Greek Doctor, Cinderella Bride

by Amy Andrews

  His bedside manner was superb—not something one generally learned from peering down a microscope or schmoozing at symposiums. Danielle trusted him—she could tell. He had already built a quick rapport. Had he been that kind of surgeon? The kind who took their time to explain and understand their patient’s fears and worries? Had his patients adored him? Or had he been distant? Arrogant? Like the brief impression she’d had of him at the cocktail party?

  Danielle faltered, and Isobella tuned back into the conversation.

  ‘It was awful.’ Danielle shuddered. She looked down at her hands, that were plucking at the sheet. ‘The pain is…indescribable. It was like…like someone had taken a blowtorch to my leg, but it…it…’

  Isobella took a step closer to the bed as the young woman struggled to adequately describe the unimaginable pain she’d experienced. Danielle’s eyes had filled with tears, and she had a look of such abject terror on her face Isobella felt her stomach flop. She didn’t have to ask to know that Danielle was back in the water again, reliving the dreadful moment.

  ‘It was everywhere. It was in my head and my heart and my lungs. I couldn’t breathe…I couldn’t move…’

  Danielle choked on a sob, and Isobella took another step closer and reached for the girl’s fidgeting hand. Danielle looked startled at the intimacy as a tear trekked down her face. But she gripped Isobella’s hand hard and gave her a tight, watery smile.

  ‘And now I have this.’ She peeled back the sheet to reveal the three livid purple lashes seared into the flesh of her left lower thigh. ‘Look at it,’ she gasped. ‘It’s horrible—hideous. I’m never going to be able to wear shorts again!’

  Isobella leaned hard into the side of the bed as the Fleckeri damage leapt out at her. Danielle’s emotions were so raw, evoking a hundred memories of a time she only wanted to forget. Isobella knew that plenty of people would tell Danielle how lucky she was—and, yes, she was—but Isobella also knew that living with a permanent unwanted tattoo was hard on the self-esteem and worse on the psyche. You felt branded. Unattractive. Unfemale. Unworthy.

  The girl wouldn’t get such banal platitudes from her.

  Isobella squeezed Danielle’s hand. ‘It’s hard now. But it gets easier.’

  Alex frowned at the sight before him. What the…? He could see the white of Isobella’s knuckles as she held Danielle’s hand, and the now familiar molasses gaze was coating the young woman in compassion. He’d never seen Isobella looking so intense—not even in the few days he’d spent with her at the lab. He wouldn’t have thought that possible.

  ‘Isobella’s right, Danielle,’ Alex said quietly, dragging his gaze from Isobella’s face. ‘The scars lessen over time.’

  That hadn’t been what Isobella meant, but who wouldn’t believe Alex when he was looking so self-assured, with his husky voice ringing with truth?

  Danielle gulped and nodded her head, removing her hand from Isobella’s and scrubbing at her face.

  ‘Let me tell you about our project,’ Alex said gently. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’

  Danielle listened intently. The timbre and the flow of his voice were hypnotic, and his passion about his subject was not remotely blunted by the burred resonance.

  ‘We’d like to enrol you in the study. We’d need to take some pictures of the wound and arrange for regular follow-ups after you go back to England. Isobella will look into that. We brought some information for you to read through.’

  Alex glanced at her, and it took a second or two for Isobella to realise that he was waiting for her to hand over the literature. She blinked, and then delved around in her bag for the booklet.

  ‘Here,’ she said, smiling at Danielle. The young woman took the booklet from her and leafed through it. Isobella could see the information was going to be too much to take in right now. ‘I’ll be in touch, and we can go over any questions you might have. But do you mind if I take a few pictures of the lesions now for my database?’ Isobella asked.

  Danielle nodded. ‘Okay.’

  Isobella smiled her thanks and quickly snapped a dozen shots with the lab’s high-resolution digital camera. The severe linear erythematous weals had a white ischaemic centre in what was known as a frosted ladder pattern. An acute inflammatory response had developed, causing some surrounding tissue oedema.

