Awakened By Her Brooding Brazilian / Falling For The Single Dad Surgeon

Then she heard Dr. Carvalho’s name, and tuned back in.

“...no doubt, but I have to tell you his reputation isn’t particularly stellar. He might have been famous as a model, but the way he treated his ex-fiancée is a disgrace.”

Krysta held up her hand, cutting the man off. “But is he a good doctor?”

Delgado blinked, several times, rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Does he do his job in an acceptable way? Is he a good surgeon?” she asked, making her voice slow, as though to make sure he understood.

“Well... I... I suppose so,” he replied, and she saw the way his ears reddened.

She shrugged. “That’s all I care about.”

“Your drink, Dr. Simpson.”

Speak of the devil.

“Thank you, Dr. Carvalho,” she replied, turning to take the frosty glass from his hand. Had he heard the exchange between herself and the other man? There was nothing at all in his expression or demeanor to give her any clue. This Dr. Carvalho was a master at hiding his thoughts, unless and until he wanted to share them.

“It appears dinner is about to be served,” he said, extending his arm toward her as an announcement to that effect came over the PA system. “Shall we go through?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, laying her fingers on his impressive brachioradialis and strangely having to squelch the urge to squeeze it, just to see if it were as strong as she thought. Then she gave Dr. Delgado a level, straight-faced look and continued, “You will excuse us, won’t you? I’m famished.”

She saw the exact instant Dr. Delgado realized she’d spoken in Portuguese. His eyes widened, and his face paled. It took everything she had inside not to lose her poker face at his horrified expression.

And she now knew, for a fact, how hard Dr. Carvalho’s arm muscle really was, as it tightened to rock beneath her fingers. Glancing up into his startled face, she said, “I hope my accent isn’t terrible. I’ve only been learning the language for a few months.”

He blinked, and she saw amusement flood his eyes, causing them to gleam. “Not at all,” he replied. “In fact, it is perfeita.”

CHAPTER TWO

FRANCISCO HURRIED ACROSS the grounds toward the conference and lecture center, glancing at his watch as he went.

Ora bolas! Krysta Simpson’s first lecture was supposed to start in less than a minute, and he was only now getting through the door into the building. It had been a busy morning, one that started at 4:00 a.m. with a call from the hospital concerning a victim of a robbery gone wrong; he’d had severe zygomatic and maxillary fractures. They’d taken him straight into surgery, and the delicate procedure of rebuilding his orbital structure hadn’t ended until almost nine. Luckily, there didn’t appear to be damage to his eye, but ophthalmology had been alerted and a specialist would be along to examine the patient once the swelling had abated.

Francisco had already told his head of department that, whenever time permitted, he wanted to attend as many of Dr. Simpson’s lectures as possible, and Dr. Emanuel had readily agreed. Getting her to Paulista’s was a coup for the hospital, since it was well-known she rarely lectured, preferring to devote her time to research and major, cutting-edge operations. Having her agree to perform the surgery on Dos Santos, who’d suffered oral cancer, was an added bonus. The patient had had a segment of his mandible removed, along with his tumor, in London, and specifically wanted her to do the reconstruction.

All the team members were familiar with the technique she would be using, where a piece of the patient’s fibula, along with blood vessels and a flap of skin, would be used to reconstruct the piece of mandible removed by the oncologist. Francisco had done several, even a couple where the inferior alveolar nerve running through the jaw to the chin and lower lip had been repaired as well. What Krysta Simpson brought to the table was a newer way of approaching the operation itself, and techniques not used everywhere yet.

Beyond all that, though, Francisco found her even more fascinating than he expected. Before meeting her, his sole focus had been on her work, the advances she’d been a part of in the world of facial reconstruction and the research she spearheaded.

That was before he’d heard her cut Delgado off when the other man was trying to poison her against him. And when she’d spoken in almost-perfect Portuguese... If he were still capable of doing so, he would have fallen for her right there and then. It had been magnífica. Just the expression on Delgado’s face had been enough to elevate the evening into one of the best Francisco had had in years.

