by Annie O'Neil
Hmm... Perhaps this whole palaver would be easier if she had been a nun.
Nuns? He could deal with nuns. Unlike most of his childhood friends, he’d enjoyed Catholic boarding school—the structure had suited him. A nice contrast to his parent’s whirlwind, round-the-globe lifestyle. He’d take a nun over a Buenos Aires socialite any day of the week. Not literally, of course. He shuddered away the thought. Nuns and socialites. Ugh. He stopped another shudder. He’d rather a night of romance with Harriet than—
Uh... Que paso? One second he was keeping Harriet at arm’s length, the next he...?
No. He didn’t. Casita Verde kept him busy. Incredibly busy. Not to mention his “no children” policy that sent most Argentinian women flying out the door. “What kind of man doesn’t want children of his own?” they all asked.
One whose sister had died in childbirth. That’s who. One who worked with scores of orphans no one wanted to adopt every day. One who’d vowed to be a doctor and nothing more to said orphans, the teens who gave birth to them and anyone else who crossed the threshold into the casita. That’s who. Not that he had issues. He had facts. And perspective. Children of his own? Not an option.
He looked across at Harriet, still engaged in her chart-juggling. From what he heard, she spent as many hours at St. Nick’s as he did at the casita. Birds of a feather? He watched her face break into a smile as a sock puppet fell out of one of the record folders.
He doubted it.
She was a wisp of a thing, slight. Complete with flushed cheeks, an untidy swish of honey-blonde hair and clear blue eyes that didn’t seem able to lie. Real. He liked her. And, coming from him, that was saying a lot. He didn’t “do” personal. Couldn’t broach “real”. Cool, calm reserve. It served him well. And yet...
“Should I go out then come in again?” Matteo offered, pointing to the swing doors.
“Why would you do that?”
“So we could start over. Or—at the very least—it would buy you some time to pretend being forced to have a puppy dog follow you round all day wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t allow dogs in the hospital,” Harriet blurted, covering her mouth with both hands in horror after the words flew out.
Matteo laughed and put what was meant to be a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Her shoulders instantly shot up to her ears, briefly trapping his fingers between them. He only just managed to stop himself from running a finger along her jawline as he withdrew his hand, taking a mental note as he did so: Argentine ways were too tactile. This woman needed her space. And he found himself wanting to respect that.
Winning Harriet Monticello’s confidence seemed like something of genuine value. He totted up a notch in the pro-Harriet camp and another in the watch-it category to check himself. Being emotional about things—about people—didn’t get you very far.
“Let’s say we get this tour underway.”
CHAPTER TWO
“AND NOW FOR one of my favorite places...”
Harriet smiled broadly but widened the gap between them as they made their way to a glass-fronted ward. She definitely liked to keep him at arm’s length. He dipped for a surreptitious sniff of his shirt. He was certain he’d showered this morning...
He covered the move with a smile and an earnest nod. “It’s nice to see changes implemented that don’t necessarily require huge injections of cash.
“The whole world is slashing budgets and we’re no different. But it’s the staffing changes that make the biggest impact and those are completely free. Makes work seem less like...work.”
“It seems to me you do a lot more than work here.” And that was putting it mildly. There were staffers and then there were people whose work was their passion—their calling. Harriet knew every patient, staffer, nook and cranny of St. Nick’s. Not many people were like that. He felt that way. From the day his sister had died he’d known where to pour his energies. His rage. But Harriet seemed fueled by other fires. She was pure compassion.
“Ta-da!” She twirled around, swirling her hands into a presentation pose as his heart sank. A row of little cots filled with pink and blue bundles spread out before him. The infants’ ward. He’d been so busy focusing on Harriet’s take on pediatric staffing he hadn’t even noticed where they were heading.
“Want to go in for a snuggle? I always come here when I’m feeling a bit down. Baby therapy!” Her eyes sparkled in anticipation of his affirmative answer. ‘You know, a whole new world...little tiny fingers, little tiny toes. Endless possibilities!”
Wrong customer. Wrong question. He flicked his eyes towards the large wall clock.
“I think we should probably press on.” He knew his smile was tight, but at least he’d managed one of those. “How about we work our way back to your office and I can get out of your hair.”
She threw him a questioning look, but didn’t press him.
He didn’t do cuddling, cooing or coddling. He helped young women through often complicated births, took care of the casita’s orphans if they required medical attention—but getting attached to any of them? Not his bag. Caring only led to heartbreak and he’d had more than his fair share of that nonsense.
“Not everyone has the stomach for this kind of work.” He tried to cover the awkward silence settling between them. “And yet you choose to be with children most people prefer to ignore. A ward full of dying orphans—”
“Children,” she firmly corrected.
“Orphaned children,” he couldn’t stop himself from riposting. “I’m surprised you, of all people, would wrap everything up in politically correct language to make things softer and fluffier for them. Life is tough and will continue to be so—especially for children like these. Orphans.”
From the flash of ire in her eyes it looked like he’d hit a nerve.
