Greek Doctor, Cinderella Bride

by Amy Andrews

  Alex frowned again. He suspected from what Reg said that she didn’t ‘mix it up’ as much as she should. ‘Good. I can’t afford to have one of my team leaders and best researchers off work because she isn’t following guidelines. The project must always be paramount.’

  The intenseness of his Aegean gaze as it burrowed into hers was intimidating, and she nodded dumbly as his husky compliment was completely obliterated by his gravelly reprimand of her work practices. ‘Of course, Dr Zaphirides.’ She saw his full lips flatten. ‘I mean…Alex.’

  He nodded. Her prim politeness bothered him for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

  Isobella could only stare after him. His long-legged, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered retreat was fascinating, despite the slow burn of pique rising in her chest. The last thing she saw as he disappeared was the decadent brush of his hair against his collar.

  She almost sagged to the ground in relief when he left, and stumbled back to her desk, sitting down with shaking knees. The whole atmosphere had seemed charged by his enigmatic presence, and she was pleased to be alone as reaction to his sheer masculine beauty took over.

  Well, the rumours weren’t wrong. He was sexy and autocratic in spades, and his commanding Greek heritage gave him an edge—an extra dollop of authority that was impressive. Quite what he was doing locked away in a lab she wasn’t sure. Alexander Zaphirides should be gracing magazine covers, selling aftershave and whisky and expensive watches.

  And Isobella knew what she was talking about. At the zenith of her international career she’d worked with some of the world’s top male models. She had no doubt that Alex could have moved easily amongst their number.

  She groaned inwardly. Great! Not only did the man have a voice that could practically bring her to orgasm over the phone, but he had a body that was giving her the vapours after only a few minutes in his company. What the hell was the matter with her? The man had wrapped a thinly veiled criticism in a compliment. Questioned her commitment to the project. No one did that.

  How dare he?

  Two hours later, Alex watched Isobella surreptitiously as she peered through her microscope. The dreadful large dark-rimmed glasses that marred her face butted against the eyepieces of the scope. Her long platinum-blonde fringe had flopped forward from its side parting, and instead of sweeping elegantly across her forehead, as it had earlier, it obscured her face from him.

  Her hair was cropped severely at the back, almost boyish in its brevity, shaped into the contours of her skull, exposing cute ears and feathered lightly at her nape. He caught a hint of bare flesh before the high collar of her shirt encroached on the very elegant line of her neck.

  She was so not what he’d imagined. Not that he’d spent his days and nights wondering what one research assistant in his Brisbane lab looked like, but it bugged him nonetheless. He was usually very good at mental imaging. He had spoken to Isobella on a regular basis for two years, and with her precise speech, her prim and proper vocabulary and her polite way of keeping things strictly business had pegged her as a mousy middle-aged spinster.

  And she appeared to be working overtime trying to project that image. Except she was failing miserably. The glasses were a classic example. He’d definitely expected to see her wearing a pair—even a pair that most respectable grandmothers wouldn’t be seen dead in—but somehow they didn’t disguise her features.

  Instead the large, ugly frames accentuated the kittenesque quality of her make-up-less face. Its heart-shaped perfection. The delicateness of her nose, with its fascinating tilt at the tip. The mastery of her high cheekbones.

  Nor did the two-sizes-too-big white lab coat hide anything. It hung on her like a sack, only emphasising the slightness beneath. The shapeless covering hinted at the litheness of her frame in all its small-boned glory. The pertness of her breasts and the flatness of her stomach. It was more alluring in a lot of ways than a skintight outfit would have been. It teased, hinted, heightened.

  The same could be said for the baggy tracksuit pants she wore. Every movement, every twist and pivot as she reached for equipment, outlined the narrowness of her calves beneath. Her height worked against her, and a glimpse of slim ankle peeked out between the hem and the sock line of her very sensible, workplace-health-and-safety-approved closed-in shoes.

