Louisa George - Tempted by Her Italian Surgeon

‘Forget it. I’m not listening any more. I will not attend your sessions.’

‘Okay. Your choice.’ She reminded him of his younger sister, Liliana, who would not give up. Ever. Arguing with her was like arguing with a brick wall. ‘Then I will have to invite you to attend a meeting with our human relations director first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘No.’ Take more time out of his work schedule?

Maybe Mike would swap his cardiac roster from a Wednesday for one week just to make this insufferable woman go away?

‘Mr Finelli, we are both on the same side.’

‘Like hell we are.’ But he did not have any more time to waste on this. Better to get it over and done with. ‘You leave me with no choice. I’ll do the four sessions.’

‘Then it’s sorted. After that you won’t hear anything more from me on this matter. Thank you for your time.’ She put out her hand and, grimly, he shook it. It was warm and firm and confident. And a little something reverberated through his body at her touch—which he steadfastly ignored. Clearly she felt none of it as her voice remained calm and cool, like her eyes. ‘I’m sure you’ll find the sessions most interesting.’

‘I’m sure I won’t. Now I need to rearrange my day. Four sessions shouldn’t take up much time. I will be free from what time? Lunch?’

Amusement flashed across her features, as if she’d won a well-fought victory. ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t I make myself clear? By four sessions I meant four days.’

‘Four days? No. No way. I’m not doing it.’

‘But you agreed. And we shook hands. Is an Italian man’s word as good as his honour?’

He held her gaze. His honour was fine and intact, unlike others he could name. He would never betray anyone the way he had once been betrayed. ‘It is. But I have one condition.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Her expression told him she thought he was not well placed to be making conditions.

‘For every minute I have to spend in your ridiculous class you have to spend an equal amount of time with me, doing my work. The work this hospital is so famous for doing. Saving lives. Then perhaps you’ll see just how badly you have wasted my time.’ He held her gaze. Saw the flicker of anxiety stamped down by determined resolve as she nodded.

‘Okay.’ Her smile was like condensed milk—way too sweet. ‘Seeing as I’m new to the hospital, I have to familiarise myself with each department anyway. And it’ll give me invaluable insights into the specific kind of legal issues that could arise there and a chance to review policy. This way I’ll be killing two birds with one stone.’

How had he thought it might be fun to play with her? Fun was over. This was war. ‘Believe me, Miss Leigh, the only killing going on in my OR is of your determination to make a damned fool of me. Goodbye.’

HE WASN’T GOING to come.

Ivy surveyed the conference room filled with porters, nursing staff, ward clerks and doctors, all chattering and drinking copious cups of coffee before the first session started in less than two minutes. And why the heck, with a room full of attendees who looked interested and invested in learning about social media, she was shamefully disappointed that she couldn’t see Mr Finelli’s famous backside in the foray, she couldn’t fathom. Only that she now appeared to be locked in some sort of battle of wills with the doctor and she’d been looking forward to showcasing her side and proving her very valid points. The man may have been infuriatingly narcissistic but she’d believed him a worthy adversary. Clearly not. Typical that he hadn’t bothered to turn up.

Mind you, with those dark Mediterranean eyes, that proud haughty jaw and thoughts of what was under those scrubs, it was probably a good thing. And it would be hard to concentrate on her talk with that glower searing a hole in her soul.

‘Okay, Miss Leigh …’ Becca handed her the folders of hand-outs for the participants. ‘One each and a few to spare. Morning tea’s at ten-thirty. Catering will deliver at about ten-fifteen.’

‘And lunch? You know how these things go. If they don’t get regularly fed and watered they get grouchy.’

‘One o’clock. In the Steadman Room. Oh, and the laptop’s all set up with the projector, you’re good to go. Good luck.’

Excellent. Everything was running perfectly, apart from a niggle of a headache. ‘Thanks, and, Becca, please, please, drop the formality and call me Ivy. I know the last incumbent had you calling him sir, but I do things differently.’

‘Okay. If you’re su …’ Her assistant’s face grew a deep shade of puce as her gaze fixed on something over Ivy’s shoulder. ‘Oh … Just, oh.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Oh, yes. Just peachy. Such a shame he’s a break-your-heart bad boy.’ Becca grinned, and moved forward as if levitated and as if breaking your heart was some kind of spectator sport and he was the numero uno world champion title-holder. Which he probably was. ‘Mr Finelli, please grab a coffee first and then take a seat. Let me show you where the cups are.’

Great. For some reason Ivy’s heart jigged a little. First-time nerves, probably. She was always jittery at the beginning of a workshop. There was so much to think about … technology not working, correct air-conditioning levels—too hot and everyone fell asleep, too cold and no one could concentrate—snacks arriving on time, holding everyone’s attention, keeping track …

Suddenly he was walking towards her. She imagined Becca would think him hot, all brooding chocolate-fudge eyes and unruly dark hair. But Ivy had switched off her sexy radar years ago when she’d learned that men wanted their women perfect, and that she didn’t fit that bill. Since then she’d watched her flatmates have their hearts broken and her mother reduced … just less, diminished somehow … because of a man—and Ivy had decided she wasn’t going there. Give her books and her career any day. There was something perfect about a beginning, a middle and an end of a novel—a whole. Complete. And, truth be told, reading was just about all she had the energy to do after a day’s work.

Unlike the other consultants, he’d adopted informal dress—no suit and tie for Dr Delicious of peachy-bottom fame. Just a white T-shirt over formidable shoulders, with dark jeans hugging slender hips. The same uniform she’d seen on every youth in Florence when she’d been there on a weekend break. She imagined him with dark aviator sunglasses on, perched on a moped like something out of a nineteen-fifties movie. Then her mind wandered back to that picture of him naked, and the knowledge of exactly what was under that uniform made her feel strangely uncomfortable. Heat shimmied through her. It was unseasonably warm in here—a spring heatwave, perhaps? Too many bodies in such a small room? She must ask someone to fiddle with the air-con at once.