The Desert Surgeon's Secret Son. Оливия Гейтс

that this interlude had come to an end, that this face-off had gone against his expectations and certainly in her favor, he turned to his own scrubbing and gowning, acutely conscious of her every movement, every breath.

      In minutes he turned to her again, impatient to continue his study of her—and sustained another shock.

      She was smiling. At anesthesiologist Hisham Sukhr and resident Aneesah Othman. She hadn’t smiled at him since she’d walked into the hall. Not even a mockery of a formality.

      She’d never smiled at him like that.

      And he suddenly realized what had been missing from the smiles she’d once lavished on him. This, what flowed from her smile right now. Ease. She’d always been…tense, even forced, for the lack of more appropriate words, around him.

      Had it been a manifestation of the artifice she’d practiced? Looking at her now, it was impossible to believe she was capable of artifice. Which was too stupid a thing to think.

      Even more stupid was the surge of anger and animosity he felt as he watched the scene unfold. Anger toward her for showing him how delightful her ease was, but that he’d never warranted it. Animosity toward Hisham, his most trusted anesthesiologist, whose eyes sparkled with the covetous thoughts any male would have about Viv…

      Ya Ullah. Was he on the verge of a breakdown, as Adnan insisted he was? Was he angry at Viv for not being cordial with him? Was he jealous that another man coveted her on sight? When in either case he should expect nothing less, nothing else?

      It was time to put an end to this stupidity, get on with his plans. Before he forgot what they were and why he’d hatched them.

      He moved to the door connecting to the OR he’d chosen. As the door slid open, he turned and a hush fell over the buzzing room.

      “Now that Dr. LaSalle has introduced herself, we’re ready to start our list.” With that, he entered the OR.

      Everyone followed in a silence loud with surprise that he hadn’t given Viv the esteem of a formal introduction and welcome in front of her future team and subordinates. From her there was only opacity. She’d closed her mind to him.

      Viv walked into the OR last, struggling not to wobble.

      This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

      She’d accepted the position because it dictated she’d meet Ghaleb possibly a couple of times initially, to set things up, then she wouldn’t see him again as she did his job when he wasn’t around. He shouldn’t be here, about to begin a ten-surgery list with her. Why wasn’t he leaving her to it?

      This had to be a test. One he would have subjected anyone he’d install as his co-head to. A one-off. Yes. She could live with that. She thought. She hoped. If she survived the next hours…

      Stop it. Why was she going to pieces like this?

      But she knew why, didn’t she? She’d entered to scrub, had seen him standing there with his back to her, and it had been like being catapulted back to the past, to that time she’d sought him out, to sell him on choosing her for his research assistant’s position.

      She’d seen him many times from afar till that moment, each time suffering a jolt of awareness at the power and charisma compounding the impact of his phenomenal looks and physique. She’d known he had the same effect on every female with a heartbeat, but had been convinced one close-up look would take care of all that.

      Then he’d turned to her and her self-assurance had boiled and evaporated, then his answering awareness had turned hers into compulsion. She’d hurled herself at him, a moth fully aware of its fiery end yet hurtling deliriously toward the flame. Then he’d left her and her world had turned upside down. It had taken months to set it right. How could she let herself be taken by storm again?

      Oh, she knew how. This time he’d turned to her only to show her her memories had been merciful. Or the years had been cruel, conspiring with maturity to chisel his physique to godlike perfection, hone his beauty and effect to lacerating levels.

      She didn’t know how she’d looked at him, answered back. She guessed she’d launched into sarcastic mode, her automatic defense mechanism when overwhelmed. She barely remembered what she’d said, all her focus on keeping her face and tone empty so she hadn’t betrayed her upheaval to his scrutiny.

      And, damn him, he’d scrutinized. His eyes, the eyes she would once have done anything to see igniting with approval, with passion, had left her face, only to travel over her, leaving burn marks wherever they landed, scorching away her hard-won stability.

      While he’d been as stable as a mountain, betraying nothing at the sight of her but the certainty that he remembered her, and the same indifference with which he’d ignored her offer of her life to mess up for as long as he pleased. Then, as if he hadn’t treated her like a leper, as if they’d never even met before, her pitiful barbs breaking off his force field of assurance and superiority, he’d approached her like an inexorable storm, rattling every cell in her body with alarm and awareness. Then he’d gowned her.

      He’d circled her, like a predator biding his time, giving his prey a nervous breakdown wondering if he’d pounce at once or if he was sated and was only playing, would prolong the sadistic game until he was hungry again. He’d let her feel him, quake with his nearness, had flayed her with his breath, his scent, his hands hovering over a body that was suddenly a battleground for every forbidden hunger and recollection, tugging at her with strings made of her gown’s ties, her cruel memory and his far more pitiless reality.

      She didn’t know how she’d remained on her feet.

      She had to stay away from him. For the time she was here, and until she reached a decision. She couldn’t let his effect tamper with her logic and self-control again. Sam. She was here for Sam.

      But she couldn’t stay away right now. He was looking at her, clearly summoning her.

      Rigid, grudging steps brought her opposite him, across the table he’d elected, as the well-oiled machine of his surgical team brought in the first two patients, placing one in front of them.

      She cast her gaze to the patient being placed at the next station. She may be here to settle a personal issue, but she’d also signed a contract, had made a commitment to do the best job she could, as she always did. She’d better locate her misplaced composure and professionalism.

      She gulped down a steadying breath, forced her eyes to seek his. The moment those obsidian infernos slammed into her she was tempted to say Let the test begin or Do your worst.

      Instead, she said, “Where do you want me?”

      Back in my office, spread on my desk, naked and open and begging for me.

      Ghaleb gritted his teeth. These lust attacks were getting preposterous. And infuriating.

      He harnessed his anger—at her for the weakness only she had ever engendered in him, at himself for letting her still wield that power—and emptied his gaze. “I want you right here.”

      “You mean I’ll take this patient?”

      “I mean you’ll work with me on this patient.”

      “Two patients, two so-called head surgeons handling one. Anything wrong with that picture, I wonder?”

      “We’ll handle every patient together. Es-Sayed Elwan in station two was brought in now because it’ll take the length of es-Sayedah Afaf’s operation to get him prepped.”

      She gave him a glance that made him feel she was probing him, fathoming his motivations.

      Then, without giving away her conclusions, she turned to their sedated patient, took in the field of surgery being prepped. “So, what will it be for her? Lumpectomy or simple mastectomy?”

      “Lumpectomy.” He asked for their patient’s films to be clipped on the backlit screen feet away. Viv examined