Sydney Harbor Hospital: Luca's Bad Girl

by Amy Andrews

He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob of the on-call room. Prickly little Mia probably wouldn’t appreciate being checked up on.

  Her prim I have no desire to become a notch on what I understand is your very crowded bedpost, had played on his mind ever since she’d uttered it.

  She obviously disapproved.

  What the hell was wrong with indulging in a little flirtation here and there? Spending an enjoyable few hours with a woman who was fully aware that one night was all he was interested in?

  He was always open and honest about his intentions. And he never made the mistake of giving false hope by going back for seconds. He knew his limitations where relationships were concerned—had learned them at a very early age.

  Best not to set expectations—that way you couldn’t let anyone down.

  He loved women—bronzed, natural, fun-loving Australian women in particular—and they loved him. And he was a healthy adult male.

  Still, Mia intrigued him. Her resistance even more so. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want her.

  He twisted the knob and opened the door. She wasn’t around and the light had been turned out. Sleeping room one had its door shut and he padded over to it, knocking lightly when he reached his destination.

  No reply was forthcoming. He hesitated again before gently twisting the knob and opening the door a crack—checking on her was the right thing to do.

  The sight stopped him in his tracks.

  She had fallen asleep in a semi-upright foetal position on the triple-seater couch. Her head was snuggled against the fat cushions of the sofa, her spine propped up against the squishy arm, her legs, tucked in close to her bottom, had fallen sideways to rest against the back of the couch.

  She’d taken her hair out of its clasp and it fanned around her shoulders and the couch cushions. Her feet were bare. A medical journal lay open on her chest.

  The lamp on the table beside the couch illuminated her relaxed profile in a warm yellow glow. His gaze tracked the outline of her nose, the slope of one cheekbone, the plump fullness of her mouth.

  He was satisfied to see the journal on her chest rise and fell in a regular rhythm. His eyes dropped to the white dressing covering her upper arm and he absently noted there was no fresh ooze.

  She was obviously fine.

  As he watched, a little frown wrinkled her forehead and a soft mew escaped her mouth. He wondered what she was dreaming about. Her near-death experience? The flash of a blade? The bawling of a baby?

  His question—are you sure?—from earlier?

  She mewed again and he realised he was staring at a sleeping woman who would most definitely not appreciate the attention. He left the door ajar and turned away.

  Mia was trapped in a dream she didn’t seem able to fight her way out of. It was one she hadn’t had since she’d been a little girl but it was disjointed, jumping back and forth between now and then. Between Stan and her father. Each slash of the knife through the air shunting the dream to the other person, to another time.

  Her mother was there too somewhere, holding a wrapped bundle that Mia knew was her stillborn sister. Her mother was sobbing those deep, gut-wrenching sobs that had been indelibly woven through the fabric of Mia’s life.

  She was holding her father’s hand, her little ten-year-old fingers tugging at his long ones, asking him not to go. And then Stan would yell to get back, get back as the knifepoint came ever closer.

  Daddy, don’t go. Don’t go.

  Slash. Back, get back. Slash.

  Please, Daddy, don’t go.

  Slash. Slash. Back! Get back!

  Daddy!

  ‘Daddy, come back!’

  Luca was almost at the door when he heard her cry out. Without thinking, he hurried back to her, pushed open the door and strode over to the couch as Mia cried out again, flinging her head from side to side. The journal had already fallen to the floor.

  Luca took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake, mindful of her injury. ‘Mia! Mia.’

  Mia heard a voice. A different voice. And the urge to run towards it, to run away from the feelings of hopelessness, was overwhelming.

  Luca? Luca?

  ‘Mia.’ He shook her again. ‘It’s Luca. Wake up. Wake up.’

  Mia’s eyes flew open. Luca? Luca was here?

  The mellow lamplight bathed his strong masculine features, softening them—his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth—and he finally looked like that angel. She blinked away the crazy thought as tendrils of dread clung to every heartbeat.

  Mia tried to sit up but her limbs wouldn’t co-operate and her arm throbbed. ‘Luca?’

