Forbidden to the Playboy Surgeon

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘I see,’ she said grimly, feeling the sudden need to cover up. Pulling on her pyjamas, she stood, pointing a shaking finger at him accusingly. ‘So basically, I’m good enough for you to screw but I’m not good enough to be the mother of your children.’

  He flinched and his face pulled into a grimace. ‘I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.’

  ‘I’ll just use the ones you inferred, then, shall I?’

  ‘Claire.’ His usually tender voice now spoke her name on a warning growl.

  ‘Fine,’ she said bitterly, hugging herself to try and stop the shaking. To try and silence the insidious voice of relationships past. ‘Tell me exactly what it is that you’re saying.’

  He sighed, the sound patronisingly reasonable. It was the same sound people used when they believed they were dealing with a difficult person. ‘Why are we arguing about a hypothetical situation? You’re not even pregnant.’

  Because you started it. The common childhood expression burst into her brain but the feelings behind it were anything but childish. ‘Because if I was pregnant, we’d need to have this conversation.’

  ‘This is crazy, Claire. It’s all about ifs and buts and it’s not worth our time.’

  But suddenly it was very much worth her time because she’d glimpsed something that scared her. ‘What if I was pregnant?’

  ‘You’re not.’ The words quivered with barely leashed restraint.

  ‘No, but what if I was?’ She scanned his face, trying to read it. ‘What would you say?’

  He suddenly looked wary. ‘Would it matter?’

  ‘Of course it would matter.’

  He stared at her as if she was someone he didn’t recognise. ‘Are you telling me that if you were pregnant, you’d want to keep it?’

  It. The pronoun battered her like a barrage of needles piercing her skin with sharp and biting stings. How could one tiny word emote so much? How could two innocuous letters combined draw such a precise line in the sand and place them clearly on opposite sides? To her, a pregnancy was a longed-for baby and the reactivation of a dream she’d believed to be covered in dust. To him, it was just an amorphous it.

  ‘Of course I’d want to keep it.’

  Horror and bewilderment streaked across his face. ‘Why?’

  She didn’t have to think twice. ‘Because it would be our child. Because I love you.’

  He went deathly still and his handsome face lost its healthy colour, leaving behind a tinge of yellowy-green. ‘You don’t love me, Claire.’

  The softly spoken words fell like the blow of a hammer. They shattered any remaining delusional daydreams she may have been clinging to and they shattered her heart. ‘I think what you meant to say was that you don’t love me.’

  He started pacing jerkily around the small room. ‘This thing we’ve been sharing is fun, Claire. It’s not love.’

  She wasn’t prepared to lie. ‘For me it’s been both.’

  His hand tore through his hair and his face crumpled. ‘Good God, Claire. No.’

  She hated the crushing waves of despair that rolled in on her, bringing with them all the reminders that no matter what she did, or how hard she tried, it was never enough to be loved. Her breath came in short jerky pulls and she felt as if she was folding in on herself and collapsing down into a dark pit of hopelessness.

  Her legs trembled like jelly to the point she reached out to the wall for support, but then her knees suddenly locked. Like a life preserver being thrown from a ship to a drowning person in a choppy sea, she saw and heard a collage of moments spent with Alistair.

  You’re a very good neurosurgeon.

  It’s your decision. If you have any doubts at all...

  Don’t believe all the hospital gossip, Claire.

  Are you okay?

  I think that spontaneous woman’s always been very much a part of you.

  I’m right there beside you.

  You deserve a London day out and it’s my privilege to provide it.

  It was one of my best nights.

  Her mouth dried in shock. She may not have a vast experience of men, but she’d lived with Michael. During their year together all he’d done was find fault with her in so many ways and, oh, how he’d loved to tell her. She worked too much. She studied too much. Her friends were boring. She micromanaged their lives. She was inflexible. She stifled him with her need to control every minute detail. The list had gone on and on.

