Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Did you at least meet someone you liked? Someone to have fun with?’

  Alistair immediately thought of Claire and how much fun they’d had—were still having. He opened his mouth to give the usual quip—a standard shared between two men who have no desire to be tied down—but the words stuck in his throat. He put it down to his promise to Claire to keep their affair secret and out of the hospital.

  ‘Mr North,’ a nurse interrupted. ‘Patient’s under and we’re ready when you are.’

  ‘On my way,’ he said, stepping back from the sink with both arms raised and a silent vote of thanks to the nurse.

  ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ Matt said, a friendly glint in his eyes.

  None indeed.

  * * *

  Claire paced outside the lecture theatre, clutching her notes and the accompanying USB stick that held her presentation. As she walked, she concentrated on keeping the rolling nausea at bay. The day she’d dreaded had arrived and she was about to stand up in front of her peers and their consultants.

  ‘I’ve arranged for us to present first,’ Alistair had said to her two days ago at the end of a long operating list. ‘After all, neurosurgery’s the elite surgery and deserves top billing.’ What he didn’t say, but was clearly implied was, ‘That way you get the presentation over and done with early and you can relax and enjoy the others.’

  His discretion and kindness had just about undone her. He knew how much standing up in front of people terrified her and he’d done his best to try and minimise her trauma. It had taken everything she had not to throw her arms around him there and then in front of the theatre staff and shower him in kisses of gratitude. Instead, she’d said a brisk, ‘Sounds like a plan,’ from behind her surgical mask and hoped he saw her thanks clear in her eyes.

  His eyes had twinkled as he’d said, ‘Don’t be late, Mitchell.’

  The scrub nurse had laughed. ‘Alistair, that’s the pot calling the kettle black. You could take a leaf or ten out of Claire’s book.’

  Andrew Bailey, surrounded by a crowd of other junior house officers, walked past Claire and gave her the double thumbs up. He was clueless to the fact she was working very hard on keeping from throwing up the piece of toast and black tea she’d only half managed to finish at breakfast. Despite having committed the presentation to memory, she’d been up since five a.m., going over it one more time at least five times more.

  She checked her watch. Where was Alistair? Please don’t be late today. Please. The previously full corridor was now empty as everyone had entered the lecture theatre to take their seats. The toast hit the back of her throat and she gagged, forcing it back down.

  What was wrong with her? This was even worse than the last time she’d had to present in Australia. Back there, no one had known about her dyslexia and she’d not only laboured under keeping it a secret, she hadn’t received any support from her consultant. Today she was secure in the knowledge of Alistair’s respect and understanding and yet she was desperately close to throwing up. It didn’t make any sense. Then again, nerves rarely did.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on long, slow deep breaths so she could harness some desperately needed calm.

  ‘Are you ready, Claire?’ Alistair’s voice sounded quietly behind her.

  Her eyes flew open and she spun around as frustration and relief tangoed fast in her veins. ‘You’re late!’

  He checked his watch. ‘I’m a minute early.’

  ‘A minute isn’t early,’ she heard herself screech. ‘It’s barely on time.’

  He raised his brows. ‘Have you ever known me to be a minute early?’

  Against the noise of her thundering heart booming in her ears and the agitation of her mind, she clearly heard, No, not once. He’d made a huge effort for her. Her heart lurched and she completely let go of the pretence that she liked him but didn’t love him. It streamed away like the rush and gurgle of bath water racing down the drain. When Alistair made gestures like helping her study and arriving early, it was impossible not to feel her love for him fill up her heart and spill over into her soul.

  Joy and heartache collided, crashing together in her chest. I truly love him.

  ‘However, if you’re going to stand here arguing the point with me, we will be late,’ he said with envious ease, infuriating logic and absolutely no idea of her inner turmoil.

  Her unwise love for him mixed in with her fear of public speaking, spinning her stomach like a tumble dryer. ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re going to be fine,’ he said with British exactitude. ‘You’re prepared. You know the work inside out, and if the worst happens, which it won’t, I’m right there beside you.’ He stretched out his arm towards the door and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Shall we go in and dazzle with them our findings?’

  * * *

  Claire didn’t know if she was happy or sad that the symposium was over. Alistair, true to his word, had stood next to her but there’d been no need for him to step in—she hadn’t faltered once. On Alistair’s flippant but sound advice, she’d pictured the audience naked and it had helped. Whether it was that, her preparation, Alistair’s presence or a combination of the three, it had carried her past her terror.

  For the rest of the day, she’d floated on a sea of praise. Robyn Kelly, the head of surgery, had sought her out at lunch to congratulate her and strongly urged her to submit the paper for consideration at the international neurosurgery conference. Andrew had pumped her hand so enthusiastically that her shoulder still ached and she’d overheard Dominic MacBride telling Alistair that he wished his specialist registrar was as switched on as Claire.

  Her boss had quipped, ‘Of course she’s brilliant. I taught her.’ The man she loved had said quietly to her during the applause, ‘Well done. We’ll celebrate tonight.’

