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Forbidden To The Playboy Surgeon
Fiona Lowe


Unbuttoned—and out of bounds!Sparks fly from day one between playboy neurosurgeon Alastair North and his talented, sexy trainee surgeon, Claire Mitchell. He’s on a mission to help uber-serious Claire relax, but his cavalier approach is driving her crazy.Alistair is completely out of bounds, even if he is completely gorgeous—he’s her boss! But when he confronts Claire after a difficult surgery desire overcomes reason. With secrets holding them both back, can they find a way to turn their forbidden passion into for ever?Paddington Children’s HospitalCaring for children - and captivating hearts!







Unbuttoned—and out of bounds!

Sparks fly from day one between playboy neurosurgeon Alistair North and his talented, sexy trainee surgeon Claire Mitchell. He’s on a mission to help überserious Claire relax, but his cavalier approach is driving her crazy.

Alistair is completely out of bounds, even if he is completely gorgeous—he’s her boss! But when he confronts Claire after a difficult surgery, desire overcomes reason. With secrets holding them both back, can they find a way to turn their forbidden passion into forever?


Dear Reader (#ulink_1ec3325c-5b16-5220-937f-262f76452eae),

When I was invited to be part of the Paddington Children’s Hospital series I jumped at the chance to spend some virtual time in London. Oh, what fun I had “walking” the streets virtually, online—first in Paddington, and then venturing further afield as I gave my Aussie heroine a London adventure.

My favourite part of this research was creating the setting for the fundraising ball. I based it around the Savoy Hotel, and the wild and wonderful stories that are now part of the folklore of that gracious establishment.

I hope you enjoy spending a few hours in London with Claire and Alistair as they work and play and finally find their happy-ever-after.

Check out my Pinterest page for the book to see some of the London sights that feature. Online, you can find me at fionalowe.com (http://www.fionalowe.com), on Facebook, Twitter and now Instagram—and you can email me at Fiona@fionalowe.com. I love to hear from my readers.

Happy reading!

Fiona x


Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

Fiona Lowe






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


FIONA LOWE is a RITA® and RUBY award-winning author who started writing romances when she was on holiday and ran out of books. Now writing single title contemporary romance for Carina Press and Medical Romances for Mills & Boon, she lives in a seaside town in southern Australia, where she juggles writing, reading, working and raising two gorgeous sons with the support of her own real-life hero! Readers can visit Fiona at her website: fionalowe.com (http://www.fionalowe.com).

Books by Fiona Lowe

Mills & Boon Medical Romance

Sydney Harbour Hospital: Tom’s Redemption

Letting Go with Dr. Rodriguez

Newborn Baby For Christmas

Gold Coast Angels: Bundle of Trouble

Unlocking Her Surgeon’s Heart

A Daddy for Baby Zoe?

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.


To my fellow Medical Romance author Annie O’Neil,

who answered all my questions about London

so enthusiastically and speedily. And for the laughs.

Thanks! It made writing this book so much fun.


Praise for Fiona Lowe (#ulink_7549142e-89cd-546b-9808-ef7594c445d1)

‘A gripping, emotional and highly compelling tale…Unlocking Her Surgeon’s Heart is a first-class Medical Romance you will devour in a single sitting.’

—Goodreads


Contents

Cover (#u9eb0d92e-28a6-5dd3-8ff0-6ecd3065c8e7)

Back Cover Text (#u2a16c450-a13e-5ed7-a747-bb06ee2185d8)

Dear Reader (#ulink_faa203ad-f422-54f2-b891-9d93859df432)

Title Page (#uc3016f62-c25f-555c-9530-86a5e31a29ed)

Booklist (#ub7c46b8a-dd78-53c8-a3ad-ef225a86433f)

Dedication (#ub87d48a0-94be-5ca6-8abf-dd0ac6561c6b)

Praise (#ulink_424e1a5f-f4df-50ab-8ca3-5096270209d5)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e867c1f1-921f-5e9c-811f-e2200ff40d56)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ea7ab77c-dbc3-5351-a6d4-72c804f8b261)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2a5fae79-bcf9-528e-8110-cd71d51dd2bf)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_d6f269fb-3124-5541-b162-942a27738988)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c2997272-2058-5ebd-a173-ce7f0cc22a55)

ALTHOUGH CLAIRE MITCHELL had been in London for a few weeks, she still pinched herself every time she stepped out onto the streets of Paddington. For an Aussie country girl, it was all a little bit surreal—like being on the set of Mary Poppins or Upstairs, Downstairs.

Dazzling white, Victorian, stuccoed terraced houses with pillared porches and decorative balconies were built neatly around tiny central gardens. This morning as she crossed the pocket-handkerchief park, passing between two black wrought-iron gates, the ubiquitous London drizzle was cheerfully absent. Tongues of early-morning light filtered down between the tender, bright green spring foliage of century-old oaks and elms. It was a far cry from the dusty, rock-hard and sun-cracked park where she’d spent her childhood. The only shade to be found at the Gundiwindi playground had been that cast by the people standing next to her.

Walking briskly, she made her way along what would be a frantically busy road in an hour’s time. Right now though, the street sweepers, bakers, newsagents and baristas were the only people out offering services to a few crazy early birds like herself. Her favourite Italian trattoria had a coffee window and Tony greeted her with a cheery buongiorno as he handed out six lattes, neatly stacked in a cardboard carrier. ‘You bring the sunshine, mia bella.’

Claire smiled and gave into the irrational zip of delight she allowed herself to feel. She knew the garrulous barista flirted with every female aged two to ninety-two and that his mia bella meant nothing. But as few men ever noticed her, let alone tried to charm her, she accepted and enjoyed his compliments as a lovely way to start her day.

She bought a pain au chocolat from the bakery and balanced the bag on top of the coffees as she continued to walk towards Paddington Children’s Hospital, or ‘the castle’ as the locals called it. A bright red double-decker bus lumbered past down the narrow road. With her free hand, she grabbed a quick photo of it on her phone and immediately sent it to her brother. He was the proud owner of the Gundiwindi garage and he adored anything with an engine. Whenever Claire saw something he’d delight in, she always sent him a photo. He always replied with either a picture of her nieces and nephews or of her parents.

Unlike herself, David loved living in the small outback town where they’d both grown up. Good at both cricket and footy, he’d always belonged and thrived and he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She, on the other hand, had been plotting to leave since she was ten years old, desperate to escape the taunts and bullying of a small-minded town that hovered on the edge of the desert and existence.

The imposing turrets of the red-brick London hospital now loomed high above her as she approached the old ornate gates. A small group of people rugged up against the post-dawn chill clutched Save Our Hospital and Kids’ Health NOT Wealth signs with gloved hands. Each morning found a different combination of people in attendance. Many were parents of current patients, but hearteningly, there were some who’d been patients themselves many years ago. Together they were united and maintained a peaceful protest presence at the gates, striving to keep alive the hope that something could be done to save the hospital from closure.

‘I’ve brought hot coffee,’ Claire called out, holding up the cardboard tray as she did most mornings. Granted, she’d only been working at the castle for a few weeks but the idea of central London losing such a vitally important health-care provider was a terrifying thought. What if the castle had already been closed when Westbourne Primary School caught fire? The thought made her shudder. There would have certainly been deaths. Even with the hospital’s proximity to the school, there’d been far too many close calls. Not everyone was out of the woods yet, including little Ryan Walker.

The stalwarts at the gate greeted her and her coffees with a cheer. ‘Morning, love.’

‘Early again? You still on Aussie time?’ one asked.

She laughed. ‘I’d be going home after a day’s work if I was.’

