignore its pull, it never completely disappeared. It was playing merry hell with his concentration.

  When he was alone, his thoughts were full of her and when they were together at work he was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Simple things like the brush of fingers on his hand when he passed her a pen or when he accepted her offer of a cup of coffee took on cataclysmic proportions. Any inadvertent touch
set off rafts of sensation that tumbled over and over each other, racing along his veins until he was on fire with a thirst for her that couldn’t be slaked. His body, which craved release, ranted at him all the time to just do it.

  It took more willpower than he’d ever imposed upon himself before not to throw caution to the wind, spin her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Hell, just the other day during surgery she’d reached over him and to avoid an inadvertent touch he’d pulled back so fast that he’d upended a tray of sterilised instruments. The scrub sister was yet to forgive him.

  He wasn’t used to holding back. Hell, what was the point when the future couldn’t be predicted and any day may well be his last. He’d always acted on intoxicating zips of attraction between him and a woman. If Claire had been any other woman and she’d kissed him with that same intense abandon, he knew without a doubt they’d have spent the rest of the night burning up the sheets. Instead, they’d shared the oddest fortnight, lurching from strict professional courtesy to relaxed moments of friendship. All the while the unacknowledged attraction simmered so strongly between them that he didn’t know if he was coming or going. Tonight was no exception.

  ‘Oh. Hello,’ Claire said with a friendly—if slightly hesitant—smile as she passed him walking back from the dance floor.

  Strands of her golden-blonde hair had escaped from the pile atop her head, her cheeks were flushed pink and her contact-lens-covered caramel eyes were almost obliterated by her dilated ebony pupils. She looked like she’d just been tumbled onto her back and ravished. His blood dived to his groin and he grabbed a glass of water from a passing waiter, drinking it down fast to stifle a groan.

  ‘It’s warm, isn’t it?’ She took a proffered glass of water too. ‘I’ve danced with Dominic and Matthew but thank goodness I only have to dance with Andrew once. My toes couldn’t take much more.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he managed, frantically channelling thoughts of the icy cold streams in the Scottish Highlands where his father had started teaching him to fly-fish. Thoughts about the effect the chilly water always had on his body.

  Although he’d paid for her ticket to the ball, he hadn’t spent very much time with her this evening, which was both a good and a bad thing. She’d refused his offer to pick her up and drive her, insisting instead on meeting him here. When he’d arrived, he’d looked for her but he’d soon been absorbed into a group so by the time he reached their allocated table and discovered that Victoria had seated them on opposite sides of the large round, it was too late to do anything about it.

  He’d spent the entrée and main course flanked on one side by a chatty physiotherapist and on the other side by the ward pharmacist. Both were perfectly delightful and interesting women and on another night he’d have probably enjoyed their company immensely. But tonight, every time he’d heard Claire’s tinkling laugh—yes, the woman had actually laughed—he’d wanted to lunge across the table and throttle Duncan MacKinnon.

  If anyone was going to make Claire laugh, it was going to be him. If anyone was going to show her how to have fun, it should be him, except he hadn’t had the chance. The moment the meal had finished, the dancing had started and Victoria had sold him off like he was meat on a slab. He’d danced for an hour straight, fending off a dozen invitations from sexy and beautiful women. It both surprised and worried him that he hadn’t been tempted by any of them. What the hell was wrong with him?

  You know exactly what’s wrong with you. Ethics and blue balls.

  ‘Does Victoria know you’re hiding behind the aspidistra instead of being out on the dance floor?’ Claire asked with a teasing glint in her beautiful eyes.

  This time he gulped champagne. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her tonight, he’d recognised that off-duty Claire was a very different woman from Dr Mitchell. Out from under the mantle of responsibility and the pressures of her dyslexia, the need for her to control everything had faded. If anything, tonight she had a look of wonder about her, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was at the ball and she was absorbing every moment. None of it was helping him control his libido in any shape or form.

  ‘I’m not hiding. I’m taking a break.’

  She laughed. ‘Poor, Al. What a tough gig, having beautiful women throw themselves at you.’

  Al? ‘You have no idea,’ he said tightly, thinking about the battle that currently raged inside him. The beautiful woman he wanted wasn’t throwing herself at him, and unless she did, he couldn’t have her.

  Lighten up, mate. Forcing himself to smile just like he’d been doing all evening, he said, ‘But one must do one’s bit to help save the castle.’

  ‘You Brits break me up,’ she said, laughing. ‘Keep calm and dance on?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, thinking that he hadn’t known calm since he’d kissed her.