  It was the first time he’d ever referenced their affair at work and rather than sending rafts of anxiety thudding through her, a warm glow of anticipation spread instead. When she stacked up all the little acts of caring he’d shown her over the past weeks, was his breech of their pact part of a growing affection for her? She hugged the thought tight as she closed her heart and mind to the warning. He’s known as the playboy surgeon for a reason.

  The afternoon sped by quickly with a full outpatients’ clinic and now it was six in the evening. She’d called by Koala Ward to check for any outstanding IV orders and medication updates, and thankfully all was quiet. Her stomach rumbled, the noise reminding her that she’d not really eaten very much all day. This morning’s nauseous nerves had killed her appetite and most of lunchtime had been spent fielding congratulations, leaving no time to eat. She’d munched on an apple during the dash to outpatients. It wasn’t surprising she was now famished.

  As she was rostered on until nine, she needed to stay close to the hospital but the thought of the cafeteria food suddenly made her feel queasy. Decision made, she grabbed her bag and said to Morag, ‘I’m just popping over to the Frog and Peach to grab some dinner.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re accepting the house officers’ invitation.’ The older woman gave her a motherly smile. ‘There’s more to life than work, Claire.’

  ‘I’m a specialist registrar with exams looming,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘There is no life outside of work.’ But as she spoke the words, she knew them to be a lie. Over the last few weeks, she’d most definitely had a life outside of the hospital. ‘Page me if you need me.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll cope without you for half an hour or so. I recommend the pulled pork nachos. They serve it with their famous pale ale barbecue sauce. It’s delicious.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’ She didn’t bother to mention that Andrew had invited her for a drink at the end of her shift, not dinner. Although she appreciated the offer, the moment
she could get away for the night she was heading straight home.

  Home to Alistair. As she crossed the road to the pub, she felt the grin of pleasure stretch across her face and her body leap in anticipation. He’d messaged her about a late supper featuring chocolate sauce. As much as she liked licking chocolate sauce from the top of ice cream and cake, she had a fervent desire to lick rich, dark chocolate sauce off Alistair.

  Her cheeks immediately heated at the thought and she laughed. Six months ago, she could never have imagined herself being so sexually adventurous but practising being spontaneous was paying off in spades. It’s not that. It’s Alistair. And she knew it to be the truth. She’d had boyfriends before and there’d been the year with Michael, but no one had ever made her feel as accepted, safe and loved as Alistair. It meant she had no need to hold anything back and as a result she’d thrown herself heart and soul into this affair. She was utterly and deliciously in love.

  Earlier in the day when she’d realised she loved him, gut wrenching worry had pulled at her, but not now. She’d gained an odd sort of peace in the knowledge that she loved him. Instead of trying to plan and control everything, instead of telling him how she felt or trying to find out if he felt the same way, she was just going to savour the feeling and the evening. After all, what did Alistair always say? Live every day as if it’s your last.

  The pub was a glorious historic building that had been in continuous operation since being built in 1823. Claire always laughed when she was told it was a young pub—it was still older than the oldest pubs at home. In typical English style it featured dark wooden panelling, ambient lighting, comfortable chesterfield couches and a dartboard. The noise from the Thursday night crowd came out to meet her as she stepped across the threshold and much of it was emanating from a spirited game of darts between the junior house officers and the hospital porters. Not surprisingly, the porters were winning.

  She was depositing her dripping umbrella in the umbrella bin when a waitress walked past balancing four plates of delicious-looking food. She breathed in the aroma of meat, battered fish, chicken and cabbage and her stomach suddenly lurched, vanquishing her hunger. She gagged and her hand flew to her mouth. She gulped in air but the kitchen door opened again and this time the sight of the food had her turning and dashing into the ladies’.

  A rotund woman in her forties glanced up from applying lipstick. ‘You all right, love? You look a bit peaky.’

  Claire didn’t dare open her mouth until she was inside the cubicle. When she did, her stomach heaved its meagre contents up into the bowl. When there was nothing left to vomit, she flushed the toilet, closed the lid and then sat shakily on the closed seat, feeling sweat beading on her top lip and under her arms. The rest of her shivered.

  A tap came on the door. ‘You all right, love?’

  Claire raised her head from her elbow-propped hands. ‘I will be. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Was it sumfink you ate? The food ’ere’s usually top-notch.’

  ‘I’ve hardly eaten anything today,’ she said, thinking about this morning as she opened the door of the stall. ‘I woke up feeling nauseous but that was because I was nervous about work.’ She flicked on the taps and splashed her face with water.

  ‘I think it’s probably more than just nerves, love. Either you’ve got a bug or a baby.’ The woman laughed as she checked her hair in the mirror. ‘Every time I was pregnant, the smell of fried food and cabbage always did me in.’

  ‘I can’t possibly be pregnant,’ she said, thinking how she and Alistair had always used condoms.

  The woman handed her some paper towels and her expression held a worldly air. ‘Unless you’ve ’ad your tubes tied, love, or you’re not getting any, there’s always a chance of being up the duff. My old man ’ad the snip and nine months later I ’ad me third. At least you can find out fast these days. There’s a pharmacy across the road.’ With a final check in the mirror, she turned and walked back into the pub.

