Tempted By Her Hot-Shot Doc. Becky WicksЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER THREE

      RYAN STUDIED HIS face in the mirror. He liked to think he didn’t really suffer with jet lag any more, but the truth was he probably threw himself head-first into every new time zone without giving his body the chance to react. This mission was going to be a particularly tough one—not least because he’d have Madeline Savoia on his trail.

      He rested his hands on the sink, leaned closer to the glass and frowned at his reflection. His eyes looked tired. Madeline had distracted him from sleeping on the plane.

      She looked a lot like her. The first time she’d all but ploughed into him in the studio he’d almost jumped out of his skin. His reaction had been poor, he knew. Angry... The way he always acted when confronted with something he really had no clue how to handle. He’d felt as if he’d seen a ghost.

      Josephine.

      The name popped into his head like a gunshot. He swallowed hard, jerked the cold tap on and ran his hand under it. Then he said it out loud, straight into the mirror, watching his lips make their way over the word in a way they hadn’t for a long time.’

      ‘Josephine.’

      He rarely let her name past his lips. Every time he so much as thought of her the guilt crashed over him like a tsunami. It had smothered him and almost made him tumble when Madeline’s hands had pressed against him to steady herself. She hadn’t realised, of course, but she’d kind of been holding him up at the same time.

      Ryan splashed his face with cold water. The more he tried not to think about this, the more he did. It was something about Madeline’s eyes. And her pursed lips. And the way she’d crossed her arms defiantly over that coffee stain she’d clearly been so embarrassed about. The way she’d lowered her head just slightly when she’d asserted herself, indicating her vulnerability.

      A knock on the hotel room door made him jump again. Dammit.

      ‘I’m coming,’ he called, wiping his face on the towel and running a hand through his hair. It was getting long at the front again. He frowned at the few stubborn greys now making a permanent home in his stubbled chin.

      Nothing he could do about it.

      Salt and pepper looks better on you than on my French fries.

      #DrRyanTobias

      A fan of his had tweeted that the other day. He mentally rolled his eyes—such gushing usually went straight over his head. He had quite enjoyed that French fries reference, though. He liked to think years of torment hadn’t marked him physically...at least not as much as they had on the inside.

      He threw on a white button-down shirt and pulled on his smartest jeans as the knock sounded out again. ‘Give me one second!’

      He hopped across the patterned carpet, still doing his belt up, and pulled the door open.

      ‘What’s the emergency?’

      ‘No emergency.’ Madeline smiled. Her hand was still hovering in the air, as if she was about to knock on his face. ‘Sorry to interrupt. You said to knock before I went downstairs.’

      ‘What time is it?’ he asked, flustered.

      He was totally thrown now. She looked entirely different somehow in this light, with her round, beguiling eyes lined with kohl and a hint of green eyeshadow. His hand found his hair again, at the same time as the other started buttoning up his shirt.

      ‘Almost five thirty,’ she told him, with her gaze now fixed on his exposed chest. ‘Doesn’t the drinks thing start now?’

      ‘Yes, yes—sorry, I got caught up. There was an issue with the supplies being delivered to Saint Elena, and I’ve been on the phone trying to fix it.’

      ‘Is it sorted out?’

      ‘Almost. I did all I could.’

      ‘OK. Well, don’t worry, I’m sure we can sneak you in late without anyone noticing. It’s not like you’re a VIP or anything.’

      Laughter burst from his mouth as he hurried back into the room to pull his shoes out of his suitcase. The dryness in her tone tickled him. He’d always found the British sense of humour quite fascinating.

      He grabbed his key card and wallet, turned the bathroom light out and let his eyes travel over Madeline’s petite yet curvy figure as he walked towards the door again. She was wearing another dress, an emerald-green one this time, tied around her waist with a paler green belt. Her hair was up now, in a French braid draped over one shoulder, and her lips were glistening in a shade of burgundy.

      ‘Were you writing?’ he asked, for want of something to fill the silence.

      ‘In my room? A bit.’

      He nodded. He’d fought the urge, on the journey, to ask her more about her books, aware that he’d perhaps been a little rude about her passion before. It was just that when Samantha had first mentioned a ghost-writer he’d imagined for some reason someone older, greyer, crinklier. Perhaps an avid cat-lover or crochet aficionado. He definitely hadn’t imagined...well. This.

      He cleared his throat. ‘You look nice,’ he said.

      ‘Thank you—so do you.’

      ‘So, you recognise me OK without the Medical Extremes outfit?’ He smiled now.

      ‘You’re kind of hard to miss.’

      ‘Is that right? I thought I’d been watching my weight.’

      It was Madeline’s turn to laugh now. ‘As if you need to. I meant you have presence.’

      Ryan realised that her cheeks were redder than they had been five seconds ago. He hadn’t exactly intended to get himself dressed in front of her...but, then again, they were headed into the jungle. Tribal villages in the Amazon rainforest weren’t exactly renowned for their privacy.

      He stepped past her, closing the door behind him, then put a hand to the small of her back as they walked towards the elevators, noting her shoes—summer wedges with green straps.

      ‘You’re a little better at walking in those,’ he said without thinking, pushing the button.

      ‘That tripping over in public thing? That was a one-off—don’t worry.’

      ‘I’d only be worried in the Amazon,’ he replied as the doors pinged and slid open. ‘Big black cables on the floor of the jungle have a nasty habit of not being cables.’

      She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

      ‘Snakes,’ he explained, and she pulled a face that made him chuckle.

      In the elevator, Ryan fixed his eyes on their reflections in the full-length mirror. She was at least a foot shorter than him; that was shorter than—He clenched his fist. This was ridiculous. Madeline was not her.

      He was determined to count the differences.

      Some of her expressions were similar, sure, but Madeline had bigger eyes, wide and unnervingly quizzical—even more so now, framed with make-up. Her hair, long and dark and shiny, was the same...but she was slimmer, perhaps. He didn’t know much about women’s sizes, but he knew when he could hold a waist with both hands without leaving too much room between his fingers.

      The elevator doors swung open. The music in the hotel foyer took the edge off his discomfort slightly as he guided Madeline towards the restaurant, past a crowd of tourists in matching floral shorts, speaking hurried German.

      ‘I’m sure you’ve been briefed about this,’ he said, trying to regain an air of authority