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200 Harley Street: The Soldier Prince
Kate Hardy


A Royal surprise…Injured war hero Prince Marco is desperate to be back in the field, fighting alongside his men. However, healing comes first, and he finds he’s in good hands with physical therapist Becca Anderson—the woman he once shared a magical forbidden summer with long ago…!Becca can’t believe the boy she once fell for is actually a prince! Marco never told her… But Becca has secrets of her own—and her fear of their discovery makes staying out of the royal limelight essential! Resisting her heroic soldier prince, however, may be harder than she thinks…200 HARLEY STREETGlamour, intensity, desire—the lives and loves of London’s hottest team of surgeons!










Praise for Kate Hardy (#u4c19fae4-4cf9-52de-9913-0066b366f05f):

‘When you pick up a romance novel by Kate Hardy you know that you’re going to be reading a spellbinding novel which you will want to devour in a single sitting, and A CHRISTMAS KNIGHT is certainly no exception.’

—CataRomance.com

‘Kate Hardy has written an awesome story with an amazing build-up.’

—HarlequinJunkie.com

‘NEUROSURGEON … AND MUM! is a spellbinding tearjerker readers will want to read again and again. Written with plenty of sensitivity, understanding and heart, NEUROSURGEON … AND MUM! is the latest winner by this outstanding storyteller!’

—CataRomance.com


KATE HARDY lives in Norwich, in the east of England, with her husband, two young children, one bouncy spaniel and too many books to count! When she’s not busy writing romance or researching local history, she helps out at her children’s schools. She also loves cooking—spot the recipes sneaked into her books! (They’re also on her website, along with extracts and stories behind the books.)

Writing for Mills & Boon


has been a dream come true for Kate—something she wanted to do ever since she was twelve. She’s been writing Medical Romances™ for over ten years now. She says it’s the best of both worlds, because she gets to learn lots of new things when she’s researching the background to a book: add a touch of passion, drama and danger, a new gorgeous hero every time, and it’s the perfect job!

Kate’s always delighted to hear from readers, so do drop in to her website at www.katehardy.com (http://www.katehardy.com)




200 Harley Street:

The Soldier Prince

Kate Hardy















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader

I love writing continuity stories, as it’s a great excuse to work with my fellow authors and bounce ideas around. When my editor suggested this one to me I leapt at the chance. Special thanks to Louisa George, Amy Andrews and Scarlet Wilson for letting me take liberties with their characters, and being so brilliantly accommodating. Thanks to my son, Chris Brooks, for answering questions about military stuff, and to Chris Craig for technical advice about the kind of workouts that Marco could do post-injury.

Becca Anderson and Prince Marco come from completely different worlds. And although there’s a lot of attraction between them they also need to learn to trust each other before they can reignite their past love and get their happy ending. I love the way that Becca’s managed to rise above such an awful past and a total lack of family support—and that she eventually finds the support and the family she deserves in Prince Marco. I also enjoyed giving Marco a tough time; for someone who’s used to a life of action, having to wait and let things take their natural course is really, really difficult. And Becca most definitely teaches him patience …

I hope you’ll enjoy Marco’s fabulous house on the edge of Regent’s Park. And the tango at the salsa club (we learned a couple of new steps in the tango at dance class while I was writing this, so it was great to do a bit of personal research!). But most of all I hope you’ll enjoy seeing Becca and Marco fall in love all over again and this time learn to trust each other.

I’m always delighted to hear from readers, so do come and visit me at www.katehardy.com

With love

Kate Hardy


Dedication (#u4c19fae4-4cf9-52de-9913-0066b366f05f)

For the 200 Harley Street authors—I loved working with you! Also, special thanks to Chris Brooks for technical help with military stuff, and to Chris Craig for technical help with workout programmes following injury—much appreciated, guys :)




Table of Contents


Cover (#ue24d16fa-b4ed-58f9-9538-07de6682e1ca)

Praise for Kate Hardy

About the Author (#ueba93deb-7e2f-5514-b972-b41f38b6d345)

Title Page (#ub5ea10d6-ebcc-5f34-b47c-eab0683e3260)

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE (#u4c19fae4-4cf9-52de-9913-0066b366f05f)


THAT WAS THE last of the men.

Safe.

Or were they? The rescue had been slightly too easy for Marco’s liking. The insurgents didn’t usually give up that quickly. And this definitely felt like a false sense of security, he thought as he drove the Jeep back towards base.

‘Pedro, I need you to keep a close eye out on the way back. Anything that makes you even slightly uneasy, you tell me immediately,’ he said to his second-in-command.

‘Sir. You’re expecting an ambush?’

‘Maybe.’

Pedro had worked with him long enough to follow his train of thought. ‘You’re right. It was a bit too easy. They’re prob—’

The word was cut off by a loud boom.

Bomb, Marco thought, and was about to slam on the brakes when the blast wave smashed into the Jeep, cracking the screen. Marco put his left hand up automatically to shield his eyes; even as he did so, he was aware of splintering glass spiking into his skin.

But he didn’t have time to worry about the pain. The blast wave had made the Jeep slew. He tried to steer out of the skid, but the blast wave was just too strong and the car rolled.

Everything went into slow motion, and Marco’s senses were working overtime. Everything felt magnified. The bang of the rest of the glass imploding, the scrape of metal, the salty, rusty smell of blood.

Finally, they came to a halt. Upside down.

Oh, great.

He knew they were a sitting target in the Jeep. They needed to get out—right now. It would take just one RPG fired into the fuel tank to blow them all sky-high …

Then again, Marco also knew that the insurgents preferred prisoners to dead men. Live prisoners would be much more useful to them. Especially if one of them was second in line to a throne—even if the throne in question was that of a relatively small south European country. Sirmontane still counted.

That was why it had been too easy. Because they’d known that Marco wouldn’t leave his men, that of course he’d come to rescue them. That every single one of his team mattered to Marco; he wouldn’t leave any of them behind to be tortured and hurt.

So, by coming to the rescue, by doing the predictable thing, Marco had put them all in danger. He cursed mentally. What an idiot. And he’d thought he’d been so clever, devising the rescue plan.

The first Jeep hadn’t stood a chance. It had driven right over the bomb, setting it off. The pieces would be scattered everywhere, along with the remains of its occupants. There hadn’t even been the usual warnings of large rocks or whatever blocking the narrow road; at least in those circumstances they knew that any possible alternative route was likely to be rigged and could check it out. The insurgents had been one step ahead, meaning that Marco’s team had driven straight over a buried explosive device.

‘Pedro? We need to get out. Now.’

‘Uh …’ came the response.

Concussion, probably. But Marco didn’t have time to be sympathetic. ‘We have to take cover,’ he said urgently. ‘Look, I’ll come and get you out.’ He raised his voice. ‘Everyone in the back, be prepared to evacuate and take cover.’

His hand hurt. It felt like a thousand needles burning into his skin. But he’d deal with that later. First of all, he needed to get his men to safety. What was left of them.

It took an effort to shoulder the door open, but he did it. He went round to the other side of the Jeep to pull the passenger door open and help Pedro out when he realised that something was wrong. He couldn’t bend the fingers on his left hand.

Which meant it was useless; he couldn’t even hold a gun, much less fire one, in this state.

Blood was oozing out of his hand, leaving a trail that just about anyone could follow. He swore, ripped a bit off his shirt and wrapped it round his hand to stanch the bleeding, and used his other hand to yank the door open.