Once she’d distributed the coffees, she ducked through the gates and strode under the decorative brick archway. Behind the beautiful Victorian façade was a modern hospital with state-of-the-art equipment and an experienced and dedicated staff. There were one hundred and fifty years of history here and she was humbled to be a part of it. When she’d received the offer of a chance to train under the tutelage of the world-renowned neurosurgeon, Alistair North, she’d actually squealed in delight, deafening the very proper Englishwoman on the other end of the line.

‘Now, now, Ms Mitchell,’ the secretary to the chair of the Royal College of Surgeons had said primly as if overt displays of enthusiasm were frowned upon. Then, without pausing, she’d continued to outline the terms and conditions of the scholarship.

Claire hadn’t cared about her unrestrained antipodean response. If a girl couldn’t get excited about such an amazing opportunity, when could she? After all, her work was her life and her life was her work, and the scholarship was a chance of a lifetime. At the time, she’d danced down the corridors of Flinders Medical Centre telling everyone from cleaners to consultants that she was going to London.

Now, as she ran up five flights of stairs, she was almost certain that if she’d known what was in store for her at the castle, she might not have been quite so excited. When she reached the landing with the large painted koala on the ward door, she smiled. Why, when all the other wards were named after northern hemisphere birds and animals, the Brits had chosen an Aussie marsupial for the neurology ward’s logo was a mystery to her but she loved that they had. It made her feel a little less like an alien in what was proving to be a very unexpected foreign land.

Despite speaking English and having been raised in a country where the Union Jack still sat in the corner of the flag, Londoners were different. The brilliant Alistair North was extremely different, although not in the often restrained and polite British way. She’d been fortunate to work with talented neurosurgeons in Australia and she understood that brilliance was often accompanied by quirks. But Mr North had taken quirk and magnified it by the power of ten. All of it left her struggling to convince herself she’d done the right thing in accepting the scholarship.

Stepping into the bright and cheery ward, she noticed with a start that the nurses’ station was empty. Surely she wasn’t late? Her mouth dried as she spun around to check the large wall clock. The bright, red and yellow clock hands pointed to big blue numbers and they instantly reassured her. She gave a little laugh that contained both relief and irony. Of course she wasn’t late—she was never late and today she was even earlier than usual. Preparation and attention to detail was as much a part of her as breathing. It had been that way since the fateful day in grade five when her small childhood world had suddenly turned on her.

Assuming the nurses to be busy with their end-of-shift tasks, she slid into an office chair and logged on to the computer. She always read her patients’ overnight reports before rounds. It was better to take the extra time, learn what had happened and to have a well thought out plan than to be caught short. Just the thought of being put on the spot with the critical eyes of the medical students and junior house officers fixed upon her made her breath come faster.

The ward cared for children with a variety of neurological, craniofacial and central nervous system disorders, including those that required surgery. Although Mr North performed many different operations, his passion was the surgical treatment of focal epilepsy. It was the reason she’d fought so hard to win the scholarship and work with him, but as her brother often said in his laconic and understated tone after everything had gone pear-shaped, ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Right now she was second-guessing her good idea.

While she read the reports, the daytime nursing staff drifted in, busy chatting, and the medical students soon followed. Finally, the consistently late junior house officer, Andrew Bailey, arrived breathless and with his white coattails flapping. He came to a sudden halt and glanced around, his expression stunned. ‘I still beat him?’

Claire, who’d just read little Ryan Walker’s ‘no change’ report, stood with a sigh. ‘You still beat him.’

He grinned. ‘I must tell my father that my inability to be on time makes me a natural neurosurgeon.’

‘Perhaps that’s my problem,’ Claire muttered as she checked her phone for a message or a missed call from the exuberantly talented consultant surgeon who had no concept of time or workplace protocol. Nope, no messages or voicemail. She automatically checked the admissions board, but if Mr Alistair North were running late because of an emergency admission, she’d have been the one hauled out of bed to deal with it.

‘I heard while you and I were slaving away here last night, he was holding court over at the Frog and Peach,’ Andrew said with a conspiratorial yet reverent tone.

‘That doesn’t automatically mean he had a late night.’

Andrew’s black brows rose and waggled at her. ‘I just met the delectable Islay Kennedy on the back stairs wearing yesterday’s clothes. She mentioned dancing on tables, followed by an illicit boat ride on the Serpentine and then bacon and eggs at the Worker’s Café watching the dawn break over the Thames. When I see him, I plan to genuflect in his direction.’

A flash of anger swept through Claire’s body so hot and fast she thought it might lift her head from her neck. I want to kill Alistair North. Surgery was such a boys’ club and neurosurgery even more so. For years she’d gone into battle time and time again on the basis of raw talent but it was never enough. She constantly fought sexism, and now, it seemed, she had to tackle ridiculous childish behaviour and the adoration of men, who in essence were little boys. Fed up and furious, she did something she rarely did: she shot the messenger.

‘Andrew, don’t even think that behaviour like that is commendable. It’s juvenile and utterly irresponsible. If you ever pull a stunt like that and turn up to operate with me, I’ll fail you.’

Before her stunned junior house officer could reply, the eardrum-piercing sound of party blowers rent the air. Everyone turned towards the raucous sound. A tall man with thick, rumpled dark blond hair and wearing fake black horn-rimmed glasses—complete with a large fake bulbous nose and moustache—was marching along the ward with a little girl clinging to his back like a monkey. Behind him followed a trail of children aged between two and twelve. Some were walking, others were being pushed in wheelchairs by the nurses and many wore bandages on their heads—all of them were enthusiastically puffing air into party blowers and looking like they were on a New Year’s Day parade.

‘Wave to Dr Mitchell,’ the man instructed the little girl on his back. ‘Did you know she’s really a kangaroo?’

Despite his voice being slightly muffled by the fake moustache, it was without doubt the unmistakably deep and well-modulated tones of Alistair North.

A line of tension ran down Claire’s spine with the speed and crack of lightning before radiating outwards into every single cell. It was the same tension that invaded her every time Alistair North spoke to her. The same tension that filled her whenever she thought about him. It was a barely leashed dislike and it hummed inside her along with something else she didn’t dare name. She refused point-blank to contemplate that it might be attraction. The entire female staff of the castle might think the man was sex on a stick, but not her.

Granted, the first time she’d seen all six feet of him striding confidently towards her, she’d been struck by his presence. Unlike herself, not one single atom of the many that made up Alistair North hinted at doubt. The man positively radiated self-assurance from the square set of his shoulders to his brogue-clad feet. He wore clothes with effortless ease, their expensive cut and style fitting him flawlessly, yet at the same time finding the perfect pitch between stuffy and scruffy. Despite his posh accent, there was also something engaging and decidedly un-British about his lopsided and cheeky grin. It wasn’t a smile one associated with a consultant. It would break over the stark planes of his cheeks, vanquishing the esteemed surgeon and give rise to the remnants of a cheeky and mischievous little boy. But it wasn’t so much the smile that undid her—it was the glint in his slate-grey eyes. He had the ability to focus his attention on a person and make them feel as if they were the only human being on the planet.

‘Welcome to the castle, Mitchell,’ he’d said to her on her first day.

As she’d shaken his outstretched hand and felt his firm pressure wrap around her fingers and travel up her arm, she’d been horrified to feel herself just a little bit breathless. Her planned speech had vanished and she’d found herself replying in her broadest Australian accent, ‘Thanks. It’s great to be here.’

It had taken less than a week for her to realise that Alistair North’s cheeky grin almost always flagged that he was about to break the rules and wreak havoc on a grand scale. She’d also learned that his eyes alone, with their dancing smoky hue and intense gaze that made the person in their sights feel like they mattered to him like no one else, were frequently used with devastating ease to tempt women into his bed.