  Right there and then she realised with the clarity of a fine-cut diamond that Michael had only considered their relationship in terms of himself. None of it had been about her, her feelings, her wants or her needs. Yet in a few short weeks, Alistair had considered her and cared for her in more ways than Michael had managed in a year.

  Did Alistair love her but not recognise what he felt as love?

  The thought snuck in and took hold, sending down a deep and anchoring root. If that was the case and she took her hurt and walked away now just to avoid the possibility of further pain, she might be abandoning an opportunity for happiness.

  And if he doesn’t love you?

  Isn’t it better to have tried and failed than to never have tried at all?

  Yes. No. I’m scared.

  It can’t be worse than it is already. It might even be better. Fight for him. Open his eyes.

  Tugging at the base of her pyjama top, she sucked in a deep breath. ‘Actually, Alistair, the answer is yes. I do love you. I didn’t intend to fall in love and the fact that I have lies squarely at your feet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame.’

  Bewilderment hovered over every part of his lean frame. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  She mustered an attempt at a smile. ‘You’ve been so kind to me. You care.’

  ‘Well, of course I bloody well care.’ He agitatedly rubbed his stubble-covered jaw with his palm. ‘I care for every woman that I date. That doesn’t mean I’ve loved any of them. It doesn’t mean that I love you.’

  Her armour pinged with the hit but she pressed on. ‘Will the world end if you admit that you love me?’

  ‘Look, Claire,’ he said in a voice she’d heard him use with junior staff at the hospital. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. Somehow you’ve tangled up professional courtesy and mentoring with the fun we’ve been having. I can assure you, none of it is love.’

  A distance she’d not seen before took up residence in his eyes. ‘I’m not looking for love, Claire. I thought we were both very clear on that topic from the start. I’ve got a great career and a good life. I’ve got a flat in Notting Hill, a house in Provence and I can do what I want when I please.’

  She pushed her glasses up her nose and stared him down. ‘You forgot to mention the German sports car.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said as if he thought she was being helpful. ‘It’s not designed for a baby seat. When you add up everything I have, why would I want to tie myself down by getting married and becoming a father?’

  You’re thirty-nine. Why wouldn’t you want to?

  ‘It’s an impressive list of possessions,’ she said, trying to sound calm, when in reality desperation was clawing at her. ‘There’s just one flaw with your argument. Your job, your houses and your car won’t love you like a family.’

  His eyes immediately darkened to the steely colour of storm clouds bursting with rain and tinged with the red of outback dust. ‘Like your family loved you?’

  The attack was swift and lethal but as the pain seared her she somehow scrambled to tell the truth. ‘My parents loved me, Alistair. They just didn’t know how to help me.’

  He grunted as if the explanation made no difference. Suddenly it was her turn to see everything through a red haze. ‘I think that comment has far more to
do with you than with me. Your father died when you were at a vulnerable age and your mother packed you off to boarding school. Is that love?’

  ‘Don’t you dare presume to think you know anything about me and my family.’

  Anger radiated off him with the ferocity of a bushfire and she almost raised her hands to try and ward off the scorching heat. His reaction spoke volumes and she’d stake her life she was close to whatever it was that had him placing possessions ahead of people. ‘The reason I don’t know anything is because you won’t tell me,’ she said as calmly as she could. She reached for his arm. ‘You helped me, Alistair. You listened and you didn’t judge. Let me return the favour. Please let me help you.’

  He spun away from her, breaking their touch. ‘I don’t need any help. Unlike you, there’s nothing wrong with me.’

  Visceral pain ripped into her, stealing her breath and spinning the room. The past tried to rise up and consume her but it stalled. Without a shadow of a doubt, the man who’d just hurt her so comprehensively wasn’t the man she knew and loved. That man had always respected her. He’d given her opportunities and choices. Out of the work environment they were equals, so what the hell was going on now?

  He’s hurting.