Pedro was still groaning, but Marco was able to get him out of the Jeep, then move to the back and help the rest of his men out. Once he’d got them hidden in nearby vegetation, he used his elbows to propel himself to a better vantage position. Hopefully they’d been near enough to the camp for the blast to have been spotted on surveillance equipment, and help would arrive before things got really sticky.

He could see insurgents swarming all over the Jeep, and Marco prayed to the God he’d stopped believing in that something would happen before they searched the area and found his team.

Amazingly, his prayers were answered: screeching tyres and rapid bursts of fire drove the insurgents off.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

He could hear people calling. Knowing it was safe to do so, he yelled back. Got their attention. Help was on its way.

And finally the pain in his hand made him pass out.




CHAPTER ONE (#u4c19fae4-4cf9-52de-9913-0066b366f05f)


MARCO CAME TO in unfamiliar surroundings, and tried to sit up. An arm held him down. ‘Stay there, Capitán.’

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘Back at base. In the hospital.’

Marco forced himself to focus. He recognised the medic from times when he’d treated some of Marco’s team. ‘Dr Herrera. How are my men?’

‘We need to talk about you,’ Dr Herrera said.

‘We need to talk about my men,’ Marco corrected. ‘Were there any survivors from the first Jeep?’

‘No, but all of those from your vehicle are safe. Some of them have impact trauma from the crash, but nothing too serious.’

Marco absorbed the information. ‘OK. I need to talk to their families. The dead soldiers’. Tell them what happened. Apologise for not keeping them safe.’

‘You need to listen to me,’ Dr Herrera said, ‘unless you want to lose the use of your hand permanently and be invalided out of the army.’

That got Marco’s attention. Stop being a soldier? His mother would be ecstatic, he knew; but in his own view it was unthinkable. This was what he was born to do. ‘Give me the bottom line,’ he said.

‘You have a flexor tendon injury.’

At Marco’s blank look, Dr Herrera explained, ‘The flexor tendons connect the muscles of your forearm to the bones of your thumb and fingers. They let you bend your fingers, and the extensor tendons let you straighten them again.’

Remembering what had happened when he’d tried to open the door of the Jeep, Marco tried to bend his fingers. His index and middle finger wouldn’t move, and his hand hurt like hell.

Dr Herrera rolled his eyes. ‘Well, you can see that for yourself. I take it the window came in and you put your hand up to shield your eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Some glass shards must have severed the tendons. They won’t heal themselves, because the tension in the tendons causes them to pull apart when they’re broken—think of them working like a bicycle brake cable.’

‘So I need surgery?’

‘Microsurgery. And it needs to happen within twelve hours. Twenty-four at most. The longer it takes, the more likely it will be that scarring develops on the ends of the severed tendons.’

‘Which means?’ Marco prompted.

‘Bottom line: you’ll get less movement back in your hand.’

It was enough to convince Marco. ‘OK. Do what you have to.’

Dr Herrera shook his head. ‘I won’t be the one operating. You’re going to need specialist plastic surgery as well, once the tendons have been stitched and the wound has healed. We have a twelve-hour window from when it happened to getting you into theatre. Say two hours getting you back here from the site of the bomb, seven hours between here and London and an hour’s transfer between the airport and hospital …’ He grimaced. ‘I need you on a plane to London now.’

Marco frowned. ‘My men need me.’

‘You wanted the bottom line, yes? Right now you’re not much use to them, and you’ll be even less use if you don’t get your hand fixed,’ Dr Herrera pointed out. ‘I want you on a plane to London so they can operate.’

Marco’s boss, Comandante Molina, came striding in and clearly overheard the last bit. ‘You know the rules, Marco. Medical orders outrank military ones.’

Royal ones, too, Marco thought grimly.

‘Get on that plane and get fixed up,’ Comandante Molina ordered.

‘What about my men?’ Marco demanded.

‘I’ll sort out the medical side and fix them up again, good as new,’ Dr Herrera promised.

‘And I’ll talk to the families,’ Comandante Molina said.

‘You seriously want me to go London?’ Marco asked with a grimace.

‘To the Hunter Clinic. Leo and Ethan Hunter. They have an excellent reputation for treating injured soldiers. One of them used to be an army doctor,’ Comandante Molina said.

The Hunter Clinic. Marco had heard that name before. Marianna—his older brother Ferdinand’s fiancée—had visited the clinic earlier this year for a blepharoplasty. And she’d had other work done there, too. ‘I thought they just did cosmetic stuff.’

‘They specialise in reconstructive surgery as well as cosmetic surgery. Burns, microsurgery.’ Comandante Molina folded his arms. ‘They have hand specialists. Which is what you need.’

Well, if his boss was insistent on it, it didn’t look as if Marco was going to have much choice in the matter. Even so, for the sake of his men, he gave it a try. ‘Why can’t I be treated here? Surely it’s better for everyone’s morale if I’m treated here instead of being flown out to London as a special case. I don’t want everyone thinking I get treated differently just because of who my parents are.’

‘It’s nothing to do with that. We can’t guarantee to hold the media off. Not now you’ve been injured,’ Comandante Molina said. ‘Though I admit that, yes, your mother has views on the subject.’

His mother hated him being a soldier on active duty, worrying constantly that he was in danger and would get hurt. Marco had had enough conversations with her on the subject. And the injury to his hand would make her worries increase exponentially. Giving a little ground now might make it a bit easier on his mother.

‘She wants me out of here, doesn’t she?’

Comandante Molina said nothing but gave him a sympathetic look.

‘OK,’ Marco said, resigned. ‘I’ll go to London. But only for as long as it takes to get me fixed. I intend to be back on duty as soon as possible.’

‘Marco, your dedication has never been in doubt,’ Comandante Molina said softly. ‘And your men know you don’t think of yourself as any different to them. If this was Pedro sitting here, not you, wouldn’t you be demanding that he gets the right medical treatment in the right place?’

‘You have a point,’ Marco acknowledged.

‘So listen to Herrera, here, and do what he tells you.’

Marco said nothing.

‘While you were out cold I flushed your hand with saline to get the grit out and avoid infection setting in. I need to give you a tetanus shot now,’ Dr Herrera said. ‘Antibiotics are controversial but, given that you’re travelling for hours to another country for surgery, I’d rather you had them now to avoid the risk of infection.’

‘Fine. Do whatever you need to,’ Marco said.

‘Thank you.’ Dr Herrera smiled at him. ‘I’ve spoken to the surgeon in London. He doesn’t want me to suture your skin as your palm is a mess. I’m just going to dress your wound so it holds until you get to London.’

He talked Marco through what he was doing: a petroleum-impregnated gauze for the first layer of the dressing, to stop the wound sticking to it. Then another layer of gauze, this time soaked in saline but with the excess fluid wrung out, to let any blood escape and avoid a haematoma forming. The third layer was gauze fluff for padding, topped by a loose wrap, and finally there was cast padding with a fibreglass splint to protect the wound from further injury.

‘There’s a helicopter on standby to take you from the airport to the clinic,’ Comandante Molina said. ‘We’ll talk later.’

‘Right,’ Marco said wryly to his boss’s retreating back.