  She twiddled the knob on her microscope and his gaze was drawn to her long, elegant fingers. They were free of jewellery, and he tried hard to think if he knew any female over the age of twelve who didn’t wear at least one ring. Her nails were cut short and polish-free. Everything about her said plain, ordinary. It said, Don’t look at me, pass me by, ignore me. So why was he so compelled to notice?

  Because. Because despite her efforts to the contrary she was classically beautiful. Tall, long-limbed, cheekbones to die for, full cherubic lips that formed a perfect bow. And her eyes? A soft brown that reminded him of all the things that were bad for him. Rich espresso, expensive chocolate and hard, dark toffee.

  Give her glasses trendier frames, or ultra-modern no frames—hell, even a set of contacts—and give her some clothes that flattered her figure and she’d be a damn knockout. So why? Why was a woman who would look good in a paper bag hiding herself away behind an over-sized white coat and polo-necked shirts?

  He wandered towards her, intrigued despite himself. Isobella hadn’t shown the slightest interest in him, and that in itself was enough to pique his curiosity. Without any vanity Alex knew that women were drawn to him. They always showed interest.

  ‘What are you working on?’ Alex asked as he approached.

  Isobella felt the jump of muscles in her neck as his husky question abraded her sensitised flesh. She’d been hyper-aware of him wandering around the lab. No matter where he’d been, he’d always seemed to be in her peripheral vision, and the muscles of her shoulders were bunched tightly from forcing herself not to look. Being hunched over a microscope for two hours was not good health practice—as Alex had taken pains to point out.

  She schooled her features, her fingers tightening around the base of the microscope as she looked up and gave him a polite smile. ‘The software for Reg’s presentation decided to go haywire this morning. I’m cross-checking the specimens against the graphics to make sure they correlate.’

  Alex nodded, searching for a softening in her steady brown gaze. ‘Did you get the Darwin sample yet?’ he asked.

  ‘This morning,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s already catalogued and entered into the database.’

  The database was extensive, comprising not just skin-scrapings from individual victims but actual tentacular material, and digital photos of the different stages of the dermonecrotic lesions caused by the tentacles of the box jellyfish as they adhered to their victims’ skin.

  ‘Was it a Fleckeri?’

  ‘Yes. Would you like to examine it?’ she asked politely.

  He gave her a slow, measured look, as if he was searching for something, and she nervously lowered her eyes from the intensity of his gaze. Her vision was now level with the open neck of his shirt, and she found her eyes inexplicably drawn again to the fascinating scars.

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Alex said, amused at her stilted formality.

  ‘Of course. No trouble at all.’

  Isobella rose stiffly from her high stool, not lifting her gaze, waiting for him to stand aside so she could pass by him to the fridges where the specimens were stored.

  He took a step back, and she dragged in a calming breath as she retrieved the skin-scraping from earlier. She could feel his gaze on her back, and her fingers trembled as they closed over the specimen container.

  She passed it to him wordlessly, taking great care not to make contact with him as she did so. He smiled his thanks and she returned it with a tight smile of her own relieved when he turned his back on her and set about preparing the slide.

  What the hell was the matter with her? Two hours in the company of Alex Zaphirides and she
was in a total dither. She didn’t do dithering. Certainly no one she’d met in the laboratory world had been dither material. Mostly they were science geeks or maths nerds.

  And that was what she liked about it. It was safe. Secluded. Nobody recognised her in here. Nobody asked inane questions or fluttered by half-naked, despairing that they’d run out of lipgloss. Nobody cared what label she was wearing, or whether her shoes matched, or what the light reading was. She was part of something much bigger. Worthwhile.

  She watched him as he parked his very nice pin-striped butt on her high stool, and found herself wondering if he wore boxers or jocks.

  Oh, for crying out loud!

  ‘You’ll need to adjust the magnification,’ she said, for something to say to get her mind out of his trousers. ‘I have it specially adjusted for my glasses.’

  Alex twisted on the stool and looked at her. ‘Thanks. I got it,’ he said.

