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

me on my mobile…’ Finally he answered the call and Harriet feigned disinterest, looked anywhere but at Ciro as he spoke curtly into the telephone, letting the poor unfortunate on the other end know exactly what he thought of their early morning greeting.

      ‘My sister!’ Replacing the phone in its cradle, Ciro turned his palms skywards. ‘She still hasn’t worked out the time difference between Spain and Australia. Now, where were we?’

      ‘I was about to have a bath,’ Harriet answered, more brightly than she felt. Something about the telephone call had unsettled her, yet she couldn’t quite place what. But there wasn’t time to dwell on it as Ciro halted her progress as she attempted to stand.

      ‘Not so fast. I need to have a look at you first. Is your stomach still hurting?’

      ‘A bit,’ Harriet admitted. ‘But I don’t think it’s anything serious. I could feel my incision pulling when I was running and while I was doing the massage. I’m sure I just did too much.’

      ‘What about your knee?’ he asked, gently probing the bruised, cut flesh as Harriet frowned down at him.

      ‘Why do you talk to your sister in English?’ She watched as his fingers stilled momentarily, an almost imperceptible pause before he carried on examining her, his answer when it came vague and dismissive.

      ‘I forget where I am sometimes.’

      His touch on her skin was almost more than she could bear and it had nothing to do with her injuries and everything to do with his utter tenderness. In an attempt at self-preservation, she jerked her knee away.

      ‘It’s a tiny cut, Ciro, nothing to make a fuss about!’

      ‘OK.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘You really are a terrible patient, you know.’

      ‘Because I hate being one,’ Harriet mumbled. ‘Can I just have my bath, please?’

      ‘When I’ve seen your stomach.’ Ciro was insistent. ‘If you’ve torn anything, the last thing you need is to step into a hot bath.’

      It made sense, enough sense for Harriet to lie back on the sofa, enough sense to let him lift her legs up. She wriggled her body straight, tried to keep her breathing even as for the second time Ciro’s hands probed her stomach. Only this time she wasn’t concentrating on holding her stomach in, she’d have settled for keeping her breathing even. His hands probed her tender flesh as she stared fixedly at the ceiling.

      ‘Your shorts.’ Ciro’s voice was even, his fingers fiddling with the tiny silver catch, but Harriet pushed them away, dealing with the fastening herself and wiggling her hips as best she could, moving the damp, unyielding garment down an inch so he could see her wound.

      ‘Harriet, I need to examine your stomach properly.’

      She had known it wasn’t enough, had known that he needed her shorts to be properly loosened to adequately examine her scar, and she held her breath as his fingers moved the zipper down an inch, that tiny distance enough to allow for a proper examination of her abdomen. If Ciro had thought about it, he’d probably have realised that she wouldn’t be wearing knickers. If he’d actually stopped to think, Ciro would have realised that when he’d knocked on her door an hour or so earlier and told her a kid was drowning, rummaging through her drawers for a pair of undies would have been the last thing on her mind. But clearly, from his reaction, from the loaded, charged atmosphere, he hadn’t thought. Harriet felt it as if it was physical—the tiny beat of hesitation as the zipper opened, as his eyes took in that first glimpse of her golden curls, and the mood that was highly charged suddenly shifted to electric. If he’d been a doctor before, he wasn’t now.

      Her eyes dragged the length of his naked torso, taking in the same body she’d worked alongside for the last hour, but it was as if she was seeing it for the first time. The smattering of dark hair fanning his chest, so exquisitely masculine, snaking down his flat, toned stomach, down, ever down to the dark silky boxers, the hemline straining against his muscular thighs, tiny coils of hairs on his legs that she ached to reach out and feel, dizzy now, not with exhaustion or expended emotion but with sheer unadulterated lust.

      And Ciro felt the shift, too, she knew that, knew that from the slight tremor in his hand, the tension in his throat as he swallowed.

      ‘Does it hurt?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Here?’ His voice was thick with lust but at least he could speak.

      The answer strangled in her throat. Instead, she shook her head against the cushion, not staring up at the ceiling as she had the last time he’d examined her but staring brazenly into his eyes, not willing this moment over but shamefully wishing it would never end. She could see the lust blazing in his eyes, feel the heat of his palm on her stomach, the coolness as he took it away.

      ‘Harriet?’

      She heard the question in his voice, knew that even at this late stage he was somehow trying to protect her from herself. He took her hand and led her to the bathroom and she knew that he wouldn’t be leaving her alone. It had always been excruciating, undressing in front of a man, but Ciro dealt with that, undressing her himself with such utter reverence, his eyes adoring her as he slipped her shorts over her bottom, sliding them down her legs. She lifted her arms as docile as a sleepy child as he tugged off her T-shirt, the approval in his eyes as the temporary darkness lifted making her feel truly beautiful.

      ‘It will feel hot.’ Guiding her into the bath, he spoke softly to her. ‘But that is just because you are cold. The water is just warm…’

      ‘You’re cold, too,’ Harriet whispered, wincing when the biting water flamed her frozen flesh as she lowered her body into the stinging yet inviting heat. ‘Why don’t you—?’

      ‘Let me look after you, Harriet.’

      Dipping a sponge into the water, he squeezed it around her neck, rivers of warmth running down her spine. He moved the sponge along her frozen arms in slow, ever-decreasing circles of warmth, even massaging her hands, taking each finger in turn, instilling warmth where there had been none.

      ‘Your knee.’ He squeezed the sponge again and she gave a tiny wince at the sting of the soapy water, but the pain was short-lived. Ciro guided the sponge length-ways now, his hand disappearing beneath the surface of the water and massaging her aching calves. And there was no rush, none at all, each feather-light stroke relaxing her more, yet moving her further into giddy submission. Sponge forgotten, he soaped his hands, his eyes adoring her. Strong fingers massaged the knots of tension from her shoulders, but as his hands moved lower everything changed. To that point it had been tender, blissfully sensual perhaps but loosely within the bounds of decency, but as he took the weight of her heavy, soapy breasts, she felt her throat constrict with desire, closed her eyes to the ecstasy of skilful fingers as they finally crossed that delicious line, his lips moving downwards in deep, throaty kisses along her neck, stealthily moving downwards with such slow, teasing precision Harriet could feed a needy moan welling in her throat, wanting, needing, desperate to feel his mouth around her nipples.

      He obliged, taking the ripe, swollen delicacy in his mouth, his teeth gently nibbling her areola, the fizz of arousal coursing through her breasts. She wanted so badly to focus on the bliss but his hand was working up her legs. Tiny gasps of approval escaped her lips but her body was saying otherwise. Her thighs closed around the hand that was slowly inching upwards, stalling his decadent progress. Her hand captured his strong forearm in a vague attempt to push him away, scared almost to give in, unable to comprehend that this could be enough for him, that surely she must reciprocate, but a low throaty murmur dictated his pleasure, his mouth still working her breast but his hand hovering, stroking, softly stroking her thigh, patiently awaiting her total consent. Harriet gave in to him then, gave herself in a way she never had before, stopped trying to fight for control and willingly let him have it.

      Completely.

      Her legs wilfully parted, giving in to the delicious sensations he so skilfully inflicted, her neck arching, this slow delicious torture almost more than