Forbidden To The Playboy Surgeon. Fiona Lowe

cleared her throat. ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way but...’

      Trying to look utterly unaffected by her, he cocked one brow and reminded himself of all the times she’d been critical of him. ‘My sensibilities haven’t stopped you from giving me your opinion before.’

      This time she definitely blushed, but somehow she managed to wrestle her embarrassment under control with dignity. ‘True, but that was work. This doesn’t exactly fall into that category. Although I suppose it does technically if you—’

      ‘You’re babbling,’ he said, hoping it would force her to focus. At the same time, he had an absurd and unexpected need to rescue her from herself.

      Her head jerked up so fast he was worried her neck might snap but then she hit him with a gimlet stare. He forced himself not to squirm as an unsettling feeling trickled through him. Did she see straight through the man he liked to show the world? Had she glimpsed the corner edge of the bubbling mess he kept securely sealed away?

      ‘As the head of the department of neurosurgery,’ she said tightly, ‘I think it’s important you lead by example and attend the Spring Fling.’

      The Spring Fling? Surely he’d misheard. ‘You mean the neurosurgery spring symposium?’

      She shook her head and once again the blush bloomed on her cheeks. She swallowed and that damn tongue of hers darted out to moisten her lips. This time as the zip of heat hit him, he pushed off the bench to try and shake it off.

      ‘I mean the fundraising ball,’ she said slowly, as if the words were being reluctantly pulled out of her.

      He couldn’t resist. ‘Are you inviting me to the ball?’

      Her eyes widened in consternation. ‘No!’ For a moment, indignation spun around her before fading with a sigh and a fall of her shoulders. ‘I mean perhaps. Yes. In a manner of speaking.’

      His mouth twitched. ‘It’s good to know you’re so decisive.’

      Her chin shot up, jabbing the air. ‘You can tease me all you like, Mr—Alistair, but you know as well as I do that at the bare minimum there should be a neurosurgery staff table at the ball.’

      Damn it to hell. She was absolutely right but how had she found out he wasn’t going? He’d been keeping that bit of information to himself, more out of embarrassment than anything else. A couple of months ago, just before Claire had arrived, he’d had a particularly tough day. He’d lost a patient—a two-year-old boy with a brainstem glioma—and for some reason he’d avoided the sympathetic eyes of his staff at the Frog and Peach. He’d hit a trendy bar in Soho instead, and in retrospect, he’d consumed one whisky too many.

      It had been enough to scramble his usually accurate crazy woman detector. As a result, he’d allowed himself to be tempted by the Amazonian features of Lela. The thirty-year-old was a fitness instructor as well as being a part-time security guard. They’d had a lot of fun together until he’d realised her possessive streak wasn’t limited to bedroom games.

      He knew the ball committee had flagged the idea of auctioning off the chairs next to eligible bachelors. Usually he’d have been fine with the concept and embraced it, but he’d been worried Lela might turn up and cause a nasty public spectacle. Or worse, buy the ticket. To save himself, and the hospital, embarrassment he’d decided not to attend the ball but to make a sizeable donation to the cause instead. The only person he’d mentioned this plan to was Dominic.

      Stupid, stupid, stupid! The paediatric trauma surgeon had obviously broken the bro code and told Victoria. What was it about a man in love that made him prepared to throw his friend under the bus just to stay in sweet with his lady? Now the i-dotting and t-crossing Claire Mitchell was calling him out on a perceived lack of social etiquette.

      He ploughed his hand through his hair. He’d been raised on etiquette, and the irony that an Australian, with their supposedly classless society, was reminding him of his social responsibilities almost made him laugh. Perhaps he could turn this whole Lela-and-the-ball mess around and use it to his advantage.

      ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said with a lazy smile. ‘You’re prepared to spend an evening with me just to make sure I do the right thing?’

      This time she was the one to raise an eyebrow. ‘As your second-in-command, I can’t expect you to attend the ball if I’m not prepared to attend.’

      ‘Ah, yes, that sucker duty gets you every time.’

      She stiffened. ‘But it seems you’re often immune.’

      Ouch. Her words tried to scratch him like the sharp tip of a knife, but he didn’t need to justify himself to her. He was very well aware of his duty. Ironically, duty had arrived in a rush just after he’d vowed to make the most of every new day that had been gifted to him. It was the juxtaposition of his life.

      ‘None of us are immune, Claire. It’s just I try to have a bit of fun too.’

      She narrowed her eyes. ‘And you’re inferring that I don’t have fun?’

      Not that I’ve seen. ‘Have you had any fun since arriving in London?’

      She looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘I...um...yes. Of course.’

      Liar. But he was planning on having some fun with her right now and killing two birds with one stone. ‘Excellent. I can certainly promise you fun at the ball. Especially considering how you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty and bought the seat next to me.’

      ‘What?’ She paled, her expression momentarily aghast, and then she rallied. ‘I don’t get paid enough for that.’

      ‘Brutal.’ He exaggeratedly slapped his chest in the general area of his heart, his long fingers grazing the lower edge of his pacemaker. ‘And here I was thinking I was your date. I tell you what. I’ll pay for both of our tickets.’

      ‘That won’t be necess—’

      ‘It’s the least I can do,’ he interrupted, waving away her protest. ‘I imagine it was Victoria who dropped you right in it.’

      She grimaced. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

      He made a huffing sound more at the absent Dominic than her. ‘The good thing is you’ll be saving me from having to play nice all evening.’

      Effrontery streaked across her face. ‘Well, when you put it like that, I can hardly wait,’ she said drily.

      Her sarcasm was unexpected and delightfully refreshing and he heard himself laugh. He wasn’t used to a woman viewing an evening with him as a trial. The women he dated erred on the appreciative side and often went to great lengths to make him happy. Not Claire Mitchell.

      A streak of anticipation shot through him. Without realising it, she’d just thrown down a challenge. He wasn’t totally convinced she was even capable of having fun and he had a sudden urge to know what she looked like when she was in the midst of a good time.

      She’d smile like she did when you let her operate solo. Remember how you felt then?

      He disregarded the warning that it was probably unwise to be looking forward to the ball quite this much.

      ‘So will you be picking me—’ His phone rang with the ICU ringtone, and as he pulled it from his pocket, Claire’s pager beeped.

      ‘North,’ he said, answering the call just as Claire mouthed to him, ‘ICU?’

      Listening to the nurse on the other end of the line, he nodded at Claire and opened the treatment room door. As she walked quickly past him, her crisp scent of the sea drifted back to him and he was suddenly back on Bondi Beach when his life had been simpler and there had been few restraints placed upon it.

      ‘We’re on our way,’ he told the worried nurse. Stepping out into the corridor, he followed Claire down the fire escape, taking the fastest way to ICU.