‘Mr Cavaletti—or Dr Cavaletti—whichever you prefer,’ Rachel said, trying hard to sound icily in control while in reality the smile and shoulder shrug had turned her bones to jelly.
‘Just because Kurt isn’t my boyfriend it doesn’t mean I don’t have one. I don’t know how you do things back in Italy, but you’re moving far too fast.’
‘I’m sorry, but I felt an attraction.’ He offered an apologetic smile. ‘I’m not normally impulsive.’
Shoot—the man’s remorse was nearly as good as his smile!
‘You do have a boyfriend?’
Rachel stared at him. The lie—a simple yes—hovered on the tip of her tongue. An easy word to say—a single syllable—but she’d left it too late, because he was smiling again.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her, first on one cheek, then on the other, and while Rachel pressed her hands to her burning cheeks he walked away.
JIMMIE’S CHILDREN’S UNIT
The Children’s Cardiac Unit,
St James’s Hospital, Sydney. A specialist unit
where the dedicated staff mend children’s hearts…
and their own!
JIMMIE’S CHILDREN’S UNIT
…where hearts are mended!
THE ITALIAN SURGEON
BY
MEREDITH WEBBER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
RACHEL dropped her mask and gown into the bin as she walked out of the operating theatre. Too tired to be bothered showering and changing immediately, she headed straight for the small theatre lounge, where she slumped down into an armchair and pulled off her cap.
‘I think it is close to criminal that such beautiful hair should be hidden under such an ugly cap,’ a deep, accented voice remarked, and Rachel, her fingers threaded through the hair in question, turned in alarm.
The voice certainly didn’t belong to any of the members of the paediatric cardiac surgical team here at Jimmie’s—she’d all but lived with them for the past year, at first in Melbourne, where the team had spent six months, and since then in Sydney!
The body didn’t belong to anyone on the team either—here was a serious hunk, not overly tall, but solid in a way that would make any woman want to experience being held in his arms.
This was a dispassionate observation—made on behalf of all womankind—not personal at all. She no longer did personal observations of men.
Now an ultra-white smile flashed from the kind of face Rachel had only ever seen in ads for men’s fashion—expensive men’s fashion. But this was no photographic image—this was drop-dead handsome in real life.
She suspected her observation was becoming a tad less dispassionate, and was puzzled by it.
Dark eyes, set beneath ebony brows, met hers.
‘You don’t know me. I was late arriving—too late for introductions. I am Luca Cavaletti, here to observe and learn from Alex and all his team.’
He smiled again, then added, ‘Including you.’
Bemused by some very unaccustomed physical reactions to a man, she could only stare at him, though she did clench her fingers, which desperately wanted to move to her head again and fluff up the hat-hair she knew was on show. Hat-hair tousled into knots by her fingers’ initial foray through it.
‘You were in Theatre?’ she asked, her eyes, fascinated by his strongly boned face, strayed to clearly delineated lips then moved back to study the dark, piercing eyes.
Crikey, it was as if she’d never seen a man before!
Thanks to a show she’d watched on TV back home in the States, ‘Crikey’ was about the only ‘Australianism’ she’d known before she’d come down under with Alex and the team, and she used it in her thoughts all the time.
‘I thought it seemed a little more crowded than usual, though Alex and Phil always draw a number of onlookers.’
‘Ah, but I’m more a student than an onlooker. I’m a qualified paediatric cardiac surgeon, but Alex has techniques we don’t use in Italy, and the whole team has a cohesiveness that is known throughout the world. I’m fortunate enough to be here for four weeks,’ the man said, taking the chair across from Rachel so she was no longer looking up at him. Maybe from this new angle her hair didn’t look quite as bad!
Maybe she should have a brain transplant to stop this reaction thing happening.
She let her fingers escape for one quick ruffle at the front, and tried to remember what Alex had said about someone coming to observe for a few weeks.
Someone fabulously wealthy! She stole another glance at the man, though she doubted she could tell a rich man from a poor one just by looking, especially if both were in that great leveller—theatre pyjamas!
‘There’s coffee in the pot over there and sandwiches in the refrigerator,’ she said, not because she felt obliged to play hostess but because she was back to cataloguing the stranger’s physical attributes and couldn’t think of anything else to say.
And she’d found a flaw—a slight scar running across his left eyebrow, marring the perfect symmetry of that feature but adding to, rather than detracting from, his beauty. No, beauty was far too feminine a word when this man was masculinity personified.
She touched her own scar, a far more jagged and less appealing mark, running down her hairline from left temple to left ear, the result not of anything dramatic but of falling off her bicycle onto broken glass when she’d been five. Then, thinking again of the man’s good looks, she smiled to herself, wondering what Kurt would make of him.
‘Can I pour you a coffee?’ he asked.
And sit here in theatre scrubs, no make-up and impossible hair while the archetypical Latin lover was sitting opposite her?
She might not be interested in men, but as a woman she had some pride!
