Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘I think we demonstrated that was possible.’ Her clipped tone was at war with her expression.

  ‘Then why are you sounding like it was a science experiment where we proved a hypothesis?’

  She gave him a rueful smile. ‘We agreed to one night.’

  A spark of hope lit through him. ‘We can always agree to one night again. Hell, we can agree to one night as many times as we wish.’

  ‘Alistair,’ she said sadly. ‘That spontaneous woman on Saturday night wasn’t the real me.’

  He wouldn’t accept that. ‘I think that woman’s always been very much a part of you.’

  ‘You’re just saying that so I agree to another night.’

  ‘I’d love another night with you, but what I said isn’t a line.’ He really wanted to touch her but they were standing in a busy corridor and she deserved better than becoming the next topic on the hospital grapevine. ‘I think that impetuous and risk-taking woman’s been hampered by your dyslexia and buried by its secret.

  ‘But it’s not a secret any more, and more importantly, not everything in life can be planned.’ He was intimate with the truth of that statement. ‘Nor should it be because overplanning can deny you opportunities.’

  He held his breath and waited for her to disagree or tell him to go to hell but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her white coat and rocked back on her fire-engine-red heels.

  When she met his gaze again, the whirlpool in her eyes had stilled to a millpond. ‘So, you’re suggesting that outside of work I could benefit from some more practice at being spontaneous.’

  He grinned, delight lighting through him. ‘I’d be very happy to help you.’

  ‘In that case,’ she said with a tinkle in her voice, ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘When?’ He tensed as the needy word left his lips. The moment was utterly foreign to him. He wasn’t the one who ever asked a question like that—it was the domain of all the women he dated.

  ‘When I’m feeling impulsive.’ A momentary flash of lust mixed with promise in her beautiful eyes. And then it was gone and she was pushing her glasses up her nose and turning away from him saying, ‘They’re waiting for us in A & E.’

  He watched her walk towards the plastic doors feeling slightly discombobulated. She’d just done to him what he’d done to so many women before her. He didn’t like it one little bit.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CLAIRE SLIPPED OUT of bed and took a moment to watch a sleeping Alistair gently snoring. She smiled at him tucked up in pyjamas, finding it odd that he always wore them or a T-shirt in bed. She put it down to a British idiosyncrasy.

  Padding out of the room, she pulled a throw rug around her shoulders, sat on the couch and reluctantly opened her computer. The recently unleashed woman who was living for the moment reprimanded her.

  You have a man in your bed other women would fight you for. Why aren’t you in there with him?

  Because I’ve been having so much fun the last three weeks I’m behind with studying.

  Pffp!

  The pleasure-seeking woman pouted, sat down and crossed her arms as if she was taking part in a sit-in demonstration.

  You’ve still got time.

  Claire visualised the calendar and wasn’t as convinced. Ever since she’d made that first booty call to Alistair on the Monday night after the ball, they’d met at least three nights a week. Sometimes she called him and sometimes he called her, but either way, they always seemed to end up in her flat rather than his. She was working on not letting that bother her, because this thing they shared was just sex. Did it really matter whose bed they tumbled into?

  She’d gone into this affair with her eyes wide open. Her goal was to loosen the reins on her need to control everything in her life and to practise some spontaneity. And it was paying off—she’d definitely improved. Of course, she’d never be as laid-back as Alistair was at work but she was giving him a run for his money outside of it. They were having fun and enjoying each other and that’s all it could be. Even if Alistair hadn’t been the perennial bachelor everyone knew him to be, she wasn’t easy to love.

  Claire forced her attention to the podcast about endovascular coiling of an aneurysm, but as the professor’s words droned on, her mind drifted. Why is he a bachelor? That thought had been popping into her mind more frequently of late, especially after days like yesterday. Alistair had texted her just as she’d finished handing over to Andrew at noon. She and her junior house officer were sharing a Saturday shift and she’d worked the morning. If you’re free, I’ve got a plan.

  As his plans so often occurred under the cover of darkness and involved them being horizontal, she’d been a bit stunned when he’d picked her up saying, ‘I thought it was time you were a tourist.’ He’d pointed the car towards the Thames and half an hour later she was standing in a pod on the London Eye. As the cantilevered observation wheel slowly rotated, she’d taken in the awe-inspiring view with her very own tour guide.

  ‘This is amazing. I’m so excited I don’t know where to look first.’ Her back was snuggled into Alistair’s chest and he had his arms wrapped firmly around her.

  ‘Start with the easy and close stuff. There’s Big Ben and the House of Commons.’ He lifted his right hand and pointed. ‘That big block of flats is Buckingham Palace and closer to the river is Horse Guards. That big column—’

  ‘Nelson in Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Well done. Now cast your eye beyond the bridge and what can you see?’

  ‘Our favourite hotel.’ She smiled a secret smile and tilted her head back until he was looking down at her with a sexy gleam in his eyes. A delicious shiver roved through her, setting off tiny fires of desire. ‘That was a great night.’