She conceded that, perhaps, on her first day when she’d felt momentarily breathless, she’d succumbed to the hypnotic effect of his gaze. Now, after working closely with him for weeks, she was immune to its effects. She’d spent ten years slogging her way up the medical career ladder, spending more hours in hospitals than out of them, and she wasn’t about to risk it all by landing up in the boss’s bed. More importantly, she didn’t like Alistair North, so even if he were the last man on earth, she wouldn’t be tempted.

Apparently, she was virtually the only woman at the castle with that thought. Over the past few weeks she’d been stunned to find herself sought out by hopeful women seeking information about Alistair North’s proclivities, or worse still, being asked to act as go-between for disappointed and sometimes furious women whom he’d dated and then hadn’t bothered to call. All things considered, from his casual disregard of the rules to his blasé treatment of women, there was no way on God’s green earth or in the fiery depths of hell that she was attracted to that man. Not now. Not never.

The stories about Alistair North that circulated around the hospital held fable qualities. If she hadn’t been working closely with him as his speciality registrar, she’d have laughed on being told the tales. She’d have said, ‘They’ve got to be the invention of an overactive imagination.’ But she did work with him. Sadly, she’d seen enough evidence to know at least two of the stories she’d heard were true so she had no reason not to believe the others. As hard as she tried to focus solely on Alistair North’s immense skill as a neurosurgeon and block out the excited noise that seemed to permanently spin and jangle around him, it was impossible.

Everywhere she turned, people talked about his exploits in and out of the operating theatre. Gossip about who he was currently dating or dumping and who he’d been seen with driving into work that morning ran rife along the hospital corridors. It was as if speculation about the man was the hospital’s secondary power supply. What she hated most of all was the legendary status the young male house officers gave him, while she was the one left trailing behind, picking up the pieces.

No, the sensation she got every time she was in the same space as Mr Alistair North was antagonism. The man may be brilliant and talented in the operating theatre but outside of it he was utterly unprofessional. He was stuck permanently in adolescence, and at thirty-nine that was not only ridiculous, it was sad. Most of his contemporaries were married with children but she supposed it would take a brave—or more likely deluded—woman to risk all on him. The only thing Claire would risk on Alistair North was her brain. Despite what she thought of the man, she couldn’t deny the doctor was the best neurosurgeon in the country.

The little girl on Alistair North’s back was now waving enthusiastically at her. Claire blinked behind her glasses, suddenly realising it was Lacey—the little girl they were operating on in an hour’s time. Why wasn’t she tucked up in her bed quiet and calm?

‘Wave back, Kanga,’ Alistair North said, his clear and precise Oxford accent teasing her. ‘It won’t break your arm.’

Claire’s blood heated to boiling point. Did the man know that kangaroos boxed? The thought of bopping him on his fake nose was far too tempting. She felt the expectant gaze of the ward staff fixed firmly on her and suddenly she was thrown back in time. She was in Gundiwindi, standing in front of the class, with fifteen sets of eyes boring into her. She could see the red dust motes dancing in the starkly bright and uncompromising summer sunshine and the strained smile of her teacher slipping as his mouth turned down into a resigned and grumpy line. She could hear the shuffling and coughing of her peers—the sound that always preceded the one or two brutal comments that managed to escape from their mouths before Mr Phillips regained control.

Moron. Idiot.

Stop it. She hauled her mind back to the present, reminding herself sternly that she wasn’t either of those things. She’d spent two decades proving it. She was a woman in a difficult and male dominated speciality and she was eleven months away from sitting her final neurosurgery exams. She’d fought prejudice and sexism to get this far and she’d fought herself. She refused to allow anyone to make her feel diminished and she sure as hell wasn’t going to accept an order to wave from a man who needed to grow up. She would, however, do what she always did—she’d restore order.

In heels, Claire came close to matching Alistair North’s height, and although her preference had always been to wear ballet flats, she’d taken herself shoe shopping at the end of her first week of working with him. The added inches said, Don’t mess with me. She took a few steps forward until she was standing side on to him but facing Lacey. Ignoring Alistair North completely, and most definitely ignoring his scent of freshly laundered cotton with a piquant of sunshine that made her unexpectedly homesick, she opened her arms out wide towards the waving child.

‘Do you want to come for a hop with Kanga?’

‘Yes, please.’

Lacey, a ward of the state, transferred almost too easily into her arms, snuggling in against her chest and chanting, ‘Boing, boing, boing.’

Claire pulled her white coat over her charge, creating a makeshift pouch, and then she turned her back on Alistair North. She strode quickly down the ward carrying an overexcited Lacey back to her bed. As she lowered her down and tried to tuck her under the blankets, the little girl bounced on the mattress.

Thanks for nothing, Alistair, Claire muttered to herself. It was going to take twice as long as normal to do all the routine preoperative checks. Yet another day would run late before it had even started.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_a065eec0-a2a4-5f6f-8539-7d02ce2af826)

ALASTAIR NORTH MOVED his lower jaw sideways and then back again behind his surgical mask, mulling over the conundrum that was his incredibly perfectionist and frustratingly annoying speciality registrar. She’d more than competently created a skin pouch to hold the vagus nerve stimulator she was inserting into Lacey Clarke. Now she was delicately wrapping the wire around the left vagus nerve and hopefully its presence would effectively minimise Lacey’s seizures in a way medication had so far failed to achieve.

A bit of electricity, he mused, could kill or save a life. He knew all about that. Too much or too little of the stuff left a man dead for a very long time. What he didn’t know was why Claire Mitchell was permanently strung so tight a tune could be plucked on her tendons.

Based on her skills and glowing references from the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital in Sydney and the Flinders Medical Centre in Adelaide, she’d outranked twenty-five other talented applicants from the Commonwealth. With her small steady hands and deft strokes, she had the best clinical skills of all the trainees who’d applied to work with him. She’d beaten twenty-four men to win the scholarship and that alone should tell her she was the best. Surely she knew that?

Does she though?

In his speciality, he was used to fielding egos the size of Scotland. It wasn’t that Claire didn’t have an ego; she did. She knew her stuff and he’d seen her run through medical students and her junior house officer with a complete lack of sympathy for any whose insufficient preparedness caused them to give incorrect answers to her questions. But he was used to trainees of her calibre thinking of themselves as ‘cock of the walk’ and carrying themselves with an accompanying swagger.

Claire Mitchell didn’t swagger, despite the fact she had the best set of legs he’d seen on a woman in a very long time. And her shoes. Good God! Her acerbic personality was at odds with those shoes. Did she have any idea how her body moved in those heels? Her breasts tilted up, her hips swung and her calves said coquettishly, Caress me. I promise you there’s even better ahead.

Hell’s bells. He had a love-hate relationship with those shoes and her legs. Did they hint at a deeply buried wild side? Would those legs party the way he loved to party? Would he even want to party with them? No way. Gorgeous legs weren’t enough to overcome a major personality flaw. Claire had a gritty aura of steely determination and no sense of humour whatsoever.

Given what she’d achieved so far and the fact she had a ninety-nine per cent chance of passing her exams on the first attempt—an uncommon feat in neurosurgery—she should be enjoying her hard-earned position. He doubted she was enjoying anything. The bloody woman never looked happy and it drove him crazy.

As her boss, his duty of care extended only so far as making sure she was coping with the workload and her study for her fellowship exams. However, he’d spent two years living in Australia himself, and despite both countries speaking English, pretty much everything else was different. It had taken him a few months to find his feet at the Children’s Hospital and get established in a social set so he was very aware that Claire Mitchell might flounder at first. Ten days after she’d started working with him, he’d found her looking extremely downcast with what he’d assumed was a dose of homesickness. The woman looked like she needed to get out of the hospital for a bit and catch her breath.

On the spur of the moment, he’d asked, ‘Would you like to grab a pint at the Frog and Peach?’