He was pretty sure his mother would put pressure on his father now to make sure his tour of duty was over, and the injury—even though it wasn’t life-threatening—would probably make his father agree and put pressure on Comandante Molina to give Marco an honourable discharge. And there was only one circumstance in which Marco would accept that.

‘When the tendons are repaired and the wound’s healed,’ he said to Dr Herrera, ‘is the injury going to affect the use of my hand at all? Can I still do my job?’ And he knew the doctor would understand what he wasn’t asking: would he be able to work alongside his men without putting them in danger because his hand would be too weak for the job?

‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ the doctor said. ‘There may be some loss of movement in your hand. It’s your flexor tendon that was severed, which means it’s likely to affect the strength of your grip.’

Loss of movement. Loss of grip. His left hand. The hand Marco needed to steady a rifle or change a magazine in a machine gun.

And it also could affect him playing his guitar again; with a classical guitar, you needed a strong grip to press the strings against the neck. Playing the guitar was what always calmed Marco down and swept away the stress.

If he couldn’t do the job he loved … well, then he could still do his duty to his family and his country. Marco had always known that one day he’d have to leave his military career behind and go back to his royal duties. But he hated the pressure of that world. And if he was going to lose the one thing that could always soothe his soul, what would his life become?

Eight hours later, Marco was in London, sitting in a waiting room at 200 Harley Street. Everything about the place was discreetly luxurious: polished marble floors, white leather sofas, chandeliers, soft lighting. It felt more like a luxury hotel than a clinic. Though, for all Marco cared, the clinic could have been a shack thrown up out of corrugated iron and bits of reused timber.

He just wanted his hand fixed.

And for life to be back as normal.

Preferably yesterday.

OK, so the surgeon who was meant to be sorting him out had been called to see a patient urgently. Marco could understand that. He knew he wasn’t the only patient at the clinic. He probably wasn’t from the richest family or the most titled family there, either; the little time he’d had to glean information from the internet had told him just how exclusive this place was.

But the longer he waited, the more use of his hand he’d lose. And he really wasn’t prepared to accept that.

‘But, Ethan, you’re Leo’s brother. Surely you should be the one to head the Hunter Clinic in Leo’s absence,’ Declan said.

Ethan shrugged. ‘You’re Leo’s second in command.’

‘But you have the Hunter name.’

Yeah. And didn’t he know it. The albatross round his neck. ‘Declan, you’ve worked for it. I don’t have a problem with you being in charge.’

Ethan was aware that the other surgeon was eyeing him curiously. Probably wondering if he and Leo had had yet another row and this was Ethan’s way of getting his own back. It probably had something to do with it. But Ethan knew that Declan would never ask. The Irish doctor was charming, yet he kept people at arm’s length and he knew to keep out of other people’s sore spots.

‘And you’re better at PR than I am,’ he added.

‘That’s the Blarney Stone for you,’ Declan said lightly. ‘Ethan, are you quite sure about this?’

‘It’s the right decision for the clinic. And the clinic’s what matters, right?’

Declan nodded. ‘Then, thanks. I’m happy to do the job.’

‘Good.’ One problem down. At least for a little while. ‘I have a patient to see. Catch you later?’ Ethan asked.

‘Laters,’ Declan said with a smile.

Just as Marco was about to go and find someone and ask—very politely, and through gritted teeth—if they could give him any idea how much longer he’d have to wait, a man walked into the room.

Well, limped.

He was about six foot two—Marco’s own height—with dark brown short hair, dark brown eyes, and stubble that Marco thought privately was just on the wrong side of what women found sexy. If this was the doctor and he didn’t give a damn about his appearance, did it follow that he also didn’t give a damn about his job? Or was this guy some kind of porter?

‘Ethan Hunter,’ the man drawled.

One of the Hunter brothers, then. Surgeon. The one who was going to treat him?

He didn’t try to shake Marco’s hand. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

Marco had the distinct impression that the other man wasn’t sorry at all. There was an edge to his tone, though right at that second Marco couldn’t work out why.

‘And I’m sorry it’s me you’re seeing rather than my brother—he usually does the royals and celebs, but rather inconveniently he’s gone on honeymoon.’

Royals and celebs, hmm? Suddenly it was clear: Ethan Hunter had an issue about that kind of lifestyle. He’d automatically assumed that just because Marco was the younger prince of Sirmontane he was an over-privileged, thoughtless and selfish socialite. And Marco was in just enough pain now not to be able to rise above it. If Hunter wanted attitude, then he’d get it. Every damn step of the way.

‘So how did you do it?’ Ethan asked.

‘How do you think? Skiing, drinking with my celeb friends and guffawing so hard at the peasants I didn’t look where I was going, fell over and severed my tendons,’ Marco drawled.

Ethan gave him a level stare. ‘How about the truth?’

Common sense kicked back in. Hunter needed to know what had happened because it might affect the way he fixed the damage. Dr Herrera should have briefed him fully, but then again maybe Hunter was the thorough type and didn’t just take other people’s words for granted. Marco himself never accepted a brief without asking questions to make sure that nothing had been missed. Maybe Hunter was the same.

‘I was in a convoy of Jeeps. The one in front of me drove over a bomb. My windscreen imploded and I put my hand up to protect my eyes.’ Judging by the mess of his hand, that was just as well—or he’d be blind as well as having a potentially useless hand.

‘Bomb.’ Ethan stiffened. ‘I see.’

Interesting, Marco thought. Was this the brother who’d been an army doctor? Marco shrugged with the shoulder that wasn’t strapped up. ‘I was in Afghanistan.’

‘You were a soldier.’

‘Am a soldier,’ Marco corrected. ‘And I hate being cooped up instead of being where I belong, leading my men and sorting out that whole mess out there. Making a difference. Making things better. But …’ He blew out a breath. ‘I guess it’s still no excuse for being rude to you just now.’ He’d been unprofessional and let the pain get to him when he should have known better—both from growing up as a prince in the glare of the public eye, and then from his military training. Time to defuse the situation. ‘I apologise.’

‘I apologise, too,’ Ethan said, surprising him. ‘Just because you’re rich and royal, it doesn’t mean that you’re …’ He grimaced.

Marco knew exactly what he meant. It was something that he hated himself, particularly in some of the people who liked hanging around his brother. He gave a mock braying laugh, and grimaced back. ‘Pampered.’

Ethan seemed to relax at last. ‘Yeah.’

‘You were out there, too?’

Ethan shrugged. ‘That’s not important.’

‘When did you get hit?’

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think I was hit?’

Marco nodded at his own arm and Ethan’s leg. ‘Different limb, same kind of pain.’

They shared a glance, and Marco knew that Ethan Hunter understood the rest of it. The frustration of being stuck here when your heart was back there.

‘What have they done so far?’ Ethan asked.

‘Flushed my hand to clean it, put on a dressing. I take it you were the one who said not to suture my palm?’

‘Yes. Can you feel anything in it still?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Marco admitted. ‘The pain’s gone into a blur.’

‘Was it just glass, or is there anything else I need to know about?’

‘Glass, mainly. Maybe a bit of dirt. But Herrera cleaned me up.’

Ethan nodded. ‘Glass isn’t going to show up brilliantly in radiography. I need to give you a CT scan to make sure all the glass is out and nothing else is lurking in there, and then I’ll do the op.’

The scan seemed to take for ever. But finally Ethan Hunter was satisfied.