  He kissed her and she started to turn into him before she realised they were sharing this pod with strangers. ‘It was one of my best nights,’ he said throatily before reverting back into tour guide mode. ‘Keep your eye on the river and you can see Tower Bridge and the Tower of London.’

  She could see their familiar shapes but it was a modern building that caught her eye. ‘What’s that glass and black steel building?’

  ‘The Gherkin. It’s office space and apparently its design style is neo-futuristic.’

  Claire laughed. ‘Looks more like a rocket to me. I think I prefer the older buildings.’

  It was a gloriously sunny day without a skerrick of the famous London fog. She could see for miles. ‘Where were the Olympics held?’

  ‘Stratford.’ He pointed in the direction.

  ‘And where did you grow up?’

  He didn’t instantly respond. It seemed to her that a tiny gap had just opened up between their bodies, interrupting what had been one continuous head-to-toe touch.

  He eventually said, ‘It’s further than the eye can see.’

  ‘Show me the general direction.’

  The gap closed and his warmth was once again trickling through her without any little darts of cool air. ‘My mother lives in Little Wilbraham.’ As the pod dropped in height he pointed in the same general direction as Olympic Park. ‘It’s a tiny little village south-east of Cambridge.’

  She remembered him telling her he and his mother had been required to move house when his father died. ‘Has that been home since you were thirteen?’

  ‘I’ve always considered it more Mother’s house than mine.’

  ‘Why?’

  Did she remarry? Did you feel usurped? Did you clash with your stepfather?

  She found herself hoping he’d reveal something so she could flesh out the vague sketch she’d drawn in her head of his childhood. Currently, he knew a lot more about the child she’d been than she knew of him.

  ‘I suppose it’s because I spent more time at school than I eve
r spent at Rose Cottage,’ he said reflectively. ‘We always spent part of the summer abroad, and once I’d finished school and went up to Oxford, it become a place I visited on short stays. Home’s my flat in Notting Hill.’

  The flat she’d never been invited to.

  He suddenly spun her around in his arms and gazed down at her, his grey eyes dancing with anticipation. ‘Are you ready for your next surprise?’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘Of course there is. You deserve a London day out and it’s my privilege to provide it.’

  Her heart suddenly wobbled rather precariously in her chest. She kissed him quickly, forcing herself to concentrate on how warm his lips felt against her own rather than how very close she was to the edge of a cliff and a flashing orange danger zone sign.

  Hand in hand, they’d exited the pod and walked back to the car, before re-crossing the Thames and making their way to Hyde Park. Alistair had produced a wicker basket complete with a rug, china plates and cups, champagne glasses, silver cutlery and cotton napkins. They’d picnicked in style by the Serpentine, sipping champagne, feasting on Scottish smoked salmon inside crusty buttered bread and peeled quail eggs and cheese. As they ate, they talked about the books they’d read, music they enjoyed, current political scandals and the many differences yet shared similarities between their two countries.

  When Claire was almost certain she couldn’t eat another thing, Alistair had delved back into the basket and with a ‘Ta-dah!’ produced two slices of chocolate and salted caramel layer cake and a Thermos of hot water to make tea. After they’d licked their fingers of every trace of chocolate and were utterly replete, they’d both fallen asleep in the treasured London sunshine.

  Of all the times they’d spent together, yesterday afternoon had felt the most like a date. When Alistair had suggested they head home, she’d almost said, ‘To your flat?’ What had stopped her?

  She thought about it and she couldn’t get past her gut feeling that the question would have caused awkward tension. She hadn’t wanted to ruin what had been a perfectly lovely afternoon. When it came to talking about himself and his family, he seemed surrounded by a taut reserve that doubled as a permanent Approach with Care sign. So she hadn’t pushed that they go to his flat. Instead, she’d agreed with him that heading home to Bayswater was a great idea.

  In the glowing cerise and violet fingers of the setting sun that streamed through the window, they’d made love. No, you had sex. Sex was their thing—their selfish, living for the moment thing—when they lost themselves in pure pleasure and in each other. He always started by gently pulling her hair out of her hairband and removing her glasses and then he’d kiss her long and leisurely until every part of her quivered like a taut string under the ministrations of a bow. Each time they had sex, she determined yet again to keep her glasses on because Alistair didn’t require soft focus in any shape or form. She ached to see all of his perfection in sharp relief, but the moment he kissed her, she lost all coherent thought, her glasses vanished and she found she didn’t care at all.

  As darkness had settled over the flat, declaring the day truly gone, and the lights had flickered on both inside and out, he’d pulled on his shirt and she’d prepared herself for his goodbye. Instead, he’d said, ‘I make a mean omelette.’

  ‘Do you?’ she’d asked, tracing a line from his hand, along his forearm and up towards his shoulder.

  ‘I do.’ He captured her arm and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on. You can be my sous chef.’

  He hadn’t been exaggerating his skills—he did indeed make a fabulous omelette. After eating the savoury delight, they’d cuddled up on the couch—she with her head on his chest, he with his arm looped casually around her—and he’d made stealth moves on her popcorn. The entire afternoon and evening had been scarily normal. Anyone outside on the street who’d paused to peer in through the window would have thought they were a regular couple.