  ‘Victoria, Rosie, Matt and Robyn have done an amazing job pulling this together. Apparently, their photo’s going to be in the paper tomorrow, so hopefully donations will flood in.’ She gazed up at the ceiling with a starry-eyed look, taking in the intricate plasterwork and gilt. ‘All of this is so far removed from the Gundiwindi Mechanic’s Institute hall I keep thinking I’m dreaming it.’ She swung her gaze to his. ‘Did you know that Anna Pavlova once danced here and that Fred Astaire danced on the roof with his sister?’

  He loved the awe that wove across her face and he had a crazy desire to try and keep it there and never let it fade. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I stumbled across a photographic exhibition,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Once, there was a leopard in this stunning Belle Époque room. Can you imagine?’

  ‘Well, us crazy Brits like to shake things up a bit now and then,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Alistair.’ A voice with an Irish lilt called his name from the dance floor. A Cornish accent followed it. ‘Come dance with us.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ a chorus of accents from around the British Isles sang across the ballroom.

  The Koala Ward nurses were excelling at having fun, but the last thing he wanted was to be back in that pawing crush. He smiled at Claire. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing those photos.’

  ‘You’re just saying that to avoid the tipsy nurses.’

  Absolutely. ‘As a Londoner, I think it’s imperative I catch up on the history of this esteemed establishment.’

  She gave an exaggerated eye roll and a lightness shot through him. ‘Exactly where do I find this exhibition?’

  ‘Downstairs. You cross the foyer, go left at reception, take the first right and there’s a set of double doors—’ She laughed. ‘It’s probably just easier if I show you.’

  Yes, please. He stepped back, allowing her the space to move past him and then it was just good manners to rest his hand lightly on the small of her back to guide her as they negotiated their way across the crowded room.

  ‘Alistair, old man,’ Lionel Harrington, a retired paediatric surgeon, called out to him with a definite slur in his voice.

  Claire slowed and Alistair leaned forward, saying quietly into her ear, ‘Keep going or we’ll be stuck with loquacious Lionel for the next half an hour.’

  She immediately picked up the pace, walking determinedly against the crowd who were now returning for dessert. Instead of summoning a lift, she picked up her skirt and with a smoothness of motion that belied her high heels she almost sailed down the stunning staircase.

  He had a flash of Cinderella running away from the Prince and he hurried down after her. He automatically turned towards the foyer but she grabbed his hand and pulled him through a door and down a corridor. It wasn’t decorated in quite the same grand style as the rest of the hotel and he had a sudden thought. ‘Are we allowed back here?’

  Her hand paused on the door handle of a set of double doors and her eyes danced. ‘Put it this way. There’s no sign saying that we’re not.’
>
  He laughed, loving that she was living for the moment. She immediately shushed him. Using what he assumed was the staff entrance, he followed her into a large room. Large crates, ladders and other equipment were scattered around the room and half of the space was hung with framed photographs of various sizes.

  He picked up a flyer that had spilled from a box. ‘It says it opens on the fourth.’

  ‘How lucky are we to get an advanced peek,’ she said, eyes shining as she tugged him towards an enormous black and white photo. ‘Ta-dah!’

  He did a double take. ‘Is that a five-foot cake balanced on an elephant that’s standing on a gondola?’

  ‘I know, right?’ she said, laughter lacing her voice. Dropping her hand from his arm, she peered forward to read the information plaque next to the photo. ‘And it says it was lit by four hundred paper lanterns.’

  He had to fist his hand so as not to snatch hers back. ‘I’m quite taken with the twelve thousand carnations and the swans.’

  She shook her head in amazement. ‘I can’t even wrap my head around such extravagance.’

  Side by side they wandered slowly up and down the room taking in the photos of famous people. Bogart and Bacall, and Marilyn Monroe, represented Hollywood royalty. There was a very young Christian Dior surrounded by five models dressed in intricately beaded ball gowns. Personally, he didn’t think any of them looked as amazing as Claire.

  ‘Here’s one for you,’ he said, pointing to a portrait of the famous Australian soprano, Dame Nellie Melba. It was taken when she was young and she was pressing a fan coquettishly to her cheek. ‘The hotel’s chef invented peach Melba to honour her triumph at Covent Garden.’

  Claire laughed. ‘I bet it was far more extravagant than the Gundiwindi pub’s best efforts of some canned cling peaches served with half-melted ice cream.’

  ‘You forgot the raspberry sauce.’

  ‘There’s raspberry sauce in peach Melba?’