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

There, the final stitches were in place and, for a moment, she hesitated, running through the entire operation in her mind one more time.

“Good work, Dr. Simpson.”

It was Francisco’s voice that broke her from her reverie, and she shook her head, looking around at the entire team, even as the bustle of postoperation broke out. Then she looked up, and meeting his gaze—warmly brown now—made her heart stutter.

She turned away, not wanting him to see whatever was in her eyes.

“No. Good work, team. I’m proud to have worked with you all.”

Muted applause greeted her words and, suddenly exhausted, coming down off the surgical high, she made her way to the door. The surgery may be over, but there was still a long evening and night ahead, to make sure she was available, in case of emergency.

“Five hours and ten minutes.” Francisco’s voice came from just behind her, made her pause. “I believe that’s a record here for us at Paulista’s. You were magnífica.”

“Let’s wait and see the results,” she rebutted, even though warmth flooded out from her chest at the compliment. “Then we can pat ourselves on the back.”

But Francisco just made a rude noise.

“No matter what you say,” he replied sternly. “Magnífica.”

And, in his estimation, she had been.

Krysta ran a tight operation, without fuss or even a hint of confusion, and allowed her fellow practitioners to do their jobs without her constantly looking over their shoulders. She also gave credit where it was due. He’d seen the others relax and do their very best for her—not for the hospital, or even for the praise. Just to please her.

Such character was rare, especially among the people inhabiting the rarefied circles she was known to inhabit.

As he pushed through the doors into the men’s changing room, Francisco considered the doctors and surgeons he’d met in the years since he’d started practicing. Just like in any other profession, some were nice, others horrid. Some were snobs, and yet others so full of themselves it was almost painful to behold.

Krysta fell into a class all by herself.

It was almost impossible for him to believe her when she told him of how truncated her life really was. She was the type of woman who should, after a surgery like the one she just performed, be taken out dancing. Be wined and dined and then made long, sweet love to.

Well, not right after surgery, when she would be exhausted and set to spend the night at the hospital, so as to be on hand should anything go wrong. But as soon as things quieted down.

Just imagining holding her, swaying to sweet samba music, pushed the edge of tiredness he felt aside, replacing it with longing.

Pare seu tolo.

Yet, telling himself to stop imagining such things, calling himself a fool, didn’t help.

He wanted her, and when his feelings had gone from interest to full-blown desire, he couldn’t tell.

“Good work in there.” Jake Cooper came over to where Francisco was rummaging in his locker for a clean scrub shirt. The one he’d been wearing was soaked with perspiration. “It went well, from what I saw.”

“You were in the gallery?” Francisco pulled off his shirt, using it to wipe at his chest. Did he have time for a shower? Probably not. He still had to check on other patients before he could even think of going home.

“For a time,” Jake replied. “I was...otherwise occupied for part of it. Krysta had invited me to be in the theater, but I had to decline. Enzo may be my patient, but reconstruction isn’t my specialty, as you know.”

Once more Francisco had a moment of white-hot jealousy, and then he shook his head. Being around Krysta was making him a little louco, apparently.

“I think you would have enjoyed seeing her work, up close,” he said, making sure there was no trace of his self-described craziness in his voice. “She truly is a master at her craft.”

“I did get to see you work on the fibula flap. From what I saw, you’re not too shabby yourself.”

Francisco snorted, the sound caught in the fabric of the fresh shirt as it went over his head. “With the template provided, I would be incompetent if I couldn’t get it right.”

Jake Cooper just laughed, and turned toward the door. “We both know there was a lot more to it than just cutting out a pattern. Anyway, I’ll make a quick check on Enzo in the PACU, then I’m going home.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Who knew being a parent could be as exhausting as any day in the hospital?”

And before Francisco could figure out how to reply to that, he pushed through the doors and was gone.