‘No more glass. Good. OK, what I’m going to do is open up the wound so I can find the cut ends of your tendon, and then I’m going to stitch them back together. I’ll put a splint on to protect the repair. Your skin’s a mess, so you might need plastics—we’ll see what it looks like when your hand’s healed. And you’ll need physio to get that hand working properly again.’

‘Right. So how long will I be in the clinic?’

Ethan looked thoughtful. ‘This happened nearly twelve hours ago and you’ve flown a long way. I want you in here for the next twenty-four hours so I can keep an eye on the repair. Theoretically, then you could go home. But, given who you are and the fact that you’ll have the press hounding you all the way between your place and here when you come in for treatment …’ He rolled his eyes. ‘And we can certainly do without them hanging round outside and getting in the way while they wait for a glimpse of you.’

Marco could do without that, too. ‘I don’t want the press knowing I’m in England. If the story blows, then I might not be able to resume my tour of duty. It’ll put my men at risk.’ The ones that were left. The ones that hadn’t been killed, thanks to his wrong judgement call.

Ethan nodded. ‘Then you’re better off staying here for a while. You’ll need to see the hand therapist in any case.’

Marco frowned. ‘But if I do go home after a few days, can’t the hand therapist come to me?’

Ethan gave him a look that said very clearly, Stop being a spoiled rich prince. ‘You’re not her only patient.’

‘Of course. Sorry. Patience isn’t one of my … um … virtues.’

That earned him half a grin.

‘Thank you. For sorting this out.’

Ethan shrugged. ‘You don’t need to thank me.’

Marco knew why he’d said it. ‘Because it’s your job,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what you did out there, too.’

Ethan turned away so Marco couldn’t read the expression in his eyes—which in itself told Marco a lot. He’d seen that a few times before, in other people. So he was pretty sure that something had happened out there and Ethan Hunter didn’t want to think about it.

‘I need to get you in the operating theatre,’ Ethan said. ‘I’ll do the repair under a general anaesthetic because it’s fairly complex. It should take about an hour; though it might be longer if I find more damage once I open up your hand.’

‘I’d rather not be out cold.’

Ethan rolled his eyes. ‘OK, Zorro, if you want to be a hero.’

‘Zorro?’ Marco narrowed his eyes at him.

Ethan didn’t look away or flinch; he clearly wasn’t fazed by who Marco was.

‘OK,’ Marco said, ‘I admit I learned to fence at school, and I did some training with the Sirmontane international fencing team.’ Not that he was going to boast about the gold medal he’d won. He didn’t need to score points with Hunter.

Ethan shrugged. ‘I picked the right name for you, then. Probably that’s what your men call you when they don’t think you can hear them.’

For the first time in what felt like half a lifetime, Marco heard himself laugh. ‘Yeah, probably. OK. If you need me out totally, then fine. Do what you have to. But make it quick.’

‘Is this your sword arm?’ Ethan asked.

‘No. It’s my fret hand.’

‘You play guitar, too?’ Ethan feigned a yawn. ‘You’re such a cliché, Zorro. Do you dance flamenco as well?’

‘Flamenco’s dull. I prefer tango.’ Marco waited a beat. ‘You get better sex after a tango.’

Ethan grinned. ‘Probably just as well you won’t be playing guitar for a while.’ Then he sobered. ‘Don’t flirt with my female staff, Zorro. Any of them.’

‘As if I would,’ Marco said, enjoying himself now. He had a feeling that he and Ethan Hunter could be friends. Scratchy friends, maybe. But still friends. Because they each understood where the other was coming from.

Another busy day ahead, Becca thought as she walked up the steps to 200 Harley Street. And that was just how she liked it.

Or maybe not, she thought, as she walked into the reception area to find the clinic’s Head of PR in a smooch with her new husband.

‘Put the surgeon down, Lexi,’ she said with a smile.

‘Very funny.’ Lexi gave Iain a last kiss and waved him off to his consulting room. ‘Actually, Becca, you’re just the woman I wanted to see.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Becca asked carefully. Usually this meant that Lexi was planning a PR campaign and wanted to talk the staff into doing something crazy. If Lexi had been anyone else, Becca would have made a polite murmur and avoided her, but Lexi was one of the few people she’d grown close to. Not quite close enough to confide in her about the past, but she was the nearest Becca had to a friend.

‘I wanted to give you the heads-up on our new patient. Well, he’s going to be yours. He’s in Theatre with Ethan right now.’ Lexi shepherded Becca towards her office. ‘He’s a bit high-profile—’

‘So we need to keep everything under wraps.’ Becca rolled her eyes. She was familiar with the drill. ‘Got it.’

‘I know you’re the soul of discretion—but I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t dot all the Is and cross all the Ts,’ Lexi pointed out gently.

‘I know.’ Becca smiled at her. ‘Sorry. I guess I got out of the wrong side of bed this morning. So tell me about my patient.’

‘A prince, no less.’

Becca wasn’t that impressed, knowing that the clinic had an A-list clientele. ‘What’s he in for?’

‘Flexor tendon. He was injured on a tour of duty, so that’s another reason we want it kept under the media’s radar.’

‘A soldier prince?’ Despite herself, Becca was intrigued.

‘Young, tall, dark and handsome,’ Lexi intoned. ‘Prince Charming.’

A heartbreaker, then. Becca had met the type before. And been stupid enough to get her own heart broken by one, at a time when she’d still been dragging her life back out of the gutter.

Most of the women at the children’s aid camp in South Africa had fallen under Seb’s spell; but, knowing that men couldn’t be trusted not to hurt you, Becca had avoided Seb like the plague. She’d been so determined to stay in the safety of her shell. But Seb had been patient. He’d made her feel special, had spent time talking to her about everything under the sun. And finally she’d relaxed with him and let him bring her out of herself. In the process, she’d fallen deeply in love with him. Enough to give herself to him. She’d even let herself dream of a future with him …

And then he’d left. Without even saying goodbye. He’d abandoned her. And the lesson had been branded on her heart: the only person she could ever really rely on was herself. Which was why she’d kept people at arm’s length and dedicated herself to her career ever since.

Lexi frowned. ‘Are you all right, Becca?’

Wild horses wouldn’t drag the truth from her. ‘Sure.’ She faked a smile.

Luckily it was convincing enough, because Lexi continued, ‘Even covered in mud, and looking as if he hasn’t slept for days, our prince is sex on a stick.’

Becca groaned. ‘And here’s you married for about five seconds. Shouldn’t you still be in the disgustingly loved-up stage, too busy to notice other men?’

‘I’m married, not blind.’ Lexi grinned. ‘And don’t tell Iain I said that.’

Becca just laughed. ‘Right. I have patients to see. Catch you later.’

After the operation, Marco woke in the recovery room. It was warm and comfortable and he wanted to go back to sleep.

Except then he threw up. Violently.

‘OK. We’ve got you.’ Gentle hands wiped his face clean and helped him sit up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the nurse.

‘Don’t worry. It happens all the time.’

Right at that moment, Marco was really grateful for her kindness.

‘You’re round, then?’ Ethan asked, coming over to him.

‘Uh-huh.’ And his mouth felt disgusting. ‘Did it work?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘My arm feels numb and floppy.’ Which was enough in itself to make him panic. And it was at that point that he noticed it was propped up on pillows. ‘Does this mean I can’t use it?’

