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

To face them, and get past them.

Making his way into the hospital, he checked his watch. Usually about now Krysta would message him, asking if they were meeting for lunch, but his stomach dropped when the screen was blank.

Had he scared her away last night?

Then his phone vibrated, and he unlocked the screen.

Just checking on Enzo Dos Santos, then I’m free for lunch, if you are.

I was just on my way to look in on him myself. Meet you there.

Not entirely true. He’d planned to make a visit to the patient after lunch, but the opportunity to see her sooner was too good to pass up.

In the ICU, where the patient had been transferred, he saw Roque Cardoza coming out of Senhor Dos Santos’s cubicle. It wasn’t surprising he would be visiting the patient, since everyone knew Roque had once played on the famous team.

“Oi,” Roque said in greeting as they drew abreast of each other. “Enzo seems to be doing very well. Even Dr. Simpson seems happy with his progress so far.”

“That is good news indeed,” he said. Especially since Enzo Dos Santos’s speedy recovery would mean Francisco could get Krysta to himself sooner.

“Funny to see Enzo unable to speak,” Roque commented with a wry smile. “But he’s already scribbling away on the tablet they gave him, and once he’s talking again, the nurses may wish to have the trach reinserted.”

Feeling more relaxed than he could remember being in a while, Francisco chuckled, then said, “I should go and take a look for myself, while he’s already being examined.”

Roque glanced at his watch. “Care to lunch with me? Or have you already eaten?”

“Sorry, I have a previous engagement. Perhaps another time?”

“Of course. Tchau.”

Echoing Roque’s farewell, Francisco hurried into the cubicle. Krysta was just finishing her examination, handing the nurse the handheld radar machine she’d used to check the vascular flow in the surgical site.

“It looks very good,” she said to Enzo Dos Santos, with a look over at his wife, too. “There is less drainage than might be expected, and the swelling is already decreasing nicely. Take a look, Dr. Carvalho.”

Francisco performed his own examination, after looking at the chart and readings, and he had to admit the patient was progressing well.

As they made their way to the elevators, Krysta sighed happily. “His recovery so far is going really well. If he continues at this rate, we might be able to remove the trach and nasogastric tube sooner than I thought.”

“It helps that he was in good health otherwise, prior to discovering the cancer.”

“Very true,” she agreed as the car arrived with its customary soft chime. As they stepped in together, and Francisco pressed the ground-floor button, she continued. “And his attitude toward the surgery and expectations of recovery is important, too. I’ve told his wife to watch for any changes in mood or personality, explaining sometimes major surgeries can cause depression, or anger, and she’s promised she will.”

They were alone, facing each other across the elevator car, and suddenly Enzo Dos Santos’s operation and recovery were the farthest things from his mind.

Her eyes were shining, and her lush lips were curved in a delicious smile. The urge to take the two steps necessary to press her against the wall and taste her mouth was almost irresistible.

The smile faded, and her cheeks darkened, until they glowed.

“Francisco.” It was just a whisper. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Or what?” he asked just as they got to their floor, and the conversation was abandoned, although, on his part, anyway, not forgotten.

Her legs were wobbly. It took every ounce of concentration to make them perform to respectable standards and carry her toward the cafeteria when they apparently wanted to fail her completely, leaving her a puddle on the floor at Francisco’s feet.

For a moment, he’d looked as though he wanted to devour her on the spot—his eyes heavy lidded and gleaming, his usually stern mouth suddenly, thrillingly sensual.

How was she going to get through the next few days until they could be alone?

Did she really have to wait?

It was a question she asked herself repeatedly as lunch progressed, and the conversation between them slowed, then faltered to a stop.

Once more she wished she was more experienced, able to interpret what was happening, and how things were progressing—or not—between them. She’d come to the realization that no amount of intelligence helped when it came to emotions.

Especially for someone like her, without any empirical evidence regarding relationships, casual or serious.

Thank goodness this situation with Francisco would never progress to the latter. She’d never be able to sort out all the feelings, or be brave enough to try taking it even one step further, if she thought it would have long-term ramifications.

When he spoke, she was so deep in thought she started with surprise.

“I thought we could go to Ibirapuera Park this evening, if you are free. There is sometimes live music, and it truly is beautiful at night. And...” He hesitated for a moment, making Krysta’s stomach dip and roll, since she didn’t know whether what he planned to say was good or bad. “And I have a day off, the day following your next lecture. If it suits you, perhaps we could visit the beach, near Santos?”