Her response had been unexpected. Her eyes—a fascinating combination of both light and dark brown that reminded him of his favourite caramel swirl chocolate bar—had widened momentarily before suddenly narrowing into critical slits. In her distinctive diphthong-riddled accent—one he really didn’t want to admit to enjoying—she’d said briskly and succinctly, ‘I have reports.’

‘There’s always going to be reports to write,’ he’d said with a smile that invariably softened the sternest of wills.

‘Especially when you don’t appear to write many.’

He wasn’t sure who’d been more taken aback—him, because registrars knew better then to ever speak to their consultant like that, or her, because she’d actually spoken her thoughts out loud.

‘I’m sorry. That was out of order,’ she’d said quickly, although not in a particularly ingratiating tone. ‘Please accept my apology.’

‘Jet lag still bothering you?’ he’d offered by way of an olive branch. After all, they had to work together and life was easier if he got along with his trainee. So far, her standoffish manner wasn’t a good sign.

At his question, a momentary look of confusion had crossed her face before disappearing under her hairline. ‘Jet lag’s a bastard.’

It was, but they both knew right then and there she wasn’t suffering from it. She’d spent that Friday night writing reports and he’d gone to the pub determined to forget about shoes that teased and long, strong and sexy legs. Legs that should come with a warning: Toxic If Touched. Happily, he’d met a pretty midwife with a delectable Irish lilt. The music had been so loud she’d had to lean in and speak directly into his ear. Heaven help him but he was a sucker for a woman with an accent.

Claire Mitchell now snipped the last stitch and said, ‘Thanks, everyone,’ before stepping back from the operating table.

Alistair thought drily that after working with her over the last few weeks, he no longer had to work very hard at resisting her outback drawl. In the weeks since she’d rejected his invitation, he hadn’t issued another. As long as she did her job, he overrode his concerns that she might be lonely. Of more concern to him was why he’d been working so jolly hard at trying to get her to lighten up. Hell, right now he’d take it for the win if she looked even slightly happier than if her dog had just died.

After a brief conversation with his scrub nurse, checking how her son had fared in his school athletics competition, he left Lacey in the excellent care of the paediatric anaesthetist, Rupert Emmerson. He found Claire at the computer in the staff lounge.

‘That went well,’ he said, pressing a coffee pod into the machine.

She pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose. ‘It did.’

‘You sound surprised.’

She pursed her lips and her bottom lip protruded slightly—soft, plump and enticing. His gaze stalled momentarily and he wondered how it was that he’d never noticed her very kissable mouth before.

‘I’m not used to children being so hyped up before surgery,’ she said crisply.

And there it was—her critical tone. That was why he’d never noticed her lips. Her mouth was usually speaking spikey, jagged words that could never be associated with luscious, soft pink lips. He wasn’t used to being questioned by staff, let alone by a trainee who was here to learn from him. If he chose, he could make her life incredibly difficult and impact on her career, but he’d learned very abruptly that life was too short to hold grudges. As far as he was concerned, in the grand scheme of things, six months was a blip on the radar.

What baffled him though was that she obviously hadn’t clashed with her previous supervising neurosurgeons or she wouldn’t have got this far. He struggled to align the woman at the castle with the glowing reports that had preceded her. David Wu, a surgeon of very few words, had positively gushed about the woman, calling her intuitive, skilful and courageous. It had been his recommendation that had swayed the board to offer Claire Mitchell the scholarship.

Alistair couldn’t fault her surgery but he was struggling with her personality. Take this morning, for instance. Everyone on the ward had been having fun except for Mitchell, who’d looked like a disapproving schoolmistress complete with her sun-kissed blonde hair coiled into a tight knot. Like so many of his nonmedical decisions, it had been a spur of the moment thing to call out to her to wave. The moment the words had left his mouth he knew he’d done the wrong thing. It had put her on the spot and focused attention on her. He was learning that she wasn’t the type of person who welcomed the spotlight.

In his defence, he’d only asked her to join in the fun because he’d found their little patient in bed, scared and trembling. He’d scooped her into his arms hoping to reassure her, and then to take her mind off things, they’d room hopped, visiting the other kids. The parade had just happened—a combination of kids being kids, some hero worship, a packet of squeakers and a little girl needing some TLC. Now Claire Mitchell had the audacity to judge it. Judge him.

‘Hyped up?’ he repeated, feeling the edges of his calm fraying like linen. ‘Actually, I’d call it being the opposite of terrified. Lacey’s spent a week being prodded and poked. She’s had an MRI and a CT scan. Hell, she was attached to the EEG for two days while we recorded epileptic events so we knew which surgery to perform.’

Despite being known around the castle for his calm and relaxed approach, his voice had developed a plummy and patronising edge. ‘And after enduring all of that, you’d deny Lacey a bit of fun?’

Claire’s eyes flashed golden brown. ‘Of course not. I’d just plan a more appropriate time for the fun.’

Her tone vibrated with her absolute conviction that her way was the right way. The only way. He remembered how once he’d been a man of absolutes and certainties and how he’d never countenanced anything ever getting in the way of what he wanted. And hadn’t fate laughed itself silly over that naïve belief? Hell, it was still chuckling.

With more force than necessary, he pulled his now full coffee mug out from under the machine. Pale brown liquid spilled down the steep white sides leaving a muddy residue. ‘There’s a lot to be said for spontaneity, Claire.’

Her eyes dilated as if he’d just shocked her by using her first name. ‘We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, Mr—’ She quickly corrected herself. ‘Alistair.’

Good God. Frustration brought his hands up, tearing through his hair. He’d been telling her from day one to call him ‘Alistair.’ She’d never called him ‘sir’—probably the anti-establishment Australian in her prevented her from doing that—but she’d stuck with ‘Mr North.’ Every time she called him by his title he responded by calling her by her surname to drive home the point. He knew it was childish and very public school, but even so, she still didn’t seem to be getting the message.

He really didn’t understand her at all. Hell, he couldn’t even get a read on her. Every other Australian he’d ever met or worked with tended to be laid-back, easy-going and with a well-developed sense of the ridiculous. When he was a kid, he’d grown up listening to his great-grandfather recounting the antics of the ANZACs during the Second World War—brave men who didn’t hesitate to break the rules if they thought any rule was stupid. What in heaven’s name had he done in a previous life to be lumbered with the only dour and highly strung Aussie in existence?

‘Would you like to insert the ventricular peritoneal shunt in Bodhi Singh?’ he asked, returning his thoughts to work, which was a lot more straightforward than the enigma that was Claire Mitchell.

‘Really?’ she asked, scrutinising him closely as if she didn’t quite believe his offer.

That rankled. How was it that the woman who normally couldn’t detect a joke now misread a genuine offer? ‘Absolutely.’

Her mouth suddenly curved upwards as wonder and anticipation carved a dimple into her left cheek.

So that’s what it takes to make her smile. For weeks, he’d been trying all the wrong things.

‘Thanks,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’d love the opportunity.’

The tightness that was so much a part of her faded away under the brilliance of a smile so wide it encompassed her entire face. Along with her tension, all her sharp angles disappeared too, softened by the movement of her cheeks and the dazzling sparkle in her eyes. It was like looking at a completely different person—someone whose enthusiasm was so infectious that everyone vied to be on her team.

Pick me! Pick me!

What the hell? This was worse than a momentary thought about her gorgeous legs. Utterly discombobulated, he dragged his gaze away from her pink-cheeked face that danced with excitement, and far, far away from that come-hither dimple that had his blood pumping faster than necessary. He’d spent weeks trying to make her smile, and now that he had, he knew he must make it stop. It was one thing to wish that for the good of the patients and workplace harmony his speciality registrar be a little more relaxed. It was another thing entirely to find himself attracted to her as a woman. Hell, he didn’t even like her. Not. At. All.

