Spanish Doctor, Pregnant Nurse. Carol Marinelli
it helped and, she decided, choking through her vented fury, he didn’t have a clue what she was going on about. Her rapid spate of furious words was way too fast for him to understand.
All he had to do was hold her hand—which he was.
Nod at her very occasional pauses—which he did.
And give an occasional sympathetic murmur when her voice shrilled—rather regularly.
And through it all he didn’t say a word, didn’t attempt to say he understood as Harriet ranted on. ‘Since he got this bloody job, I’m not good enough,’ Harriet raged. ‘Not thin enough, or demure enough, not quite the happening young metrosexual’s partner.’ She registered his frown.
‘He is gay?’ Ciro finally spoke.
‘No.’ Somehow Harriet managed a strangled gurgle of laughter. ‘Metrosexual, it’s the buzz word for today’s kind of man. A man who doesn’t mind admitting he takes care of himself.’
His frown only deepened.
‘He has facials, dresses well, has his hair coloured, his eyebrows…’ Her voice petered out.
‘And he doesn’t sleep with you?’ There was just a hint of innuendo to his voice that really wasn’t helping matters.
‘He’s under a lot of pressure at the moment,’ Harriet offered in her husband’s defence. ‘He has to get up at the crack of dawn for early shoots, it’s the only time the beach is empty.’
Which mollified him not! Clearly the Spanish didn’t need a full eight hours in the cot for a performance! Clearly the Spanish didn’t give a hoot about eyebrows and waxing and face creams. And it would have been so much easier if Ciro was ugly. If his eyebrows joined or he smelt of garlic, if she could just somehow eke out a hint of justification as to why Drew needed to spend so much energy and money to be a man, when this very unpampered male sat opposite her.
‘I’m sorry!’ She gave a rather ungracious sniff. ‘If it was embarrassing before, it positively—’
‘It’s fine.’ He smiled. ‘You’re not the first patient I’ve had tell me her marriage is in trouble.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that it’s in trouble…’ Harriet started, but her voice trailed off as she conceded the point. ‘OK, it’s in big trouble.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ciro responded politely. ‘But at least it means that we can rule out an ectopic! Now…’ Sensing her need to change the subject, he stood up and adopted a rather more professional distance. ‘Which means we have to consider that you could have appendicitis.’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to tell me that your appendix and you haven’t been getting on for a while, that it’s been treating itself to massages while you weren’t looking? That it’s been so neglected there isn’t any chance it could be inflamed?’
A tiny smile wobbled on her pale lips.
‘I’ll need to examine you properly, Harriet, there’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.’
There was everything to be embarrassed about. He could be as matter-of-fact as he liked, pull on a pair of gloves as casually as if he were about to do the dishes, but there was no way, no way, she was going to let Ciro Delgato examine her there. She’d never in a million years be able to work with him if she allowed him to. Quite simply, she’d have to resign.
‘I’ll go to my own GP tomorrow,’ Harriet begged, desperate suddenly for the lyrical sound of her lovely GP’s voice as she chatted about her children and grandchildren, a GP who somehow made even the most uncomfortable procedures as routine as a gossip at the supermarket checkout—not like this Spanish dynamo that she’d have to work with again.
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