Forbidden To The Playboy Surgeon

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She stiffened. ‘But it seems you’re often immune.’

Ouch. Her words tried to scratch him like the sharp tip of a knife, but he didn’t need to justify himself to her. He was very well aware of his duty. Ironically, duty had arrived in a rush just after he’d vowed to make the most of every new day that had been gifted to him. It was the juxtaposition of his life.

‘None of us are immune, Claire. It’s just I try to have a bit of fun too.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘And you’re inferring that I don’t have fun?’

Not that I’ve seen. ‘Have you had any fun since arriving in London?’

She looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘I...um...yes. Of course.’

Liar. But he was planning on having some fun with her right now and killing two birds with one stone. ‘Excellent. I can certainly promise you fun at the ball. Especially considering how you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty and bought the seat next to me.’

‘What?’ She paled, her expression momentarily aghast, and then she rallied. ‘I don’t get paid enough for that.’

‘Brutal.’ He exaggeratedly slapped his chest in the general area of his heart, his long fingers grazing the lower edge of his pacemaker. ‘And here I was thinking I was your date. I tell you what. I’ll pay for both of our tickets.’

‘That won’t be necess—’

‘It’s the least I can do,’ he interrupted, waving away her protest. ‘I imagine it was Victoria who dropped you right in it.’

She grimaced. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

He made a huffing sound more at the absent Dominic than her. ‘The good thing is you’ll be saving me from having to play nice all evening.’

Effrontery streaked across her face. ‘Well, when you put it like that, I can hardly wait,’ she said drily.

Her sarcasm was unexpected and delightfully refreshing and he heard himself laugh. He wasn’t used to a woman viewing an evening with him as a trial. The women he dated erred on the appreciative side and often went to great lengths to make him happy. Not Claire Mitchell.

A streak of anticipation shot through him. Without realising it, she’d just thrown down a challenge. He wasn’t totally convinced she was even capable of having fun and he had a sudden urge to know what she looked like when she was in the midst of a good time.

She’d smile like she did when you let her operate solo. Remember how you felt then?

He disregarded the warning that it was probably unwise to be looking forward to the ball quite this much.

‘So will you be picking me—’ His phone rang with the ICU ringtone, and as he pulled it from his pocket, Claire’s pager beeped.

‘North,’ he said, answering the call just as Claire mouthed to him, ‘ICU?’

Listening to the nurse on the other end of the line, he nodded at Claire and opened the treatment room door. As she walked quickly past him, her crisp scent of the sea drifted back to him and he was suddenly back on Bondi Beach when his life had been simpler and there had been few restraints placed upon it.

‘We’re on our way,’ he told the worried nurse. Stepping out into the corridor, he followed Claire down the fire escape, taking the fastest way to ICU.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f6033eef-d356-5556-95ab-f16f6e21c035)

CLAIRE WALKED OUT of the operating theatre, tugging her mask from her face. Her hand shook so much that her toss missed the bin and she had to stoop to pick up the mask. Even then it took her two more shots to land it.

Get a grip.

‘You all right, Dr Mitchell?’ Cyril, the night cleaner, asked. Apparently, he’d been working at the castle for forty years and as well as keeping the operating theatre suite clean he took a keen parental interest in the junior staff. ‘You look a bit shaky.’

‘Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix,’ she lied breezily, not trusting herself to let his concern touch her. She couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet anyway. Not when her job was only half finished.

She walked into the doctors’ lounge, which at ten in the evening was thankfully empty. She needed and wanted privacy to make this call. Picking up the phone, it took her two attempts to get the number right as her mind kept spinning off and practicing what she was going to say. As the phone rang in her ear, she concentrated on slowing her breathing and her wildly hammering heart.

‘Hello,’ a sleep-filled voice croaked down the line.

‘Louise.’ Her voice sounded unsteady and she tried to firm it up. ‘It’s Claire Mitchell. From the hospital.’

‘Claire!’ Ryan’s mother’s voice was instantly alert. ‘You’re calling me? Oh, my God,’ she said half laughing, half crying, ‘it’s just like the umbrella story. You told me to come home and now you’re calling. He’s awake, isn’t he? Colin, wake up. It’s Ryan.’

Claire’s stomach lurched so hard she had to force the rising tide of acid back down her throat. ‘Louise,’ she said firmly but gravely, trying to signal to the woman this call wasn’t the positive one she craved. ‘Ryan’s not awake.’

‘What?’ She sounded confused. ‘Then why are you calling?’ she asked angrily.

Claire thought about the desperately ill little boy who was lying surrounded by all the latest medical technology. ‘Ryan’s condition has deteriorated.’