He’d never been attracted to someone he didn’t like before, but that conundrum aside, there were many reasons why any sort of attraction was utterly out of the question. First and foremost, nothing could happen between them because he was her boss and she was his trainee. Fortunately, he knew exactly how to quash any remaining eddies of unwanted desire and kill off all temptation without any pain or suffering to himself.

‘Good,’ he said to her, tossing the dregs of his coffee into the sink. ‘I’m glad you’re on board, because I promised to have lunch with the new and very attractive burns-unit house officer. Inserting the VP would make me late.’

Her tension rode back in as fast as the cavalry into battle and her eyes flashed so brightly he needed sunglasses to deflect the glare. ‘You’re having lunch instead of operating?’

He gave a practised shrug—one that said, What of it? ‘I’ve got complete confidence in your ability, but please, do page me if you need me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of interrupting you,’ she snapped.

Her previous lush mouth was now a thin, hard line and Alistair was thankfully back in familiar territory. Nothing about this Claire Mitchell was remotely attractive and his body reacted accordingly, which was to say, it didn’t react at all. ‘Excellent,’ he said, as much to himself as to her. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted.’

Without another word, he left the room and strode towards the lifts. He’d spend the unexpected extra time with Ryan Walker’s parents. It was the least he could do.

* * *

A few days later, Claire was handing out her morning coffees to the dawn crusaders at the hospital gates when she got chatting with a delightful man in his seventies. With his Cockney accent that reminded her of Eliza Doolittle’s father in Pygmalion, he told her he’d been born ‘a blue baby.’

‘Me ’art’s plumbing was all wrong like. Lucky for me, the castle ’ere had a pioneer in ’art surgery, otherwise I’d ’ave been dead a long time now.’ Reg flicked his thumb towards the original ornate building. ‘I’ve got a lot of love for the old girl. She gave me a chance to ’ave a bloody good life. One of me kids was born ’ere when she come early and the docs patched up the others when they broke bones. Me grandkids were all born ’ere and me first great-grandkiddy’s due on Guy Fawkes.’

‘It sounds like the castle is your family’s hospital,’ Claire said, thinking about the affection in the man’s voice.

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Too right. That’s why I’m ’ere every mornin’. All us Landsburys are on the rota right down to the little tackers. If that lot in suits close ’er down, it’ll be a bloody disgrace.’

Claire was about to agree when she heard her name being called. She excused herself and turned to see Victoria Christie, the petite and dark-haired paramedic who’d galvanised everyone into action by starting the Save Our Hospital committee. With rapid flicks of her fingers, Victoria was motioning her over.

Bidding Reg goodbye, Claire crossed the cobblestones with care, regretting her heels. She reminded herself that her extra height would be necessary soon enough when she did rounds with Alistair. ‘G’day, Vicki.’

‘Hello, Claire. How are things?’

It was a broad question that really didn’t demand a truthful answer but Claire had an unexpected and utterly disturbing urge to confide in the woman about how hard she was finding working with Alistair North. The thought unsettled her. She’d never been a woman who had a lot of girlfriends, and truth be told she usually got along better with men than women—which was fortunate given she was working in a male-dominated speciality. But it was immensely competitive so any friendships that had formed were always constrained by that reality.

She’d tried friendships outside of medicine but people didn’t understand the crazy hours. Her frequent failures to turn up at events due to being delayed at work frustrated them and she noticed that it didn’t take long for the invitations to dry up altogether. It killed relationships too, or at least it had played a big part in her and Michael’s demise.

There was more to it than just your job.

She pulled her mind fast away from difficult thoughts and concentrated instead on trying to work out why women had to run in a pack and share the most intimate details of their lives with each other. She did have two close girlfriends and she’d always considered them enough, but Emma and Jessica were in Australia juggling toddlers, babies, partners and a burgeoning women’s health clinic. She missed them, and these last few weeks at the castle had thrown her for a loop. Never before had she felt so at sea in a job and she had no one to talk to about her baffling boss.

How could one man generate such disparate feelings? She lurched from admiration to antipathy and back again, although right now admiration was fast losing its gloss. In Australia, she’d worked under crusty old neurosurgeons who barely knew her name and when they did deign speak to her it was to bark out instructions. It hadn’t always been a pleasant experience but at least it was predictable behaviour. They’d played by the archaic rules set down a hundred years ago and she’d just put her head down and got on with the job. So why was she struggling to do that with Alistair North?

Because he doesn’t play by the rules.

And wasn’t that the truth! The man drove her to the point of distraction with his lack of attention to detail outside of theatre. Sure, she was his trainee, but along with her clinical work she was carrying his administrative load as well as her own and it was wearing her down. She’d been working ridiculously long hours trying to manage the paperwork and she didn’t know how much longer she could trade sleep to keep up. Last week, with an enormous sense of guilt, she’d offloaded some of it onto her house officer. Andrew had accepted it without question, because that was the system, but part of her had wanted to explain. The rest of her had overruled the idea. Since leaving Gundiwindi, she’d held her secret close so it couldn’t be used against her. She’d got this far and as soon as she qualified she’d be home free.

Meanwhile, she was barely treading water with the added report load, and combined with her own exhaustion and the Pied Piper incident on the ward two days ago, she’d lost her temper. Oh, how she regretted that she’d given in to fatigue and frustration. It had been beyond unwise but what worried her even more was her current pattern of behaviour. For some reason, when she was in Alistair North’s company, she lost her protective restraint.

Not once in her career had she ever spoken back to her consultant, and now with the end of her fellowship in sight, it wasn’t the time to start. But as each day passed, she felt more and more like a smoking and steaming volcano ready to blow. To try and keep herself in check, she’d started clenching her fists when she felt her frustrations rising. As a result, her palms had developed permanent dents in them. She’d discovered if she focused on the sharp digging pain she was less likely to say something she’d regret. It didn’t always work and she’d clearly seen his displeasure at her criticism of his approach with Lacey. But instead of disciplining her, he’d rewarded her by letting her operate.

This unexpected offer had both stunned and thrilled her. At the time, she’d hoped it meant she’d finally passed his test of attempting to drown her under a sea of administrative work. That his offer for her to operate solo meant he’d finally recognised her clinical skills and they were entering the next phase in their working relationship. For a few delicious moments she’d floated on air and then reality had hit. His offer for her to operate had been pure expediency. The playboy had a lunch date.

That moment was the first time she’d ever doubted his professionalism. Even then, the suspicion wasn’t straightforward. Back in Australia, she’d had opportunities to insert VP shunts and she was competent in the procedure. He would have known that, so the fact he wasn’t going to be in the operating theatre with her wasn’t exactly abandoning his patient. Yet he’d admitted to going to lunch!

So, you’ll lambast him for telling the truth when he could have created excuses like your previous bosses?

Sick of the endless loop of contradictory thoughts, Claire gave herself a shake. ‘Today’s a new day,’ she said cryptically to Victoria’s question, ‘with new things to learn.’

‘Alistair’s a generous teacher.’

‘He’s certainly generous,’ she said, fighting the urge to purse her lips in disapproval.

Victoria laughed and her chestnut ponytail swung around her shoulders. ‘Our Alistair certainly loves women. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

Unable to hide her astonishment, Claire blinked at the pretty paramedic. Not you too! If the hospital grapevine was to be believed, Victoria and Dominic MacBride were very much together. ‘Oh?’ she asked cautiously.

Victoria’s face lit up with enthusiasm. ‘You’ve heard about the hospital ball?’

For anyone not to have heard about the ball, they’d have to have been living under a rock. Posters graced every noticeboard inside the hospital, and outside they’d been pasted on the poster pillars along the main road. Invitations had been sent to the past and present medical and auxiliary staff and one massive wall in the cafeteria had been covered with an enormous banner declaring the Spring Fling ball to be the social event of the season. The chatter about it had even managed to dent the football conversations about which team would be playing in the FA Cup final in a few weeks.