‘It’s completely normal for your arm to feel numb and floppy after an op. And the pillows are there to support your arm and keep it elevated—that controls any potential swelling. I want your arm up at shoulder level and your hand above your heart, and you need to use pillows to support your hand when you sleep,’ Ethan said.

‘Got it.’ Marco still felt groggy. ‘Though you might have to remind me again tomorrow. I’m not sure how much of what you’re saying now is going to stay in my head.’

‘Sure.’ Ethan paused. ‘When the anaesthetic wears off, it will be painful. So don’t be a martyr, Zorro. Take the painkillers my team offers you.’

Marco had the distinct feeling that Ethan was talking from experience. What had happened to him in Afghanistan? Had he lost someone—a member of his team, or someone he loved? Did he blame himself for it, the way Marco blamed himself for losing some good men? Had he not taken painkillers as a way of punishing himself?

‘So when can I use my arm?’ Marco asked.

‘The short answer is, you can’t. If you try to use that hand before your tendons have healed fully, the tendons will split apart. And, apart from the fact that I don’t like having to repeat work, a second repair won’t be as effective as the first.’

Marco absorbed this. ‘How long do the tendons take to heal?’

‘A couple of months.’

Marco stared at him in disbelief. ‘No way. You’re kidding.’

‘And that’s only for using your hand for light activities. You drive a motorbike?’

‘Car,’ Marco said.

‘Good. That’ll probably be OK in a couple of months. A motorbike would take a bit longer.’

‘Mountain bike?’

Ethan shook his head. ‘Sports you can do a month after that. And then maybe you can start to do heavy activities, as long as you haven’t had any problems with scar tissue.’

Marco stared at him, horrified. He couldn’t possibly be serious? But Ethan wasn’t smiling. ‘So basically you’re saying I take at least three months off and be a pen-pusher?’ Do a safe job while his men faced all the danger. Be a spoiled prince, leading safely from well behind the lines. That so wasn’t who he was. He sighed. ‘That really doesn’t sit well with me.’

‘Tough. It takes as long as it takes.’ Ethan shrugged. ‘Don’t get that splint wet. You’ll need to bag it completely and tape the bag to your arm if you want a shower or bath. Swimming’s definitely out—and you don’t take that splint off until I tell you or your physiotherapist tells you. Which is probably a month from now, minimum.’

The more Marco heard, the less he liked. ‘No exercise. That’s not good. I’m going to lose muscle mass.’ And fitness. Which would delay his return to the army even longer.

‘No push-ups, no pull-ups, no burpees, no weight training,’ Ethan said.

Oh, great. That was pretty much his workout routine out of the window. And it definitely confirmed that Ethan Hunter had trained in the army.

‘Running? Any form of cardio?’ he asked, trying not to let the desperation show in his voice.

Ethan shook his head. ‘You need to use your arm muscles to hold your arm across your chest with your hand to the opposite shoulder. So you’ll be off balance for running or using an elliptical.’ He shrugged. ‘No fencing, either, Zorro.’

Because with one arm strapped up he wouldn’t be able to balance himself properly. ‘So that’s a no.’ Marco rolled his eyes. ‘I’m going to go insane.’

‘Very probably, Zorro,’ Ethan agreed. ‘No horse-riding, no guitar-playing, no.…’

‘No sex?’

Ethan grinned. ‘Not if you insist on being on top, no.’

‘I think I hate you,’ Marco said.

‘No, you don’t. I fixed your hand. And I’m good at my job.’

‘You’d better be, Clavo,’ Marco said through gritted teeth.

Ethan raised an eyebrow. ‘Clavo?’

‘It’s Spanish for Spike.’ Marco gestured with his free hand. ‘Face. Attitude. The thing you use to cut people open.’

‘Technically, that would be a lancet.’

Marco shrugged. ‘Clavo will do. You’re sure my hand’s fixed?’

‘Yes. Unless you do something stupid, like try to use your hand too early.’

Marco groaned. ‘You’re telling me that I’m going to be stuck here for a whole month?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said you’ll wear the splint for a month. You’ll have physio every single day. Several sessions. I want to make sure there aren’t any contractures to your palm, so you need to do stretches and gentle work. You do what the hand therapist says, when she says it, and nothing else. Got it?’

‘Because, if I don’t, then my hand’s gone for good.’

‘That’s about it.’

So he had no choice. ‘OK. I’ll do what you say. And the hand therapist,’ he added with a grimace.

‘Good. Think yourself lucky it wasn’t a severed thumb, Zorro. I would’ve had to replace it maybe with your big toe, and stick leeches all over you.’

Marco gave Ethan a reluctant smile. ‘Remind me, which century is this again?’

Ethan laughed. ‘I’ll have you know leech saliva is the best anticoagulant ever—it’s a hundred times more effective than heparin.’

‘So I’ve got nothing to do except pace this room?’ And, for the umpteenth time, wish to hell he’d out-thought the enemy. Wish his men hadn’t died. Wish he’d managed to get them all to safety.

‘Like a caged tiger,’ Ethan agreed. He paused. ‘There’s a gym in the basement. It’s really for the staff, but patients can use it.’

‘I thought you just said I couldn’t run or do weights?’

‘You can’t. The treadmill and elliptical are both out of bounds, ditto all the free weights and the machines.’

‘Right.’ Everything he was most likely to use. ‘Which leaves me what, precisely?’

‘The static bike,’ Ethan said. ‘And don’t use your arms.’

That was Marco’s idea of tedious. A proper bike in the mountains, yes, with steep inclines and rough terrain to challenge him; a static bike, even if it had programmes to change the resistance, wouldn’t challenge him at all. ‘Great,’ he said, curling his lip.

‘You can do walking lunges,’ Ethan said. ‘But that’s bodyweight only. Just to be clear, that means not having a bar across your traps, and no using dumb bells, even with your good hand. Got it?’

‘Got it.’ Marco rolled his eyes again. ‘Marvellous.’

‘And you can do squats—again, bodyweight only, with a stability ball against your back.’

‘What? Like a total novice?’ Marco asked in disgust.

‘No, like someone who’s going to have one arm strapped up so his balance is going to be out and he’s not going to be stupid enough to risk damaging his tendons again before they heal. You cross your other arm across your chest like this—’ Ethan demonstrated ‘—and at least this way you can keep your core strong.’

Which was something, Marco supposed. Bodyweight exercises. ‘Floorwork?’ he asked.

‘No. But you can do sit-ups on the stability ball.’

Marco couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

‘It’s better than nothing at all,’ Ethan said, and there was a brief flare of sympathy in his eyes.

‘I guess.’ But Marco was pretty sure that this next month was going to be the longest of his life.

Becca pulled herself out of the pool and squeezed the water from her shoulder-length hair before padding through to the showers. One of the things she loved about working at the Hunter Clinic was the pool in the basement; a swim after work always got the knots out of her muscles and her head in the right place before she headed for her stint at the rehab clinic.

On her way out of the building, she glanced through the glass doors of the gym. There was a man doing lunge walks down the length of the gym; his back was to her, but given the evidence she could see of a strapped-up arm he was clearly one of the patients.

Dark hair, tall, just like Seb …

Her heart skipped a beat.

Stupid.

It had been years since she’d last seen Seb. Years. It was about time she put him out of her head and stopped thinking about him every time she saw a tall, dark-haired man. Particularly as he’d made it very clear that he hadn’t returned her feelings. He’d left the children’s aid camp in South Africa without so much as a word to her. Dump and run.

