by Amy Andrews
And Ethan knew having another pair of hands—skilled hands—would allow them to do so much more.
But team work was critical.
He couldn’t change what had happened in the past, and he was pretty damn sure she wouldn’t want to rehash it either, but he could treat her with the respect she deserved going forward.
He took another sip of his whisky as the questions circled round and round his brain. Questions he didn’t have answers for. Questions that could drive him nuts.
That could drive him to the bottom of Leo’s decanter.
But he’d come too close to being his father, to taking the easy way out, a while back—he wasn’t going there again.
He sighed and reached for the heavy walnut desk, grabbing hold and dragging the chair closer, trying to use his legs as little as possible. And there it was, right on the edge in the middle of the desk, Ama’s chart.
Ethan placed the decanter and his glass on the table and pushed all thoughts of Olivia aside as he opened the chart and started to read.
* * *
Olivia Fairchild was late. She checked her watch for the hundredth time as she paid the taxi driver. The cool October evening, a far cry from the heat of Africa, closed in around her as the taxi took off and she turned to face the familiar building on Harley Street.
Late or not, she took a moment to collect herself and clear her throat of the emotion that she’d been battling on the cab-ride. She blinked back stupid tears. Getting Ama and her mother settled into their room at the Lighthouse Children’s Hospital had been more emotional than she’d expected. She felt flustered and off-kilter rather than cool and professional, which was what she’d hoped to be when she came face to face with her past.
But Ama had got to her tonight—just as she had from day one. She’d been so apprehensive of her strange new world, and so distressed when her mother had left the room with the interpreter to attend to some paperwork, that Olivia had felt completely out of her depth.
For nine years Ama had known nothing other than a small village in sub-Sahara Africa where she’d been closeted away, not allowed to go to school or play with the other kids because of her disfiguring condition.
London must be terrifying.
Olivia, who had spent a lot of the past six weeks building a rapport with Ama, had tried her best to comfort the girl, but sometimes only mother-love would do and Ama had cried and cried until her mother returned.
And, oh, the way she’d clung had been gut-wrenching!
Olivia had been able to feel the frantic beat of Ama’s heart through her painfully skinny ribs as the little girl had held onto her for dear life. And Olivia had clung right back, rocking her slightly, shushing her gently, feeling so inadequate in the face of the girl’s anguish.
It had reminded her of the day she’d found Ama and her mother, both wailing and crying in the street, clinging to each other as two men engaged in a heated discussion had grabbed at them, trying to pull them apart. She hadn’t been able to bear it.
A passing car hooted, bringing her back to the here and now, and Olivia shivered as the Hunter Clinic came back into focus. She took a deep breath, steeling herself to enter.
Her heart pounded as she mounted the stairs and pushed through the heavy doors. After-hours the clinic was hushed and deserted and she took a moment to absorb it all. Except for the stark whiteness of the updated décor, visible even in the darkened interior, it looked the same as she remembered—exclusive, luxurious, old money. It smelled the same. It felt the same.
And yet it didn’t. It was familiar...yet not.
Maybe it was because she was different? Not the same starry-eyed Olivia who had trusted her heart to the Hunter boys only to be used in their toxic games and have it crushed into the dirt.
Older. Wiser.
Stronger.
It was warm inside and she undid the toggles on her duffle coat as her boot heels tapped on the exquisite grey and black marble floor on her way to Leo’s office. It felt like a lifetime ago now since she’d walked these corridors on her frequent trips to see Ethan.
Ethan.
Olivia’s heart skipped a beat as her stride faltered.
No. She would not think about him tonight. She wasn’t here to see Ethan. She was here to see Leo.
Ethan would come tomorrow. And tomorrow would be soon enough.
Despite only the most subdued light, coming from lamps placed in discreet alcoves, her feet took her to Leo’s office without any real direction from her brain. Once there she didn’t stop to give herself time to think or doubt, she just reached up to knock on the door, surprised when it swung silently open under the weight of her closed hand.
For a moment, peering into the sumptuous darkened office, with just a desk lamp illuminating the room, she thought the man sitting at the desk, head bent over a chart, looked like Leo and she smiled.
‘Leo,’ she called from the doorway, her voice hushed as seemed appropriate in the quietness of the deserted building.
Ethan, who’d been too intent to register the knock, looked up as his brother’s name spilled from Olivia’s lips, and even a decade down the track he still felt the impact of that mouth.
Wide and sexy, forming a natural pout that had always fascinated him. A mouth he’d kissed.
He’d missed.
It was a startling realisation for a man who’d felt dead inside for the past year. And he wasn’t sure he liked it.
What the hell was she doing here? Didn’t her flight arrive early tomorrow morning?
‘Olivia,’ he acknowledged, watching as her eyes, always two huge chocolate pools shimmering with emotional intensity, grew even rounder.
He should stand—innate good manners dictated that he should—but his legs felt about as supportive as wet noodles and he didn’t trust them. Thankfully Olivia seemed too stunned to call him on it.
Olivia blinked as all the oxygen in the room was sucked right out. ‘Oh...’