‘I think I may have seen a poster about it somewhere,’ she said with mock thoughtfulness.

Victoria missed the joke and continued in earnest. ‘It’s our first major event and we’re hoping to raise fifty thousand pounds. The thing is, we really need Alistair to attend. If he doesn’t, it’s going to affect ticket sales.’

Claire laughed and then stopped as she caught the expression on Victoria’s face. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Deadly. He told Dominic that things were—’ she raised her fingers into quotation marks ‘—complicated, which is code for he’s broken some poor deluded girl’s heart once again.’ She let out a long sigh. ‘Why they even think they could be the one to get him to commit is beyond me. The man is Peter Pan. Anyway, we really need him at the ball because we plan to auction the seat next to him. Women will have the chance to sit next to him for one of three courses. We’re also selling his dance card. Your job is to make sure he attends.’

‘I doubt I can make Alistair North do anything he doesn’t want to do,’ she replied honestly.

Victoria shot her an understanding smile. ‘Alistair was raised right and he went to the right schools. As a result, he has a social code of conduct that he sticks to. He will go to the ball if he’s your date.’

Claire’s intake of breath was so sharp it sent her into a paroxysm of coughing. ‘I can’t ask my boss out,’ she said, her voice rising sharply.

Victoria shrugged as if the fact Alistair was her boss was immaterial. ‘Of course you can. We all have to do our bit to save the castle,’ she said pragmatically. ‘Besides, it’s all about how you word the invitation. Guilt him into it if you have to. Tell him it’s imperative there’s a show of strength from Koala Ward. He can’t really argue against the expectation that as head of the department he should be there.’

The thought of having this conversation with Alistair North was enough to make her hyperventilate. ‘Victoria, I really don’t think—’

‘Do you know how much the community will suffer if the hospital’s sold?’ Victoria’s hands hit her hips, elbows akimbo. ‘Keeping the castle open means everything to me, to the staff and to the patients. We’re expecting to raise at least a thousand pounds by auctioning off his dance card, plus all the money we’ll get for selling the seats next to him.’

Oh, how she wanted to rush to the ATM right this second and withdraw the cash but the idea of eating next month took precedence. ‘I can’t promise you—’

‘Yes, you can. And you will,’ Victoria said with the sort of authority in her voice usually reserved for recalcitrant patients. She reached out her hand and gave Claire’s arm a gentle squeeze. ‘And all the children and families in the district will thank you.’

Claire, who towered over the brunette, couldn’t comprehend how someone so petite could be such an indomitable force. ‘That’s blackmail,’ she said weakly.

Victoria smiled. ‘No. It’s preventing a travesty. We’re all mucking in to save our wonderful hospital for generations to come. This is your small contribution.’

Small? If this was small, she hated to think what a big request would look like. Claire was keen to do her bit, but she knew that Victoria had just well and truly dropped her into the muck right up to her neck.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_183ebbc1-6bc6-5bb5-a16e-84c942761933)

CLAIRE STOOD AT the end of Ryan Walker’s bed and chewed her lip. She had expected the little boy to have improved much faster than this. When he’d arrived at A & E barely conscious after being hit on the head by a falling beam at the Westbourne Primary School fire, Dominic MacBride, the castle’s trauma surgeon, had immediately called her and Alistair in to consult. They’d ordered a CT scan that showed Ryan had sustained a fractured skull. Fortunately, there was no displacement of bones but there was a tiny associated subdural haematoma.

Rather than rushing in with guns blazing, she’d totally agreed with Alistair’s conservative treatment plan. They’d worked closely with Rupert Emmerson, the anaesthetist, who’d sedated and ventilated Ryan. Alistair had inserted an intracranial pressure monitor and she’d inserted a central line, administering a mannitol infusion to decrease any associated brain swelling from the injury. The small haematoma hadn’t diminished in size but neither had it grown. As a result, Ryan remained ventilated and his condition was still in a state of flux.

Yesterday morning, in a moment of frustrated despair during teaching rounds, she’d asked Alistair if she’d missed anything. Despite the large group of students gathered around the little tacker’s bed, Alistair’s pewter-grey eyes had zeroed in on her as if they were the only two people in the room.

‘If you’ve missed something, Mitchell, then so have I.’

‘Shall we do another MRI?’

‘He had an MRI two days ago. While his observations remain the same it’s not warranted. You have to ask yourself why you’re doing the test.’

Because I have to do something. Doing nothing feels like giving up.

‘Surely there’s another option?’

Something she’d been momentarily tempted to think was sympathy had crossed his face but it vanished the moment he opened his mouth.

‘There is. We wait.’

Wait? That wasn’t something. That was sitting on their hands. ‘And what if he doesn’t improve?’

His shoulders had risen and fallen. ‘That may be the reality.’

No. ‘I don’t like that reality,’ she’d said briskly as if being terse would change it.

He’d given her a brief sad smile before returning his attention to the group of students. ‘Who can tell me the elements of the Glasgow Coma Scale?’

‘I swear he squeezed my hand before,’ Ryan’s mother said, her voice breaking into Claire’s thoughts. Louise’s anxious face was lined with two weeks of worry. ‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it.’

It wasn’t framed as a question—it was a solid statement. Louise needed to reassure herself that her little boy really was showing signs of improvement when in fact he was neither improving nor deteriorating. It was the limbo that was so disconcerting and heartbreaking, especially when neither she nor Alistair could pinpoint the reason.

Claire didn’t want to upset the traumatised woman but she didn’t attach the same significance to what was likely a muscle spasm. ‘He’s very heavily sedated, Louise.’

Claire checked his vital signs as she did twice each day. No change. She wrote up a drug order to override the one that was about to expire and then she turned her attention to Louise. Gunmetal-grey shadows stretched from the mother’s eyes down to her cheekbones. Claire was familiar with the signs of relatives at the end of their rope.

‘How are you sleeping?’ she asked, despite the signs that the woman wasn’t sleeping very much at all.

The exhausted mother shrugged and tilted her head towards the rollaway bed. ‘It’s got springs in interesting places.’

‘We can get you another one,’ Claire offered, having no idea if that was even possible. With all the talk of the probable sale of the hospital land and relocating the facility to one of the home counties, the powers that be weren’t spending any money. If push came to shove, she’d buy a rollaway bed herself. At least it would feel like she was doing something other than this interminable waiting.

Louise sighed. ‘To be fair, it’s as much the disturbed sleep as anything. I wake up every time the nurses do their hourly check.’

‘Would you consider taking a night off?’ Claire asked carefully. She’d learned to tread very gently with families.

‘I doubt I’d sleep any better at home.’

‘Your GP can prescribe some sleeping tablets. Believe me, eight hours sleep in your own bed would do you the world of good.’

Louise gave her head a brisk shake. ‘I want to be here when he wakes up.’

‘I understand.’ She pulled up a chair and sat, putting herself at eye level with Louise. ‘The thing is, Ryan doesn’t have to be alone. I’m sure there’s someone in your extended family you could ask to give you a break? You know, so both you and Colin can get a full night’s sleep.’

Louise glanced between Claire and her redheaded son, whose freckles seemed darker than ever against his porcelain-white face. A tear spilled over and ran down her cheek. ‘I’m beyond making decisions. My mind feels like it’s encased in a wet, London fog.’

‘Then let me make the decision for you.’

She looked uncertain. ‘I’ve never felt this exhausted in my life. It’s like fatigue’s not only invaded my soul but it’s set up residence. All I want to do is curl up under the duvet and sleep for a week. I want to forget about the fire and how it turned my life on its head in an instant. But how can I? This is my new reality. Ryan can’t leave and forget. If I go home, aren’t I letting him down?’