They’d sat at the same table at dinner, and spoke almost exclusively to each other during the meal. He’d found himself avidly watching her face as she spoke, all but drowning in the twinkling brown eyes. It was only after he went home that it struck him why he’d enjoyed the night so much.

Communicating with Krysta Simpson had been easy, without any kind of undertones, or nosy questions. He’d been at ease with her, and found the wall of reticence he’d built up over the years rather thinner around her than it usually was. Perhaps it was because of her direct way of speaking, and how obvious it was she didn’t care about his storied past. It had been a long time since he’d felt so comfortable with anyone outside of his family, and had been a very pleasant experience.

Although he could certainly do without the thrill of attraction he felt toward her.

Now, finally getting to the lecture hall, he glanced in through the glass at the top of the door and found everyone already seated, with a few people even standing at the sides and back of the room. Most were students and residents, but there were a few established surgeons seated at the front. Not wanting to cause a disturbance when he expected Dr. Simpson to step out onto the stage at any moment, Francisco turned and headed for the door leading to the room adjacent to the hall. It was where lecturers waited for their audience to assemble, but it also led directly to the wings, via a corridor. His plan was to quietly make his way to the edge of the stage, and listen to her from there.

It would cause much less fuss than walking into the crowded room and perhaps even have one of his residents get up to offer him a seat, which was not outside the realm of possibility. All the young doctors he supervised were ambitious, and keen to make a good impression on the more experienced staff members, in hopes of it giving them a leg up on the competition.

The L-shaped waiting area beside the lecture hall was much like any of the green rooms Francisco had been in during his modeling days. There were a few upholstered chairs, a couch, coffee table, refreshment area and, set into a secluded alcove at the back, a desk. At first, when he entered, he thought it empty, then he heard what sounded like low mumbling coming from the desk area. Curiosity took him the steps necessary to peer around the corner, and he was taken aback to find Dr. Simpson standing beside the desk.

Her back was to him, her face to the wall, her hands pressed flat against the surface in front of her, the knuckles almost white with the pressure she was exerting on her fingers.

His first instinct was to leave her alone, but something in the stiffness of her posture, the cadence of her voice as she recited something to herself, kept him there.

“Dr. Simpson...”

She turned a pale, sweat-sheened face to him, snapping, “I asked for just a few more minutes.” Then she shook her head, as though trying to bring herself back from whatever unhappy place she’d just been.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly, annoyed with himself for disturbing her. “I thought perhaps you were unwell.”

“Sick,” she mumbled. Then her voice rose. “God, I hate public speaking.”

She seemed so confident generally it was startling to see her this way, and he said, “But you do it so well. No one would ever believe your aversion.”

Krysta gave him a wan look as she reached into the pocket of her oversize jacket and pulled out a handful of tissues. Dabbing her forehead, she replied, “Do you know why you couldn’t find me to speak to me in Lisbon after my presentation? Because I was in the bathroom throwing up. At least this time I threw up first.”

When he’d mentioned he’d looked for her then, she hadn’t commented. Now he understood why.

“If you hate it so much, why do it?” he asked, honestly perplexed. It wasn’t as though she needed to raise her profile in the medical world. And if she did, Brazil probably wouldn’t be first on the list of places to do so.

“I’d promised myself not to do it again, but over the last couple of years I’ve been trying to work through some...issues, and my therapist told me I need to face my fears. And she also told me I needed to get out more, experience more of life, since I spend all my time working. Brazil seemed like a good place to kill two birds with one stone.”

Francisco was unsure of what to say to that but, before he could reply, the noise level in the lecture hall seemed to rise to a grumbling murmur. Krysta obviously heard it, too, as she straightened, giving her forehead one last pat down with the tissues. To his amazement, all signs of distress and trepidation fell away from her face, and although he saw her swallow hard once, she appeared perfectly collected, if still a little pale.

