The Spanish Doctor's Convenient Bride. Meredith Webber

your initial assessment—that is what you’re saying?’

      Marty nodded, feeling sorry now for Emmaline who had this disagreeable man for a father.

      ‘And the man said she was pregnant when she returned to him?’

      ‘I don’t know about “returned”. He said she was already pregnant when she came and that’s all he’d say.’

      ‘Oh, she returned, for sure,’ Carlos told her, enough ice in his voice to make Marty shiver.

      There was a long silence, then he added, ‘So this Emmaline, she is mine!’

      He ground out the words with such evident regret—distaste almost—Marty let fly.

      ‘You make it sound as if she’s an albatross hung around your neck by some malign fate. She’s a baby—she’s not to blame for being born. You’re a doctor—you of all people know how conception happens. Actually, ten-year-old kids know how it happens these days. But it was up to you. If you didn’t want a child, you should have done something to prevent it.’

      She was glaring directly at him so caught the flash of something that might be humour in his eyes, then he smiled as he said, ‘And do you always think of the possibility of conception when you make love with your partner? Or is the easing of the urgent need the priority of both mind and body?’

      The smile, though as coolly cynical as the words, confused her to the extent she forgot to breathe, then, angry at her reaction, she snapped at him.

      ‘I don’t have a partner!’

      Oh, hell! Mortification all over again because that wasn’t the issue—her personal life was none of Carlos Quintero’s business.

      Fine, dark eyebrows rose again and the jet-black eyes seemed to penetrate her scrub suit to scan the body hidden beneath it.

      Infuriated beyond reason, Marty stood up, grabbed the empty cups off the table and carried them across the room. This man wasn’t interested in his wife, or how she’d died. His only concern—hope?—had been that maybe the baby wasn’t his.

      Callous, arrogant wretch, with his insinuating remarks and come-to-bed eyes scanning her body!

      ‘It is not for myself I regret Emmaline,’ he said, and Marty’s wrath, which had been building up nicely, dissipated instantly. He’d used her name! ‘It is she I am thinking of. The life I lead—it is no life for a baby, yet it is work to which I am committed. This is hard, you see, for me now to have a baby and to know what best to do with it.’

      ‘Her,’ Marty corrected automatically.

      ‘Her!’ he repeated obediently.

      Carlos watched the woman’s shoulders slump and knew he’d won a reprieve. He, who hated above all things to be dependent on another person, needed help—help to understand what had happened, and where things stood—help to work out what to do next. And one thing was clear—this woman had the baby’s—Emmaline’s—interest at heart and for that reason, he guessed, she might be willing to help a stranger.

      She returned to her chair, though he could read her reluctance in the way she moved and her distrust in the way she held her body. One of those women to whom their job is their life, he guessed, though her attachment to the baby was strange—professional detachment usually went hand in hand with such dedication.

      ‘Do you know any details of the accident?’ he asked, steering the conversation away from the baby in the hope she might relax a little.

      ‘Only that it was single vehicle—apparently the car careened off the road on a curve and struck a tree—and Natalie was breathing on her own when the ambulance arrived. She stopped breathing when she was moved and they revived her twice at the site then put her on life support to bring her to the hospital. Foetal heart rate was stable throughout the examinations, and tests at the hospital showed no damage to the amniotic sac or the placenta and, as far as we could tell, no damage to the foetus.’

      ‘And the man?’

      He saw the woman’s quick glance—clear, almond-shaped, hazel eyes sweeping across his face—before she replied.

      ‘Multiple fractures to both legs, some contusions and concussion, I think a ruptured spleen but nothing life-threatening.’

      A shame, Carlos thought, then dismissed the thought as petty and unworthy. It wasn’t Peter Richards’s fault Natalie had loved him. Although, if he’d not broken off their engagement, sending her scurrying to Europe to forget him, the beautiful blonde would never have crossed Carlos’s path and this entire, unsatisfactory mess could have been avoided.

      Though he wouldn’t use the words ‘unsatisfactory mess’ to this fiery little obstetrician!

      Marty—as strange a name as Emmaline!

      ‘So he was hospitalised here?’

      Marty nodded, though the look on her face suggested she was no more fond of Peter Richards than he was.

      ‘You didn’t like him?’

      ‘I didn’t know him, but I do know, once he was mobile, he never visited her, to sit with her and talk to her. I know she’d been ruled brain-dead but no one knows if on some deep level such people might feel comfort or support. He should have done it for his own sake if nothing else—having survived the accident that killed her—but he didn’t even come to say his goodbyes. She lay there, all alone, and so beautiful it hurt to look at her.’

      Carlos saw his companion’s lips tighten to a thin line as she described what she saw as Peter Richards’s shortcomings. But she was right, Natalie had been beautiful. So beautiful she’d bewitched him, and he’d pursued her with an ardour and determination he’d never felt before, though beautiful women hadn’t been lacking in his life.

      Anger stirred briefly—directed not at Peter Richards for his behaviour, or at Natalie for not loving him, but at himself for his folly in wanting her anyway, then he dismissed it, for the matter at hand was the baby.

      A tap on the door, then a nurse popped her head around the jamb.

      ‘Dr Quintero, I’m about to change the baby and feed her. Would you like to see her? Hold her?’

      He could feel Marty’s eyes on him but refused to look her way.

      ‘Not this time,’ he said, then felt obliged to make an excuse. ‘I have flown halfway around the world through too many time zones and am tired enough to maybe drop her.’

      The nurse disappeared and he was unable to avoid turning back to Marty, who watched him, one mobile eyebrow raised in his direction.

      ‘What can I do with a baby?’ he demanded, so irritated by her attitude he was practically growling.

      ‘Bring it up?’ she suggested, and now he did growl.

      ‘You know nothing of my life. You sit there, so prim and righteous, passing judgement on Peter Richards, passing judgement on me. I work in Sudan, among people who lose their babies every day, so wretched is their existence. Children die because I cannot save them, because they have had nothing but stones to eat, and their mothers are so malnourished they cannot feed them. They might walk as long as six days to seek treatment for themselves or their children, then leave our small, makeshift hospital and walk back home again. That is my life!’

      Marty was sorry she’d prodded. Like most people, she was overwhelmed with helplessness when she considered the death and destruction in famine- or war-ravaged countries. But that didn’t alter the fact that Emmaline was this man’s child. His responsibility.

      ‘So this baby doesn’t count?’ she persisted, and he stood up and paced around the room, a tall, angry stranger with a face that might be carved from teak, so strongly were his bones delineated beneath his skin, so remote the expression on those graven features.

      ‘I will deal with the baby!’ he said, after several minutes of pacing. ‘I come