  Isobella made sure she had some detailed angles. The researcher in her wanted to pore over the wound, discuss it with Alex in depth, but she didn’t want to make Danielle too self-conscious. She knew she could inspect the photos in depth at a later date.

  Danielle thanked them for coming and promised to read the literature. Alex stopped to write on the chart, but Isobella didn’t want to stick around, and offered to go and buy them some coffee, arranging to meet Alex in the café in fifteen minutes.

  It wasn’t till she left the unit that Isobella felt as if she could breathe properly again, and her hand trembled as she thought about the anguish in Danielle Cartwright’s voice. And this was just the beginning. Today would be fraught with hard-to-listen-to stories. Stories that would take her back to her own horrid experience. She yearned for the safety of her white coat and her microscope, nearly two thousand kilometres away in Brisbane.

  ‘So where are these rooms the hospital have loaned us?’

  Alex’s low question vibrated near her ear and slithered down her arms, startling her. Had it not been for the lid she would have spilled his coffee everywhere. ‘On the third floor,’ she said stiffly, handing him the paper mug. ‘We should get going too. Our first client arrives in fifteen minutes.’

  Alex nodded at Little-Miss-Efficient who stood before him. She wasn’t meeting his eyes, and he suspected that she’d been more affected by Danielle then she let on. She’d certainly been marvellously empathetic with the young woman.

  They made their way in silence to the lifts. ‘I think she’ll be okay,’ Alex said as the doors closed.

  Isobella frowned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Danielle Cartwright.’

  Her frown deepened. ‘Maybe. Eventually.’ Isobella had the feeling that the English tourist had some way to go.

  ‘She’s shaken at the moment, but the scarring is minimal,’ Alex pointed out.

  Isobella felt a surge of bile rise inside her at his casual dismissal. ‘Not to her it isn’t,’ she said acidly.

  The lift pinged and they disembarked. Alex wasn’t sure what he’d said, but he’d obviously annoyed her. ‘All I’m saying is that in the grand scheme of things she got off lightly.’

  Isobella halted. ‘She’s an eighteen-year-old woman. A girl, really. Complete with all the screwed-up body images we all have from living in an airbrushed world. Her body has been physically marked. It’s changed. She’s confronting big issues and questioning her attractiveness to the opposite sex.’

  Alex frowned down at her. Isobella was positively animated. Her eyes glittered, her cheeks were flushed and her chest heaved. He wasn’t sure what was going on here, but he liked seeing her so alive. ‘Men don’t care about things like that.’

  Isobella snorted. Right. She had first-hand experience of just how much men cared about disfiguring scars. ‘It’s all right for you, Mr Show-my-scars-off-to-the-world. It’s easier for men. For some reason women find scars fascinating on a man—a turn-on. They make us want to take men home and feed the poor wounded heroes chicken soup while we kiss them better.’

  Alex grinned down at her. ‘Scars are a turn-on?’

  Isobella gave a frustrated growl at the back of her throat and turned away, steaming ahead again, ignoring his husky chuckle. He was being deliberately inflammatory and she wasn’t going to be his entertainment for the day. It was going to be harrowing enough.

  ‘I just meant,’ Alex said, following her into a large office area, ‘that any man—any real man—wouldn’t be turned off by scarring.’

  ‘Well, don’t mind me if my opinion of your sex is somewhat lower. I think you’d be amazed at what spooks men.’

  Ale
x looked down at her speculatively. Some man had definitely done a number on her. ‘Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong type of man?’

  Isobella swallowed at the sinful quiver to his voice. Had it lowered a notch further?

  ‘Look, Alex,’ she said, determined not to open a conversation about her type of man, ‘all I’m saying is Danielle’s not an older woman who has already found her place in the world, has a career and kids and a husband, and is secure in herself. She’s a teenager who still very much judges herself on what others think. Peer groups are vital at that age. Any little blemish can be devastating. A pimple can cause a meltdown at that age, for crying out loud!’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  She shrugged as her heart pounded in her chest. Had she given too much away? ‘I was young once.’

  And beautiful.

  Alex found it hard to believe, in her unflattering clothes and grandma glasses, that Isobella had ever been a teenager. He drained his coffee. ‘Well, let’s find us a cure, then.’

