Midwives On Call: Stealing The Surgeon's Heart. Marion Lennox

very large glass of wine,’ Ciro responded, smiling, but something in his voice told her she’d crossed a line, that that subject was closed, and he confirmed it when, without pausing for breath, he headed back inside. ‘I’ll go and get your case.’

      Oh, hell!

      Groaning with mortification, Harriet waited for her front door to close safely before she headed back inside, her eyes barely registering her new surroundings. Instead, she sat down on a navy leather sofa and buried her burning cheeks in her hands.

      ’What happened?’ Harriet mimicked her own voice a couple of times, wincing as she did so. What did it matter to her what had happened in Ciro’s past? What business was it of hers to ask him about his relationships? It must have sounded as if she fancied him or something.

      Which was ridiculous.

      Ridiculous, Harriet affirmed. She had just been making conversation. As if she was even remotely interested in a relationship at the moment. Her marriage had only just ended, she’d just had surgery, she was here to recuperate, to get over the hellish past few days and gather her strength for the undoubted battles that lay ahead. So what if Ciro was good-looking, so what if he’d been kind, so what if he was the only person on earth who she’d trusted with her predicament…?

      ‘Are you OK?’ Depositing her suitcase on the lounge floor, he made his way straight over to her, clearly mistaking her hunched position on the sofa and groans as some kind of relapse. ‘What happened?’

      ‘Nothing,’ Harriet started, then decided that surely she could be excused a tiny white lie. ‘Actually, I just came over a bit dizzy. I’ll be fine in a moment.’

      ‘Bed!’ Ciro declared, guiding her up by the elbow and practically frogmarching her towards the bedroom. Under any other circumstances it would have been a dream come true! ‘No arguments!’

      He didn’t get one.

      Mute, she stood there as he pulled the wooden slats on the divine view then proceeded to pull back starched white sheets. Her lies caught up with her as she truly did start to feel dizzy, only it had nothing to do with standing up too quickly and everything to do with the man guiding her by the elbow to the bedside and gently lifting her legs onto the bed.

      ‘Bed for me, too,’ Ciro said. ‘I’ve done my penance on nights.’

      ‘I like nights,’ Harriet admitted.

      ‘Me, too. Especially when you start in a new job. It forces you to find out where things are and how the system works. Right…’ He’d tucked her in firmly, the sheet well past her neck. ‘If you need anything…’

      ‘I won’t.’ Harriet shook her head, determined to redeem herself, to show she wanted nothing more from him than a courteous professional relationship and a friendly nod of greeting if they met on the stairs.

      But it was Ciro lingering now, Ciro prolonging the conversation.

      ‘How long till you go back to work?’

      ‘They gave me two weeks.’

      ‘Well, use it wisely.’

      She nodded, holding her breath, wishing he would go, yet somehow wanting him to stay a bit longer. He was just so easy to talk to, his smile, his demeanour so very disarming, Ciro Delgato did without trying something no man had ever done before. His mere presence soothed her, yet simultaneously excited her. She had a need to get to know him deeper, to find out what had brought him here, how long he was staying. But it was none of her business, Harriet reminded herself firmly. He had done her a huge favour in finding her this divine apartment—the last thing he needed in return was a nosy neighbour with a king-sized crush.

      The internal admission shocked her, and as she lay stock-still her mind whirred.

      It was a crush—a stupid crush—and all because he had helped her at her very worst, made her laugh when she should have cried, taken the pressure off the practicalities of finding somewhere to live and dealing with inquisitive colleagues.

      ‘You have to take things easy.’ Ciro’s voice was insistent. ‘Not so long ago people stayed in hospital for a full week after having their appendix removed. I really don’t like the thought of you having no one to take care of you.’

      ‘Ciro, I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m fine by myself.’

      ‘That sounds like the title of a song.’

      ‘It’s just how I feel.’ Harriet shrugged. ‘I really would prefer to be on my own right now. Mum and my friends all mean well, but I’m just—’

      ‘Fair enough,’ he broke in softly. ‘Can I drop by and check on you? I won’t impose,’ he added quickly before she could shake her head. ‘I’d just feel better if I saw that you were OK.’

      Which was OK to agree to, Harriet decided. After all, she’d do the same for a neighbour. Giving a small nod, she closed her eyes, fully expecting to hear the bedroom door close, to be left alone with her jumbled thoughts. But he stayed.

      ‘When you’re up to it…’

      Her eyes opened to his voice. She turned her head on the pillow to face him, and even though the light was dim it accentuated somehow how tired he must be, the hollows of his cheekbones deepened, that five a.m. shadow that was positively charcoal now. ‘We’ll have that talk.’

      ‘Talk?’ Harriet croaked, grateful that he had closed the slats and couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, anticipation flaring in every heightened nerve, simultaneously berating herself at her own presumption.

      ‘Over that large glass of wine. I’d like to get to know you better, Harriet.’ She didn’t answer, couldn’t. Her eyes wide, she blinked at him, though his expression was impossible to read in the semi-darkness. ‘Rest now,’ he said, his voice thick and heavily accented, the door closing softly behind him.

      In the days that followed Harriet truly wasn’t sure if she’d dreamt the last part of the conversation, if her drugand anaesthetic-hazed mind had somehow played tricks on her, because surely there hadn’t been that hint of promise throbbing in the air, surely someone as utterly divine, as accomplished and confident as Ciro Delgato couldn’t possibly want to get to know someone as plain, unsure and downright mixed up as Harriet Farrell.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘CIRO!’

      Harriet’s smile was wide as she pulled open her front door to see him standing there, holding a large brown paper bag. Berating the fact that she didn’t have her robe ready to pull on in case there was a knock at the door and a certain doctor decided to check how she was doing, she’d had to settle for pulling on a pair of shorts and praying that the two triangles of her bikini top kept at least the essential bits covered.

      For the last few days Ciro had been playing the part of the dutiful neighbour and doctor to perfection, dropping in each evening to check on her progress, telling her off when, bright red, she’d answered the door having clearly fallen asleep in the sun. As boring as it must have been for Ciro, his visits were fast becoming the highlight of Harriet’s day! Late springtime at Coogee Beach was arguably the best place in the world for some serious recuperation of the soul, but there was only so much introspection Harriet could stomach, and any diversion, especially one as stunning as Ciro, was rather gratefully received.

      ‘I wasn’t sure if you were home.’ Ciro gestured to the dark flat. ‘I thought you might need these.’

      The open door was clearly enough of an invitation for Ciro and he walked in. Harriet flicked on the light, watching open-mouthed as he proceeded to empty the bag.

      ‘Red wine, chocolate, a very slushy DVD.’ He held it up for her inspection and then carried on depositing his wares over the bench. ‘More chocolate and a box of tissues.’ He gave a triumphant