The Desert Surgeon's Secret Son. Оливия Гейтс

murmured her diagnosis, mirroring his. “Perfect for a breast-conserving procedure. Will she have radiation of the rest of the breast afterwards, or is the lumpectomy the limit of her treatment?”

      “Why do you ask?”

      She shrugged as she examined the woman’s breast, translating X-ray evidence into the physical one. “I ask because she must be over seventy and some schools of treatment think radiation doesn’t offer a better prognosis for her age group. I don’t know if your center subscribes to this belief or not.”

      “What would be your recommendation?”

      “Radiation afterwards, no question, if her general condition allows it. Even though women of her age are said not to be at risk of a hormonally induced recurrence and therefore wouldn’t benefit from radiation while risking a higher incidence of its side effects, recent research overwhelmingly proves those receiving radiation remain free of cancer longer than women who don’t.”

      “And what do you think my center opts for?”

      “How would I know? You may be the most advanced center in the world but I’ve seen many who run a close second who suffer from unchanging attitudes and biases toward new research. Superiority spawns prejudice, not to mention an all-knowing streak and the tendency to play God.”

      And that had to be a double entendre. Making reference to the way he’d walked away from her?

      He didn’t see a connection but was certain this summation wasn’t all about the pompous and misguided decisions and views many highly regarded surgeons and medical establishments made and advertised.

      Unable to fathom the rebuff he felt singeing him, he drawled, “Let me assure you that at the Jobail Advanced Medical Center we embrace all substantiated research and commit a major part of our resources, human and financial, to furthering said research and to cementing its results into facts. Radiation after lumpectomy for older women is our recommendation.”

      She only gave a nod, continued examining the patient.

      Just like that? No comment? No more digs?

      No. None. Was that what she’d become? Not given to saying a word more than necessary? Closing a subject once it had been satisfactorily resolved? What had happened to cause that reversal? Where had the gushing, hyperactive, excitable young woman gone? Where had this serene, stable and centered woman sprung from?

      And was now the time to ponder such mysteries, ya ghabbi?

      Exhaling his frustration, he murmured for a scalpel. Once it was in his palm, he stared at it. He’d almost forgotten his plan. Now he remembered, he no longer wanted to go through with it.

      Before he gave in to another impulse, he extended the scalpel to her. “You do the honors.”

      She didn’t spare him a glance as she palmed the scalpel, adjusted her position. Before he opened his mouth, she made a sure-handed incision around the areola. The approach he hadn’t had time to recommend, maximizing accessibility to the tumor.

      He moved forward, tension draining by degrees as he fell into step with her, assisting her as she accessed the tumor and extracted it with a surrounding layer of healthy tissue, somehow managing to leave the breast looking untouched.

      She placed the specimen in a collection vial and one of his nurses hurried with it to the adjacent lab. Viv turned her eyes to him, all he could see of her behind her mask.

      “We’ll have our verdict in minutes,” he murmured. “You can move on to the next step while we wait.”

      She at once made an incision in their patient’s armpit.

      He tensed. “Removing the axillary lymph nodes?”

      “I’m going for sentinel node biopsy.” She paused. “You have a different course of action?”

      He didn’t. He gestured for her to go ahead.

      She started dissecting the first node. His muscles tightened, ready to jump in. This was where surgeons of less than extensive experience messed up. But with every fluid, precise movement of her hands his tension eased. He couldn’t have done it better.

      After he sent another nurse to the lab with the nodes, they spent the following minutes exchanging opinions.

      The nurses came back with a favorable verdict and the rest of his tension dissipated. It ratcheted up again at Viv’s tremulous exhalation. He studied her, gauged her reaction.

      Yes. There it was. Unmistakable. What echoed inside him.

      She validated his analysis when she murmured, “Now I can hope this procedure will be the last es-Sayedah Afaf will suffer on account of that tumor.”

      He muttered his corroboration. And as if to show him that was of no consequence to her, she removed the drain he’d inserted, murmured for suturing materials, then proceeded to give es-Sayedah Afaf one of the most undetectable suture jobs he’d ever seen.

      They finally pulled back from the table, leaving the others to wrap up, and Viv slipped from the chair she’d asked for in mid-surgery and stretched her back. His eyes clung to her movements, each accessing memories of nights when he’d massaged that resilient back, luxuriating in her feel, in her pleasure, before he’d mounted her, given her what by then she’d been whimpering for…

      He remained seated. He’d remain seated until she’d long left the OR, otherwise he’d have a scandal on his hands.

      He realized she was looking at him when his face began to burn. He swung his eyes back to her, found her gaze on him, steady, neutral. Then she only said, “Next.”

      And for the next ten hours, even forgoing a lunch break, they went through the varied, demanding list. By the time their last patient was wheeled to Resuscitation, there was no doubt in his mind anymore.

      Doubts had started to crumble with that first incision she’d made. From then on, as she’d passed every test he’d thrown at her with ease and confidence, they’d disintegrated faster. They now lay pulverized at his feet. He had the verdict of his own eyes.

      The only thing she’d been guilty of had probably been to understate her skills. As a diagnostician she was uncanny; as a surgeon she was unparalleled.

      And he couldn’t believe how much that upset him.

      It meant she really could just be here for the job.

      Everything validated this theory. Her every nuance said she’d become the opposite of her old accommodating, approval-seeking self. Her antagonism had been superbly leashed in front of those she believed she’d oversee, but it had been unmistakable to him. And it was no act to whet his interest. His approval was the last thing she coveted. And it outraged him.

      It was contrary of him when he had every reason not to wish for any personal reaction or interaction with her.

      But now she was withholding it he wanted it, had to have it.

      He would have it.

      He would also find out how she’d become the woman who’d stood up to him, who’d surprised him at every turn, the woman he’d depended on through some of the most demanding surgeries possible.

      And when he did so, he’d find out what her game was this time. He was certain there was far more than met the eye to Dr. Vivienne LaSalle.

      But her secrets would be surrendered. He wouldn’t think of a next step until he was in possession of every last one.

      Viv staggered into the—thankfully deserted—ladies’ room, groped for the support of the nearest solid surface.

      Her hand slipped off the quartz vanity top. She barely steadied herself then met her reflection in the mirror—and gasped.

      It was like looking at the worst days of her life.

      She looked nothing like the scrawny, sunburned, crackling-with-need woman Ghaleb had used and discarded.