‘No, thanks, I need to grab a shower and change. I just came in to sit down for a little while to gather up the energy to make the next move.’
‘Of course, of all the team, you have the longest time in Theatre—seeing everything is ready first, then assisting the surgeon who makes the primary incision and prepares the heart for Alex, as well as assisting him. With the added tension of operating on such tiny infants, you must be exhausted by the finish.’
Seduced more by the understanding in his words than by the soft accent that curled around them, Rachel smiled.
‘I don’t think the tension I feel is nearly as bad as the stress the surgeons are under,’ she said. ‘Yes, I have more theatre time, but my job is the easy one.’
He shook his head and smiled, as if he knew better, but then he turned away, apparently taking up her offer of a coffee. She struggled to her feet, told them to walk, not run, and left the room, escaping to the washrooms where, if necessary, she could resort to the time-honoured convention of a cold shower.
Though wasn’t it men who usually needed cold showers?
And, physiologically, why would they work?
Did blood really heat in a sexual reaction to another person?
It certainly wasn’t a topic she remembered covering in nursing school.
And she couldn’t possibly be having a sexual reaction to the man, anyway. No way! He was another colleague, nothing more. And his charm was probably as natural to him as breathing.
What had he said his name was? Luca—she remembered that part, because the way he’d said it had lilted off his tongue.
What would he make of Rachel?
How would her name sound, whispered in that husky accent?
She banged her head against the wall of the shower stall. Kurt was right. She really should get out more.
‘You OK in there?’
Maggie’s voice.
‘I’m fine, just bumped against the wall,’ Rachel lied, but hearing Maggie reminded her she was going to get out more—starting tonight! Maggie and Phil’s engagement party at the Italian restaurant not far from the hospital—a restaurant the whole team now frequented.
But going out to eat with other members of the team—even attending an engagement party—did not constitute ‘getting out more’, Rachel reminded herself. Getting out more, in Kurt’s view, meant dating—going out with a man, perhaps having a relationship.
She shuddered at the thought, and felt a suggestion of old pain, like a hidden bruise, somewhere deep within her, but then an image of the Italian’s face flashed up in her mind’s eye, and the shudder became a shiver…
She showered—under hot water, damn the cold—dried herself and dressed, hoping she wouldn’t run into tall, dark and deadly again because she’d woken late this morning and dragged on the first clothes she’d put her hands on—a pair of comfy but far from young sweat pants, and a bulky, misshapen sweater her mother, during a knitting phase of her exploration of various handicrafts, had knitted for her.
Knitted with more love than skill—the love ingredient ensuring Rachel had worn it to death.
She poked her head out of the shower stall. The changing room was used by both male and female members of the team, and she usually checked she wasn’t going to embarrass anyone before emerging.
The unspoken but commonly agreed standard of embarrassment was total nudity. Underwear was OK, though the thought of seeing Luca whoever-he-was in tight black briefs made Rachel’s mouth go dry.
The reality of him in that identical garb had her reaching for the door of the shower stall for support.
Kurt was definitely right about her getting out more, though the thought made her heart quail and again the remembered pain pressed against her ribs.
Perhaps she could just date. Go out with a guy a couple of times—really casual—enough to get used to being around a man again.
Though she worked with men all the time, so it wasn’t lack of male companionship that had her reacting the way she was to the temporary team member.
‘You are finished in the shower?’
She opened her mouth and formed her lips to say the word, but whether a ‘yes’ came out she wasn’t sure. None of the other team members had olive skin stretched tight across their chests—skin that clung lovingly to flat slabs of muscle.
Well, not that she’d noticed, anyway…
‘Talk about buffed!’ Kurt whispered in her ear, appearing from nowhere, taking her arm and guiding her across the room to the washbasins and mirrors. ‘The man is gorgeous, but I’m pretty sure he’s all yours. No signals at all in my direction, and I’m not wearing my very worst clothes.’
‘You know I don’t care!’ she snapped at Kurt. ‘I couldn’t be less interested.’
But in spite of her defiant words, Rachel glanced down at her unglamorous attire and winced, then looked up at herself in the mirror and groaned.
‘In any case, there’s no way a man like him—Didn’t Alex say something about him being rich and famous? Famous in his own country?’
She didn’t wait for Kurt’s nod, but continued, ‘Well, a man like that wouldn’t be interested in a woman like me, even at the best of times. But today?’ She smiled at Kurt. ‘I think we both miss out. Anyway he was probably snapped up years ago. Married with two point five children would be my guess.’
‘He’s not.’
Rachel stared at her friend’s reflection. ‘Not what?’
‘Not married. No ring. Continental men were into wearing wedding rings long before we Americans adopted the custom.’
‘But no one wears a ring in Theatre, so you can’t tell.’
Kurt sighed, as he often did when he was shown what he called the depth of her ignorance of the male sex.
‘The guy’s got naturally olive skin, but he’s tanned as well—babies aren’t born that delectable bronze colour. And there’s no pale mark around his finger where a ring has been.’
Rachel poked her tongue at him.
