Tempted by Her Italian Surgeon (4 page)

And everyone around him seemed to have enjoyed themselves immensely. She gave a shy smile at their applause and then concentrated on logging off the laptop and clearing away her papers.

He followed the queue to the door but before he'd made it out he heard her voice. ‘Mr Finelli?'

‘Yes?'

She stepped down from the small stage and walked towards him, trying hard but not quite managing to hide the limp that now, at the end of a day when she'd mostly been standing, clearly gave her pain. ‘I hope that was insightful?'

‘It could have been a lot quicker.'

‘Not everyone is as quick thinking as you.' She bit her bottom lip as if trying to hold back a
smile. ‘Besides, we have some very recalcitrant staff members who insist they know better than we do on these matters. I need to make sure I hammer out our message loud and clear.'

Remembering her barb, he gave her a smile back. ‘I felt the hammer.'

‘Good. My job here is done. I hope in future you'll be contemplating how to send positive messages that reflect the nature of our business. Or, indeed, not sending messages at all.'

‘The only positive messages I need to send are in the numbers of children I and the renal department save. And in how many families don't have to endure suffering or loss of life.'

She studied him. ‘Well, maybe a bit of help in drumming up support for your unit is in order? You could harness the wave, do some awareness campaigns and get…what? What is on your wish list?'

He didn't need to think twice about this—the same thing every transplant unit across the world wanted. ‘More organ donors, more people willing to sign up to donate when they die. More dialysis machines. More research.'

‘So put your thinking hat on and see if you can come up with a way of
reaching out to people across the internet. Without taking your clothes off? There are plenty of people here in London wanting to help a good cause…but many more reaching out across the internet. Just imagine… Well, have a good evening, I'll see you in the morning. Bright and breezy.' Then she gave him a real smile. An honest to God, big smile that lit up her face. And,
Mio Dio
, the green in her eyes was intense and mesmerising. Her mouth an impish curl that invited him to join her in whatever had amused her. And something in his chest tugged. It was unbalancing and yet steadying at the same time.

‘Where are you from?' For some reason his longing-to-leave brain had been outsmarted by his wanting-to-stay mouth.

Her smile melted away. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘Your accent. I'm not used to all the different ones yet. Other people say Landan…you say Lundun.'

Gathering all her gear together, she shovelled folders under one arm and carried a laptop in her hand. With a hitch of her shoulder she switched the lights out and then indicated for him to leave the conference room ahead of her while she pressed numbers into a keypad that sent the area into lockdown. ‘York. I'm from York, it's in the north. A long way away. Three and a half hours' drive—on a good day.'

‘Of course I have heard of it.' He noticed a slight narrowing of her eyes and her voice had
dropped a little. ‘And that makes you sad, being away from family?'

She shrugged. ‘No. Well…yes, I suppose. You know how it is. You do miss the familiar.'

‘I suppose you do.' Maybe others did. He hadn't been able to leave quickly enough and trips back home had been sporadic. Betrayal and hurt could do that to a man.

They neared the elevators and she paused, put her bag on the floor and pressed the ‘up' button. ‘And you? You must feel a long way from home. Which is?'

‘A small village near Siena. Nothing special.'

Her eyebrows rose. ‘You're joking, right? Every Tuscan village is special.'

His village was. The inhabitants, on the other hand, not so much. ‘How do you know? Have you visited there?'

‘Florence, that's all, just a quick weekend trip. It was lovely.' Her ribcage twisted as she tried to hitch the now falling papers back under her arm.

He reached for them, his hand brushing against her blouse, sending a shiver through his gut. Strange how his body was reacting to her. Very strange. ‘Let me take those papers from you.'

‘I can manage.' She stopped short and shook her head with determination and resolve, obviously trying to be strong when she didn't need
to be. He got the feeling that Ivy Leigh put a brave face on a lot—to hide what? Some perceived weakness? Something that was more than a problem with her foot.

‘I know you can manage. But you have too many things to carry and I have nothing. Let me take them.' Without waiting for her to answer, he took the folders and slipped them under his arm, wondering what the hell the point of this was. She was on the other side—the annoying, bureaucratic, meddling middle-men side.

