The Desert Surgeon's Secret Son. Оливия Гейтс

inside him, shocking him again with its power? Eagerness? Did he actually want to see blatant invitation in her eyes, in her stance, in the way she’d call his name as if to say, Take me, ravish me, finish me, now?

      He licked parched lips, counting down the seconds before her gaze heated, her posture relaxed, beckoned…

      “So, we meet again, Dr. Aal Omraan. Or do you only answer to His Royal Highness Crown Prince Ghaleb now?”

      CHAPTER TWO

      GHALEB COULD ONLY STARE at the woman who no longer resembled Viv beyond the basics.

      She pursed her lips as the last of the shock he’d detected drained, steel replacing it. “I assume it was you who ordered me to report to the OR?”

      B’hag’gejaheem—by hell, what was going on here?

      Her voice was the same, velvety and rich like chocolate and red wine, but he’d never imagined it could sound so… cold. And that was nothing to how those whiskey eyes swept him as if examining an uncertain specimen and finding it deplorably wanting.

      “Of course it was you.” She answered her own question with a flick of an elegant hand. “I’ve been here only two hours and I already realize nobody breathes here without your say-so, let alone thinks, speaks or acts.” She let go of his gaze, as if she found nothing about him of interest, hers sweeping around for something worthy of her attention. “I assume you want me to scrub?”

      The answer that almost escaped his lips was, I want you to tell me who you are, and where Viv, the old Viv, is.

      Where was the woman who’d fluttered around him, inundating him with hunger and appreciation? Though it had been an act, why wasn’t she continuing it now?

      From experience he knew women went to any lengths to capture or resurrect prosperous men’s interests. And as one of the richest men in the world, a royal and a celebrated surgeon to boot, he defined prosperity, was one of the most vigorously pursued.

      So was this her new act? The one she’d determined would reignite his interest?

      If it was, it was succeeding. Spectacularly.

      And why not? He’d play it her way. He’d give her all the rope she needed to hang herself. Then, when he’d had the satisfaction of looking her in the eye and reading her admission of defeat, he’d send her out of Omraania, out of his life. This time forever.

      “Your assumptions are correct,” he finally drawled, advancing on her in steps he hoped looked measured when they were, in fact, impeded by lingering upheaval. “Those concerning yourself. I assure you I don’t surround myself with automatons or thralls.”

      “Sure. Thanks for sharing that.” Sarcasm? He couldn’t be sure with her face and voice expressionless. “Will you, please, send your head non-automaton non-thrall to direct me to the OR where I’m needed after I’ve scrubbed? I’ll be exactly ten minutes.”

      Sarcasm. His lips twitched, not on mirth, on indecision how to react. “Adnan isn’t one of my medical personnel. His role ended when he escorted you here. I’ll take over from here.”

      “Fine. Whatever.” She moved toward one of the lockers. “So, what’s on the list this morning?”

      “Ten surgeries.”

      She didn’t bat a lid as she removed her jacket, exposing a sleeveless beige blouse. He came to a stop, his gaze trapped by the perfection of her arms. And even in these sterile surroundings, with everything else making erotic thoughts out of bounds, lust kicked in his loins. His mouth watered.

      Seemingly oblivious to his state, she strode to the nearest sink, picked up a prepackaged, presterilized brush impregnated with surgical detergent, held her hands below the tap for the infrared sensor to kick in. “Care to elaborate?”

      He tamped down the urge to stride to her, take her by those arms, run stinging-for-their-softness hands all over them before branding them with his tongue and teeth, tasting their cream, biting into their vitality.

      Ya Ullah, he shouldn’t have abstained from feminine pleasures for so long. Now he was starved.

      But no. He hadn’t been. Not until he’d seen her. So mental aversion hadn’t even dulled the sharpness of the hunger. So he hadn’t been cured, had only been an addict forced to abstain…

      “Six minimally invasive procedures.” He supplied the answer a raised eyebrow pressed for, struggling to imbue his voice with a tone as offhand as hers. “Vascular and thoracic, one lumpectomy and one simple mastectomy, and two second-stage damage-control surgeries. All up your street, I believe?”

      She nodded without looking at him as she wet her forearms to the elbows, assurance itself. “Dead center, yes.”

      Then she began to scrub. Just as he felt he’d disappeared from her senses’ radar, she raised her eyes. “You have someone around to help me gown, or shall I go the solo route?”

      He couldn’t answer right away. Not when his mind was being swamped with all the times he’d ungowned her, so to speak, exposing her to his impatience and hunger.

      When he answered, his voice sounded like raking through gravel. “I’ll gown you.”

      That exquisite eyebrow rose again. Had she heard the gruffness, known its import?

      But her gaze wasn’t taunting, or knowing. It was empty. “I know I’m here to share a position with you, but isn’t gowning me taking the coworker thing outside the job description?”

      Share a position. A thousand images inundated him, of every position he’d shared with her, the ecstasy they’d wrung from each other’s bodies in each. Had she meant the double entendre?

      No. She hadn’t. He was sure her comment had been professional. If her dismissal of his authority could be called that. But there was no sexual innuendo in anything she said or did. Or she was a more undetectable actress than he’d imagined.

      Thinking a closer look might avail him of better judgment, he closed in on her. “I assure you that helping fellow surgeons gown isn’t outside my job parameters.”

      She finished scrubbing, held up her hands to drip-dry before picking up a sterile towel folded over the gown/glove packs and began a flawless drying technique. “Really? So does Crown Prince and Head of Surgery have Scrub Nurse or Circulator in the fine print of expected duties? Who would have thought?”

      A jolt coursed through him again. No one talked to him like that. Ever. Not even her. Especially her. Not in the past.

      But why the jolts? Had he come to expect deference beyond decorum and professionalism that it shocked him she was speaking freely in his presence? Admittedly, he hadn’t been approachable in recent years, but had she been right? Had he gone beyond maintaining the distance his status demanded into imposing a form of oppression?

      Not that she was affected by whatever intimidation he emitted. She hurled out her thoughts as they formed.

      “Isn’t life full of surprises?” he drawled, almost to himself.

      She volunteered no answer to that but reached for a gown and began unfolding it, her sterile procedure perfect.

      He advanced on her then, unable to stay away a second longer. The closer he got, the worse it got. Her scent reached out to him, enveloped him. Yes. This was it. Unchanged. Sweet and fragrant and exuding sensuality.

      He reached her as she placed her arms inside the sleeves, circled her in one aching sweep, careful not to come into contact with any part of her. For sterile conditions, he told himself.

      He began adjusting her scrubs around her lush body, focused on regulating his breathing, his urges. She stood there all through, eyes downcast, seemingly unbreathing.

      He was tightening her belt when his surgical team entered the hall en masse.

      He almost groaned in disappointment.