  ‘Shh,’ he murmured, the pads of his thumbs absently stroking her shoulders. Her large blue eyes reflected her confusion. ‘It’s okay, you were having a bad dream.’

  Mia nodded. ‘It was…there was…’

  ‘Your father?’

  Mia blinked up at him. He pronounced the th softly, giving the word a gentleness it hadn’t had in the dream. Her head was crowded with memories. One after the other, battering her brains and beating against the locked door to her heart.

  Old and long forgotten. Supposedly.

  She had to make them stop.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Luca asked.

  She looked at him, into eyes so deep and brown it was like falling into a well.

  He could make them stop.

  ‘Mia?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ But she would be.

  Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  Luca stilled at the tentative touch. He pulled back and searched her eyes. ‘Mia?’

  She shook her head and, supporting herself on her good arm, leant in close, locking her gaze with his. ‘Kiss me,’ she murmured, her mouth a whisper from his.

  In fact, she was close enough that Luca could almost feel those two little words branding his lips from the sudden heat rising between their bodies. He dropped his gaze to her mouth—so near, so luscious—and he was instantly hard.

  ‘What happened to not wanting to be a notch on my bedpost?’

  ‘Stan,’ she muttered.

  After that Luca wasn’t sure who closed the hair’s-breadth between them. But he did seize control.

  His mouth opened over hers and demanded she follow suit. And follow him she did, opening to him eagerly. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and the little whimper at the back of her throat implored him to keep going.

  He tunnelled his hands into her hair, angling her head back to accommodate more, and the kiss escalated. Got deeper, wetter, hotter. His body moved over hers, forcing her knees down, crowding her back against the cushions, imprisoning her against the couch, her head falling back over the arm.

  His hand brushed the side of her breast and she moaned deep and low. He drew it lower, to her waist, her hip as his mouth broke from hers to ravage her neck, stretched out before him, the pulse at the base beating as madly as his own.

  Mia felt the memories disappear into the ether as a veritable storm of sensations swept through her body.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  ‘Yes,’ she cried out as Luca licked along her collar bone. ‘Yes,’ as he nipped at the base of her neck. ‘Yes,’ as his hand squeezed the exact spot where, beneath her jeans, butt met thigh.

  One-handed, she pulled his polo shirt out of his jeans and ruched it up his back, his skin hot and vibrant beneath her palm. She kept pulling till it was past his shoulders and gave a triumphant cry when Luca ducked his head through the opening and she pulled it off him entirely.

  His smooth chest was totally bare to her touch and she pressed a kiss to a flat brown pec, then his collarbone, then the hollow at the base of his neck.

  She breathed him in, his scent intoxicating. Potent. Virile. Male. It filled up her senses. Like a drug.

  And left her wanting more.

  He claimed her mouth again, pressing her deep into the cushions, and she revelled in his weight, in the tangle of his legs, in the oh-so-right angle of his p
elvis.

  Luca felt the agitated circling of her hips and ground himself against her. He swallowed her gasp, making her moan more deeply as his hand travelled back up her body, pushing beneath her top. He needed to touch her breasts. To see them. Taste them. To feel them rubbing against his chest.

  He pushed the fabric up, his hand filling with soft, delectable female. Satin, lace and heaven all in one sweet handful. He rubbed the hard point with his thumb and she gasped.

  Luca broke away from her mouth, his lips instinctively following the dictates of his body as his tongue stroked down her neck, over her collarbone, the slope of her breast then finally her nipple. The lace was rough against his tongue as he sucked the tip right through the material of the bra.

  Mia’s breath hissed out as her back arched involuntarily. It jarred painfully through her sore arm and she cried out in pain this time, her eyes squeezing shut.

  ‘Mia?’ Luca broke away. ‘Oh, sorry, did I hurt your arm?’

  Mia shook her head, her eyes still shut. ‘It’s okay, it’s settling.’

  Luca groaned, dropping his forehead onto her chest. Her heart beat frantically there as her ribcage heaved in and out. His own breathing was loud and ragged in the silence.

