Fiona Lowe - Forbidden To The Playboy Surgeon

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.