“Okay,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “I’m ready now.”

She walked past him with long confident strides, and then paused to glance back at him. “Are you staying for the lecture?”

He gestured to the corridor she was about to walk down. “I’ll be watching from the wings.”

The smile she gave him made something warm and pleasant bloom in his chest.

“Good. Great.”

“And perhaps we can lunch together afterward?” he asked before she disappeared. “Before I do my rounds?” They were getting together that afternoon for a preliminary team meeting regarding the upcoming surgery, but the urge to spend more time with her was unmistakable.

“Sure,” was the nonchalant answer.

Then she was gone, and as he followed and saw her step out onto the stage, the applause began.

There were many divides between Krysta and her father, but as she explained to Dr. Carvalho over lunch, she owed her ability to deal with whatever was happening directly to him.

“He’s an auto mechanic,” she said as she arranged the food on her plate to her specifications: meat at five o’clock, rice at seven and vegetables taking up the rest of the space. No restaurant, or cafeteria like the one here at the hospital, ever got it quite right. “He proudly calls himself a grease monkey, and never really understood why I wanted to go into medicine, yet everything important I know about getting through life I learned from him.”

The conversation had started when Francisco had asked how she’d gone from a shaking mess to composed so quickly. Usually, she’d have brushed it off, embarrassed to be seen that way by anyone, but, somehow, she’d minded neither his intrusion nor the question. She felt remarkably comfortable with Francisco Carvalho, once she subdued the rush of awareness she experienced whenever their eyes met.

Seeing the quizzical expression being sent her way, Krysta elaborated. “He always told us, ‘Fear and doubt are contagious. If you let others see you’re feeling them, they’ll catch it, and mirror it back to you tenfold.’ In my head, I equate it to when a family gets the flu, and keep passing it back and forth. When you get it the second time, it’s usually much worse.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I see. So you trained yourself to go through the fear and get the job done.”

“You have to sometimes,” she agreed, while putting together the perfect forkful of food. “I’ve gotten out of the habit of pushing myself, outside of my usual work life, but I’m thankful to know that ability to compartmentalize in uncomfortable situations hasn’t deserted me.”

“I enjoyed your lecture, as I knew I would.” He had a direct, unruffled way of speaking she really liked. “The information you’re imparting to our staff should prove highly valuable.”

She finished chewing and swallowed before she replied. “It’s available elsewhere. I just have it put all together in one presentation, because of my research and specialties.”

The lecture, the first of three parts, dealt with the ever-widening and exciting world of biomaterials for medical applications. It was a topic she was fascinated by, since new discoveries opened up advanced and improved ways of disease diagnosis, delivery of medications, even tissue generation. In later lectures she’d go into greater detail regarding specific applications, particularly when used for facial reconstruction.

He shook his head, giving her one of his abbreviated smiles.

“The information you have is not available to everyone. You must have gotten fifty different permissions just to do this lecture series.”

She tried not to smirk, but probably failed. “More like sixty, including being able to talk about and show some of the work that went into the facial transplant I assisted with.”

Francisco’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured around another mouthful of food, unreasonably glad to have truly impressed him with that pronouncement. She wasn’t sure who at Paulista’s pulled the strings, but someone at the hospital had a great deal of clout.

He took a moment to have another bite of his feijoada, which reminded her a little of Jamaican stewed peas, although it was made with black beans instead of red kidney beans and had sausage in it, rather than just salted meat. She’d opted for churrasco and wasn’t disappointed as the tender barbecued beef melted in her mouth, releasing its delicious flavor. Francisco swallowed, and seemed about to say something, when Flávia Maura stopped by their table, tray in hand, and Krysta looked up to smile at the other woman.

“Hi,” Flávia said, speaking directly to Krysta after acknowledging Francisco with a terse nod. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over to the sanctuary for a tour sometime while you’re here. I can show you the live specimens, and some of the research data I’ve collected.”