‘Get over it, Becca,’ she told herself sharply. ‘You’ve got a new life now. And you don’t need a man to make it complete.’ Besides, she had work to do. Somewhere she was needed.

Shaking herself, she walked up the stairs to the reception area and out into Harley Street.

Over the next couple of days, Marco was thoroughly bored. He tried to be charming to the nurses who came to check on him, but he hated all of this. Being fussed over. Smothered. Suffocated.

Even the gym wasn’t a respite. Yes, it meant he could still work out. Of sorts. But he would have been much happier using the top-of-the-range free weights available, lifting until he’d reached his maximum one rep and then pushing himself just that little bit more. Doing a novice type programme just wasn’t satisfying. The only reason he’d been able to keep himself in check was the fear of rupturing the repair work on his tendons and being permanently without the use of his left hand. Three months would be tough enough. For the rest of his life would be unbearable.

‘You hate this, don’t you, Zorro?’ Ethan asked when he dropped in to see Marco at the end of the day.

‘Sitting here, being useless, when I know I’m needed elsewhere?’ Marco scowled. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘It’s not the easiest thing to deal with,’ Ethan agreed. ‘You just have to learn to be patient.’

‘Is that what you did, Clavo?’ Marco asked.

‘Just do as I say,’ was the level response.

‘So you didn’t.’

Ethan shrugged. ‘This isn’t about me; it’s about you.’

‘I hate this,’ Marco admitted. ‘I’m used to doing things. Not just sitting here. And your gym is pure torture. All the things I want to use and can’t.’

‘Patience,’ Ethan counselled.

Marco just scowled at him.

‘Let’s have a look at your hand.’ Ethan inspected it, then smiled. ‘Good news, Zorro. You get to meet your physio tomorrow morning.’

‘So I can start exercising my hand?’

‘You do,’ Ethan said, ‘everything she tells you. And no more than that.’

‘Or I’m risking permanent damage. Yeah, yeah. You’ve already told me.’ Marco took a deep breath. Damn. He was being rude again, and the doctor meant well. ‘Sorry.’

‘Frustration. It gets all of us at some point. Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow, Zorro.’

‘Hasta luego, Clavo.’ Marco sketched a salute with his right hand, and both men laughed wryly.

Becca was still thinking about what Lexi had told her about her new patient. Prince Charming. Ha. She’d met men like him before. The last time she’d made the mistake of falling for charm she’d learned the lesson well. In a way, she supposed that Seb had done her a favour. He’d left her at a crossroads. One way had led back to addiction, trying to wash away the pain with vodka—making her mother’s mistakes all over again. The other way led to working hard and making the best future she could—for herself, because Becca knew that she was the only one she could really rely on.

She’d made the right choice, and she wasn’t going back.

Ethan had said that the Prince was bored. So no doubt he’d be super-charming to her, wanting a distraction from his situation. Fine. He could be as charming as he liked. She’d be sweet and charming back, for the sake of the clinic. But she’d also make very sure that there was a professional distance between them, because she had no intention of being the Prince’s personal distraction.

The next morning couldn’t come fast enough for Marco’s liking. Even though he knew that ‘morning’ could mean technically anything from one second after midnight until one second to noon.

At last Ethan strolled in to Marco’s room followed by a woman in a white coat.

‘Zorro, I’ve got someone you’re dying to meet.’ He smiled. ‘Becca, I’d like you to meet—’

The woman in the white coat stepped to the side and stared at Marco. ‘Seb,’ she cut in, her voice a hoarse whisper, and all the colour drained from her face.




CHAPTER TWO (#u4c19fae4-4cf9-52de-9913-0066b366f05f)


‘NO, THIS IS Marco—Prince Marco of Sirmontane,’ Ethan said.

Prince? What? The man definitely hadn’t been a prince when Becca had known him in South Africa at the children’s aid camp. He’d called himself Seb. Nothing more. No surname, no nothing. And she hadn’t asked for any more details because she’d had her own secrets to hide and hadn’t wanted to trade them.

At least he looked as shocked as she felt. That was one thing.

‘Becca. I didn’t know you were a hand therapist,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know you were a prince,’ she said, a little more tartly than she’d intended. Bad move. She didn’t want him to know that it bothered her.

‘You know each other?’ Ethan asked, looking surprised.

Oh, yes. In the Biblical sense, too. ‘You could say that.’ Though it turned out she hadn’t really known Seb—Marco—at all.

No wonder he’d left without a word. He was a prince, not an ordinary guy, and obviously he’d just been slumming it at the aid camp—something to do between finishing university and starting whatever it was that princes were supposed to do. Which made her relationship with him worth even less than she’d thought.

And how the press would dine out on that if they knew. A girl from the wrong side of the tracks, a girl who’d been hooked on vodka and E, a girl who’d almost ended up in the gutter … and she’d had a fling with a prince.

‘Becca—a quick word?’ Ethan said, gesturing to the door of Prince Marco’s—she couldn’t think of him as just Seb any more—room.

She went outside into the corridor with her boss.

‘Clearly there’s history here. Would you prefer someone else to treat Prince Marco?’ Ethan asked gently.

Yes, she would. She didn’t want to treat the boy she’d fallen in love with one dreamy summer. The boy who’d played guitar to her under the stars and sung songs of love in a language she didn’t know. But she’d seen the emotion in his face and known exactly what the words meant. The boy who’d made her feel so special—and then left without a single word, letting her dreams crash down round her.

But that was an emotional response. And Becca didn’t do emotional any more. She’d promised never to let herself get in a vulnerable state again. Yet, two seconds after seeing Seb for the first time in seven years, she was a mess. In shock that the past had come back to haunt her. Trying to process just how many lies she’d fallen for. Trying to get her head round the fact that Seb—the man she’d thought had been an ordinary boy—had actually been a prince in disguise.

With an effort, she pulled herself back into professional mode. ‘I’m the hand specialist. It’s my job to treat him.’

‘Not if it’s going to be a problem for you.’

She liked the fact that her boss was standing up for her. Having someone in her corner felt good; it was something she’d never known, growing up. But it also wasn’t fair to lean on Ethan and let him make excuses for her. Seb—Marco—whatever he wanted to call himself—was a patient here. Given that he was royalty, no doubt he was only here because of the reputation of the Hunter Clinic. And Becca wasn’t going to let any unprofessional behaviour on her part do anything to tarnish that reputation.

‘It’s not a problem, Ethan,’ she fibbed. ‘But thank you.’

‘Sure?’ he checked.

‘Sure.’

‘So just how do you know each other?’ Ethan asked.

‘We both worked at a children’s aid camp. Years ago. I was still a student. He’d just finished university.’ If that was true. For all she knew, that could have been another lie. She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘It’s not important.’

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘OK. But if treating him does turn out to be a problem just talk to me and I’ll get someone else in to cover his case.’

‘Thank you. But it’ll be fine,’ Becca said. Prince Marco wasn’t going to break her heart again.

How could you break something that was already broken?

‘I guess I owe you an apology,’ Marco said when Becca walked back into the room.

‘Why?’ Becca asked. For being yet another man who’d used her and broken her heart? As if a European prince could give a damn about how an unimportant girl from an obscure family felt.

He grimaced. ‘You know why.’