Francisco made his rounds, and everywhere he went it seemed that Krysta’s name was on everyone’s lips. When he stopped in at the postoperative ward to check on Enzo Dos Santos, it was to hear he had just missed her.

“I sent her to get a little rest,” the nurse in charge told him while he was looking at the chart. “She was trying not to hover, but failing, badly.”

Francisco nodded, pleased with the readings he was seeing. “Did Dr. Simpson go home?”

That made the nurse chuckle. “Oh, I doubt it. I expect to see her back here in another hour, when we are checking the blood flow again.”

He should go home, he knew, but instead, his feet led him to the surgeon’s lounge. Opening the door as quietly as he could, he slipped inside. And there, curled up on a couch, he found her.

His heart ached at the peaceful innocence of her relaxed body. Without the force of her personality mobilizing it, the crisp, forthright personality retreated into the background, leaving a softness of lips and face that transformed her into a different woman. One that aroused all his protective instincts.

She needed rest. He could see dark shadows under her eyes, as though she hadn’t been sleeping as well as she should.

And had she eaten at all, since the operation? If she planned to stay here all night, as he was sure she was, sustenance was necessary.

As though hearing his thoughts, she sighed, and snuggled deeper into the cushion beneath her head. A part of him wanted to go and set his lips to the curve of her cheek, the indentation between neck and shoulder, and he fisted his fingers to stop from reaching for her. Instead, he forced himself to go in the other direction, slipping back out of the room.

Although he tried to be as quiet as possible coming in less than half an hour later with a tray, as soon as he opened the door, Krysta sat up.

“What time is it?”

“Not time to check on the patient yet,” he said as he walked toward the couch. Seeing her look at her watch anyway, he tried to distract her by asking, “Do you always wake up like that?”

That brought her eyebrows up, and then together in a little scowl. “Like what?”

“Fully conscious, as though you could pick up a scalpel and dive right into an operation. It takes me five minutes to figure out which is the floor and which is the ceiling when I first awaken.”

Her chuckle was slightly husky, as though sleep still lingered there, if nowhere else, and the sound was delicious.

“No,” she replied, watching him put the laden tray down on the table in front of the couch. “I was just dozing. Usually it takes me a minute to get my bearings. What is all that?”

“I thought you might be hungry,” he explained, feeling a little silly even as he did. “But I didn’t know what you’d want, so I brought some soup, and a salad, and a sandwich. It was all I could get at this late hour without leaving the hospital.”

“You’re a lifesaver!” She was already reaching for the soup, and her enthusiasm, plus the smile lighting her face, made his heart sing. “I could kiss you.”

Ever after, he wondered at how easily the next words slipped from his mouth, propelled by a sudden longing too strong for his control.

“I wish you would.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

KRYSTA FROZE, and Francisco did as well. For a long moment neither moved, and then his gaze dropped, to her lips, she thought, and a look she didn’t recognize lit his eyes from within. Whatever that expression was caused by, it lit a firestorm inside her belly, and her breath hitched in her throat.

Then, just as swiftly as it had passed over his face, it was gone, and he chuckled, although it sounded forced.

“Desculpa,” he said, reverting to his native language and then pausing, before going back to English. “Excuse me. That was out of line, and I apologize.”

There was the urge to ignore his comment, or laugh it off. After all, it would be silly to place too much store in an off-the-cuff remark, probably made without thought, in jest.

And yet, she dearly wanted him to mean it, and couldn’t help wondering whether she would regret, forever, not finding out whether he did or not.

But the thought of asking him was terrifying. Not only would she be opening herself up to rejection from a man she deeply admired and wanted more than anything in the world, but also risking a friendship she cherished. She could see no benefit to pursuing it.

Unless he hadn’t been joking...

Then she reminded herself, wasn’t she supposed to be conquering her fears, trying new things? It wasn’t as though, if he rejected her, she’d have to see him forever and ever. It would just be a matter of toughing it out for a couple of months, and putting the humiliation behind her and moving on.

