200 Harley Street: The Tortured Hero. Amy Andrews

into the room. Heat flared in her belly as she remembered the way he used to look at her—all intensity and wicked, wicked purpose.

      Before he broke her heart.

      She was thankful for the thick wool of her coat hiding nipples suddenly taking on a mind of their own.

      She didn’t have time for recalcitrant nipples.

      They were two professionals, working together for the good of a patient. Yes, they had history, but if they kept things collegial, if they kept their focus on Ama, they’d be fine.

      She was here to do a job and then get the hell out of Dodge.

      She’d been burned by this man before. And fire had already claimed too much of what she’d loved.

      Olivia sat, glancing briefly around at Leo’s office. It didn’t appear to have changed much since the days when it had belonged to his father. All dark and masculine—a stark contrast to the bright modern white outside.

      Her gaze returned to Ethan and for long moments they just looked at each other. His lids were half shuttered; his gaze was totally guarded. He looked so … distant and she shivered.

      He picked up the nearby whisky decanter and splashed some into a glass, silently asking her with a raising of his eyebrow if she wanted any. She shook her head, surprised to see him drinking, knowing how much he’d despised his father for his weakness where the amber liquid was concerned.

      Keep it professional, Liv.

      ‘You’ve changed,’ she blurted out.

      And it was nothing to do with the drinking. Ethan’s eyes were the same deep brown as hers, but he had those amazing golden flecks in them that used to glow with fire and passion. He’d been so angry back then that they’d flashed and flared all the time as he’d struggled with his demons—his father’s alcoholism, his mother’s death and what he’d perceived as his brother’s molly-coddling.

      But she’d also seen them glow and flash at other times too. At work when he was totally absorbed in a surgery. And in bed …

      There was no glow tonight. Just a dull glimpse of what had been. It was as if it had been snuffed out. Suffocated.

      What had happened to turn those gorgeous flashing eyes so damn bleak? And his perfect chiselled face so damn gaunt? His severe haircut didn’t help. Nor did the weary lines around his eyes. Not to mention that he needed a shave. His shaggy regrowth looked more salt than pepper at the grand old age of thirty-five.

      Was he suffering some kind of PTSD from being blown half to hell during his last tour?

      ‘You haven’t,’ he said, interrupting her reverie.

      It was Olivia’s turned to snort. ‘Yes, I have.’

      She’d been through more than her fair share of heartbreak these past ten years, and although she’d come through it stronger it had changed her utterly.

      Ethan paused slightly, then acknowledged the truth of it with a nod. She was right. She was more reserved, less carefree. Her gaze was not as open, was more … distant.

      Had that been his unforgivable actions or just getting older? Life in general?

      Or had something else caused the coolness in her eyes?

      ‘I just don’t need to resort to whisky to prove it.’

      Ethan felt the accusation hit him in the chest with all the power of a sledgehammer.

      He threw back the contents of the glass and slammed it down on the desktop. ‘It’s been a long day, Olivia,’ he said, his jaw so tight it felt as if it was going to crumble from the pressure. ‘Surgery is over and I’m off duty. A few glasses of Scotland’s best isn’t going to hurt.’

      Olivia had never been one to beat around the bush and she wasn’t about to start now. Clearly something was eating at Ethan—something had snuffed out the light. And, whilst she might not know what it was, she sure as hell knew whisky wasn’t the answer.

      ‘I’m sure that’s exactly how your father started out.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      ETHAN’S HEART POUNDED a furious tattoo in his chest. Having his father shoved in his face was always a red rag to a bull, but pure overproof rage surged through his system at her matter-of-fact taunt. If anyone knew the location of his soft underbelly it was Olivia. And she’d never been afraid to call him on his crap.

      It was the Australian way, she’d assured him all those years ago.

      He gripped the edge of the desk and lurched to his feet, too angry even to register the limp protest of gelatinous muscles. ‘Go to hell, Olivia,’ he snapped.

      Her words stung. They stung hard. Because they’d found their mark so accurately. After he’d been discharged from the hospital in Germany and returned to the UK to recuperate from his injuries he had drunk way too much.

      Trying to block out the pain and the dreams and the guilt.

      Leo’s email had saved him. The offer to come back to the clinic and head up its humanitarian programme had been just the right bait to wave in front of him and he’d reached for it like a drowning man, knowing that he was treading the same slippery slope his father had trod before he’d slipped away altogether.

      But he wasn’t that guy any more. And it infuriated him to be pigeonholed after a few minutes’ reacquaintance.

      She had no freaking idea what he’d been through.

      Olivia stood too, refusing to have him standing over her, trying to intimidate her with his height and breadth and sheer masculine presence—which he still had in spades despite his more mature looks.

      So, she’d annoyed him—good!

      Maybe it would make him realise that sitting alone in an office at nine o’clock at night with a decanter full of whisky wasn’t the answer to whatever was eating him.

      ‘I’ll follow you down, shall I?’ she enquired calmly.

      Ethan pressed his closed fists into the hard wood of the desktop and prayed for patience. He didn’t need her judgement—he could do that plenty on his own.

      ‘I think you can bring me up to speed in the morning,’ he said through clenched teeth. He was too tired for this crap. ‘I’m going home. See yourself out.’

      At least going home was his plan, but by the time he’d taken a few paces the adrenaline from his surge of anger had worn off and the message from his quad muscles that they were too fatigued to hold him upright had finally broken through the righteous indignation swamping his brain.

      His legs buckled.

      Olivia leapt forward in alarm as Ethan wobbled and then toppled sideways, reaching out for the desk wildly in an attempt to stop himself from falling on his butt. She grabbed hold of his arm and between her and the desk they saved him from being a rather inelegant crumpled heap on the expensive Turkish rug.

      ‘What the hell, Ethan?’ she said as he leaned heavily against her, struggling for balance. ‘How much have you had to drink?’ she asked.

      Ethan sucked air in and out between his teeth as his muscles protested. ‘Not the booze,’ he choked out, one hand reaching for a screaming thigh muscle. ‘It’s my damn legs.’

      Olivia believed him. He definitely wasn’t drunk. His words weren’t slurred and he didn’t stink of alcohol. In fact, with her nose damn near the vicinity of his throat, she could say for sure that he smelled the way he always had—of utter hedonism. Total crack for the olfactory system. It swamped over her now in a sweet pheromone cloud, and her body responded accordingly.

      Honestly, the man was waging chemical warfare on her