  Mia’s eyes slowly fluttered open as the pain ebbed. She looked down at his head, his thick wavy hair tousled from their ministrations. It was suddenly absurdly funny and she felt a bubble of laughter rise in her chest. She bit down on her lip to stop it from spilling out.

  But her ribcage shook with the effort to keep it in and it bubbled up anyway.

  Luca felt the vibration against his forehead and glanced up just as she laughed. Their breathing was still erratic, they were both half-undressed and thoroughly bedraggled, he had a raging hard-on—and she was laughing.

  It was absurd. So he laughed too.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ he said after their laughter had died down.

  Mia shook her head. ‘This is crazy.’

  Luca had to agree. Even if his hard-on didn’t. ‘You want to stop?’ he murmured.

  His husky voice thickened his accent and a surge of lust welled deep down low in her. Mia shook her head. She couldn’t have stopped now even if a bus had crashed right through the walls of the on-call room.

  She was a healthy adult woman, and it had been a couple of weeks since her last liaison. ‘That would be even crazier.’

  Luca grinned, dropping his mouth to her chest, running his nose lightly along the slope of a breast and upwards to nuzzle her neck. ‘Pure insanity.’

  She stretched her neck to give him better access. ‘Certifiable,’ she agreed.

  Luca laved the pulse half way up her neck with his tongue. ‘Utter lunacy.’

  ‘I think we should get the door, though,’ she managed through the haze of lust descending on her.

  Luca’s head snapped to the doorway. He swore softly against her neck at its partially open state and was rewarded with another throaty laugh. He kissed her hard on the mouth.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ he said, before pushing off her, padding over to the door and locking it.

  ‘You do realise this is a one-off, right?’ she said as she tried to wiggle out of her jeans essentially one-handed.

  Luca turned and watched her. He could clearly see her nipples through the lace of her bra and it made him harder.

  He undid his zip and peeled off his jeans. ‘Of course. My bedpost is littered with one-offs. Or hadn’t you heard?’

  Mia went to grin but it died on her lips as the pure male beauty of his physique was fully exposed to her. Long, lean legs, dusted with black hair. Flat, flat belly. Broad in the shoulder, narrow in the hip.

  And if the bulge in his snug cotton boxers was anything to go by, large, in all the right places.

  She’d seen a marble statue just like him in Rome many years before. Luca di Angelo had Made in Italy stamped all over him.

  Then he came to her, towering over her, snapping the lamp off, helping her out of her jeans, kissing her everywhere, arching her back over the arm of the lounge, thrusting her breasts upwards towards his eager mouth. Making her sigh. Making her whimper. Making her come.

  And, best of all, making her forget.

  * * *

  Three days later Dr Finn Kennedy, chief of Surgery, strode into the emergency department on what he was sure was going to be a fool’s errand. He was tired. His upper arm had ached all night despite several shots of whisky, and he rubbed at it absently. His eyes felt scratchy and his damn nuisance thumb was numb and tingly.

  He pulled up short as Evie approached him. Great, just what he needed. Dr Evie Lockheart. Princess Evie. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, working in her granddaddy’s hospital, a place still generously supported by the Lockheart family trust and her father in particular, who was treated like royalty by the boffins upstairs.

  With absolutely no idea how hard ordinary people had it.

  And the only woman in the entire hospital who seemed to be able to push his buttons. She didn’t simper or cower. Just looked at him patiently with those damn hazel eyes.

  ‘Dr Kennedy,’ she greeted him.

  ‘There’s a consult for me?’ he asked, not bothering to acknowledge her greeting. He had a feeling that she saw beyond his curt exterior and he didn’t like it.

  The only other woman to have done that had been Lydia—his brother’s widow—and that had been an unmitigated disaster.

  Evie refused to give Finn the satisfaction of seeing how his brusqueness grated. He wasn’t in the army any more and she wasn’t one of his soldiers to be ordered around. Instead, she launched straight into her spiel. Still, it didn’t stop her heart from pounding like a runaway train in her chest—she’d made an amazing incidental find and despite his gruffness she was desperate for his approval.