‘Smart-ass!’ she said, but her silly heart was skipping with excitement as she dragged a comb through her wet hair. A whole string of ‘crikeys’ echoed in her head, the only possible means of expressing the disbelief she felt about this situation.
Here she was reacting to a man as if she were a teenager—she, who hadn’t been interested in a man for years. True, from time to time she tried to pretend, mainly when well-meaning friends threw men at her, but none of them had ever sparked the slightest physical response or filled her with an urge to get involved again.
In fact, the thought of getting involved again made her stomach clench.
‘Damn this hair. It’s impossible to manage. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into growing it.’
Kurt took the comb from her hand and carefully drew it through the tangled curls.
‘It’s beautiful hair,’ he reminded her. ‘So beautiful it was a sin to keep it cropped short purely for convenience. Besides, as I pointed out to you when we first came to Australia, how would you have known a good hairdresser from a bad one? And for short hair you need the best. Far better to have grown it.’
Finished, he handed back the comb, while, behind them, Luca emerged from the shower, this time with a snowy white towel draped around his hips. It didn’t do anything to diminish his good looks!
He came towards the mirror, nodding to Kurt who had hurried to grab the shower before someone else went in. With only two stalls, the competition among the team was usually fierce.
‘You and Kurt are a couple?’
Still conversing in the mirror rather than face to face, Rachel saw herself as well as the dark-featured man. So she also saw the frown that drew her eyebrows together, and the look of puzzlement in her own eyes.
‘Me and Kurt? No.’
Not knowing why he was asking—he couldn’t possibly be interested in her as they’d barely met—she wasn’t prepared to offer any more information. She tucked her comb into her toiletry bag and carried it over to her locker, pleased to have a reason to move away from the double whammy of the man and his mirror image.
‘Good,’ he said, following her and holding open her locker door. Far too much bronzed skin, now Kurt had drawn her attention to it, far too close to her body.
‘So perhaps there is someone else in your life?’
‘Are you coming on to me?’ Rachel demanded, more angered by her reaction to his presence than by the pace of his approach. ‘Why? Because I’m convenient? Save you looking elsewhere for someone to while away the off-duty hours for the time you’re here?’
She grabbed the door of her locker away from him and slammed it shut, then remembered she needed to get her shoulder-bag out and had to open it again.
Luca whoever was staring at her with a puzzled expression in his so-dark eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve offended you.’ His accent was more marked now, and he did sound genuinely regretful. ‘But I know Maggie and Phil are a couple, and Annie and Alex also. I thought perhaps you and Kurt…’
He held out his hands in a typical Mediterranean gesture.
‘Not in this world, or the next, though I love the woman dearly.’ Kurt, who must have heard the conversation, smirked as he sashayed past them.
What was it with these men that they were in and out of the shower so quickly?
And what had got into Kurt that he was talking and joking this way? Kurt the silent was how most people thought of him, though Rachel knew him better and understood why he usually listened more than he talked.
Loud conversation signalled the arrival of more members of the team: Alex Attwood, team leader and top paediatric cardiac surgeon
; Phil Park who was all but through a five-year fellowship with Alex; and Scott Douglas, the surgical registrar here at St James’s Hospital, who was currently on roster with their team.
‘Ah, Luca, you’ve met these two indispensable members of my crew,’ Alex said, coming towards them. ‘Rachel, as you no doubt saw, is the best physician’s assistant any surgeon could ever have, while Kurt’s refinements to the heart-lung bypass machine have made operating on neonates far safer for the patient and far easier for me.’
Luca put out his hand to acknowledge Alex’s introduction to Kurt, then turned, hand still extended, to Rachel.
‘We’ve not been formally introduced,’ he said to Alex, but his eyes were on Rachel, and though she was reasonably sure eyes couldn’t send subliminal messages, she was certainly receiving something that made her feel tingly all over, even before his hand engulfed hers, and strong, warm fingers applied gentle pressure.
‘Luca Cavaletti.’
He released her hand but his eyes still held hers. By this time Rachel was so thoroughly confused by her physical reactions to him, her mind had stopped working.
Or almost stopped working…
‘Rachel Lerini,’ she managed to respond, and wasn’t surprised when the man to whom she’d spoken let fly in a stream of Italian.
‘Whoa there!’ she said, recovering enough composure to hold up her hand. ‘My great-grandfather brought the name to America and while it’s been passed on, his language certainly wasn’t. Ciao, prego and pasta—that’s the limit of my Italian.’
‘Perhaps I will have time to teach you new words,’ he said softly.
Rachel frowned at him. She hadn’t totally forgotten how things worked between men and women in the dating game and from what she remembered, this man was moving far too fast for her to feel comfortable.
Actually, her physical reactions—silly things like tingles and shivers—were making her more wary, rather than more attracted. It was so weird.
So unlike anything she’d experienced before…
So new…
She was so busy trying to work out what was happening, she didn’t realise the man was still there—and talking to her!
The Italian Surgeon Page 1