  But exactly what was hurting him and why, she had no idea at all. Whatever it was, it was old and gnarly with deeply tangled roots. It lived inside him, and the more she pushed to get close, the more it would lash out and slice her until all that was left of her was a bleeding mess of heartache and pain. She’d be the one left suffering.

  Self-preservation knotted inside her. She’d worked too hard to allow him to destroy her fledging self-confidence and the irony of that thought wasn’t lost on her. It had been Alistair’s acceptance of her that had taught her to value herself. She jutted her chin. ‘I never took you for a coward, Alistair.’

  As he pulled on his trousers and slipped his feet into his shoes, his mouth tugged down at the edges, thinning into a hard line. It accentuated his cheekbones, making them blade-sharp in his face. ‘I was perfectly fine before I met you, Claire. I’ll be perfectly fine when I walk out this door.’

  He quickly grabbed his wallet, phone and car fob before storming past her. ‘Of all the women I’ve ever fooled around with, I thought you were the one who truly understood because you put work ahead of everything. Us having sex was all about you learning to be spontaneous and having some hard-earned fun.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘And you were doing so well. I thought you were more like me after all.’

  She jerked her chin high. ‘You mean emotionally shutdown and hiding behind a collection of possessions?’

  He threw her a filthy look, which she met head-on and batted straight back at him. ‘Believe me,’ she said cuttingly, ‘I’m not that sad.’

  Stalking to her front door he hauled it open. In the brief moment before he slammed it shut, the sound of tyres squelching on a wet road and the distant toot of a train drifted into the flat—the sounds of a perfectly normal London night. Only none of this came close to normal. This was the end of friendship, hopes and dreams.

  The door closed with a thwack and a thick wave of silence rolled inside, enveloping her. Alistair was gone. He’d left her without so much as a backwards glance. He’d also left her love—abandoning it casually on the couch, on the bed and on every surface in the flat. It lingered in the air she breathed and the sense of loss overwhelmed her. She sank to the floor and let her tears flow.

  * * *

  ‘Morag!’ Alistair roared through the closed door of the unit manager’s office. His day was going to hell in a hand basket and it wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning.

  Things went to hell last night.

  But he wasn’t spending any more time thinking about how things between him and Claire had gone pear-shaped so quickly and so unexpectedly. He’d spent the dark wee hours consumed by it, trying to work out how he’d missed the telltale signs. Good God, he had a thesis in detecting signs from women wanting marriage and babies but he had missed the clues. Claire was just like all women and she wanted what he couldn’t give her. ‘Morag!’

  Her dark-haired head appeared around the door thirty seconds later. ‘Did it slip your mind that you can walk the twelve steps from here to the nurses’ station if you wish to speak with me?’

  ‘Humph,’ he grunted as he opened a filing cabinet drawer. ‘I’m going to France.’

  Surprise crossed her face. ‘When?’

  An hour ago. ‘Tonight if I can get a booking on the Eurostar. Where the hell are the leave forms?’

  Morag walked calmly into the office, smoothed her uniform and sat down. ‘Alistair, didn’t you read the memo from the board?’

  He riffled through the neatly labelled manila folders. ‘Which one? They’ve been coming in thick and fast ever since the proposed merger with Riverside.’

  ‘The one where they cancelled all leave requests because we’ve barely got enough staff to keep operating as it is.’

  He didn’t care about any of that. He had to get out of the castle and he had to get out now. He needed the space and serenity that Provence always offered him. He needed to find his equilibrium. He desperately needed to find the solid foundations he’d rebuilt his life on after almost losing it five years ago. ‘Surely that doesn’t include consultants.’

  She gave him a pitying smile. ‘I know it’s a rarefied atmosphere up there at the top of the tree, but this time you have to slum it down here with the rest of us. The board isn’t paying for annual leave and nor is it paying for covering staff. France will have to wait until your next three-day weekend.’