Even with that staunch pep talk, her heart rate was through the roof and her hands started sweating as she looked at him and said, “Only apologize if you didn’t mean it.”

He’d adopted his stone face, the one he showed the world most of the time, but as her words sunk in, it fell away to be replaced with an expression she couldn’t interpret. Was it pleasure? Hesitation?

A combination of the two?

With a low-voiced mutter that sounded suspiciously like a curse, he stepped forward to sink down onto the couch, as though his legs didn’t want to hold him aloft anymore.

Krysta knew the feeling. She didn’t think she could stand, she was trembling so hard. How she wished she had even a modicum of poise right now! But she was trying so hard to fake it until she made it, she once more reached for the soup, and then decided on the salad instead. At least if that fell into her lap she didn’t risk getting burned.

“I withdraw my apology, then,” he said, rather stiffly. “I most certainly do want to kiss you.”

Her heart leaped. She’d never known what that meant, only read the expression in books and thought it silly, until now. It leaped and stuttered, and what little sangfroid she’d managed to gather together fled, to be replaced with wild anticipation.

Then she looked over and found him once more staring at her lips, his expression now one of uninhibited hunger. Instinctively, she leaned a little closer, saw him do the same, and everything inside her stilled, waiting.

Wanting.

Then he took a deep breath and, shaking his head just once, reached out to touch her cheek.

“I want to, but not here. Not now, while you are tired and worried about our patient. Away from the hospital, where I can have your undivided attention.”

Krysta wanted to argue, disappointment like a cold rock in her stomach. She hadn’t given even half a thought to Enzo Dos Santos in the last minutes, much less anything else. But she bit her tongue, and busied herself trying to open the container now perched on her lap. Somehow his words steadied her, made her wonder if he were just trying to brush her off gently.

Or, perhaps, was thinking about his reputation at Paulista’s.

Not that she blamed him, really, if that were the case. She’d given in to her curiosity and looked up the articles about his breakup online and realized why he was so cautious. He’d been excoriated in the press, accused of using the young woman in ways Krysta found hard to believe. She’d found herself glaring at a picture of his ex, somehow absolutely certain there was a great deal more to the story than had been reported, but no one seemed interested in asking Francisco for his side. Krysta wished she had the guts to ask for it herself, but didn’t.

“Damn it,” she muttered, still unable to get the salad open, and when a large, warm hand covered hers, it brought her to immediate motionlessness.

There was a tingle, like static electricity, running up her arm from where their skin touched, and she suddenly couldn’t seem to catch her breath properly.

Turning her head, she looked at him again, was effortlessly caught and held by his tawny, hooded gaze.

“Querida.” His voice was low and soft, a caress to her ears that she felt down to her toes. “Spend the day with me, after you feel comfortable with leaving Senhor Dos Santos to others’ care. We will find something to do, just the two of us. Then, if you still desire it, we will kiss.”

Why not now, or tomorrow?

But she knew why, and was secretly grateful. Tomorrow would be taken up with monitoring Enzo, and finalizing both her next lecture and the planned clinic excursion.

Thinking of the trip to Aparecida made her go hot, and then cold. They would be completely away from Paulista’s, and perhaps could spend some time alone, far from prying eyes. Then she stopped her crazy imagination from running away with her good sense. They would be working, surrounded by people, and then, if she agreed to go with him to his parents’ home, there would be his family to contend with.

“Fale comigo,” he said. Speak to me. And she realized she’d been sitting there silently, staring at him like a ninny, while he had no idea what was going through her mind.

“Yes,” she said, as though she hadn’t had second, third, fourth thoughts. “We’ll do that.”

He sighed, and gently took the salad container from her hand.

“Good. Obrigado.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said with not a small amount of tartness in her voice. Equilibrium was returning, with a vengeance, and there was so much she needed to think through before that day out with him. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

That made him chuckle as he handed her the now-open salad, and reached to snag her a fork. “I will take my chances,” was all he said, and then, much to her relief, changed the subject.