Ethan. Not Leo. Ethan. Her heart pounded in time to the drumming of his name through her brain.
Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.
‘I’m sorry, I know I’m late, but...’ She nervously checked her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Leo here.’
Ethan hadn’t been sure what they’d say to each other when he and Olivia came face to face again. They’d spoken twice on the phone about the case, which had been brisk and professional, but he’d thought it would be different when they were looking at each other. That old hurts might have fizzled out.
Evidently not, judging by the wariness in Olivia’s startled gaze.
Her first words were not warm and welcoming. There was no let bygones be bygones about her demeanour. She hadn’t smiled for him as she had when she’d mistaken him for Leo. And, perversely, it bugged him.
There was a wariness, a distance in her gaze. As if they were strangers instead of ex-lovers. And a part of him wanted to snatch her up, taste that pouty mouth again, remind her how good they’d been together.
If only he could get up without falling flat on his face!
‘He’s at home,’ Ethan said abruptly, angry at the direction of his thoughts.
For God’s sake, he was lucky she hadn’t slapped him in the face. Clearly he wasn’t thinking straight. Clearly he was just too damn tired to be facing ghosts tonight.
Olivia frowned. ‘Oh...’
But...she’d called Leo the moment they’d landed and they’d arranged it. She delved around inside her bag for her mobile phone, pulling it out. Immediately she noticed two missed calls and a text—all from Leo.
Apologies. Something came up. Get Ethan up to speed and you can catch me up tomorrow.
‘Something came up,’ Olivia said, looking from the phone to Ethan as she relayed the text.
Ethan grunted as a r
ather unpleasant thought occurred to him. Leo had texted him during surgery, asking him to familiarise himself with Ama’s chart—on his desk—before the morning. Had Leo set this up so he and Olivia could get their first meeting over and done with in private—to give them room and privacy to clear the air?
His relationship with his brother was the best it had been in years, but he didn’t appreciate being manipulated like this.
‘I bet it did,’ Ethan said dryly.
Olivia put her phone back in her bag. ‘He wants me to get you up to speed.’
Ethan had sometimes forgotten, just looking at her, that Olivia was Australian. Her flawless peaches and cream complexion seemed eminently English, and it was only when she opened her mouth and the flat Aussie drawl came out that he remembered. That and the opal ring she still wore on the middle finger of her right hand—a gift from her parents for her eighteenth birthday.
‘No time like the present,’ he agreed grimly.
If Leo had set them up then it would be foolish not to use the time wisely.
‘Come in.’ He gestured, suddenly realising she was still standing just inside the doorframe. ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated with his head for her to take the one on the other side of Leo’s desk.
Her movements seemed awkward and unsure as she drew closer. She certainly didn’t seem to be in any hurry to reach her destination, and he waited impatiently for her to take her seat, his gaze drifting to the way the denim of her jeans clung to legs still as slender as he remembered.
As she drew level his gaze moved up. Her red turtle-necked skivvy was mostly hidden by the thick navy jacket she was wearing, but it did emphasise the length of her neck to perfection. A neck he’d explored in intimate detail.
Olivia was conscious of his gaze on her as she moved into the room. Heat flared in her belly as she remembered the way he used to look at her—all intensity and wicked, wicked purpose.
Before he broke her heart.
She was thankful for the thick wool of her coat hiding nipples suddenly taking on a mind of their own.
She didn’t have time for recalcitrant nipples.
They were two professionals, working together for the good of a patient. Yes, they had history, but if they kept things collegial, if they kept their focus on Ama, they’d be fine.
She was here to do a job and then get the hell out of Dodge.
She’d been burned by this man before. And fire had already claimed too much of what she’d loved.
Olivia sat, glancing briefly around at Leo’s office. It didn’t appear to have changed much since the days when it had belonged to his father. All dark and masculine—a stark contrast to the bright modern white outside.
Her gaze returned to Ethan and for long moments they just looked at each other. His lids were half shuttered; his gaze was totally guarded. He looked so...distant and she shivered.
He picked up the nearby whisky decanter and splashed some into a glass, silently asking her with a raising of his eyebrow if she wanted any. She shook her head, surprised to see him drinking, knowing how much he’d despised his father for his weakness where the amber liquid was concerned.
Keep it professional, Liv.
‘You’ve changed,’ she blurted out.
And it was nothing to do with the drinking. Ethan’s eyes were the same deep brown as hers, but he had those amazing golden flecks in them that used to glow with fire and passion. He’d been so angry back then that they’d flashed and flared all the time as he’d struggled with his demons—his father’s alcoholism, his mother’s death and what he’d perceived as his brother’s molly-coddling.
But she’d also seen them glow and flash at other times too. At work when he was totally absorbed in a surgery. And in bed...
There was no glow tonight. Just a dull glimpse of what had been. It was as if it had been snuffed out. Suffocated.
What had happened to turn those gorgeous flashing eyes so damn bleak? And his perfect chiselled face so damn gaunt? His severe haircut didn’t help. Nor did the weary lines around his eyes. Not to mention that he needed a shave. His shaggy regrowth looked more salt than pepper at the grand old age of thirty-five.