  Isobella had scheduled appointments every half-hour, so they wouldn’t be rushed, but even so it would be a full day. Only six of the group actually lived in Cairns. The study had paid the expenses for the remainder, who lived in the far North Queensland region, to come to the clinic for the day.

  There were four children between the ages of six and fourteen, and the rest were a cross section of adults from different backgrounds, cultures and socio-economic brackets. But their stories were all quite similar. An innocent swim in balmy tropical waters gone horribly wrong.

  Isobella set up her laptop and appointed herself official scribe, determined to distance herself from the patients and the emotional impact of the information as much as possible. Alex could do all the talking and photo-taking while Isobella got the info down without involving herself in the stories.

  But of course it didn’t work out that way. Alex drew her in to every consultation, insisting she look at and give opinions on the scarring. He got her to talk about the project from her perspective, and it was impossible not to get involved. Not to put faces to people that until now had been just case numbers, distant voices over the phone.

  Which was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid. Every person reliving their experiences, showing their scars, made her relive hers, tearing open the wounds a little further. Damn it, Reg was supposed to be here doing this. Her job had been to set it all up, not to participate. That was what she did—she co-ordinated the project from Brisbane and worked in the lab. Hers was not a field job. She’d never have applied for it had she known she’d be anywhere but in the safe haven of her lab.

  Between patients she downloaded the digital shots and filed them, electronically attaching them to the case histories she’d taken, ignoring Alex. She told him it was an efficient use of her time and ducked his attempts at conversation. But in reality the things she was hearing were cutting deeply into her emotional barriers and she felt raw and exposed. She didn’t need his razor-sharp analysis or unnerving scrutiny. And, frankly, she didn’t trust the steadiness of her own voice.

  Their last client for the day was forty-year-old Alice Spalding. She had twenty-year-old abdominal scarring from a Fleckeri and was the one patient Isobella had been dreading, being closest to her in nature.

  Alice had brought her eight-month-old baby girl, Phoebe, with her, and Isobella’s concerns disappeared as her heart just about melted. The baby had her mother’s colouring—milky skin, with a crop of russet curls framing a cherubic face. Little fat arms and legs and huge round green eyes completed the irresistible package. How often had Isobella dreamed of having her own little one?

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Alice murmured. ‘I’m still feeding her, so I had to bring her to Cairns with me.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Alex dismissed, ushering them both in.

  Isobella watched as Phoebe gave Alex a gooey smile and he wiggled his eyebrows at her. The baby giggled and Alex did it again. Yeah, kid, he’s something else, isn’t he?

  ‘You look like you’re an old hand, Dr Zaphirides,’ Alice commented.

  ‘Number one favourite uncle, that’s me.’ He grinned.

  Isobella didn’t scribe a thing during the consultation, too mesmerised by Phoebe. Or at least by the way Alex was with her. He spoke to Alice while automatically picking up all the objects Phoebe had taken from her mother’s hand, sucked once and then thrown on the floor. He was amazingly patient, and Isobella felt her attraction for him treble.

  ‘We just need to have a look at your old scars and photograph them,’ he said to Alice. ‘Come on, madam.’ Alex clapped his hands and plucked the baby off her mother’s lap, holding her against his chest.

  Phoebe looked very small against his largeness, and Isobella found herself wondering again what a child of his would look like. Dark curls. Olive skin. Blue eyes like Alex’s that spoke of Greece and the sea and all its secrets.

  Alex dropped a kiss on the mop of hair. ‘You can go to Isobella.’

  Isobella blinked. ‘What?’

  He passed the baby over, amused at the look of consternation on her face. But she did hold out her arms, even if her eyes were wide beneath her ridiculous glasses. ‘It’s just for a minute,’ he murmured.

  Phoebe landed in her arms, and Isobella caught her close in an automatic response, surprised at the weight of the little girl. She settled Phoebe on her hip and looked down at the earnest, chubby-cheeked angel. Phoebe stared at her solemnly for a few moments, a small frown on her face, and then reached for Isobella’s glasses.