When another surgeon came in, rubbing his eyes and yawning, they were discussing Enzo’s operation, and arguing over how much of the new technology could be used in other applications.

After one more check on their patient, Francisco left to go home, as he was operating again early the following morning. Krysta booted up her laptop and tried to do some work, but her brain wouldn’t stop going back to their conversation earlier.

That moment when she thought he might kiss her, and how much she wished it had happened.

Had she really opened the door to something more than friendship with him?

Yes, she had. And while it made her sort of proud, it also scared her silly.

It was at times like this she wished she wasn’t so solitary and had someone she could confide in.

Unfortunately, she didn’t and so had to deal with it herself.

As she made her way back to the PACU to do her hourly check, she wondered how long it would take for the nurses to try to get her to leave. There was, after all, a surgeon on duty in case of emergency, but they’d find it an impossible task to turf her out. She always stayed in the hospital after an important surgery, feeling a sense of responsibility perhaps out of proportion to the situation. While they had used some newer techniques, the operation itself, its risks and long-term effects, were the same, and nothing new to Paulista’s staff.

Nearing Enzo Dos Santos’s cubicle, she saw Roque Cardoza coming toward her along the corridor. He was leaning rather heavily on his cane, and his face looked a little drawn, as though he had had a long day, and was paying for it.

They met up at the entrance to the cubicle, and she was subjected to an intent look, before he held out his hand.

“We haven’t met. I’m Roque Cardoza.”

As Krysta shook his hand, she recalled the conversation with Amy and Flávia outside the elevator, and thought:

I think he’s rather handsome, too, although not as handsome as Francisco.

But all she said was, “Orthopedics, isn’t it? Nice to meet you, Dr. Cardoza.”

That brought a lift of one eyebrow, and a twist of the edge of his lips, as though he were remembering when they’d last seen each other.

“I am a friend of Enzo’s, so I thought I would check in on him, and see if Lizbet needs anything, but I see she’s not here.”

Krysta glanced into the cubicle, and replied, “I’m sure she’ll be back momentarily. Since she was allowed in, his wife has hardly left his side.”

“They are devoted,” he said in his deep, accented tones. “One to the other. This has been a trying time for her.”

The affection in his voice was clear, and she couldn’t help asking, “How do you know the Dos Santoses?”

“Enzo was the owner and manager of the futebol team I played on when I was young. It was he who encouraged me to study medicine, after my injury.”

“If he hadn’t been injured, he would have gone on to play internationally, is what Enzo always said.”

At the sound of Lizbet Dos Santos’s voice, they both turned. Krysta watched as Roque hugged the older woman, making soothing, nonsense sounds in her ear, which seemed to both please her and bring her close to tears.

“Good of you to come, Roque. I’m sure he would be happy to know you’re here.”

“I will stay for a while, Lizbet. Has he awakened yet, since the operation?”

“Yes, he goes in and out for a few minutes at a time.”

“Which is exactly normal, and how we want it right now,” Krysta interjected.

“She is correct, querida,” Roque said to the other woman. “His pain should be carefully managed.”

Then he insisted on taking Lizbet Dos Santos to get a soda in the cafeteria, leaving Krysta and the nurses to do their checks without her looking on.

It was only later, once more ensconced in the surgeon’s lounge, while trying to catch a nap, that Krysta remembered how Roque had called the other woman querida.

And she couldn’t help wondering if, when Francisco used it, it was simply as a form of friendly affection, rather than anything more.

The thought was so depressing she found herself grinding her teeth, had to force herself to stop. And when she fell into a doze, it was to dream about swimming in an unending pool, which offered her nowhere to turn back.