Talking with the enemy, helping the enemy, whatever next? Sleeping with the enemy? Pah! As if he would do anything so foolish.

And she obviously had a full appreciation of that. ‘I know what you're doing, Matteo. You're trying to get me on side and then you're going to strike. Pounce…or something. Try to catch me unawares, try to convince me to set you free from my course and then hit me where it hurts.'

‘Never. I would never hit anyone.' There had been a few times when he'd come close—okay, once when he'd stepped over that line and with good reason. But never again.

She looked confused. ‘Don't panic, it's a turn of phrase. I didn't mean you'd really hit me. I know you wouldn't do that.'

‘Good. And, actually, I was just being nice.'

‘Well, that is unexpected. Who knew you could be?'

The fleeting anger at the memories melted into humour. Ivy Leigh was good at sparring. He admired that. Always good to respect the enemy. Laughter bubbled from his chest. ‘Strange, yes, considering we are on opposite sides. The next thing we know we'll be doing something ridiculous like going for a drink.'

‘Oh, no. I can't do that.' She jabbed the lift button again and tsked. ‘I never mix business with pleasure.'

‘I'm intrigued that you think having a drink with me would be pleasurable?'

Again there was a smile, but it belied a look in her eyes that was…half wistful, half anxious. ‘I'm sure the
drink
would be very pleasurable indeed. I'm very partial to a decent red. But, as I say, it's not something I do.'

‘Neither do I.'

‘Then I'm glad that we agree on something.' But that wistful look remained, until she turned away.

There was no one else around. The place was silent. The conference area had all closed down for the night so it was just him and her and a buzz in the air between them that was so fierce it was almost tangible. ‘And you are going where now?'

She shrugged. ‘Back to the fifth floor, if this lift ever arrives. I have work to do.'

‘After five o'clock? All the other paper-pushers have long gone.'

Her lips curled into a smirk. ‘Pen. It's pen-pushers not paper-pushers.'

‘I know, I know. I apologise. I'm still getting used to your idioms.' And she was stunning when she smiled. Which, it appeared, made him tongue-tied too. Really? What in hell was wrong with him?

‘Where the hell is this lift?' Jab-jab on the button with those emerald fingernails. ‘I don't think about the time I put in. I just do what's needed, and if that keeps me here all hours then so be it. Like most lawyers, I expect to work hard.'

‘Then you'd make a fine doctor too.'

‘Believe me, I wouldn't.' She gave a visible shudder and he wondered whether she'd been hurt at some point. Maybe a doctor had broken that well-protected heart of hers. And, again, why that was remotely relevant to anything, he didn't know.

‘You don't like doctors? A hospital is a strange place to work, then.'

‘Most doctors are fine. In fact, my mum's one.' Finally the lift arrived with a jolt and the doors swished open. Taking the folders from his hand,
she fixed her gaze on him. ‘Only a few of them ruin the reputation for the majority…'

What?
As she stepped into the lift he put a hand out to stop the doors from closing. ‘You mean me?
I
have a reputation?' He laughed. ‘Good to know. Let me guess how that goes… I am too outspoken. I am a maverick. I am too committed to my job. Worse, I leave broken hearts in my wake…'

‘Apparently so.' Her fingers tapped against the cold steel of the wall panel. ‘And a lot more that I couldn't possibly say…'

‘I am also very attentive to detail. Some would say passionate. I have a sense of humour. I play very hard indeed…' His gaze drifted over her face. The detail there was stunning. The eyes that gave away her emotions regardless of how hard she tried to keep them locked away. That mouth, the keeper of barbs and insults and a perfect smile. Those lips… How would it feel if he were to kiss her? How would Miss Prim and Proper react then? Would she let him see a little of what was under that hard surface? Because, dammit, he knew there was more to her. A softer side—a passionate side. Just waiting to be set free. Lucky man who ever achieved that.

The door jolted against his back, reminding him that this was neither the time nor the place to be kissing Ivy Leigh. And yet…he reached a
hand to her cheek and he could have sworn he saw heat flicker across her eyes, just enough to mist them and to tell him that he was not the only one struggling with this wildly strange scenario. Her mouth opened a little, he could see her breathing had quickened, and her eyes fluttered closed for a micro-second. Enough to show he had an effect on her…and she liked it. Didn't want it, not at all, but she liked it.