  Idiot! Of course he would know that. Now he was probably wondering why on earth he’d hired a babbling dunce. She’d worked hard to prove that beauty could also come with brains. Worked hard to suppress the beauty part altogether. For God’s sake, she hadn’t worn make-up in sixteen years! She didn’t want to blow all her hard-earned years of study and work because her seriously hot boss had resuscitated her long-dead libido.

  ‘So, tell me about the case,’ Alex murmured, as he adjusted the magnification and the sample came into focus.

  Alex’s softly burred voice barely reached her from where she stood, and she moved reluctantly closer. She took a steadying breath and reeled off the facts as concisely and scientifically as she could.

  ‘Eight-year-old female. Minimal exposure to the tentacles. Didn’t require the antivenin or even hospitalisation.’

  ‘Have we got parental consent to enter the little girl into the dermonecrosis study?’

  Isobella nodded. ‘Trish, our Northern Territory field officer, has arranged it. She’ll follow up and chronicle the progression of the scarring for us. She’s already e-mailed the first lot of photographs.’

  ‘I’ll take a look at them too, if you don’t mind?’ Alex murmured.

  ‘Sure,’ Isobella agreed faintly as she watched him work.

  She went into more detail, grateful to be concentrating on the facts of the case and ignoring the waft of pure male aroma that emanated from Alex’s body in tantalising waves. Every little movement in the chair, every twist of a dial, drifted more in her direction. He smelled of cut grass and wet earth and wild honey, and she had the strangest urge to bury her face in his neck just to see if his skin tasted as sweet.

  His rumbling voice, occasionally interrupting to clarify a point or ask a question, was like hundreds of invisible fingers undulating seductively against her skin. Like the caress of an anemone swaying in tropical waters. She wanted to stretch. Close her eyes. Sigh. Purr.

  ‘What was the weather like at the time of the envenomation?’

  Alex waited a moment, and then looked up from the specimen when Isobella didn’t reply to his question. Her eyes were shut, the heavy fringe of her lashes behind the glass just as fascinating as the rest of her. They fluttered and then opened, her brown gaze showing its first real emotion as it widened in shock. She opened her mouth to say something and a delicate shade of pink fanned her exquisite cheekbones.

  ‘Why aren’t you coming to dinner tonight with everyone else?’

  Isobella shut her mouth and blinked at the rapid change in topic, her embarrassment at being caught with her guard down completely forgotten. Nematocysts, Chironex Fleckeri, statistical data—these were all things she could have answered questions on, had prepared to be questioned on. She hadn’t been prepared for him to pry into her personal life.

  She raised her hand to her throat, reflexively stroking the material covering her neck, strengthened by its presence. ‘I…I don’t…socialise…outside of work hours.’

  It was true. Anyone present would have confirmed it for Alex. She just wished it didn’t sound so…lame.

  He quirked an eyebrow. She didn’t socialise inside of work hours either. ‘You are unhappy here? You don’t like your colleagues?’

  His gaze bored into hers. How was it possible to have eyes that blue? She lowered her gaze. ‘I’m very happy here. I like them fine,’ she dismissed.

  Alex eyed her thoughtfully. Her discomfort was palpable. ‘You have other plans? A date, maybe?’

  Isobella frowned. ‘Certainly not,’ she said primly. Who did he think she was? Did he think she’d blow off a work function for a man?

  Alex chuckled. She was so affronted he had no doubt she was telling the truth. ‘Well, in that case I’m going to have to insist.’

  Alex’s husky laughter, even over a phoneline from a thousand kilometers away, had always managed to turn her insides to mush. But this close she felt sure she was going to melt into a puddle right at his feet. There was no way she could sit at a table and have dinner with him. In fact she planned to avoid him for the rest of the week.

  ‘Dr Zaphirides—’

  ‘Ms Nolan?’

  Isobella saw the slight lifting at the corner of his mouth and a dimple almost took her breath away. Damn him—she would not let him charm her.

  ‘Alex. I’ve worked for you for two years. I’m here early every morning and I don’t clock off till way past my time. Are you displeased with my work?’