  ‘Twenty-two-year-old female, with a painful lump in her breast. Ultrasound identified a small benign cyst—’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Finn glared down at her, hands on hips. ‘You do know I’m a cardiac surgeon, right? That means stuff to do with the heart.’

  Evie held his gaze and her tongue and continued as if he hadn’t just rudely interrupted her. ‘She also complained of fatigue, shortness of breath and intermittent chest pains. Incidental finding reveals bicuspid aortic valve with associated ascending aortic aneurysm.’

  Finn stared at her. Was in hell was she on about? ‘Sure,’ he said sarcastically as he held out his hand. ‘Radiographer report?’

  ‘There isn’t one. Radiology was backlogged and the ultrasound was performed in the department.’

  ‘I see. By who, exactly?’ he demanded.

  Evie’s gaze didn’t waver as his piercing blue eyes dared her to blink. ‘By me.’

  Finn snorted. ‘You? You diagnosed a complex heart condition through a breast ultrasound?’

  Evie crossed her arms too. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s not even remotely possible,’ he snapped.

  Until right now, Evie would have agreed. ‘It is if the woman in question has very small breasts.’

  Finn glared at her. Princess Evie—her place at the prestigious SHH emergency department no doubt paid for by her father’s huge donations—wasting his time. ‘Where’s the patient?’

  ‘Cubicle fifteen,’ she said calmly.

  ‘What have you told her that I’m going to have to untell her?’ he asked silkily.

  ‘I told her I couldn’t get a good enough angle and I was going to call for someone more experienced,’ Evie bristled. ‘I did go to medical school, Dr Kennedy,’ she said frostily.

  ‘Really? Daddy couldn’t fast-track you, then?’

  Evie ignored the dig. ‘I graduated top of my year.’

  ‘He gives to the university too, then?’ Finn retorted, before turning on his heel and heading for the indicated cubicle.

  Evie’s heart tripped in her chest as she struggled to keep up with his long-legged stride. But even falling flat on her face would be worth it just to see the l
ook on Finn’s when her diagnosis was confirmed.

  Finn snapped back the curtain and introduced himself to a petite young woman in a hospital gown who was chewing on her bottom lip. He smiled at her. ‘Hello. Bethany, is it?’ he asked, consulting her chart. ‘I’m Dr Kennedy. Dr Lockheart’s asked me to have a look at you.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Bethany asked, looking from one doctor to the other.

  Finn patted her hand. ‘Give me one minute and I’ll be able to tell you.’

  He turned away to the compact mobile ultrasound machine and shot Evie an exasperated look. It was hardly the most sophisticated machine in their radiology arsenal. He found it hard to believe anyone could diagnose a potentially fatal heart problem on something so basic.

  He picked up the transducer from its cradle fiddled with the pulse settings and the screen brightness and turned to back to Bethany, who’d already opened her gown and put her arm above her head.

  Finn squeezed a blob of warmed gel on Bethany’s chest, noting that she did indeed have practically non-existent breast tissue. ‘Okay, here goes,’ he murmured as he ploughed the transducer through the middle of the gel.

  He ignored Evie, who was standing at his elbow, and concentrated on the small screen as the grainy grey and black image of Bethany’s pumping heart came into view. It took him less than a minute to concur with Evie’s very impressive diagnosis.

  He flicked a glance at her and met her unwavering hazel gaze. There was no triumph or smugness there, just complete confidence in her diagnosis, and he felt a rather foreign feeling of grudging respect.

  Maybe there was more to her than the Lockheart name.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Bethany asked.

  Finn shook his head. ‘No. There’s a problem,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s okay,’ he added quickly. ‘I can fix it.’

  Evie listened in awe while Finn sat with Bethany and explained how the small benign-looking cyst in her breast was nothing compared to the real problem, and what he could do about it. For such an arrogant, rude, human being he had amazing rapport with patients.

  When they walked out of the curtain thirty minutes later Evie had seen an entirely different side to the infamous Dr Finn Kennedy. She’d known he must have had a heart in there somewhere but it was the first time she’d ever seen any evidence of it.