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The Dangers Of Dating Dr Carvalho
Tina Beckett
When Lucas Carvalho arrives in hospital with gunshot wounds Sophia recognises him instantly. Lucas is now a drop-dead gorgeous plastic surgeon, but he still has the same dark, soulful eyes she remembers from their childhood orphanage.Sophia’s determined to keep her distance – Lucas is dangerous for any woman! But can she resist the lure of this bad-boy surgeon…?
Praise for Tina Beckett:
‘… a tension-filled emotional story with just the right amount of drama. The author’s vivid description of the Brazilian jungle and its people make this story something special.’
—RT Book Reviews on DOCTOR’S GUIDE TO DATING IN THE JUNGLE
‘Medical Romance™ lovers will definitely like
NYC ANGELS: FLIRTING WITH DANGER
by Tina Beckett—for who doesn’t like a good forbidden romance?’ —HarlequinJunkie.com
The Dangers of Dating Dr Carvalho
Tina Beckett
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To those who keep their promises.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u595fe54c-4078-5b1e-8c37-b2874e36b1d1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u21a8012d-5381-58bb-9482-8d9b357b4fc1)
CHAPTER THREE (#u19731cf4-551d-51e3-8e25-5b12d58720e6)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u4d022863-df27-5ebf-9d49-890db4eba66f)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ue4f57d1f-c2fd-5efd-9847-0f99716e7a2b)
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)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
LUCAS CARVALHO WAS a lucky man.
At least, that was what his doctors told him. If only he could remember why.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember anything. He could. He knew his full name. That he was a plastic surgeon from California. That he’d come to Brazil for a medical conference.
But there were large swathes of empty space that he couldn’t seem to fill with information. As if there’d been important data there at one time but it had been wiped clean with a single keystroke. Things like how he’d wound up with a sling around one arm and a surgical incision across the left side of his abdomen—or why he was now lying in a hospital bed without the foggiest notion as to how he got there.
And his brother—the person who’d been standing over him as he’d awoken from surgery three days ago, the person he hadn’t seen in almost thirty years—had left the day before yesterday for the United States on important business.
Business that involved a woman.
Lucas’s lips twisted. The last time he’d chased down a woman had been... His brain clicked through several files and discarded them.
Nope. Never happened. Never would.
At least he hoped he hadn’t done anything crazy in that blank space where most of his recent memories should be.
The cute little nurse who’d come to visit him a couple of times had assured him that he was the one who’d talked his brother into going after that particular woman.
He struggled into a sitting position, wincing as pain sliced through his shoulder, the sling that secured his arm doing little to prevent his stitches from feeling like they were tearing free from his wound.
Not wound...wounds. Two, to be exact.
That’s what the police had told him...that he’d been shot. Twice. Right outside the entrance to a nearby slum. And like his doctors, the law enforcement officials insisted he was lucky to be alive.
Today he didn’t feel quite so thrilled about that fact. Actually, he didn’t feel thrilled about much of anything. The aches and pains, dulled by strong doses of medication a couple of days ago, now bit into his flesh with every movement.
He eyed the IV stand to his left and noted the wheels at its base. They’d had him up and walking soon after his surgery—he remembered the same warm-eyed nurse had hovered in the background, hands twisting as he’d taken his first painful, curse-filled steps. He didn’t think she was assigned to his case because she hadn’t helped in any way, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d wanted to say something to him.
But she hadn’t.
Shifting to the side of the bed where his IV bag hung, he let his legs dangle over the edge, hands gripping the mattress as he thought about his best course of action—the first being a much-needed trip to the john.
Which he could manage on his own.
He hoped.
His feet hit the floor, and the world spun for several nauseating seconds, causing him to clutch the pole beside him with a low curse.
Three days.
Surely he should be more ambulatory than this by now. The wave of dizziness passed and he stayed in place another minute or two to get his bearings. Then he leaned on the IV stand as he wheeled it toward the bathroom.
Doing the deed was a marvel in logistics co-ordination, but he somehow made it to the finish line without doing a face plant, and even washed and dried his uninjured hand afterwards.
There. He felt more independent already.
Right.
Judging from the pale face staring at him in the mirror, he might feel independent but he could use a big infusion of some kind of miracle drug. He jabbed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, not that it helped much.
Now that he was up, though, there was no way he was climbing back in that bed and staring at the dull white ceiling for hours on end. He’d done enough of that. So if walking would get him out of this place any faster, he would do just that. In fact, he’d jog if he had to.
