The Army Doc's Christmas Angel. Annie O'Neil
was anything to go by, unabating.
From the response his body had had to her, she may as well have sashayed up to him in a curve-hugging negligee and wrapped him round one of her long, elegant fingers.
Not that he’d thought about her naked.
Okay, fine. Of course he had.
But it had just been the once, and the woman had all but floated out of the hospital’s therapy pool in a scarlet swimsuit that had made him jealous of the droplets of water cascading down her body.
What else was he meant to do?
Treat her with respect, you numpty.
Everything about her commanded a civility he could tap into for the rest of his colleagues, but Naomi? Whatever it was he felt around her it meant he simply wasn’t able to extend it to her. Not in the manners department anyway.
Naomi’s entire essence sang of grace and an innate sensitivity to both her patients and her environment. Her movements were always smooth. Fluid. Her voice was carefully modulated, lightly accented, but he didn’t know from where. He’d thought of asking once or twice, but that would’ve verged on curious and with half the hospital staff staggering around the hospital with love arrows embedded in their hearts...bah. Whatever. He should just stuff his hormones in the bin and have done with them.
And yet...even now, with her head tipped back as it was, the wind shifting along that exquisitely long neck of hers, there was something almost regal about Naomi’s presence. Not haughty or standoffish, more...wise.
Where he shot from the hip, she always took a moment before responding to his sharp comments and brusque reactions to her.
She wasn’t to know his brush-offs were the age-old battle of desire versus pragmatism.
Where he felt big and lunky, she was lithe and adroit.
Long-limbed. Sure-footed. High, proud cheekbones. Skin the shade of... He didn’t know to describe it. A rich, warmly colored brown? Whatever shade it was, it was beautiful. The perfect complement to her full, plump mouth. Not that he was staring at it. Much.
There was something fiercely loyal shining in those dark eyes of hers. He saw it whenever she was with a patient. But he could also see it now as she trained her eyes on the sky above. For whom or what it shone, he would never know, because he didn’t do personal. Didn’t do intimate. Not anymore.
As if feeling his gaze on her, she turned and met his eyes.
“Is there anywhere we’re meant to stand when they land, Mr. Morgan?”
Finn scowled. Why’d she have to catch him mooning over her? And what was with this Mr. Morgan business? Made him sound like a grumpy old man.
Humph.
Maybe that was the point she was making.
“It’s Finn,” he said. “Over there.” He pointed toward the covered doorway where a porter was wheeling a gurney into place then turned his focus on to the approaching helicopter...willing the beats and syncopation of the blades cutting through the thin, wintry air to knock some sense back into him.
Bah.
He hadn’t been mooning. It had simply been a while. Once he’d cut ties with his past, he’d thought that part of him had all but died.
He should be relieved his body was still capable of responding to a woman like a red-blooded male. So many of the soldiers he’d met during his stint in hospital...hell...he didn’t wish their futures on his worst enemies.
All these thoughts and the raft of others that inevitably followed in their wake fell to the wayside as the helicopter hovered above them for a moment before executing a perfect landing.
And then they all fell to what they did best, caring for their patient.
* * *
There were too many people in Adao’s room. It was easy enough to see from the growing panic in his wide, dark eyes as they darted from person to medical contraption to yet another person.
When they landed on her, all she could see was fear.
He was strapped to the gurney, completely surrounded by medical staff from the charity and the hospital all exchanging stats and information at a rate of knots that would have been impossible for him to comprehend.
Short, sharp counts dictated the swift shift from the gurney to the hospital bed and yet another stream of instructions flowed over him as they hooked him up to fresh IVs and peeled out another ream of information as they pressed monitors to his skinny, bare, little-boy chest. And when he called out for his parents it was all she could do not to tear her heart from her own chest.
“It’s too much!”
The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Naomi.
“I beg your pardon?”
Finn hadn’t moved a muscle, but his voice may as well have been a drill boring straight into her chest for the pain it caused.
She lifted her chin and met his steel-colored gaze. Yes, she was still smarting from his curt form of issuing orders.
“Not on that side.”
“Not too close.”
“Not too far.”
There didn’t seem to be a single thing she could do properly under his hawk-eyed gaze. But when it came to the child—this child—enough was enough.
“Please. Give the boy some peace. He’s known nothing but chaos. This place—this hospital—must bring him peace. Comfort. Not fear.”
Finn’s eyebrows lifted a notch. It was written all over his face. She’d overstepped the mark.
Just as she was about to run out of the room, find a computer and start composing her letter of resignation, he spoke.
“You heard Naomi.” He pointed at one nurse and one doctor, both of whom were on the overnight shift in Adao’s ward. “You two stay. The rest of you...” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Out you go. And you...’ He pointed directly at Naomi. “You come with me.”
* * *
Finn’s eyes were glued to Naomi’s throat. The tiny pulse point, alive with a blaze of passion he’d not seen in her before.
Their paths had never really crossed in this way. Neither had their temperaments.
Fighting for a patient.
It showed her high-energy, positive approach to work was more than skin deep.
But what he wanted to get to was the why. Why this little boy? Why the specifics? Her slight accent intrigued him. Maybe it was from a French-speaking country? He wasn’t sure. Either way, there was something about Adao that had got under her skin and was making an emotional impact.
Problem Number One.
Finn flexed his fingers, hoping it would rid them of the urge to reach out and touch her throat, smooth his thumb across her pounding pulse point. From the meter or so he’d put between them, he could still tell her skin looked as soft as silk. But her spirit? Solid steel.
The combination pounded a double hit onto his senses. Primal. Cerebral.
Problem Number Two.
He bashed the primal response into submission and channeled his thoughts into figuring out what made her tick.
Work.
That much was obvious. Not that he kept tabs on the woman, but he’d only ever seen her in work clothes. Never did she shift to casual or night-out-on-the-town outfits as loads of other doctors did when they threw their scrubs in for washing. Then again...he wasn’t exactly a social butterfly either.
She was top of her game. No one came more highly recommended in her field of