Claire had heard variations of this story from grieving parents many times before. She gave the woman’s knee a gentle pat. ‘If you don’t look after yourself, Louise, you risk getting sick. If you fall apart, then you’ll be away from Ryan a lot longer than twelve hours.’

The enervated mother suddenly sagged as if utterly defeated by a fortnight’s emotional trauma and associated sleep debt. Her weary moss-green eyes met Claire’s. ‘If he wakes up while I’m at home, you must call me.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’ The woman visibly brightened. ‘Perhaps my leaving will trigger him waking up. You know, like when you take an umbrella with you every day and it’s always dry but the moment you leave it at home it rains.’

Claire couldn’t quite see the connection.

‘I’ve been here for days,’ Louise explained, ‘and nothing’s changed. It stands to reason that if I leave, he’ll sit up and start talking.’

A worrying sensation roved along Claire’s spine and she had to resist the urge not to wince. ‘Medicine doesn’t really work that way, Louise,’ she said gently. ‘Would you like me to contact your GP about the sleeping tablets? And I can ask the ward clerk to call you a taxi.’

‘Thank you. That would be great.’ Louise leaned over, brushed the hair from Ryan’s forehead and kissed him. ‘See you soon, buddy.’ She smoothed his hair back into place and then stood up. ‘Promise me, Claire, you’ll telephone if he wakes up.’

‘I promise,’ Claire said easily. ‘Wild horses couldn’t stop me from giving you good news like that.’

* * *

Alistair high-fived Tristan Lewis-Smith. ‘Way to go, Tris,’ he said with a grin.

The kid had just whooped him at virtual tennis—twice—but he didn’t care. He was too busy rejoicing in the fact that the ten-year-old had been seizure free for a week. That hadn’t happened in two years and it was moments like these that reminded him that what he did each day mattered. Hell, it reinforced his mantra that every single day mattered and life should be lived to the full.

He’d almost lost the opportunity to do that, and when he’d woken up in the coronary care unit, he’d vowed never to forget how life could change in a heartbeat—or the lack of one as the case may be—and how close he’d come to death. He’d been blessed with a second chance and he never took it for granted. He was thrilled to be able to give Tristan a second chance at a normal life.

‘Right-oh, mate.’ He pulled down the sheet and patted the centre of the bed. ‘Time to tuck in and pretend to read or the night sister will have my guts for garters.’

Full of beans and far from quiet, Tristan bounced onto the bed. ‘You’re just saying that because you’re scared if you play another game I’ll beat you. Again.’

‘There is that,’ Alistair said with a grin. ‘Hurry up. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.’

Tristan scrambled under the covers. ‘Nurse Saunders said you couldn’t stay long because you’ve got a hot date.’

‘Did she now?’ Funny that Lindsay appeared to know more about this hot date than he did. He found himself automatically tucking the sheet around the little boy, only this time an odd feeling of something akin to emptiness accompanied it.

He immediately shook it off. He had no reason to feel empty or lonely. Life was good. He had a job he loved and a spacious and light-filled apartment just off the Portobello Road that he’d filled with curios from his world travels. Three years ago, he’d added to his property portfolio and bought a pretty stone cottage surrounded by fields of lavender in Provence. When he was there, he revelled in the sensory delights of sunshine, hearty Mediterranean food and great wine. He visited at least once a month, either alone or with a companion depending on whether or not the woman he was dating was still focused on having fun. The moment a woman started dropping hints about ‘taking things to the next level’ she was no longer welcome in France. Or in Notting Hill for that matter.

He loved women but he didn’t do next levels. It was better to break a heart in the early days, well before things got serious, than to risk shattering a life, or worse, lives. His childhood was a case in point, and furthermore, no one ever knew precisely the duration of a second chance.

Surprised by the unexpected direction his musings had taken him—he didn’t do dark thoughts and he certainly wasn’t known for them—he left Tristan’s room and contemplated the hour. It wasn’t quite eight. As it was a Thursday night there’d be a sizeable hospital crowd at the Frog and Peach and he’d be welcomed with open arms for his dart skills. Oddly, the thought didn’t entice. He had an overwhelming urge to do something completely different. Something wild that would make him feel alive.

Parkour in the dark?

Alive not dead, thank you very much.

Still, parkour in daylight this coming weekend was worth investigating. He pulled out his phone and had just brought up a browser when he heard, ‘G’day, Alistair.’

Astonished, he spun around at the sound of the broad Australian accent. Although he’d heard Claire Mitchell use the informal Aussie greeting with other people, she’d always been far more circumspect with him. Well, with the exception of one or two lapses. In general, he knew she tried to be polite with him and that she found it a struggle. Did it make him a bad person that he enjoyed watching her keep herself in check? The woman was always buttoned up so tightly it wasn’t surprising she cracked every now and then.

Now she stood in front of him with her hands pressed deep into the pockets of her once starched but now very end-of-day limp doctor’s coat. Her hair was pulled back into its functional ponytail and a hot-pink stethoscope was slung around her neck. A tiny koala clung to her security lanyard along with a small pen on retractable elastic. Her utilitarian white blouse and medium length black skirt were unremarkable except that the skirt revealed those long shapely legs that taunted him.

Her feet were tucked into bright red shoes with a wide strap that crossed her instep just below her ankle and culminated in a large red button that drew the eye. He suddenly understood completely why Victorian gentlemen had waxed lyrical over a fleeting glimpse of a fine ankle.

He scanned her face, looking for clues as to why she was suddenly attempting a colloquial greeting with him. ‘G’day, yourself,’ he intoned back, with a fair crack at an Aussie accent.

Behind her sexy librarian-style glasses her eyes did that milk and dark chocolate swirly thing he always enjoyed and—was she blushing?

‘Do you have a minute?’ she asked, quickly pushing her glasses up her nose as they continued walking towards the lifts.

‘Always. Problem?’

‘Um.’ She surreptitiously glanced along the corridor, taking in the nurses’ station that was teaming with staff. She suddenly veered left into the treatment room.

Utterly intrigued by this uncharacteristic behaviour, he followed. ‘Shall I close the door?’

She tugged hard at some stray strands of her hair before pushing them behind her ears. ‘Thanks.’

He closed the door and flicked the blinds to the closed position before leaning back against the wide bench. Claire stood a metre or more away, her plump lips deliciously red. He shifted his gaze and—Damn it! His eyes caught on a fluttering pulse beating at the base of her throat. She really had the most gloriously long, smooth neck that just begged to be explored.

That’s as may be, but remember, most of the time she’s a pain in the ass. Not to mention she’s your trainee.

‘Alistair,’ she started purposefully, and then stopped.

‘Claire.’ He couldn’t help teasing back. He’d never seen her at a loss before and it was deliciously refreshing.

She took in such a deep breath that her breasts rose, stressing the button he was pretty certain sat just above her bra line. Was it delicate sheer lace or plainly utilitarian? It was his experience that plain women often wore the sexiest underwear.

With that mouth, she’s hardly plain.

As if on cue, the tip of her tongue peeked out, flicking the bow of her top lip.

His blood leapt.

She cleared her throat. ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way but...’

Trying to look utterly unaffected by her, he cocked one brow and reminded himself of all the times she’d been critical of him. ‘My sensibilities haven’t stopped you from giving me your opinion before.’

This time she definitely blushed, but somehow she managed to wrestle her embarrassment under control with dignity. ‘True, but that was work. This doesn’t exactly fall into that category. Although I suppose it does technically if you—’

‘You’re babbling,’ he said, hoping it would force her to focus. At the same time, he had an absurd and unexpected need to rescue her from herself.