An involuntary shiver rustled up Krysta’s back.

“I’m really interested in your findings, because I think the possible applications are fascinating, but unfortunately I don’t do snakes. Just the thought of being around a lot of them gives me the chills.”

“You’re not afraid of them, are you?” Flávia seemed both bemused and disappointed. “As a scientist, surely you understand their importance, ecologically and medicinally?” She shook her head, then ran her fingers through her hair. “The amount of time I spend trying to explain that to people...”

“Oh, I understand,” Krysta said, not at all offended at being taken to task. She completely related to Flávia’s drive and passion. Although their fields were very different, the other woman’s intensity mirrored her own. “I’ve just never been comfortable with reptiles or amphibians, although I don’t mind arachnids.”

Flávia’s gaze swung toward the door and lingered there for a moment. As a hint of color touched the other woman’s face, Krysta glanced that way in time to see the British oncologist Jake Cooper heading for the buffet line. When she looked back at Flávia, it was to see the other woman rubbing one cheek, as though to erase the warmth accumulating there. Then her hand dropped away, and she shook her head slightly, her gaze returning to meet Krysta’s.

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know. The invitation is always open.” Flávia glanced at Francisco, and added, “You can come, too, if you like.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you for the invitation but, unlike Krysta, I’m leery of spiders, ever since I was bitten by a brown widow as a child.”

Flávia made a little sound best described as a snort. “Latrodectus geometricus. Did you not check your shoes before putting them on?”

Francisco shook his head, but there was a wry set to his mouth. “More like stuck my hand into somewhere it didn’t belong.”

Flávia nodded, and gave him a little smile in return. “I’ve been known to do that myself, from time to time.”

Why did Krysta feel there was more to both those stories than met the eye? Her curiosity was definitely piqued. Just as it had been when she noticed how coolly distant Francisco was with everyone. Well, except her.

Then Flávia was taking her leave, striding off to sit at one of the other tables before Krysta even thought to invite her to sit with them.

Francisco gave her one of his noncommittal looks, and said, “I thought you were on a campaign to overcome your fears. Wouldn’t this be a good opportunity?”

Was he being serious, snide or teasing? Krysta narrowed her eyes in an attempt to figure it out. Then she noticed the twinkle in his eyes, and decided it was the latter. To date, she’d seen nothing snide in his manner, which was probably why they got along so well. After so many years of, in different situations, being the youngest, or only female, or just plain different, she was adept at spotting even a hint of condescension.

Looking down at her plate, she set about arranging another forkful, and replied, “Perhaps I’ll go...if you do.”

There. When she glanced up, the twinkle in his eyes had definitely deepened, and his lips quirked in amusement. “Hmm, I wouldn’t wait around for that if I were you. I have no problem admitting I avoid spiders whenever I can, and tend to swat the ones I can’t elude.”

Krysta gave an exaggerated look over her shoulder. “You better not let Flávia hear you say that. You’ve already moved down a few notches in her estimation, and that would send you straight to Hades, without even a pause in purgatory.”

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle, but a full-on deep laugh.

It was such a departure from the contained and controlled Dr. Carvalho, Krysta found herself transfixed by the sight.

The way his face lit up. The low, somehow sexy rumble of his merriment. The crinkling of the skin at the corners of his eyes, and slashes, like long dimples, in his cheeks.

Heat washed through her veins, out into every crevice and corner of her body, the sensation unlike any she’d experienced before. Instinctively, she looked down, not wanting him to catch her staring, and tried to catch her suddenly nonexistent breath.

The sensation was akin to how she felt before lecturing: scared, a little shaky. Completely sure something unknown and horrible was coming her way.

Frazzled, she shoved the fork into her mouth, even though half the salad had fallen off.

She’d have to try to work it out later, although she had the distinct feeling there was some important data she lacked.

His laughter subsided, but there was still a touch of amusement in his voice as he said, “Would you like to do rounds with me, before the meeting with the surgical team?”

No.

Yes.