She shouldn’t feel such an intense rush of joy at the thought of going out with him, but excitement, and relief, made her almost light-headed.

“That sounds nice.” Even to her, that response sounded lukewarm, but when she glanced up at him, he was smiling just slightly, that sultry twinkle in his eyes, and she couldn’t resist grinning back.

And somehow, once that was settled, they could go back to their usual selves, comfortable together, or as comfortable as she could be with little zings of eagerness and desire firing through her veins.

After they’d eaten, and he’d told her he would come and collect her at her apartment at six that evening, he went to do rounds, while she hurried back to the ICU to once more check on Enzo. Knowing he’d suffered an infection after his mandibulectomy, she was paying special attention to his temperature and drains, but so far everything looked perfect. Her anxiety about making sure there were no postsurgical complications was beginning to wane, and she knew the surgeons at Paulista’s were competent to handle anything that may arise. Therefore, she felt comfortable telling the nurses she wouldn’t be at the hospital during the evening, and hid her amusement when they seemed discreetly relieved. But, of course, she left strict instructions for her to be called, should an emergency arise.

Forcing herself to go up to the small office she’d been assigned and go over her notes for her next lecture felt like punishment, but she did it, anyway. Of course, thoughts of the night ahead kept trying to intrude and, at about three-thirty, she threw in the towel.

She debated whether to go back to the ICU, but decided against it. There was a fine line between being thorough and hovering so much the patient began to wonder if there wasn’t something wrong. Everything she’d witnessed at the hospital told her Senhor Dos Santos was in good hands.

Walking through the staff entrance, she found herself holding the door open for Amy Woodell, who was coming in.

“We meet again,” she said. “How’re you?”

“Good,” Amy said. “Hanging in there for all I’m worth.”

Krysta chuckled. “Me too. By the skin of my teeth, although with proper brushing I shouldn’t have any such thing.”

Amy laughed with her, then asked, “You’re heading home?”

“Yes, it’s been a long couple of days. I need a break.”

It wasn’t something she could ever remember saying before. Maybe Brazil was changing her even more than she could imagine.

“Ah. The Dos Santos operation.” Amy leaned on the wall, as though settling in for a chat. “The whole hospital has been talking about it. Sounds as though it was a success.”

“Shh, don’t jinx it. But so far, so good.”

“We should get together one evening. Have dinner, or go to the Morumbi shopping center. I hear it’s fabulous.”

“I’d like that,” Krysta said, and found that she meant it. There was a part of her ridiculously touched that the other woman actually wanted to spend time with her. “Call me, and we’ll set it up.”

They spent a few more minutes catching up, with Krysta telling her about the Aparecida trip, and them deciding to wait until Krysta was back from that before embarking on their planned outing.

When they parted company, Krysta made her way outside, and started walking back to the apartment, but there was a thought niggling at the back of her mind, and she found herself stopping on the sidewalk.

What was she going to wear that evening? Despite assuring Dr. Hellman she would try to get out and about when in São Paulo, she hadn’t really taken the promise seriously enough to bring anything even remotely nice.

Not that she really knew, or had even cared before, what would be considered “nice” on her. But tonight she was going out not just with a handsome, intriguing man, but also a man who used to be a model. One who no doubt knew a heck of a lot more about clothing and fashion than she did.

She didn’t want to look too frumpy in comparison.

There was a part of her that wanted to scoff at the notion that she could ever be fashionable. Another part was almost petrified by the thought of displaying her body in any way. For so long she’d hidden behind baggy, unattractive clothing, telling herself she didn’t really care what she looked like, as long as she was achieving at the highest professional level.

Now she had to admit that she did care, that she’d been using her ugly clothes as a shield against being hurt again, and she wanted to get past that painful night.

Perhaps she’d finally gotten to the point where she could, with just a little courage, overcome what had happened to her all those years ago, and begin to truly live again.

However, knowing how to go about it was beyond her talents. Time to find someone who would know better than she did. After all, if a patient needed a coronary angioplasty and a stent, she’d have no problem calling in a cardiologist.

A good doctor knew when to ask for assistance when the issues were outside their purview.

Before she could change her mind, she pulled out her phone and called for a cab.

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