And of course now she was expected to make it easy for him. Be gracious about it. Or maybe she’d just act cool and casual, as if their summer fling had been just as unimportant to her as it had obviously been to him. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ she said, hoping that she sounded a lot more dismissive than she felt.

‘I didn’t tell you who I was, back then.’

‘No.’ She knew it would be hypocritical of her to be mad at him for that. She’d kept her own past a total secret—from everyone else at the camp as well as him. And nobody here at the Hunter Clinic knew about that part of her life, either.

‘But I didn’t lie to you completely. My name’s Marco Sebastian Enrique Guillermo García.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Becca tried to maintain a semblance of cool. Though right at that moment she was remembering her first introduction to Seb, the guy who was to lead her team at the aid camp. She’d been nineteen and he’d been twenty-one, just graduated from university—well, unless he’d lied about his age as well. And Seb had been the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. Tall, dark and handsome, with soulful eyes and a voice like melted chocolate, just a hint of a Southern Mediterranean accent. All the girls at the camp had been in love with him, and when he’d smiled at Becca she simply hadn’t stood a chance. She’d fallen for him almost the second she’d met him.

She’d fought the attraction at first, knowing that men couldn’t be trusted to do anything else but hurt you; but Seb had been patient with her. Gentle. He’d talked to her, skilfully drawn her out of her shell. It had amazed her that, despite the fact he could’ve had his pick of all the girls at the camp, he’d actually chosen her.

Fast forward seven years to now. There were shadows beneath those beautiful eyes—a combination of exhaustion and pain over the last few days, she’d guess—but Prince Marco was still the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. And now he was a man, not a boy. The youthfulness had gone from his face, and he’d filled out from being a tall and slightly skinny youth to having hard, perfect musculature.

And his mouth … It still promised sin. The ultimate temptation. A mouth she could remember giving her almost unbearable pleasure. It would be oh, so easy to let herself act on the old attraction.

Well, she was just going to have to resist that urge, because the likes of him were definitely not for the likes of her. And she wasn’t stupid enough to jeopardise her career for one of the few sweet memories of her past. She’d worked way too hard for that.

‘My grandfather’s called Sebastian,’ he continued. ‘I was named partly after him. So it made sense to use his name—one of my middle names.’

‘What was wrong with calling yourself Marco?’

‘It would’ve made it too easy for the press to make the link,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t want everyone thinking that I was just some bored aristocrat slumming it.’

‘Weren’t you?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I wanted to make a difference.’

She could almost believe him.

Except … ‘You left without a word.’

He sighed. ‘I was called back to the Palace. My grandfather was ill. It would’ve been too complicated to explain.’

‘And you couldn’t have told me that you’d been called home because of a sick family member? You were that paranoid about the connections being made?’

‘I didn’t say that all my decisions have been the best ones—or the right ones,’ he said, and looked wryly at his strapped-up hand. ‘Or I wouldn’t have this.’

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Shrapnel. Well, glass,’ he said. ‘It severed a tendon.’

Which was pretty much as she’d been briefed. Patient: male, late twenties, royal, soldier, severed flexor tendon, needs physio work to regain mobility and movement in his hand.

The last thing she’d expected was for it to be the man who’d broken her heart to the point that she’d sworn off relationships for good and focused on nothing but her career.

Which was what she should be doing right now. Professional was good: it would put some much-needed distance between them. ‘Ethan said the repair was a success. So now it’s my job to get your hand mobile and working properly again.’

‘Is it going to be a problem, Becca?’ he asked. ‘Working with me?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’

Was it her imagination, or had she seen a flicker of hurt in his eyes just then?

Well, tough. He’d hurt her. Badly. And, besides, she was pretty sure it was his ego that was hurt and nothing else. He might think of himself as Prince Charming, but she had absolutely no intention of playing Cinderella. Or fawning adoringly over him. She’d be cool and calm and professional, and treat him just as she would any other patient. With care and kindness, and just a little bit of necessary detachment.

‘You can drop the “Royal Highness” bit,’ he said.

‘What would you like to be called today?’ The snippy question was out before she could stop it.

He sighed. ‘I guess I deserve that. Call me Marco. And I hope I can still call you Becca.’

Oh, help. The way he said her name. That slight trace of a Spanish accent, so incredibly sexy. It made her knees buckle.

Resist, she reminded herself. This was a job. He was a patient, and she had to treat him with the utmost professionalism. And he was also a prince. They had no possible chance of a future together, and she wasn’t going to wreck her career for just a fling.

‘I guess. May I have a look at your hand?’ she asked.

He indicated his strapped-up arm with his free hand. ‘Help yourself.’

Gently, she removed the strapping and took the hand strap off the splint.

* * *

Seven years.

She’d changed. Back then Becca had still been a girl. Nineteen years old, a little shy. Beautiful.

Now she was all woman.

Even with her soft curves hidden beneath a sexless starched white coat, with that glorious auburn hair tamed back in a ponytail and those beautiful green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses, Becca Anderson was gorgeous.

Worse still, Marco knew what it felt like to kiss her. How her body responded to his when they made love. How her breathing changed just before she climaxed.

Ah, hell.

This was so inappropriate it was untrue.

Becca Anderson was his hand therapist, and Ethan Hunter had told him not to flirt with any of the female staff at the clinic.

Ha.

Flirting wasn’t the half of it.

What would Ethan Hunter say if he knew just how far things had gone between Marco and Becca all those years ago?

Marco had to get a grip.

Which was half the problem; right now his left hand didn’t have a grip. That was what Becca was going to fix.

And he needed to think of her as a medic. Not as a woman.

In fact, he needed not to think of her at all. Since he’d left her behind in South Africa he hadn’t let himself think about her. Well, apart from the day after the doctor had confirmed that his grandfather had come through the heart bypass operation safely and would be just fine. Marco had gone back to the children’s aid camp, then. For her.

Except she’d left, two days previously, with no forwarding address.

The one girl who’d seen him for himself instead of as a prince. Who’d made his summer feel full of magic. Who’d made him fall in love with her shy, gentle sweetness.

He’d lost her. And he hadn’t been able to track her down, even with the help of a private detective; somehow she’d managed to vanish completely.

And all sorts of things could have happened in the last seven years. He glanced swiftly at her left hand. There was no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t committed. She might not wear rings to work, given that she was a hand therapist. She could have a family, now. A child.

Besides, she’d made it very clear how she regarded him now. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’

So he needed to stop thinking about her, right now, and do what he’d done for the last seven years: keep himself busy at work, and then play just as hard with a string of totally unsuitable women. Not let himself think about the girl he’d left behind.

‘You’ve made a real mess of this,’ she said, examining his palm. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Hunter didn’t tell you?’

‘Soldier, severed tendon.’ She shrugged. ‘So I’d guess it happened in action?’

‘My windscreen was blown out. I put up my hand to protect my eyes.’

‘No wonder you severed a tendon. You’re lucky it didn’t sever an artery and you bled out on the field. Or it could’ve severed your whole hand.’

‘I know.’

Not that it made him feel any better. He’d been over and over what had happened the last two days and nights. Thinking about what he could have done differently. What he should have done differently. But it didn’t change what had happened. Or do anything to lessen the guilt. He’d phoned every single wife, every single mother, and apologised for not taking better care of their loved ones while they were under his leadership. They’d all been grateful that he’d phoned, amazed that a prince would bother to share his memories of their husbands and sons. They’d cried. They’d even thanked him.

