Gold Coast Angels: Bundle of Trouble. Fiona Lowe

how hard he tried to contain it.

      ‘I have a headache.’ He rubbed his eyes and hid behind an excuse because it was easier than telling Chloe the truth.

      Her hazel eyes widened in disbelief at his justification for rudeness, which even sounded lame to his own ears.

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, her chin tilting up defiantly, ‘but is there any need to inflict it on us? Here…’ She fished a foil disc out of her pocket. ‘Take some ibuprofen.’

      He accepted the two white tablets along with the admonishment and tried a wry smile. ‘Spoken like a true nurse.’

      Her lush mouth softened into a smile and the stirrings of warmth that eddied in him each time he met her became waves of liquid heat. Then she laughed and the sound surfed on the heat, pulling up memories of the times he’d laughed easily. For a brief moment the constant reminders of why he didn’t laugh much any more—why he didn’t feel any more—faded away and he let the wondrous and glorious sensations of life surge through him.

      Betrayer.

      Guilt seared him like the dry heat from a furnace, sucking the oxygen from the joy until it shrivelled to nothing. He didn’t deserve to feel happy. He wanted to turn and leave—march away from Chloe immediately. Away from the temptation that represented everything he could no longer have in his life.

      You have to work with her.

      He did, and it wasn’t Chloe’s fault that Anna was dead. It wasn’t Chloe’s fault that with one ill-timed action he’d screwed up his perfect life.

      He stood facing her with his fingers clenched on his Swiss pen and tried to apologise. ‘I do appreciate your work here, Chloe.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      This time her smile made her dimples and her eyes dance, and the treacherous heat flared again, filling him with longing before vanishing and leaving only bitterness. Hell, he couldn’t cope with this roller-coaster ride of emotions every time he came to the ward, but he could hardly ask Administration to have her removed. A thought struck him—the perfect solution for six weeks or more.

      ‘You did a great job with Made, so great, in fact, that I think you should sign up for the foundation’s cleft palate tour that leaves next week.’ He tried for what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Jenny Patrick’s looking for people and you’re a natural with kids.’

      She flinched as if he’d struck her. ‘I appreciate the compliment but that won’t be possible.’

      No. ‘Why not?’ He heard the bark in his voice and wished he could snatch the words back because, damn it, his fear sounded the same as anger.

      She blinked at him as if she couldn’t believe he’d asked her the question. ‘Because…’ Her cheeks flamed red and she twirled her ponytail tightly around her forefinger as if she was struggling to give a reason. ‘Because it’s just not possible.’ She picked up Glenda Wharton’s drug chart and slapped it against his chest. ‘Please write up some milder analgesia for her and I’ll take out the drain tubes now.’

      Her expression—a combination of defiance and pain—was all too familiar and it silenced him. As much as he didn’t want to have to see Chloe every day, he didn’t want to hurt her either. While he quickly wrote the order across the page, neither of them said another word.

      He got the distinct feeling both of them were battling demons they wanted to keep secret.