  We are so not a couple. Couples share more than sex.

  They shared stories, and although she’d told him about her dyslexia and growing up and he’d certainly mentioned that his father had died when he was young and he’d spent his adolescent years at boarding school, there was something in the way he’d revealed the information that told her it was just the tip of the iceberg. And yet he was a kind, generous and thoughtful man, so why was he still a bachelor?

  And just like that, she was back to where she’d started and nowhere near close to knowing what made Alistair North tick. There’s a reason for that. And he doesn’t want you to know it.

  This thing they shared was nothing more than a hedonistic fling. She knew she was just another woman in a long line with many before her and just as likely many more after.

  It’s fine. I’m using him to practise being spontaneous and impetuous.

  Then why do you want to see his flat? Why do you want to know where the estate with the walled garden is? Where he spent his childhood? Why do you want to discover the date of his birthday and if he’s a good son to his mother?

  I don’t want that. I only want his body.

  A sound not dissimilar to hysterical laughter sounded faintly in her mind and she shoved the ear buds harder into her ears. She restarted the podcast and this time she listened intently to the lecturer as if he was the only voice in the world.

  * * *

  An hour later she felt a tap on her shoulder and she glanced up to see Alistair standing behind the couch, freshly showered and fully dressed. She pressed pause on the podcast as a sigh of disappointment rumbled through her. She’d have loved him to be padding around her flat wearing nothing more than a towel looped low on his hips so she could watch the play of bunching muscles dancing under his skin. But the man was always pulling a shirt on and covering up.

  ‘Good morning.’ With a sexy smile, he bent down and kissed her full on the mouth. ‘You’re up early for a Sunday.’

  The shimmers and tingles from his kiss spun through her, making her feel far more alive and happy than she could remember. ‘Exams are less than six months away.’

  A slight frown pulled down his brows. ‘I’ve been distracting you.’

  She pressed her hand against his cheek. ‘In the best possible way.’

  He kissed her again but this time it was devoid of the usual intoxicating heat. Instead, it was infused with gentleness and something else she couldn’t place. ‘I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

  Despite knowing that she needed to spend the day studying, she was filled with a disproportionate sense of despondency. She was about to say, ‘Thanks for yesterday,’ when he said, ‘I’ll go and grab some fresh clothes and return with pastries and coffee from Tony’s. Then I’ll quiz you on...’ He squinted down at her screen.

  ‘Aneurysms.’ Somehow, she managed to pluck the word out of her stunned mind.

  He nodded, his face full of empathy. ‘Tricky buggers, aneurysms.’ Then he kissed her on the top of her head and said, ‘Back soon,’ before disappearing out the door.

  As it clicked shut behind him, she stared at it, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Alistair had offered to help her study.

  So? Nothing odd or unusual about that. He’s a neurosurgeon.

  But there was everything odd and unusual about it. Consultants didn’t help their registrars study—that wasn’t in the job description.

  Neither was having sex.

  The sex has nothing to do with work.

  And it didn’t. They’d both kept the two utterly separate. During work hours they didn’t text or call each other and when they were alone they were too focused on enjoying each other to talk about work. But this offer to help her study came on the back of yesterday’s generosity and thoughtfulness. It made her heart lurch dangerously close to the rickety safety rail balanced on the crumbling precipice.

  If she wa
sn’t careful, she was at very great risk of falling in love with Alistair North. Not only wasn’t it part of the plan, it was exceedingly hazardous. Loving Alistair wasn’t an option because she risked far more than just her job—she risked her heart.

  As she recommenced the podcast yet again, the droning voice of the professor seemed to whisper, It’s too late.

  * * *

  Alistair stood at the scrub sinks looking out through the glass and saw the broad back of Matthew McGrory bent over a trolley. As the plastic surgeon straightened and the porter wheeled the patient into the operating theatre, Alistair glimpsed the serious burn to the child’s face.

  Matthew then came barrelling through the double doors, his athletic build making short shrift of the plastic doors. ‘Hello, Alistair,’ he said in his gentle Irish brogue so at odds with his rugby player bulk.

  ‘That burn looks nasty,’ Alistair said as he lathered up his arms. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘He’s one of the Westbourne Primary School kids. Name’s Simon Bennett.’ Matthew flicked the taps on with his elbows. ‘Poor bloody kid. It’s tough enough that his parents’ drug habit came ahead of him and that he’s basically growing up in foster care, without the added burden of disfigurement by a facial burn.’

  ‘You using spray-on skin?’

  He nodded. ‘Aye. It’s phenomenal and that burn is much improved. Today I’m debriding an infection on his arm. It’s best done in theatre. Rupert gives him a light GA and it minimises his pain.’

  ‘The fallout of that fire’s still haunting us,’ Alistair said, thinking of Ryan.

  ‘It is,’ Matthew said quietly, ‘but it also proved how much the castle’s needed here in central London.’ He rinsed off his arms. ‘By the way, the fundraising committee owes you a debt of thanks. It was good of you to let Victoria sell off every part of your night to raise money.’