  ‘No.’

  She almost sagged. His earlier criticism had left her with a nagging sense of insecurity. ‘Then I believe the time after I leave the lab is my own. To do with as I wish.’

  Alex bowed. ‘But of course. Tonight, however, I’d like you to have dinner with me.’

  Isobella knew he didn’t meant him personally. But his cerulean eyes had a way of making her think she was the only person in the room. And he was so close, his wild honey and cut grass aroma wrapping her in a seductive web.

  She opened her mouth to protest again, but he cut her off. ‘Isobella.’

  She felt goosebumps feather her skin as he elongated the vowel at the end of her name as he had done so often on the phone, his husky voice and slight accent a deadly combination.

  ‘We are a team. It’s a rare event to have us all together. We have made great progress towards our goals. I think a little team-building and a pat on the back for everyone is warranted once in a while. It’s my thank-you to you all for keeping my Brisbane lab running smoothly. It would spoil everyone’s evening not to have you there. You would do me a great service if you agreed to join us.’

  Isobella doubted very much whether she would be missed. Oh, she knew she was respected for her work, but she doubted that anyone felt close enough to her to miss her socially. She had, after all, deliberately cultivated distance.

  ‘Please, Isobella.’

  His rumbled request weakened her resistance. Surely she could manage a few hours out of her comfort zone in the real world? One night out couldn’t hurt, could it? She never went out. And the big boss had made a direct request. How churlish would it look to refuse his hospitality?

  She became aware of how close they were standing. She took a step back and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Certainly, Alex,’ she acquiesced, with as much formality as she could muster. ‘If you insist. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to retrieve some documents from the printer.’

  Alex inclined his head and watched her walk away, her back straight, her stride wooden, her reluctant acceptance rankling.

  He should be pleased. So why did her I’d-rather-poke-myself-in-the-eye-with-a-sharp-stick demeanour bother him so much?

  CHAPTER TWO

  ISOBELLA got into the shower with an impending sense of doom. Damn Alexander Zaphirides and his ‘Please Isobellaaaaa’. Even now it washed over her as easily as the water sluicing over her skin, tightening her nipples, causing a heat down low that not even the cool shower could extinguish.

  No, no, no. That was not why she had agreed to go out tonight. It had nothing to do with his husky request. Or
the way he looked. Or his wild honey smell. It was strictly a business affair. Accepting his gesture of thanks as everyone else was. And he had insisted.

  Thank God he was only here for the week, if this was how much havoc he’d created in just one day. On Friday he and Reg were going to the symposium in Cairns, and then he would be flying back to Melbourne.

  She only had to get through the next few days.

  Or she could take some sick leave—God knew she had a mountain of it. Plead a mysterious illness. The presentation was essentially complete, so her absence wouldn’t cause too much disruption.

  She switched off the tap hard and dried herself briskly. Who was she kidding? Her? Off work for a few days? She never took time off. She hadn’t had a single sick day in her time with Zaphirides Medical Enterprises. Not even last winter, when she’d caught a really bad flu and had felt like death warmed up. Hell, she hadn’t pulled a sickie—ever. Taking a few days off would cause an immense stir.

  She was just going to have to get through the week as best she could. Her infatuation with him was ridiculous. There was absolutely no point getting herself into a dither over a man that she was never going to have. She’d resigned herself to her asexual existence many years ago, and no one had ever tempted her out of her self-imposed celibacy. She wasn’t about to let a man who looked as if he could have his pick of beauties ruin her hard-won reputation.

  Isobella wrapped the towel around her, anchoring it under her arms, and wandered into her room. She felt edgy and stared at the clothes in her wardrobe, wondering what the hell she was going to wear. Damn it, she never thought about what she had to wear any more. She had a cupboard full of high-necked garments, and she usually just put her hand in and picked one.

  But then she hadn’t gone out socially in years with anyone outside her family. And she never had to give too much thought to what she wore to work. Loose and comfortable were essential, and it was always covered by her white coat anyway. Fashion just didn’t come into it.