The Australian's Desire. Marion Lennox
her black belt had been punched right out of her.
‘Leave me be.’ She sounded suddenly … drained.
‘Let me see your face. And your foot.’
‘No.’
She was like a little wildcat, he thought. Tough as nails, all claws and hiss. But she was shaking. He could feel the tremors in her shoulders.
To hell with the black belt. He lifted her up again and dumped her on the nearest examination trolley. ‘Stay where you’re put.’
‘Do you mind?’ She seemed practically speechless. ‘I need to—’
‘Nothing’s more urgent than your face. You should have stayed put in the first place.’ He pulled her fingers away. ‘Hell, Georgie …’
‘Don’t swear. You make me feel like it’s worse than it is.’
‘It’s bad.’
‘It’s not. I’ve learned how to ride a punch. I can feel my cheekbone. He didn’t break anything.’
She’d learned how to ride a punch? In karate? He didn’t think so. Everything about this woman spoke of a tough background.
Except that she was an obstetrician.
First things first. If she’d gone to this much effort, it wasn’t about to be wasted for want of effort on his part. He wheeled across to the desk by the door and found the camera. ‘Let’s do this before we do any cleaning.’
‘Oh, very good,’ she said, and managed a smile. ‘OK, I submit.’
‘Lie down.’
‘No, I—’
‘You’ll look more pallid and wan against the pillows.’
‘I don’t want to look like a victim.’
‘I’m very sure you do.’ He fiddled with the camera. ‘If you could manage a few tears …’
She thought about that, and then she managed a smile. It was a great smile, despite the bruising. Like the sun had just come out.
‘Right,’ she said, and she lay back on the pillows, moving into her role of victim with gusto. He adjusted the camera, turned to focus on her cheek—and to his astonishment her eyes were brimming.
He stared.
‘Neat trick, huh?’ she said. ‘Don’t interrupt. I’m thinking sad thoughts.’
Sad thoughts. He couldn’t make her out. He focused and shot. The photograph would be damning, he thought. Her dark curls accentuated the pallor of her skin. The knuckle marks of Smiley’s hand were clearly visible and the splitting of the skin before it was cleaned looked worse than it actually was.
And she was playing it for all it was worth. Her eyes were brimming, seemingly pain-filled. There were tears coursing down her cheeks.
He wanted to … He wanted to …
‘Enough,’ she declared as the camera clicked for the fourth time. She swung herself upright.
He put the camera aside and pushed her down again.
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. Let’s do a bit more triage. Foot first.’ He’d moved before she knew what he intended. He had her left foot in his hand, lifting it high. ‘Ouch.’
‘It’s fine,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t use that against Smiley.’
‘It’d be good if we could,’ he agreed, examining her heel with care. ‘Hell, woman, were you out of your mind, running in bare feet?’
‘I scarcely had a choice.’
‘You had a choice as to what to put on this morning.’ He hauled a nearby trolley closer and stared dubiously at its contents. ‘Stilettos?’
‘You’re criticising my footwear?’
‘I am. There’s a splinter in here. A deep one.’
‘I’ll get it out myself.’
‘Shut up and lie back,’ he told her, and then, as she struggled to sit up and opened her mouth to argue, he took her by the shoulders and propelled her back onto the pillows. ‘Not a word.’
‘You’re not an emergency doctor,’ she said resentfully, and he tugged on gloves, located a pile of antiseptic swabs and ripped one open.
‘No. I’m a neurosurgeon. You want a little brain surgery on the side?’
‘Look, honest—’
‘Lie still and think of England,’ he told her. ‘This might sting.’
It did sting. But for a big man he had really gentle hands, she thought as she did what she was told and lay back and thought … well, not of England but of what this man represented.
He’d almost taken her to bed. Six months ago she’d been out of her mind with grief and worry, and Alistair had taken advantage of it.
He hadn’t known she’d been out of her mind with grief and worry. Maybe he’d thought she was always a tart.
Well, he was hardly stain-free. Propositioning her when he’d been engaged to another woman …
Was he still engaged? Maybe he was married. She hadn’t asked Gina.
What was she doing, wondering what his marital status was? He was a stuffed shirt. An eminent US neurosurgeon. He was about as far from her world as it was possible to get.
‘Ouch!’ Her exclamation was involuntary. Alistair had positioned the light directly above her foot and was operating with a scalpel and a pair of tweezers. She glanced down at what he was doing and winced.
‘A scalpel! You don’t think that’s a bit of overkill?’
‘I promise I’m not amputating.’
‘Oh, very good. I’m reassured, I don’t think. Yike!’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m being quick. Local anaesthetics in the heel will hurt a lot more than I need to hurt you now. So stay still.’
‘But a scalpel?’
‘If you wiggle, I might be forced to amputate.’
‘I want a second opinion.’
He grinned. Which took her aback somewhat. It was a really great grin.
She’d never seen him smile, she thought. Or maybe she had that night six months ago but she’d hardly been in a state where she could remember anything.
She could remember that she’d decided to sleep with him. So there must have been something …
‘Got it,’ he said in satisfaction, and then, as she made to sit up, he lifted both feet, which had the effect of propelling her down again.
‘There’s cleaning yet to be done.’
‘Fussy …’
‘Yeah, and I don’t wear stilettos either. But I’m still a qualified doctor.’
He was … gorgeous? Just like last time.
No matter. There was no way she intended to be attracted by this man again. She’d made a fool of herself six months ago and that was the end of it.
She lay back and concentrated on not concentrating on anything at all for a bit. Finally he adjusted a neat dressing on her foot and moved to her end of the bed.
‘Now, let’s see to your face,’ he said. ‘Your foot’s OK. Just don’t walk on it for a bit. It’ll bleed.’
‘Then your dressing’s not good enough.’
‘Georgie