Was he suffering some kind of PTSD from being blown half to hell during his last tour?
‘You haven’t,’ he said, interrupting her reverie.
It was Olivia’s turned to snort. ‘Yes, I have.’
She’d been through more than her fair share of heartbreak these past ten years, and although she’d come through it stronger it had changed her utterly.
Ethan paused slightly, then acknowledged the truth of it with a nod. She was right. She was more reserved, less carefree. Her gaze was not as open, was more...distant.
Had that been his unforgivable actions or just getting older? Life in general?
Or had something else caused the coolness in her eyes?
‘I just don’t need to resort to whisky to prove it.’
Ethan felt the accusation hit him in the chest with all the power of a sledgehammer.
He threw back the contents of the glass and slammed it down on the desktop. ‘It’s been a long day, Olivia,’ he said, his jaw so tight it felt as if it was going to crumble from the pressure. ‘Surgery is over and I’m off duty. A few glasses of Scotland’s best isn’t going to hurt.’
Olivia had never been one to beat around the bush and she wasn’t about to start now. Clearly something was eating at Ethan—something had snuffed out the light. And, whilst she might not know what it was, she sure as hell knew whisky wasn’t the answer.
‘I’m sure that’s exactly how your father started out.’
CHAPTER TWO
ETHAN’S HEART POUNDED a furious tattoo in his chest. Having his father shoved in his face was always a red rag to a bull, but pure overproof rage surged through his system at her matter-of-fact taunt. If anyone knew the location of his soft underbelly it was Olivia. And she’d never been afraid to call him on his crap.
It was the Australian way, she’d assured him all those years ago.
He gripped the edge of the desk and lurched to his feet, too angry even to register the limp protest of gelatinous muscles. ‘Go to hell, Olivia,’ he snapped.
Her words stung. They stung hard. Because they’d found their mark so accurately. After he’d been discharged from the hospital in Germany and returned to the UK to recuperate from his injuries he had drunk way too much.
Trying to block out the pain and the dreams and the guilt.
Leo’s email had saved him. The offer to come back to the clinic and head up its humanitarian programme had been just the right bait to wave in front of him and he’d reached for it like a drowning man, knowing that he was treading the same slippery slope his father had trod before he’d slipped away altogether.
But he wasn’t that guy any more. And it infuriated him to be pigeonholed after a few minutes’ reacquaintance.
She had no freaking idea what he’d been through.
Olivia stood too, refusing to have him standing over her, trying to intimidate her with his height and breadth and sheer masculine presence—which he still had in spades despite his more mature looks.
So, she’d annoyed him—good!
Maybe it would make him realise that sitting alone in an office at nine o’clock at night with a decanter full of whisky wasn’t the answer to whatever was eating him.
‘I’ll follow you down, shall I?’ she enquired calmly.
Ethan pressed his closed fists into the hard wood of the desktop and prayed for patience. He didn’t need her judgement—he could do that plenty on his own.
‘I think you can bring me up to speed in the morning,’ he said through clenched teeth. He was too tired for this crap. ‘I’m going home. See yourself out.’
At least going home was his
plan, but by the time he’d taken a few paces the adrenaline from his surge of anger had worn off and the message from his quad muscles that they were too fatigued to hold him upright had finally broken through the righteous indignation swamping his brain.
His legs buckled.
Olivia leapt forward in alarm as Ethan wobbled and then toppled sideways, reaching out for the desk wildly in an attempt to stop himself from falling on his butt. She grabbed hold of his arm and between her and the desk they saved him from being a rather inelegant crumpled heap on the expensive Turkish rug.
‘What the hell, Ethan?’ she said as he leaned heavily against her, struggling for balance. ‘How much have you had to drink?’ she asked.
Ethan sucked air in and out between his teeth as his muscles protested. ‘Not the booze,’ he choked out, one hand reaching for a screaming thigh muscle. ‘It’s my damn legs.’
Olivia believed him. He definitely wasn’t drunk. His words weren’t slurred and he didn’t stink of alcohol. In fact, with her nose damn near the vicinity of his throat, she could say for sure that he smelled the way he always had—of utter hedonism. Total crack for the olfactory system. It swamped over her now in a sweet pheromone cloud, and her body responded accordingly.
Honestly, the man was waging chemical warfare on her body and he didn’t even know it, thanks to whatever was going on with his legs.
‘Here, come on,’ she said, staggering under the weight of him a little as she slung his arm over her shoulder. ‘Over to the lounge.’
Ethan didn’t have much of a choice. His thighs were trembling now from the effort of just standing and he felt as weak as a kitten. She led and he followed, and he felt about as potent and virile as a postage stamp.
‘I’m fine,’ he said as soon as they were near enough to the couch to reach for it. ‘Let go.’
Olivia eased away as he flopped down onto the firm leather of the elegant Chesterfield and gave a relieved groan, his hands automatically reaching for his thigh muscles, his eyes shutting, his head flopping back as he kneaded up and down their length. She knelt down in front of him, his knees either side of her shoulders, resting back on her haunches, and waited for him to recover.