  Claire stared at herself in the mirror. A pale face with dark rings under her eyes stared back. Surely she’d just picked up a bug? She worked with children and earlier in the week there’d been a minor outbreak of gastro on the ward. Even with best practice of hand washing, it only took one child to sneeze or cough on her to transfer the infection. That had to be the culprit of the nausea and vomiting. She couldn’t possibly be pregnant—she’d had a period just a couple of weeks ago.

  You had a light period.

  I’ve been burning the candle at both ends.

  A flutter of panic filled her and she forced it down. She was being ridiculous and letting an off-the-cuff comment by a stranger put the wind up her. Feeling sick and off-colour all day had a perfectly reasonable explanation. She was understandably tired because she hadn’t slept well worrying about the presentation. This morning’s nausea had been stress and she’d vomited just now because she was overhungry and exhausted. Or she’d picked up a virus. Either way, she was not pregnant.

  However, the pharmacy the woman mentioned would sell jellybeans and electrolyte solution, both of which were good for gastro. She left the bathroom and retrieved her umbrella. Just as she stepped back out into the rain her phone buzzed with Koala Ward’s number. Sam Riccardo was fitting. The jellybeans would have to wait.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CLAIRE LAY IN the dark bedroom snuggled up with Alistair in a languid fog of bliss. The champagne he’d bought sat unopened in the fridge next to the untouched celebration cake and the chocolate sauce. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate his efforts—she did, very much indeed. It was just that once she’d stepped into the flat, into his arms and he’d told her how amazing she’d been this morning before proceeding to nuzzle her neck and tell her the things he’d been wanting to do with her all day, they’d both lost interest in the food and the drink.

  Her phone rang, bringing reality back into the room. With a groan, she rolled over to the bedside table and picked up the glowing device. ‘It’s the hospital.’

  ‘I thought you were off-duty?’ Alistair stroked her hair.

  ‘I am.’ She swiped the screen, silencing the ring tone. ‘Claire Mitchell.’

  ‘It’s Andrew.’ Her junior house officer’s voice came down the line sounding decidedly shaky.

  ‘You sound dreadful. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got a temperature and I’ve been throwing up for an hour. I need to go home but I’m on call tonight. I’ve rung three other people but two of them have the same bug and the other is covering for one of them. My patients are stable but can you cover if needed?’

  Gastro. Andrew has gastro. She gave herself a virtual high five. ‘Sure. Tell the ward and the switchboard and then go home.’

  ‘Sorry, Claire.’ He made a gagging sound. ‘Got to go.’

  He rang off abruptly, and although Claire knew she should be sympathetic, she started to laugh. It bubbled up on a wave of deliverance, and although she tried to stop it, that only seemed to intensify the feeling. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her belly tightened and her whole body shook as she was utterly consumed by amusement and abject relief.

  Alistair gave her a bemused smile before rolling her under him. His warm grey eyes stared down at her. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Andrew’s got gastro.’

  He frowned at her, his expression confused. ‘And that’s funny how?’

  She wiped her cheeks on the sheet and tried to curb her laughter. ‘It’s not funny for him.’

  ‘But it is for you?’

  She smiled up at him, eager to share the joke. ‘I threw up tonight at the Frog and Peach and a random woman in the bathroom asked me if I was pregnant. Of course I knew the suggestion was ridiculous but just for a short time I was a little rattled. But Andrew has gastro and quite a few other castle staff have it too. So you can see why it’s funny.’

&nbs
p; She expected him to laugh with her and then tease her about being obsessive but instead his face tightened along with the rest of his body. He rolled away from her.

  ‘I don’t think the idea of you being pregnant is funny in any shape or form.’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘It was really more like a momentary possibility than an idea.’

  ‘Jeez, Claire.’ He suddenly grabbed his shirt, pulling it on jerkily before he reached out and switched on the lamp. ‘That’s semantics. You know that both scenarios would be a total disaster.’

  Would it? A tiny part of her thought being pregnant might be the most wonderful thing to ever happen to her. Her practical side conceded that a pregnancy right now wouldn’t be ideal but there was something in the aristocratic way he’d said ‘disaster’ that made her spine tingle.

  ‘We’re two adults having sex, Alistair. Contraception has been known to fail. Although we both know it’s small, there’s always an inherent risk.’ She gave a light laugh. ‘You’re the one who’s always saying not everything in life can be planned.’

  He swung his feet to the floor. ‘Children are the one exception.’

  For someone who was impetuous, it seemed an odd thing to say. She sat up and pressed her hand gently against his back. ‘But you’re so great with kids. I’d like to think that if we’d had an accident and I was actually pregnant, we’d be a team.’

  He lurched abruptly to his feet, moving away from her so quickly that her hand was left hanging in the air. ‘A team? As in parents?’ Incredulity dripped from the words, landing on her like scalding water and blistering her skin. He shook his head so hard that strands of his thick hair rose off his head. ‘No. That is never going to happen.’

  His emphatic words struck her with the biting sting of an open-handed slap and her heart cramped so tightly it was hard to breathe. Michael’s words, which had faded to silence over the last few weeks, roared back loudly and in surround sound. You’re too hard to love, Claire.