All by himself.
He ignored the remote control dangling by its cord off the side of the bed and slogged his way toward the door, feeling like he was pushing through a huge vat of Jell-O. He refused to call for a nurse who would fuss over him like he vaguely remembered his brother doing when they’d been kids. At least until he and Marcos had been separated and grown up on two completely different continents.
His birth country had evidently missed him as much as he’d missed it, judging from the two slugs the doctors had dug out of him. His mouth twisted. Maybe he should have just stayed in the States.
Taking a deep breath and hoping he wouldn’t live to regret the move, he pulled the heavy metal lever on the door and stepped into the hallway.
As a testament to how utterly fantastic his last couple of days had been, the door hit him squarely on the ass as it closed, almost sending him and his IV pole spinning to the floor.
He bit back a whole string of English cuss words that could get him into trouble, even here in Brazil, and pulled himself upright.
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood...
With a heavy sigh of resignation he started down the long corridor in search of some answers. Or a good stiff drink. Whichever he came across first.
* * *
Nossa Senhora do céu!
Sophia Limeira’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
As head nurse, she should probably show a little more dignity but, Deus, she couldn’t help but stare in awe as every female head—patients and visitors alike—turned in graceful synchronization to watch Lucas Carvalho make his way down the hall.
Long legs showed off the beautiful lithe movements of someone who knew the effect he had on those around him. Even with his left arm in a sling and dragging an IV stand along with him, he could have crooked a finger at any woman in the place and she’d have rushed toward him, snarling and snapping at anyone who dared get in her way. Even eighty-seven-year-old Marta Silva, who was parked in a wheelchair against the south wall, looked like she might slither from her seat and land in a heap at his feet.
Thankfully, Sophia was firmly anchored in her office chair—behind the desk that sat directly in Lucas’s path.
It was then she noticed he wasn’t making the slightest effort to hold his hospital gown closed at the back.
Maybe that was why all the women were ogling him.
It wasn’t entirely his fault, as both his hands were occupied with other things but, still, she was really, really glad he was facing her.
Although that was ridiculous. She was a nurse, for heaven’s sake. She’d seen plenty of bare masculine butts over the last ten years.
But none of their owners had looked like Lucas.
She touched the flesh above the right side of her lip with her index finger, self-conscious all of a sudden, although she knew she didn’t need to be. The scar was barely visible—the lip margins perfectly aligned. A dot of concealer on a sponge and the flaw almost blended away into nothingness.
Almost.
But Lucas was a plastic surgeon. His knowing eye could cut right through the thin layer of make-up and see the scar for what it was. A remnant from her childhood. She wondered if he ran across many cases like hers in his practice.
Probably not. He was from California, the land of beautiful bouncing breasts and perfect spray-on tans.
She gulped as his eyes met hers, then narrowed slightly, as if trying to place her.
He didn’t remember her. Even when she’d slid into his room that first day and introduced herself, there’d been no hint of recognition. Even when she’d stood nearby as he’d taken his first steps.
Marcos had once said no one could forget her.
Ha! Well, someone could. And someone had.
Not that it mattered. It had been ages since she’d seen Lucas. And they’d both been children at the time.
And he’d been so very sad that first week at the orphanage. Within a month, however, they’d become inseparable—the dynamic trio, the workers had dubbed them.
Only Lucas had been one of the lucky ones who’d been adopted, leaving Marcos and her behind for ever.
Deus! He was still headed her way. And the bony hollows of the boy she’d once known were now filled in with muscle and sinew that rippled with every step he took.
Fully man. Fully dangerous.
She knew she should be on her feet, scolding him for getting out of bed and walking unassisted, but she couldn’t seem to make her body obey the normal commands. Casting a quick glance around her, she saw there wasn’t another nurse in sight. Just her. And Lucas’s eagle-eyed gaze was fastened directly on her.
Needing to be the first one to speak for some crazy reason, she arched a brow when he reached the desk. “You do know you’re putting on quite a show for the folks behind you, don’t you?”
He frowned for a second then gave her a slow smile as if realizing what she meant. “Don’t worry. I eventually have to go back the way I came.”
Yes, he did.
Holding tight to her impassive “nurse” demeanor when all she wanted to do was keep staring, she forced a shrug. “Don’t worry,” she parroted. “I’m immune.”
“Ah, yes, a sad byproduct of the nursing profession.”
“The same can be said of plastic surgeons,” she lobbed back.
