Caroline Anderson - One Night, One Unexpected Miracle

She gasped and tried to clench her legs together to quell the waves of sensation but there was no way because he was there, his body filling her at last, making her sob with need as he thrust into her, slowly at first and then faster, harder, again and again, his hands cradling her bottom and holding her tight against him, rocking as her control splintered into pieces and she convulsed around him.

He caught her cry in his mouth, his body tensing, shuddering with the force of his climax, and then as it passed he let out a long, fractured sigh, dropped his head against her shoulder and cradled her close, his mouth against her ear murmuring soft words she didn’t understand.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Her body was a seething mass of sensation so intense that even now she could feel the shockwaves rippling through her, and as he finally eased away she couldn’t look at him.

What had she done?

She’d never felt like that. Never responded like that, so wildly, so spontaneously, so freely it had felt like she was flying.

Not now, though. Not any more.

Now she’d come down to earth with a bump, crippled with self-consciousness, and she slid off the edge of the couch, rescued her underwear from the floor and pulled it on hastily. As she tugged her dress straight with shaking hands, she felt a nail catching on the delicate fabric.

‘Cara?’

Gentle fingers caught her chin, lifting her face up so he could read her eyes, and he sighed and drew her back into his arms. ‘You’re buttoning up again,’ he murmured, his voice heavy with regret, and she tried to push him away.

‘I have to. I’m your boss, Marco! I can’t just sleep with you—’

‘Who said anything about sleeping? I think we were both wide awake just then. And don’t even try and tell me you didn’t enjoy it.’

She didn’t. She wasn’t a liar, and he’d only laugh at her anyway.

‘It was a mistake,’ she said, knowing instantly that he’d argue, but he didn’t. Instead he bent his head and kissed her tenderly, nearly trashing her resolve.

‘Yes. It was. You deserved better than a—’ He broke off, and she could almost see him rearranging the words in his mouth. ‘I should have taken you for dinner, taken you back to my house and made love to you slowly, for hours. Explored every part of you, kissed every inch of your skin, made you come for me again and again and again—’

‘It would still have been a mistake,’ she said, her insides weeping at the thought of him loving her so thoroughly, so tenderly, so meticulously. ‘We can’t do this, Marco. I agree we have to find a way to work together without fighting, but this isn’t it. This isn’t the way. We can’t do it again.’

She stood motionless, and after a second or two his arms dropped and he stepped back, glanced down at his ripped shirt with a rueful smile, shrugged and opened the door.

‘I’m sorry. Not for doing it. I can’t regret that. But if that’s what you want it won’t happen again, I promise you. Goodnight, Alice.’

And with that he walked out, headed through the door at the end and left her standing there wondering what on earth she’d done, and why it suddenly felt as if, by letting him go, she’d thrown away a chance at happiness that she hadn’t even known was there...

CHAPTER ONE

Five weeks later...

‘DO YOU WANT me to close?’

‘What, because you imagine you can do it better than me?’

His eyes crinkled above his mask. ‘Because I know I can do it better than you,’ he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. It was odd, but since that night five weeks ago their sparring had changed to a mutual and much more gentle teasing, almost as if they’d called a truce and were carefully tiptoeing around each other’s feelings. Even his flirting had toned down, which was a shame. She almost missed it, but she knew why he’d done it. It was too dangerous now, after what had happened. It would be fanning the flames of a fire that had to be allowed to die. A fire that hadn’t, sadly, burned itself out.

‘You’re so arrogant,’ she said mildly, stepping away and stripping off her gloves. She tried so hard not to smile, but he just chuckled as if he could see it and held out his hand to the scrub nurse.

‘Three-oh Prolene, please,’ he said, and the nurse placed the suture in his hand and he dropped his eyes and began meticulously drawing the wound edges together, layer by layer.

He was right, he was better than her at suturing, but only by a hair and she had a feeling it was a simple matter of Italian pride that prevented him from failing. And not to be better than her would be failure in his eyes.

She dragged her gaze away. She couldn’t watch him, couldn’t watch those sensitive, intelligent hands delicately repairing the boy’s abdomen. So skilful. So focused. Just as they’d been on her body—

‘I’ll go and talk to his parents.’

‘OK. Just don’t take all the credit.’

‘Only where it’s due.’

She turned away, stripped off her mask and hat and gown and went to change. She would talk to Amil’s parents, tell them how it had gone, and then she had things to do, a patient to see, letters to write to parents, some results to review. She couldn’t just stand around looking at him simply because he was poetry in motion. Too dangerous. She was trying to keep her distance, and watching him wouldn’t help that at all.

And besides, there was something else she had to do. Something pressing. Something she’d never thought she’d need to do, and couldn’t quite believe. Couldn’t dare to believe.

She had to do a pregnancy test, because this morning she’d made herself a coffee and she’d been unable to drink it. She’d sipped it, but it had sat in her stomach like a rock and she’d had to rinse her mouth to get rid of the taste.

Maybe she’d just had too much coffee over the years and her body had started to rebel? But she was hungry, too, and although she was used to that, almost welcomed it because it was a good sign in her case, today she felt a little light-headed and woozy. And her periods, never as regular as clockwork, were an unreliable sign, but even so it had been a while.

So while he was working miracles on the child’s skin, she spoke to the boy’s parents, went to her locker, got out the test kit she’d bought on the way to work and went to the ladies’ loo.

It wouldn’t be positive. It couldn’t be. Her body didn’t do ovulation—couldn’t do it, because her ovaries were stupid.

PREGNANT

She stared at the wand for a good five minutes before she moved, her mind in freefall.

She was pregnant with Marco’s baby.

How? It couldn’t have happened. There was no way she could have conceived, and besides, he’d used a condom! But one of her nails had snagged her dress as she’d tugged it straight afterwards. Just a tiny jagged edge where she must have caught it on something. When she’d shredded his shirt and raked her nails across that strong, solid expanse of chest? Could that have been enough? And when she’d reached down and touched him right after that, helped him put the condom on, had her nail torn it maybe?

It seemed so unlikely—but what other explanation was there?

None. And, however it had happened, however unbelievable it was, it was definitely Marco’s baby, so she’d have to tell him, but how?

She closed her eyes, squeezing them hard against the well of mixed emotions, and pressed her hand over her mouth. How would he react? Would he be angry? She hoped not. Delighted? Unlikely. And then a chilling thought crossed her mind. Would he want her to keep it, or—?

No. She’d seen him with children. There was no way he’d want that. He was an Italian, and children were at the front and centre of their world. They were for her, too, which was why she’d chosen paediatrics, because it was the closest she’d thought she’d ever come to having children.