One Night, One Unexpected Miracle. Caroline AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       PROLOGUE

      HE COULDN’T TAKE his eyes off her.

      He’d had to for a moment while he was tied up with Ryan Walker, the new neonatal cardiac surgeon who’d arrived in the UK just in time for the gala opening of Hope Children’s Hospital. Theo Hawkwood, the CEO, had asked him to introduce Ryan to people at the party, but he’d skilfully palmed him off on the head of ICU so now he was free to indulge himself again and, man, was it worth it.

      She looked stunning.

      What a contrast from her usual scrubs, which hung on her petite body and did a great job of hiding what he now realised was an amazing figure.

      From all the time she spent in the gym when she was off duty? It wasn’t his thing, he liked the great outdoors, but he’d heard she was constantly either in the gym or in the pool, swimming for an hour at a time, and occasionally when he’d been out running in the early morning he’d seen her leave her house in tracksuit and trainers. Going to the gym, probably, and whatever she did there obviously worked.

      Not for him. He hated being trapped in a room filled with pumping music and sweaty bodies. He’d grown up amongst the slopes of the family vineyards in Tuscany, and although the city of Cambridge was set in a flat landscape with barely a wrinkle, it made for good running, so he ran every morning, rain or shine, pushing himself to the limit, and sometimes his route took him past her house as he pounded the footpaths by the river and the bridleways out into the countryside.

      Now, though, the only thing pounding was his heart, the heavy thud as he studied her beating in his ears. Her dress was blue, the same astonishingly brilliant blue as her eyes, and it clung to her slender frame like a second skin. It shimmered in the lights, showing every curve and hollow, so that even though the neck was high and the sleeves elbow length—typical Alice, all demure and buttoned up like a Victorian schoolmarm—it left little to the imagination.

      She glanced across at him, her eyes locking briefly with his through the crowd, and he lifted his glass to her, feeling the tension that was always between them tighten like an invisible thread that ran across the room and connected them together.

      It had been like that since the first day, this thing that hovered in the background so that even if he couldn’t see her, he knew when she was near him. Was it the same for her? He thought so. He’d caught the odd glimpse, a little flash of something quickly hidden, an inner battle with herself which she always seemed to win.

      Like now.

      She’d held his eyes for a fraction, then coolly turned away, winning the battle of wills with herself again, but the tension stayed with him like a knot in his chest.

      Was she still angry with him? Maybe. She had reason to be, because he’d really pushed it this morning and the tension was tighter now than ever, the verbal sparring that had been business as usual for them since day one for some reason escalating today without warning.

      They’d taken it to a whole new level, and he didn’t really understand why. When they were operating, they moved like clockwork, reading each other’s minds, two halves of a whole, and neither of them ever criticised the other’s clinical ability or judgement. But Alice Baxter was his boss, and outside the operating theatre she did things a certain way and expected him to do the same.

      Which he didn’t. Not always, at least, and sometimes he deliberately didn’t just to get a rise out of her. Like today. And he teased her and flirted with her for the same reason. Was that why she’d lost it with him? That he’d gone too far just to ramp up the tension and push her to the limit?

      He’d been going to apologise, but then she’d been so cutting, so short with him that he’d gone all macho Italian male on her and then stalked off because it was either that or kiss her, which was so massively unprofessional and out of line that even he, with his cheerful disregard for convention, had backed away.

      Yes, he really needed to apologise.

      Then someone in the crowd moved, giving him a perfect view of her, and he nearly choked on his prosecco.

      The dress was backless.

      Well, not entirely, of course, but backless enough to take his breath away and send his heart into overdrive. A fine strand of fabric was held together by a sparkling clasp at the nape of her slender neck, and below it the pale, smooth skin of her back was bracketed by shimmering blue, plunging all the way down to her hips, reuniting to caress the subtle curve of her bottom.

      He swallowed. His hands ached to cup that sweet curve, to pull her up against his body, to feel those surprisingly generous breasts against his chest...

      Time to put things back on an even keel. He’d flirted outrageously with her this morning, but he didn’t want to flirt with her now. Not any more. He wanted more than that, something else entirely, something much, much more serious.

      A relationship?

      Never going to happen. She was his boss, and his feelings were totally inappropriate.

      But not unreciprocated, unless he’d read her wrong? Yes, they wrangled constantly, but under it all was this quiet simmer of emotion, attraction, sensuality—call it what you will, it was there in every moment of every day, unless they were operating. Well, they weren’t operating now, and maybe it was time to confront this, to apologise and get things back to normal.

      He put his empty glass down on a passing tray and headed across the room.

      * * *

      He was watching her. She could feel it, feel the stroke of his eyes over the bare skin of her back like a caress, and the conversation around her was dead to her ears. All she could think about, all she could feel, was Marco watching her across the room.

      She always knew when he was there, could always feel his presence, knew he was coming even before she heard his voice. It was like some sort of sixth sense—a sense she could gladly have done without because it was playing hell with her work life and even creeping into her dreams.

      And last night the dreams had been definitely X-rated...

      She laughed when the others did, took another gulp of prosecco and nearly choked on the bubbles. What was wrong with her tonight? It was all just because of that stupid dream, and she could still feel the touch of his hands on her body—

      Ridiculous. Sheer fantasy. There was no way anything was going to happen between them, even if he did flirt constantly with her.

      That was just Marco, and it didn’t mean anything. He flirted with every female with a pulse, from the babies up to the great-grandmothers visiting their tiny relatives, and he had them all eating out of the palm of his hand.

      He probably didn’t even realise he was doing it, it was as natural as breathing—and to be fair it wasn’t so much flirting as just breaking the ice and gentle teasing. Unless it was her.

      Then there was an undercurrent of sensuality that, try as she might, she couldn’t ignore.

      Because she didn’t want to ignore it? Wanted to call him out on it, see if he really meant what he said? But she wouldn’t, of course, for all sorts of reasons, not least cowardice. What if she was reading much more into it than was actually there? Although it had certainly been there in her dream.

      She sighed crossly, stopped pretending to listen to the conversation she should have been part of and excused herself.

      She