“They’re children first and foremost, Dr. Torres—and that’s how I see them. How we see them. Not a single one of them is harboring an illusion that the world is solely made up of happy families and that they’re on a little spa break, thank you very much. The children in my ward have all most likely come here to die, and they know that. So having things a bit ‘fluffy bunny’ is exactly what we’re after.”
Harriet only just stopped herself from harrumphing. She prided herself on choosing her language at St. Nick’s very carefully and patronizing her about it didn’t go down well, no matter how nice a package it came in.
“‘Fluffy bunny’?” He arched an eyebrow.
Hmm...that may not have had the gravitas she had been aiming for.
“It’s interesting you should ask, Dr. Torres. Terminology is one of the things I was going to talk about tonight in my speech. Something that can make a real difference for the children here. And very possibly at Casita Verde. I wouldn’t like to judge before I set foot in the place.”
Ha! Take that, you—you aspersion-caster, you!
“So you will be giving the speech tonight, then?”
Another amused eyebrow shifted upwards.
Oh. Wait a minute.
“I...” She scanned the ward for an invisible Dr. Bailey. “I think my esteemed boss hasn’t really given me much of a choice.”
“There is a rather nice carrot dangling at the end of the stick if it goes well, no?”
Her eyes caught his. A ridiculous image of Matteo beckoning to her with a single crooked finger as he lay bare chested on a satin-sheeted bed blinded her for a moment. He wasn’t talking about himself, was he?
Was he?
She sought answers in his eyes—almost verdant they were so green. So dreamy green... This wouldn’t do. She turned course abruptly in an attempt to swish away down the corridor, only narrowly avoiding tripping over a six-year-old playing airplane. Grace, it seemed, was continuing to elude her.
�
�Don’t you want to show me around your part of St Nicholas’s?” Matteo appeared at her side in a couple of long-legged strides. He, apparently, had children dodging down to a fine art.
She didn’t answer. There were a whole host of things she’d like to do with him, but show him the place that mattered to her most? Open herself up to more disparaging comments? Not particularly.
* * *
“I bet you could have done anything you set your mind to,” Matteo pressed, enjoying watching Harriet veer across the corridor to give herself more distance from him. Was she shy, or just repulsed? Not the usual effect he had on a woman, but he was open to firsts. “Were you ever tempted to become a doctor?”
“Ha! Good one. Not for a second. Nursing is exactly where I belong. It suits me perfectly.”
Her words sounded positive, but from the expression on her face Matteo could see Harriet’s laugh-it-off demeanor was a defense mechanism.
“What’s wrong with aiming higher?”
“What’s wrong with life in the trenches?” Her expression dared him to come up with an answer.
“Good point.” And he meant it. He fixed his gaze to hers—clear and blue, imbued with a healthy dose of trust. Innocent—but not naive. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least to discover that what you saw was what you got with Harriet Monticello. What did surprise him was that he wanted to know more. Another first. He switched course.
“Would I be correct in presuming your father was Italian with a surname like Monticello?”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about me.” She waved off his question.
“I never said any such thing. You did.”
“Was.” She nodded, her mood taking a visible dip. “He and my mother—who was Irish...” she pointed at her blonde hair “...died quite a few years back. Gosh...ten years ago. When I was just starting my nursing training here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” And he meant it. Family was precious. He wished he was better at fostering what little relationship he had with his parents. After the fog had cleared in the wake of his sister’s death they had all but gone their separate ways. Acknowledging the work he did meant remembering their daughter. He’d already accepted that might never happen.
“It happens to everyone, eventually.” Her lips arced into a sad smile as she turned to look out a window towards a flourishing garden courtyard. Not as lush as in Argentina—but it was nice. Another Harriet touch?
He turned and saw her fighting a glaze of tears forming, her blue eyes fastidiously taking a swing round the leafy courtyard. He understood instantly. St. Nick’s was filling an emptiness in her. The space her family had filled. The same way his work stood in for what he could never replace. The dreams he would never realize. Would there ever come a day when he’d done enough? A day when he felt at peace?
Something deep within him said no. Something deeper prayed he was wrong.
He pressed his hands onto his thighs before giving them a conclusive clap. This was all getting a bit too deep and heavy and he needed to be on his top game tonight. There weren’t just peers in the audience. There were donors. Ones with deep pockets. Including a very pretty research nurse who could be the key to a new clinic.
“Well, I, for one, am looking forward to seeing you ace that speech tonight.”
“From your lips—” Harriet began as she turned from the window then stopped, her eyes snagged on Matteo’s full mouth. One lip resting atop the other, parting to speak...
“And then you’ll come to Buenos Aires and show me your dazzling research in action?” His smile was leading. He was aware she’d been staring—and that she liked what she saw.
“When you put it that way, how could I resist?” She looked away from his inquisitive gaze. To push boundaries? Change things further afield? Tickles of possibility teased at Harriet’s utilitarian shoes and practical hairdo. To live twenty-four seven with a man who turned her into the equivalent of a weeping Beatles fan? Emotional yo-yo? Oh, yeah. She was riding that thing like it was going out of style.
No. No way.