She pulled away. ‘So. I'll see you tomorrow. Show me what you've got, Mr Finelli, I'm expecting to be very impressed.'

He felt strongly that he could show Miss Leigh a thing or two and she'd be very impressed indeed.
Work
.
Work.
Reminding himself of what was truly the most important thing in his life, he took a step back too.
Che stupido
. ‘Do not bring me back to that issue again. Those damned workshops. This social media thing. Miss Leigh, you make my blood boil sometimes.'

‘I try my best. All part of the service.'

With that she gave him a very satisfied smile that he imagined would grace her lips at the end of a particularly heavy lovemaking session. For a fleeting second he imagined her naked and on his sheets. Spent and glowing.

‘Goodbye, Mr Finelli.'

He watched the lift door swish closed, thanking the god of good timing that she'd had the
good sense to put a stop to whatever dangerous game had been about to play out. She made his blood boil indeed, the heat between them had been off the scale. No woman had made him so infuriated and so turned on at the same time. He spoke to the metal doors as the lift lurched upwards. ‘Goodbye, Ivy.'

Then he turned to walk up the stairs and back to the surgical suite. A ward round beckoned, then some prep, allaying the fears of his patients and their parents…then a quick gym session, a decent meal, some sleep.

He needed to be ready for tomorrow, for Ivy and for round two.

T
HIS IS YOUR JOB
, for goodness' sake. Pull yourself together.

As long as Ivy focused on that she'd be fine. She'd put everything on the line for her job her whole adult life and had got exactly where she wanted to be: Director of Legal at a fabulous, age-old and well-respected institution. So this was just another hurdle. Just an incy-wincy hurdle that she would jump with ease.

If only for two little things…

Shut up.
Blood and a bloody-minded man would not get to her. She dragged the scrubs top over her head and straightened it, leaned in to the mirror and watched her hands shake as she slid the paper hairnet hat thing over her hair, squashing her fringe in the process.
Great look, girlfriend
.

Then she took a little more notice of her surroundings. The scrubs with the St Carmen's logo and the locker room reminded her of the photo…
Would she be for ever condemned to remember that image for as long as she lived?

Half of her hoped so. The other half tried to blot it from her mind.

‘Hey, Miss Leigh, are you ready?' Nancy, the OR assistant, called through the door. ‘We're going in now, the surgeon's here.'

And she so hadn't needed to hear that. ‘Just a second, I'm almost there.'
Okay. Breathe. Deeply. In. Out. In. Out. You can do this.
It was just a case of mind over matter. She was in control of this.

She didn't know what she was dreading most: the red stuff or the man she'd had the dirtiest dream about last night. The man she'd almost grabbed in the lift and planted a kiss on those too smug lips of his. Who she'd spent an hour trying to describe to her flatmate and had ended up with
annoyingly sexy
.

So, yes, she thought he was sexy. Just as Becca did, and, frankly, the same as all the women in the hospital did. So she was just proving she had working hormones—
nothing else to see here, move right along
. The man who was out to make her look a fool but, God knew, he might not need to try too hard, because if things didn't go as planned she'd be managing that quite well all on her own.

Popping two more herbal rescue sweets into
her mouth and sucking for all she was worth, she took a couple of extra-long deep breaths and steadied her rampaging heart. Give her a sticky mediation case, two ornery barristers and an angry, justice-seeking client any day. Words…that was her thing. Words, debate, the power of vocabulary. Not medicine. Not blood. Not internal stuff. Exactly why she hadn't followed in her mother's footsteps.

Here we go.

The smell hit her first. Sharp, tangy and clinical, filling her nostrils, and she thought it might have something to do with the brown stuff a man in scrubs and face mask was painting onto the abdomen of an anaesthetised woman. Then the bright white light of the room hit her, the noise. She'd thought it would be silent—remembered only a quiet efficiency from those endless surgeries, but someone had put classical music on the speakers. It was the only soothing thing in the place.