Unwrapping The Neurosurgeon's Heart. Charlotte Hawkes
‘ANOUK?’ THE RESUS WARD’S sister poked her head around the Resus bay curtain. ‘Are you running the seven-year-old casualty who fell off a climbing frame?’
‘I am.’ Anouk spun quickly around. ‘Is she in?’
‘Yes, the HEMS team are on the roof now.’
‘Thanks.’ Nodding grimly, Anouk turned back to her team for a final check. ‘Everyone happy? Got your gear?’
The only thing she was missing was the neurosurgeon. The department had been paged ten minutes ago but they must be swamped up there. Still, she needed a neurosurgeon for the young kid. Sucking in a steadying breath, she ducked out of the bay, and slammed straight into Moorlands General’s hottest commodity.
Solomon Gunn.
Six feet three of solid muscle, more suited to a Hollywood kickboxing stunt guy than the average neurosurgeon, didn’t even shift under her flexing palms as the faintest hint of a woody, citrusy scent filled her nostrils.
Her skin prickled instantly. How could it not? It was all Anouk could do to snatch her arms down to her sides and take a step back, telling herself that the alien sensation currently rolling through her was nothing more than a basic physiological reaction.
Instinct. Nothing more.
She couldn’t possibly be so unlucky as to have the Smoking Gun as the neurosurgeon on her case, could she? And, for the record, she didn’t think much of the idiot who had bestowed that moniker on him. Not that it would be unlucky for the poor girl who had fallen, of course. As he was one of the up-and-coming stars of the region, the girl couldn’t be in better hands than Sol’s.
If only the guy weren’t so devastating when it came to women who weren’t in his care.
He practically revelled in his reputation as a demigod neurosurgeon and out-of-hours playboy. And still it seemed that almost every woman in the hospital wanted him.
Including, to Anouk’s absolute shame, herself.
Not that she would ever, ever let another living soul know that fact. Solomon Gunn was the antithesis of absolutely everything she should want in a man.
Yet, caught in the rich, swirling, cognac-hued depth of his gaze, something inside her shifted and rolled deliciously, nonetheless.
She’d only been at Moorlands General for a couple of months and been in Resus when Sol had, but so far they’d never worked together on the same casualty. A traitorous part of her almost hoped that tonight was different.
‘Dr Anouk Hart, I believe.’
‘Yes. Are you here for my case?’ Self-condemnation made her tone sharper than she might otherwise have intended.
‘I don’t know.’ He grinned, as though he could see right through her. ‘Which is your case?’
‘Seven-year-old girl; climbing frame,’ she bullet-pointed.
‘Then I’d say you’re in luck. I’m here for you.’
Her heart kicked. Anouk told herself it was frustration, nothing more.
‘Lucky me,’ she managed, rolling her eyes.
‘Lucky both of us.’
He flicked his eyes up and down her in frank appraisal. On another man it would have appeared arrogant, maybe even lewd. But Sol wasn’t another man; he pulled the act off in such a way that it left her body practically sizzling. An ache spearing its way right down through her until she felt it right there. Right between her legs.
What was the matter with her?
The man was damned near lethal.
‘You might be accustomed to women throwing themselves at you.’ She jerked her head over his shoulder to where a group of her colleagues was shamelessly clustered around the central desk and shooting him flirty smiles and applauding gestures. ‘However, I certainly don’t intend to be one of them.’
‘Oh, they’re just enjoying the home-made mince pies I brought in.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘It is Christmas, Anouk.’ His grin ramped up and she almost imagined she could feel those straight, white teeth against her skin. ‘No need to be a Grinch.’
He couldn’t have any idea quite how direct a hit his words were. She hated Christmas. It held no happy memories for her. It never had. Not that she was about to let Sol know that.
‘Home-made? By whom? Your housekeeper?’
‘My own fair hands.’ He waggled them in her face and she tried not to notice how utterly masculine they looked. Not exactly the delicate hands people usually associated with a surgeon.
Those hands had worked magic on hundreds of patients. But it wasn’t quite the same kind of magic she was imagining now.
Anouk blinked hard and tried to drag her mind back to the present.
‘That’s as may be, but I don’t think it’s your mince pies they’re interested in.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re pretty good, if I do say so myself.’
‘So modest.’ She snorted. ‘Well, if you’ve stopped playing Great British Bake-Off with your home-made mince pies...’
‘“Playing Great British Bake-Off”?’ He flashed a wolfish smile, which made her skin positively goosebump. ‘I would ask if you’re passive aggressive with everyone, or if it’s just me, but, given the reputation you’ve already garnered amongst your colleagues in the few months you’ve been here, I fear I already know the answer.’
She shouldn’t take the bait. She mustn’t.
‘And what reputation would that be?’ she demanded, regretting it instantly.
His eyes gleamed mischievously. She half expected him not to answer her.
‘Focussed, dedicated, a good doctor.’
‘Oh.’ She bit her lip. ‘Well...then...thanks.’
‘Even if you do walk around like you’ve got a stick up your behind.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Heat flooded her cheeks. She could feel it.
‘Sorry.’ He held his hands up as though appeasing her. ‘Their words, not mine. But you have to admit, you are a little bit uptight. A little prim and proper.’
She opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it closed again.
If she was honest, she’d heard worse about herself. At best, she was considered to be a good—even great—doctor to her patients, but cold and unapproachable to her colleagues. A bit aloof.
The only person who knew different was Saskia; her best friend since their Hollywood A-list mothers had declared each other their nemesis, over twenty-five years ago.
‘Of course, I don’t think that,’ Sol continued, clearly enjoying himself. Not that she blamed him—he couldn’t have any idea of her inner turmoil. ‘But then, most women have a way of...melting around me.’
‘How do you get away with that?’ She shook her head. ‘Do you actually enjoy living up to all the worst stereotypes of your own Lothario reputation?’
‘Let me guess, in your book that’s wrong?’
‘Oh, you’re incorrigible,’ Anouk snapped. ‘Though I assume you’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You mean it wasn’t?’ He