And it hadn’t made a scrap of difference. He still hated himself for making those mistakes. For not bringing all his men safely home.

‘Others weren’t so lucky.’ He sighed. ‘Those who were injured have the best possible care. Those who …’ There was a lump in his throat and he couldn’t say the rest of it.

‘Marco, you were in a war zone. People get injured. They die. You can’t blame yourself for that.’

‘They were acting under my orders.’

She shrugged. ‘I take it other people were injured, or killed, following the orders of someone else?’

‘Well—yes,’ he admitted.

‘And do you blame the officers for those deaths?’

He sighed. ‘I guess not.’

‘Then don’t blame yourself. If it hadn’t been your orders, it would’ve been someone else’s. I think you’re suffering enough without adding guilt to it. You just did your job, Marco.’

How had she become so wise? he wondered.

To his relief, she changed the subject back to his injury. ‘The first few days of physio, you’re just going to do some gentle exercises. These will help to prevent your tendons becoming stuck in your scar tissue.’

‘Stuck?’

‘Then Ethan would have to operate again. And the outcome might not be so good second time round.’

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘I’m under orders to do what you tell me.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘And a prince takes orders from ordinary people?’

Score one to her. ‘The rule is, medical orders outrank military orders.’

‘What about royal orders?’

He shrugged. ‘As far as I know, royal orders from Sirmontane only work inside my country. And right now I’m in your country, not mine.’

‘Touché.’ She sighed. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to snipe at you.’

‘But I lied to you about who I was. I can understand you being angry about that.’

‘It’s not so much that you didn’t tell me who you were, it’s the fact that you left without a word.’

‘So did you,’ he pointed out.

She blinked. ‘I did not. You were the one who left, not me.’

‘But you left the camp without a forwarding address.’

She frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I came back for you when my grandfather pulled through his operation,’ he said.

Her cheeks went pink. ‘I didn’t know that. And, anyway, what happened between us was obviously just the equivalent of a holiday fling. It was over years ago, and we’re both very different people now.’

He caught her gaze and held it. Was it over? The attraction was still there, for him. And the way her pupils grew slightly larger when she looked at him made him think that maybe, just maybe, it was the same for her. ‘Are we?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes.’ She looked away. ‘I worked hard to get this job. I’m not going to let anything put that in jeopardy. You’re in London for a few days—maybe a few weeks, until your tendon is healed enough—and then you’ll be back to doing whatever it is princes do.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Which is?’

‘How should I know?’

She sounded ever so slightly flustered.

Interesting.

Was it seeing him again? Had it brought back memories? Did she remember what it felt like to kiss him? Was she, like him, tempted to find out if it was still the same between them?

‘And it’s none of my business what you do,’ she said.

‘I was in Afghanistan,’ he said softly. ‘There’s a media blanket in place to keep my regiment safe. They don’t report anything about me, so my team isn’t targeted. Nobody knows I was hurt out there, and nobody knows I’m here. Well, apart from my team back at the base, my family, and the clinic staff here.’

‘And you want to keep it that way.’

He nodded. ‘To keep my team safe. I guess the media will find out eventually that I’m here.’

‘Not from me or anyone else at the clinic, if that’s what you’re asking. There is such a thing as patient confidentiality. And we’re very strict about that, I can assure you,’ she said crisply.

‘Thank you.’ He took her hand with his good hand, and squeezed it lightly before letting her go again.

Mistake.

Because his body remembered the feel of her skin against his. Intimately. And it reacted instantly.

Oh, hell.

Just as well she wasn’t looking at anything other than his busted hand. He took a deep breath, willing his body to calm down. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be following her instructions, not lusting after her.

‘Now, you need to do these exercises every hour,’ she said.

All businesslike and bossy. And Marco rather liked this new side of Becca. She was professionally confident, rather than the shy teenager she’d been.

‘You need to keep the splint on, but you can take the hand strap off while you’re doing the exercises. You start with three reps of this one.’

‘Three reps?’ He smiled. ‘You sound like a gym instructor.’

She frowned. ‘Stay out of the gym. Any pressure on this hand while it’s healing and you’ll be looking at permanent disability.’

‘I’ve already had that talk from Ethan. Though he says I’m allowed in the gym to do sit-ups and squats with a stability ball, provided I keep my body balanced and don’t use my left hand.’

‘That figures,’ she said. ‘Bodyweight exercises only.’

‘And walking lunges.’

She went pink again. ‘So was that you in the gym, the other day?’

She’d recognised him without seeing his face clearly? That was even more interesting. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘I wasn’t there. Just passing the glass door on my way out of the pool. And I assume Ethan told you to stay out of the pool?’

‘And put a bag over my arm when I have a bath or shower so I don’t get the splint wet. Yup.’ He looked at her. ‘But I could spectate at the pool. Do you swim a lot?’

‘It’s in my schedule.’

So she wasn’t going to let him push her into telling him anything about herself. Interesting.

‘It’s a cliché, you know,’ he said, enjoying himself.

‘What is?’

‘Having a temper to go with your hair colour.’

‘I don’t have a temper.’

‘Don’t you, Becca?’ he asked softly. ‘Or are you just gentle with your husband and children?’

‘My marital status is my business,’ she said coolly.

Maybe, but at least now he knew what it was. If she’d actually been married she would’ve told him, to put him in his place. Or she would’ve turned into a proud mamá like his sister Arabella, ready to show off photographs of her children at the least excuse.

‘Your first exercise, Your Royal Highness,’ she said crisply. ‘Use your right hand to curl each finger of your left hand down to the top of your palm.’ She demonstrated with her own hand.

He couldn’t help flinching as pain lanced through his hand.

‘Did that hurt?’ She didn’t sound like a vengeful harpy. She sounded concerned. Caring. But in a professional capacity.

‘A bit,’ he admitted.

‘Did you feel anything pull?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘I need to massage your hand first, to warm up the muscles.’ She frowned. ‘I’d better warn you now that it might hurt a bit.’

‘If it gets my hand working again and it means I can go back to work, then I don’t care if it hurts,’ he said. ‘Do whatever you need to. I’m in your hands.’

She went very, very pink.

Yeah.

He could feel the heat rising in his body, too.

‘Lie back with your palm upwards.’ She sounded slightly flustered and she was clearly making an effort to be professional.

OK. He’d behave. Even though what he really wanted to do right now was slide his good hand round the nape of her neck, draw her to him, and spend a very long time kissing her.

She pulled a chair round to the side of the bed. ‘Tell me if anything hurts.’

Wild horses wouldn’t drag that particular admission from him.

He closed his eyes as she massaged his hand. Yes, it did hurt; but at the same time it made his hand feel better. And he liked the feel of her skin against his. Warm. Gentle, yet firm at the same time. Soft. She was near enough for him to smell the light floral scent she wore. She’d always smelled of flowers in South Africa, he remembered. Roses.

With his eyes closed, and mercifully silent, Marco was a lot easier to deal with.

Maybe she ought to tell Ethan that she couldn’t cope with her new patient. But then her boss might think less of her—and she’d worked damn hard for her job here. After South Africa she’d thrown all her energies into her studies, graduating with top marks and quickly gaining promotion at the hospital where she’d worked. She hadn’t let any relationship get in her way.




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