  ‘Oh!’ Isobella said as Phoebe managed to remove them easily and everything went blurry.

  ‘Out of the mouths of babes…’ Alex said, already liking the improvement.

  ‘I can’t see a thing without them,’ Isobella objected as she rescued the glasses from receiving a baby saliva bath. She placed them back, high on her nose, and was relieved when Phoebe found a different distraction in the buttons on her high-necked blouse.

  ‘Okay, Alice, let’s have a look,’ Alex said, reluctantly dragging his gaze back to the matter at hand. Isobella looked good with a baby on her hip. Too good.

  Alice lay down on the examination couch and pulled up her T-shirt. Two long tentacular marks branded her abdomen. They had faded a little, lost their livid quality, but they were still stark against Alice’s pale skin.

  Alex snapped some pictures. ‘Did you have any problems conceiving?’

  Isobella, who’d been swaying gently, suddenly stopped. She looked at Alice’s abdominal scarring and shivered—it was nasty, but nowhere near as nasty as hers. What did Alex know about Fleckeri stings and fertility?

  Alice nodded. ‘Why else would I have a baby at forty?’

  Alex chuckled. ‘Good point.’

  ‘The docs told me when it first happened that they didn’t know if it would affect my fertility, given the area of the scarring and the unknown long-term side effects of the antivenin. Ever since the sting I’ve had erratic periods, and we tried for years to fall pregnant—had all the tests and everything checked out normally. The gynae guys were reluctant to officially say it, but unofficially they think the sting to my abdomen somehow affected my reproductive organs. We’d given up years ago. Little Phoebe was our surprise package.’

  Isobella hugged the child closer as Alice’s story chilled her to the bone. The specialists had said the same thing to her. They didn’t know the long-term effects of such extensive envenomation to the abdomen. They didn’t know the long-term side effects of six doses of antivenin. And at nineteen, with more immediate things to worry about, it hadn’t been a big issue for her. But the older she got, the more it weighed on her mind.

  She too had been plagued with erratic periods since the sting. Had gone from regular as clockwork to all over the shop. Had that fateful day sixteen years ago robbed her of her fertility? As well as her lover and her self-esteem? What if she could never have a baby?

  Phoebe squirmed and she hushed her, ru
bbing her chin against the baby’s forehead, inhaling her sweet smell. She wanted a baby more fiercely in this moment then she’d thought was possible—so fiercely her womb ached. Damn Alexander Zaphirides. Nothing had been the same since he’d walked into her lab.

  Alex turned away while Alice fixed herself up, and his gaze fell on Isobella. Phoebe was fidgeting, and he noticed the tension in Isobella’s knuckles as she held the baby tight. Isobella’s eyes were closed, her forehead against Phoebe’s, as if the baby were the most precious piece of cargo in the world. She certainly didn’t look as if she was about to let the child go any time soon.

  Isobella opened her eyes as Phoebe protested against the firm hold. Alex’s cerulean gaze greeted her and held her captive. She could feel it probing, his blue eyes stripping away her glasses, her thoughts, her defences. Holding Phoebe had left her vulnerable, too weak to shut herself off to his intuitive gaze. What would it be like to hold Alex’s baby, their baby, in her arms?

  Alex’s breath stopped in his chest. She was so still, the guardedness in her eyes missing for once. She was looking at him, her gaze thick with yearning. And he wasn’t entirely sure it had to do with Phoebe. There was something more in her molasses eyes. Something that spoke to him, that tightened his groin, that danced along the muscles of his lower abdomen. He took a step towards her.

  ‘I guess I’d better get her back to the hotel. It’s nearly time for bed,’ Alice said.

  Isobella tore her gaze from Alex’s and snatched a last whiff of Phoebe’s sweet, sweet smell before she handed her over.

  ‘Thanks for coming in today,’ Alex said, aware of Isobella busying herself at the laptop, attaching the digital camera.

  Alice left, and nothing could be heard in the room but the sound of Isobella’s fingers flying over the keys. Alex looked down at her, trying to fathom what he’d seen in her face, what the hell had just passed between them.