Or to get out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FRANCISCO KNEW, because of his past career, people viewed him as a playboy, irrespective of the reality of his now rather boring, work-focused life. Yes, there had been some wild times when he was young and traveling with other, far more pleasure-driven people, but at heart he had still remained the same. A man who liked and respected women, almost a traditionalist in the way he felt they should be treated by the men who claimed to love them.

Another thing other people didn’t seem to understand about him was the depth of caution life had taught him. At so many junctures he’d leaped without looking, and the results were invariably poor. Even at as young an age as six, the world had tried to teach him to be careful, to think before he acted. Then it was in the form of the spider lurking behind some scraps of wood and metal. His father had told him, repeatedly, to be careful there, but he hadn’t bothered to listen. His reward for ignoring Papa’s words was a spider bite that brought with it a great deal of pain.

All these things, he knew, had contributed to his not kissing Krysta the night before, when he’d had the chance, but he’d spent all his waking moments since regretting his decision.

Suppose his hesitation caused her to change her mind?

Yet he knew, without a doubt, there was something brewing between them. Something rare and lovely he wanted, oh so desperately, to explore.

This was all new territory to him, but he was determined to make the most of the situation, whatever it turned out to be.

“Are you all right?” Flávia’s curt question brought him out of his stupor, and he zoned back in to find her eyeing him curiously. “You look a million miles away.”

“Yes,” he replied, bringing himself back to their conversation. “When do you think you’ll be able to show us around the sanctuary, then?”

She gave a casual shrug, and continued packing her kit. “I’m not entirely sure at the moment. It depends on a few things,” she replied, once more sending him a curious glance. “I could arrange for someone else to give you the tour, if you like.”

“No,” he said. “I think you should do it. Krysta knows and admires you, and she’s particularly interested in your research. It can wait.”

Flávia smiled, and was still smiling slightly when he left to return to the hospital.

He didn’t know when the idea had come to him, but he was glad it had. Krysta had said she didn’t make friends easily, yet he’d seen how confident and relaxed she was around others. Perhaps all she needed was to spend more time with people who, like Flávia, seemed particularly to like being around her? Sometimes, when you are used to things being a certain way, it took time and effort to realize they didn’t have to remain the same.

He could totally understand where Krysta had learned to rely only on herself, and her own company. She had only been fourteen when she went to college! When Francisco remembered what he’d been like at that age, he could hardly fathom what she must have experienced. The emotional difference between a fourteen-year-old, no matter how academically brilliant, and the average university student must have been night and day.

Even when he started modeling, he’d been chaperoned by Caro, and so had been somewhat protected. Krysta, although still living with her parents then, would have had to navigate the new world she’d been dropped into on her own.

That was no longer the case, though. She was a well-respected surgeon, a rising star and, most of all, a strong, confident woman. There was no need to hold on to the old phobias and habits. Of course, it was ultimately up to her to realize that, and break out of her shell, but Francisco had no issue with trying to help her along.

It was well-known that Flávia also had the reputation of being rather solitary. She and Krysta may yet turn out to be kindred spirits.

When he’d approached Flávia, he’d seen the wariness in her eyes, and wondered if he was the cause. He was well aware of some of the things said about him at the hospital, and knew his past was the topic of both conversation and speculation. Fighting to put it all behind him, telling himself it didn’t matter, and that only his work was important, hadn’t taken away the sting.

The shame.

By the end of the conversation with Flávia, he’d realized her reaction probably had nothing to do with him, that he was probably projecting his own neuroses onto her. It had given him pause, made him consider what the situation with Mari had done to his life, despite it being so far in the past.

Yes, there would always be people, like Delgado, who would, without knowing the real story, be prejudiced against him, but he could no longer use that as an excuse to isolate himself. The people who knew him best, his family and oldest friends, knew the stories put out about him were lies, but if he hoped to make new friends, he would have to trust again.

The initial idea to arrange a visit to the sanctuary had started out as a way for Krysta to face one of her fears, but now Francisco wondered if it weren’t as important for him to face his, too.