Her head jerked up so fast he was worried her neck might snap but then she hit him with a gimlet stare. He forced himself not to squirm as an unsettling feeling trickled through him. Did she see straight through the man he liked to show the world? Had she glimpsed the corner edge of the bubbling mess he kept securely sealed away?

‘As the head of the department of neurosurgery,’ she said tightly, ‘I think it’s important you lead by example and attend the Spring Fling.’

The Spring Fling? Surely he’d misheard. ‘You mean the neurosurgery spring symposium?’

She shook her head and once again the blush bloomed on her cheeks. She swallowed and that damn tongue of hers darted out to moisten her lips. This time as the zip of heat hit him, he pushed off the bench to try and shake it off.

‘I mean the fundraising ball,’ she said slowly, as if the words were being reluctantly pulled out of her.

He couldn’t resist. ‘Are you inviting me to the ball?’

Her eyes widened in consternation. ‘No!’ For a moment, indignation spun around her before fading with a sigh and a fall of her shoulders. ‘I mean perhaps. Yes. In a manner of speaking.’

His mouth twitched. ‘It’s good to know you’re so decisive.’

Her chin shot up, jabbing the air. ‘You can tease me all you like, Mr—Alistair, but you know as well as I do that at the bare minimum there should be a neurosurgery staff table at the ball.’

Damn it to hell. She was absolutely right but how had she found out he wasn’t going? He’d been keeping that bit of information to himself, more out of embarrassment than anything else. A couple of months ago, just before Claire had arrived, he’d had a particularly tough day. He’d lost a patient—a two-year-old boy with a brainstem glioma—and for some reason he’d avoided the sympathetic eyes of his staff at the Frog and Peach. He’d hit a trendy bar in Soho instead, and in retrospect, he’d consumed one whisky too many.

It had been enough to scramble his usually accurate crazy woman detector. As a result, he’d allowed himself to be tempted by the Amazonian features of Lela. The thirty-year-old was a fitness instructor as well as being a part-time security guard. They’d had a lot of fun together until he’d realised her possessive streak wasn’t limited to bedroom games.

He knew the ball committee had flagged the idea of auctioning off the chairs next to eligible bachelors. Usually he’d have been fine with the concept and embraced it, but he’d been worried Lela might turn up and cause a nasty public spectacle. Or worse, buy the ticket. To save himself, and the hospital, embarrassment he’d decided not to attend the ball but to make a sizeable donation to the cause instead. The only person he’d mentioned this plan to was Dominic.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! The paediatric trauma surgeon had obviously broken the bro code and told Victoria. What was it about a man in love that made him prepared to throw his friend under the bus just to stay in sweet with his lady? Now the i-dotting and t-crossing Claire Mitchell was calling him out on a perceived lack of social etiquette.

He ploughed his hand through his hair. He’d been raised on etiquette, and the irony that an Australian, with their supposedly classless society, was reminding him of his social responsibilities almost made him laugh. Perhaps he could turn this whole Lela-and-the-ball mess around and use it to his advantage.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he said with a lazy smile. ‘You’re prepared to spend an evening with me just to make sure I do the right thing?’

This time she was the one to raise an eyebrow. ‘As your second-in-command, I can’t expect you to attend the ball if I’m not prepared to attend.’

‘Ah, yes, that sucker duty gets you every time.’

She stiffened. ‘But it seems you’re often immune.’

Ouch. Her words tried to scratch him like the sharp tip of a knife, but he didn’t need to justify himself to her. He was very well aware of his duty. Ironically, duty had arrived in a rush just after he’d vowed to make the most of every new day that had been gifted to him. It was the juxtaposition of his life.

‘None of us are immune, Claire. It’s just I try to have a bit of fun too.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘And you’re inferring that I don’t have fun?’

Not that I’ve seen. ‘Have you had any fun since arriving in London?’

She looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘I...um...yes. Of course.’

Liar. But he was planning on having some fun with her right now and killing two birds with one stone. ‘Excellent. I can certainly promise you fun at the ball. Especially considering how you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty and bought the seat next to me.’

‘What?’ She paled, her expression momentarily aghast, and then she rallied. ‘I don’t get paid enough for that.’

‘Brutal.’ He exaggeratedly slapped his chest in the general area of his heart, his long fingers grazing the lower edge of his pacemaker. ‘And here I was thinking I was your date. I tell you what. I’ll pay for both of our tickets.’

‘That won’t be necess—’

‘It’s the least I can do,’ he interrupted, waving away her protest. ‘I imagine it was Victoria who dropped you right in it.’

She grimaced. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

He made a huffing sound more at the absent Dominic than her. ‘The good thing is you’ll be saving me from having to play nice all evening.’

Effrontery streaked across her face. ‘Well, when you put it like that, I can hardly wait,’ she said drily.

Her sarcasm was unexpected and delightfully refreshing and he heard himself laugh. He wasn’t used to a woman viewing an evening with him as a trial. The women he dated erred on the appreciative side and often went to great lengths to make him happy. Not Claire Mitchell.

A streak of anticipation shot through him. Without realising it, she’d just thrown down a challenge. He wasn’t totally convinced she was even capable of having fun and he had a sudden urge to know what she looked like when she was in the midst of a good time.

She’d smile like she did when you let her operate solo. Remember how you felt then?

He disregarded the warning that it was probably unwise to be looking forward to the ball quite this much.

‘So will you be picking me—’ His phone rang with the ICU ringtone, and as he pulled it from his pocket, Claire’s pager beeped.

‘North,’ he said, answering the call just as Claire mouthed to him, ‘ICU?’

Listening to the nurse on the other end of the line, he nodded at Claire and opened the treatment room door. As she walked quickly past him, her crisp scent of the sea drifted back to him and he was suddenly back on Bondi Beach when his life had been simpler and there had been few restraints placed upon it.

‘We’re on our way,’ he told the worried nurse. Stepping out into the corridor, he followed Claire down the fire escape, taking the fastest way to ICU.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f6033eef-d356-5556-95ab-f16f6e21c035)

CLAIRE WALKED OUT of the operating theatre, tugging her mask from her face. Her hand shook so much that her toss missed the bin and she had to stoop to pick up the mask. Even then it took her two more shots to land it.

Get a grip.

‘You all right, Dr Mitchell?’ Cyril, the night cleaner, asked. Apparently, he’d been working at the castle for forty years and as well as keeping the operating theatre suite clean he took a keen parental interest in the junior staff. ‘You look a bit shaky.’

‘Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix,’ she lied breezily, not trusting herself to let his concern touch her. She couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet anyway. Not when her job was only half finished.

She walked into the doctors’ lounge, which at ten in the evening was thankfully empty. She needed and wanted privacy to make this call. Picking up the phone, it took her two attempts to get the number right as her mind kept spinning off and practicing what she was going to say. As the phone rang in her ear, she concentrated on slowing her breathing and her wildly hammering heart.

‘Hello,’ a sleep-filled voice croaked down the line.

‘Louise.’ Her voice sounded unsteady and she tried to firm it up. ‘It’s Claire Mitchell. From the hospital.’

‘Claire!’ Ryan’s mother’s voice was instantly alert. ‘You’re calling me? Oh, my God,’ she said half laughing, half crying, ‘it’s just like the umbrella story. You told me to come home and now you’re calling. He’s awake, isn’t he? Colin, wake up. It’s Ryan.’

Claire’s stomach lurched so hard she had to force the rising tide of acid back down her throat. ‘Louise,’ she said firmly but gravely, trying to signal to the woman this call wasn’t the positive one she craved. ‘Ryan’s not awake.’

‘What?’ She sounded confused. ‘Then why are you calling?’ she asked angrily.

Claire thought about the desperately ill little boy who was lying surrounded by all the latest medical technology. ‘Ryan’s condition has deteriorated.’




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