Her Celebrity Surgeon. Kate Hardy

was concerned. Patients took priority in Sophie’s eyes.

      ‘How’s Tom?’ Charlie asked.

      ‘Pretty miserable. And wishing he’d seen a doctor earlier,’ Sophie said wryly.

      ‘Poor bloke. But there was too much necrosis for us to be able to save the foot.’ He looked at Sophie. ‘You didn’t mind me asking Abby if she wanted to watch, did you?’

      ‘No. It’s good experience for her.’ And he had at least said it was on condition Guy could spare his house officer. He wasn’t just expecting everyone to drop everything because the director of surgery said so.

      ‘I noticed you coaching her just then,’ Charlie added.

      Sophie shrugged. ‘Just doing my job.’

      ‘Some surgeons hate dealing with junior doctors.’

      ‘Abby’s keen, bright and fits in well with the team. I’m more than happy to help,’ she said stiffly.

      There had definitely been an undercurrent to her words. What? Was she saying she didn’t think he fitted in with the team? Charlie sighed inwardly. He hadn’t been there long enough to know if he’d fit in or not. But Sophie wasn’t even giving him a chance. He’d been drawn to her when he’d overheard her coaching Abby—the encouragement in her voice, the smile on her face, those beautiful brown eyes lively as she’d talked about the operation. He hadn’t been able to stop himself joining in.

      And she’d frozen on him completely.

      Until that moment he’d had no idea how cold brown eyes could be.

      But he’d never met her before yesterday. He was sure of that: Sophie Harrison was definitely a woman he’d remember. So it couldn’t be anything he’d done personally to upset her.

      It had to be the baron thing.

      OK. He’d deal with it. After the operation he’d pull rank, take her for a coffee and straighten things out between them.

      For professional reasons, of course. He wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with somebody he worked with. Unlike his younger brother, he didn’t mix work and play. Even though Sophie Harrison pressed all his buttons. Long blonde hair she kept caught back from her face with a clip in a way that made him want to remove it and run his fingers through it. Deep brown eyes he could drown in. And a perfect Cupid’s-bow mouth that made him want to cup her face in his hands and kiss her.

      And if he did it, he had the feeling she’d break both his legs.

      Professionally, they might be able to work together. Socially, no chance. So he wasn’t even going to go there.

      ‘I’ll see you in Theatre, then,’ he said.

      ‘Sure.’

      Was it his imagination, or was there relief on her face—relief that he hadn’t suggested having lunch together? Suppressing the sting of hurt, he walked away. It wasn’t personal. He needed to find some middle ground, some way for them to work together. It’d take time. He just had to accept that and live with her suppressed hostility in the meantime.

      Sophie’s spine tingled as she walked into the changing rooms. It was the adrenalin rush she always had before an operation, the one that kept her on the top of her game. When she’d worked with Guy, he’d always said that the day she stopped being nervous before an operation was the day she should hang up her scrubs—because you should never, ever take anything for granted in surgery. Even apparently routine jobs could suddenly change, develop an unexpected complication.

      She changed quickly, tucked her hair into a cap, put her mask on and went to scrub up. Charlie was already there—clearly he’d already done his nails and the initial wash because he was scrubbing his hands and forearms. Nice forearms, she thought absently. Strong. Nice hands, too, strong and capable. For one shocking moment she actually wondered what they’d feel like on her skin.

      Then she shook herself. It wasn’t going to happen. She’d sworn that his type would never touch her again.

      Once they’d finished scrubbing up and were gowned, gloved and masked, they went into the operating theatre. Tom had had the choice of a spinal block or general anaesthetic—he’d opted for a general. It carried more risks than a spinal, but she could understand that he didn’t want to know what was going on. How could you just lie there as a surgeon removed your foot and half your lower leg? Even though you wouldn’t be able to feel it and the anaesthetic meant you wouldn’t be able to move anyway, you’d know exactly what was happening. You’d hear everything.

      And it would be unbearable.

      ‘Poor man. He’s got a tough time ahead of him,’ she said.

      ‘What’s going to happen after the operation?’ Abby asked.

      ‘We’ll check his bandages aren’t too tight after about eight hours, then remove the drains a bit later without disturbing the dressings. In a couple of days he’ll start gentle physiotherapy to make sure there are no contractures at the hip or knee joints. And we need to get in touch with the limb-fitting and rehab departments as soon as possible,’ Sophie explained.

      ‘Over to you, Dr Harrison,’ Charlie said quietly.

      Sophie checked that the anaesthetists were happy to proceed. ‘OK, Abby, I’ll talk you through what we’re going to do. In the old days they used to just slice off the limb and leave it to heal—it reduced the risk of gas gangrene or tetanus, but it was hopeless trying to fit a prosthesis to the limb.’

      Charlie would be the best one to explain about the skin flap. But what did she call him? Mr Radley? She wasn’t up on Debrett’s, so she didn’t know what you were supposed to call a baron, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be ‘Mr’. Did she copy his formality or strike a blow for the common people and call him ‘Charlie’?

      In the end, she went for a cop-out. ‘Our director of surgery will explain about the skin flaps.’

      Then she made the mistake of glancing up. All she could see were his eyes above his surgical mask. Gorgeous slate-blue eyes. Sexy slate-blue eyes. But there was also a glint of amusement there. Was he laughing at her?

      Just like his type had laughed at her before. She lifted her chin. ‘Problem, Radley?’

      ‘No, Harrison.’

      He was definitely laughing at her, and Sophie scowled as she made the first incision.

      ‘Abby, the blood supply to the tissues of the lower leg is better at the front than at the back, so what I’m going to do is something called a “skew flap”. It’s a long posterior flap of muscle, with equal skin flaps. Harrison’s going to cut about twelve centimetres below the tibial tuberosity, so it preserves the patient’s knee joint and makes rehabilitation easier.’

      He was following her lead and referring to her by her surname. Fine. She could cope with that. It felt rude—insulting, almost—but, then again, she’d started it.

      ‘We’ll have the drains out in the first couple of days and the sutures out in ten days to two weeks,’ Sophie added. ‘But he’ll be on the ward for two or three weeks.’

      Then it was the bit she hated: cutting the bone. Even after all her years of experience she still hated the sound of bone being sawn through. But she concentrated on what she was doing, talking Abby through it.

      When Charlie took over to deal with the skin flap, she noticed how deft and capable his hands were. Whatever her issues were with him as a person, she respected the way he worked. And she liked the way he treated the scrub nurses—with courtesy, rather than shouting at them or giving curt, dismissive orders.

      Maybe, just maybe, she’d got him wrong. Maybe he wasn’t like all the other toffs she’d met at med school.

      Or maybe he was. Maybe this was just a smokescreen. All charm, to hide what he was really like underneath. How could she trust him? How could she trust anyone