Her sister did wild and wonderful. She did sensible and sane. It’s why her sister needed her. Why she stayed put, holding onto the family home...just in case. If she wasn’t needed, then... Best not go there.
“So, I guess I’d better offer you some tips on life in my country,” Matteo commented, as if the trip was a done deal. “Lesson number one? In Argentina, there is a lot of kissing. Anything and everything—especially an agreement—comes with a kiss. You’ll have to get used to it if—when—you come.”
He didn’t seem like the flirting type, but... Was he flirting?
She nodded dumbly.
Wait. Were his lips getting closer? Had her eyelashes just fluttered? She didn’t flutter—oh, he was coming closer. Was he aiming for her cheek? Which way was she meant to turn? Right? Left? Was this like the cheek-rub thing earlier with the kissing noise but no contact? Blimey, she wished she’d traveled more.
His hands touched each of her shoulders. Her brain did a little short-circuit before reconnecting with her ability to see straight. Undecided, Harriet changed direction at the precise moment Matteo’s very obviously intended cheek kiss landed squarely on her lightly parted lips.
Everything inside her responded to his touch.
Her entire bloodstream surged and performed a ready-for-Vegas dance routine. Had he stayed there...his lips tasting hers...just a little longer than one would for an accidental snog? Or had she made that up? Fact and fiction were blurring at a rate of knots.
She pulled back and instantly wanted more. Matteo was giving his chin a scrub, a curious expression playing across his features. Had she just grown antlers? Insecurity began to unfurl its fingers through her. If this was how things worked in Argentina, she was definitely going to stay right in England where a handshake was a handshake and cheek kisses were precisely what they said on the label.
She tugged her hand from his, took an unnecessary glance at her watch and backed into her office. Keeping her eye on the prey. Enemy? Something like that.
“I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Matteo stepped back, wondering what the hell had possessed him to give a spontaneous kissing lesson. No one got under his skin and yet...
Harriet gave a nervous laugh and ducked farther into the confines of her office.
No bets on that one. Matteo knew himself enough to know he’d wanted to be close to Harriet, had wanted to touch her. Just a couple of hours wandering around the hospital together and he’d felt a connection he rarely felt. Something genuine. Something real. Not the confident, rule-setting guy who flew to conferences to show his wares in exchange for shiny new clinics. The Matteo whose heart was every bit as much a part of the Casitas as Harriet’s was with St. Nick’s. The part that was searching for...enough and having no idea where to find it.
“I guess I’ll see you at the hall?” She shifted from foot to foot, not unlike a skittish colt.
“Yes, perfect.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wodge of papers he’d folded and refolded into ever-decreasing squares. “I’ve got all of the details here. What do you call it? The bumph?”
Harriet smiled, a little dimple he hadn’t noticed before appearing in her cheek. It made her appear pretty and vulnerable all at once, bringing out a protectiveness in him he hadn’t felt for a woman in a long, long time.
“Yes. The bumph. Well done. You’re going to have to teach me Argentinian lingo—”
“Spanish? No problem. Dinner afterwards?”
“Uh...I don’t know about that.”
“Of course you do. Come to dinner with me after the lectures and we can toast your public speaking success.”
“I’m not so sure—”
“Sister, can you come?” A nurse knocked and stuck her head in the door, he
r face looking strained with worry. “It’s Cora.”
“Is she seizing?” Harriet scooted round him and was in the corridor in an instant.
“SFS. She says she tastes pickles and has the seasick feeling. She won’t move until you come.”
Matteo didn’t even stop to think. He followed Harriet to the play area the nurse indicated. A simple focal seizure could quickly lead to another much more dramatic attack. Grand mal seizures weren’t uncommon.
“Does she usually have a stage two?”
“Yes.” Harriet kept up the quick pace. “Childhood absence. Unresponsive to voice, automatisms. Eyelid flickering and some lip smacking,” she explained.
“So nothing violent?” Matteo matched her stride for stride.
“No.” She shook away her own answer. “She’s had one tonic-clonic, but overall she’s been responding well to meds.”
“Sodium valproate?”
“In combination with lamotrigine. It seems to work well for her. We wanted to steer clear of phenobarbital and phenytoin.”
“Adverse affects on cognitive development?”
Harriet nodded. They’d both clearly read the same studies.
Harriet headed towards a skinny little redhead standing in the center of the play area.
“Hey there, Cora.” Harriet’s tone was soft as she gently lowered herself to the girl’s eye level. Matteo nodded approvingly at how Harriet moved—careful not to give the girl any rapid movements to take in. If she was already feeling unwell, too much commotion could make her feel worse. “What do you say we get you to your bed?”
“I don’t feel well.” Cora’s gaze remained static on the wall.
“I know, sweetheart. That’s why I’m here. Shall we get you to your bed?”
“I’m too dizzy.”
“How about I put my hands on your eyes for a bit and you think of your bed?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Harriet shifted behind Cora. “I’m going to do it now, Cora. All right?”
“Okay.” The girl’s voice was tiny and frightened. The more stressed she became, the more likely another seizure was.