No.

Indecision wasn’t something Krysta tolerated in others, and despised in herself, yet her brain ping-ponged back and forth in a most annoying manner at his simple question. Then common sense reasserted itself.

“Do you have any patients I could be of particular help to? If not, I need to contact my research assistant and make sure everything is under control before he goes on holiday next week.”

The smile stayed on his lips, but she thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes as he replied, “No, not really. But I’m sure the residents would have questions they’d love to ask.”

Ah, he was thinking about the residents. That made sense. She shrugged, and concentrated on her plate.

“I’ll be available for the next few months. There’ll be plenty of time for them.”

“Indeed,” he replied, but something in his voice made her glance up at him, and now it was she who was disappointed when he wasn’t looking at her, so she couldn’t see his eyes. “Perhaps, if you’re not too busy, we could lunch again tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, trying to remain noncommittal, even as she knew she’d be there.

CHAPTER THREE

LATER THAT EVENING, Krysta made her way down to the indoor pool at the apartment building where she was staying. She’d tried to settle in for the evening, but her whirring brain made her restless, and swimming laps was one surefire way to work off some of her excess energy.

All in all, it had been a constructive day, but the stress of lecturing, coupled with the preoperation group meeting, rendered her unable to relax.

Getting to the pool, she was happy to find it deserted. After she’d shed her robe and slippers, she made her way to the deep end, putting on her goggles as she went.

Then she dove in, automatically counting the strokes it took to get to the opposite end, and then keeping count of the laps. But even so occupied, her brain still had more than enough space left over to go through the day once more.

Yet, surprisingly, considering how stressful it had been, it wasn’t the lecture or the upcoming operation she found herself contemplating.

It was Francisco Carvalho, and her completely untoward reactions whenever he was around. Those moments of hesitation—procrastination—when he’d invited her to accompany him on rounds was bad enough but, to make it worse, she’d found herself distracted by him during the meeting with the surgical team.

She’d brought one of the three-dimensional replicas of Mr. Dos Santos’s skull with her, showing how it had been prior to the segmental mandibulectomy, along with a 3-D model of his mandible, and recent scans.

“The oncological team used fluorescent contrast preop to locate the cancer cells, and luckily, because of that, we have decent margins to work with. As you know, we’ll be performing a vascularized fibula flap transfer, with simultaneous dental-implant placement. We will be using titanium plates specifically crafted for Mr. Dos Santos to hold the transferred bone in place, along with cutting templates to shape the fibula into the exact shape needed.”

Francisco leaned closer to get a better look at the 3-D skull, bringing his shoulder into close proximity to hers. Warmth flooded her arm, making her wonder if the heat emanated from him or if her body was spontaneously creating it.

Flummoxed, she was forced to strain to concentrate when one of the residents raised his hand and said, “If I may ask, why wasn’t the reconstruction done immediately following the mandibulectomy? Isn’t that the standard of care?”

Krysta dragged her mind back to the meeting, but it was Jake Cooper who answered.

“Dr. Simpson wasn’t available to perform the operation when I had the mandibulectomy scheduled,” he replied. “And Mr. Dos Santos insisted she be the one to head the team.”

“Dr. Simpson was in France, assisting with a facial transplant,” Francisco interjected. “And some of what the French were able to achieve, she will be sharing with us in her lectures.”

That brought another little murmur from the assembled group, which Krysta ignored. Just as she outwardly ignored Francisco’s interruption, even as she felt a silly little glow of pride.

Instead of acknowledging his words, she continued. “While it is common practice, none of the data show any difference in outcome if the reconstruction is secondary. And since it affords us an opportunity to make full use of the new technology, we can ensure a shorter, more efficient operation, along with superior function and aesthetic results, long-term. In consultation with both Dr. Cooper and the patient, it was decided the benefits of waiting outweighed the detriments.”

Francisco asked, “Could you expound on that a little, Dr. Simpson? I’m interested in how that decision was made.”