  I can do what I want when I please. His haughty statement from last night came back to bite him. You know your job never allows you to take off at a minute’s notice. Your weekends in France are blocked out at the start of each year.

  He closed his eyes to the spotlight on the fact he did plan some things. ‘If the board’s not spending any money, then what about this rumour that Robyn’s flying in some hotshot Italian paediatrician?’

  ‘The duke?’ Morag grinned. ‘Apparently they’ve been good friends since medical school. He’s coming as a PR favour to Robyn and using his own coin.’

  He sighed, seeing his out closing fast.

  ‘Besides,’ Morag continued, ‘even if the board was approving leave you couldn’t go today. Both Bailey and Mitchell are down with gastro along with three of my nurses.’

  Claire’s not in. He hated the relief that he didn’t have to face her today. Hell, he shouldn’t need to feel relief. She’d been the one to move the goalposts on him and change every single rule of their game. If she hadn’t done that, if she hadn’t pushed him about babies and about his family, then he wouldn’t have needed to speak. He wouldn’t have said the unforgivably cruel thing to her that fear had driven out of him.

  Hell, he could still see her beautiful but tortured face every time he closed his eyes. It made him sick to his stomach. He wanted to apologise to her but if he did she’d expect an explanation from him as to why he’d said what he said. That would immediately take them back to square one, more arguing and even more distress. He’d survive but he wasn’t sure she would. He didn’t want to risk it. He couldn’t bear to hurt her all over again.

  No, it was better to say nothing and make last night the clean break. She’d nurse her pain into a fulminating rage towards him, which would grow into hatred and loathing. The result would be abhorrence, which would keep her far, far away from him. He expected her letter of resignation to arrive in his in-box by the end of the working day. All in all, it was the best possible outcome for both of them. With his condition and his family history, he couldn’t offer her marriage and babies and she deserved to be free to find someone who could.

  His mind threw up a picture of a faceless man and a flash of bright green light burst behind his eyes. He squeezed the
m shut against blinding pain and automatically rubbed his temples with his forefingers.

  ‘Is there anything I can help with, Alistair?’ Morag asked, her usually taciturn tone softening.

  A new heart. ‘No. There’s nothing for it but to get out there and be junior house officer, registrar and consultant all rolled into one.’

  ‘Be extra meticulous with hand washing,’ Morag said, following him onto the ward. ‘We don’t need anyone else getting this bug.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CLAIRE MUNCHED ON dry biscuits and reread a list she’d started at three a.m. when she hadn’t been able to sleep. That had been twelve hours ago and no matter which way she came at it, she couldn’t get the list to clearly state what she willed it to. What she wanted more than anything was to jump online and book a flight back home to Australia. She wanted to put seventeen thousand kilometres between her and Alistair and the constant reminder that he didn’t love her. She tried to find some reassurance in the fact he didn’t love someone else either, but that only made her feel desperately sad for him. For some reason he seemed hell-bent on not allowing himself to love anyone.

  The thought of spending another three months working side by side with him most days made it hard to breathe but the thought of giving up her scholarship and returning home a failure was worse. She’d fought so hard for the scholarship and the prestige that went with it, and besides, she still had things to learn. Trying to explain to her family why she’d given up London when she’d talked excitedly about it for months would take more energy than she could muster. Trying to talk her way around the fact she’d left the tutelage of Mr Alistair North at job interviews back in Australia would be equally hard. The panel would give her uneasy looks and ask the hard question, ‘Why, when you were so close to qualifying, did you throw this opportunity away?’

  When she heard the truth embedded in the words—I’m putting a broken heart ahead of my career—she knew what she had to do. Right now, in the detritus of her personal life, her career was the only thing she had left to hold on to and guide her. The scholarship lasted ninety more days, less if she subtracted her rostered days off. She sipped her lemon and ginger tea and sat a little straighter. She could do this. She would do this. In fact, she’d start as soon as she stopped throwing up.