wasn’t true. She had seen it before. On a photo shoot on the volcanic isle of Santorini in Greece. The exact blue of the Aegean had been difficult to label back then, but she knew she was seeing it replicated in the cerulean depths of Alex Zaphirides’s gaze.
She nodded. ‘Of course, Dr… I mean, Alex.’
He laughed at her stumble, a sexy rasping chuckle that deepened the indentations either side of his mouth into flirty dimples and flashed a glimpse of his perfect white teeth. She looked away, momentarily dazzled, her gaze drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple in the bronzed column of his throat.
His open-necked shirt afforded her an unrestricted view, and her eyes widened at the large, L-shaped surgical scar that bisected half of his neck and ran up towards his right ear. It was white and faded, but still a noticeable mark. No wonder his voice was so gravelly. He’d obviously done some serious damage at some stage. But how? Which rumour was true?
Below it, a smaller but much more livid scar marred the centre of his throat. It was only a centimetre or so long, but it was raised, almost keloid in nature. She knew what it was without even having to ask, for she had a matching one of her own. At some stage in his life he’d had a tracheostomy. Were the two scars related?
She raised her hand nervously to her own throat, grateful to feel the familiar comforting presence of material covering her own unsightly blemish. She marvelled at how at ease with them Alex had to be to show his scars off to the world. Sixteen years later, she still reviled the marks that had disfigured her. She couldn’t imagine a time when she’d ever be at ease with them.
‘Where is everyone?’ Alex enquired.
‘They’re in the staffroom, having lunch,’ Isobella said, conscious of the thrum of blood through her head.
‘And you?’
She frowned. He was looking expectantly at her, but it seemed all her usual thought processes were scrambled by his sandpaper voice and the sexier-than-Zeus vibes he emitted. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You don’t eat lunch?’ He looked her up and down. Beneath her primly buttoned, baggy white coat he could just make out a lanky frame, and despite the distraction of her hideous too-big-for-her-face glasses her dainty bone structure was clearly evident. His mother would cluck her tongue in disapproval.
Isobella blushed under his scrutiny. He was looking at her as if she was a particularly uninteresting lab specimen. A first for her. Most men needed to fall prey to her sharp tongue and experience her specialised freezing-out routine before they looked at her with such complete uninterest.
She shrugged. ‘I usually just grab a bite at my desk. There’s always so much to do.’
Alex frowned. Just last week Reg had mentioned Isobella’s tendency to become completely absorbed in her work. Her dedication was impressive, but Isobella Nolan was a workplace health and safety nightmare. ‘You do understand the importance of regular breaks? It’s not good for you to be hunched over a microscope all day.’
Isobella blinked. She’d have thought Alexander Zaphirides would understand her drive. She’d bet good money he hadn’t got to where he was today, a pin-up boy for medical enterprise, by strict adherence to the rules. ‘Don’t worry. I mix it up.’
Alex frowned again. He suspected from what Reg said that she didn’t ‘mix it up’ as much as she should. ‘Good. I can’t afford to have one of my team leaders and best researchers off work because she isn’t following guidelines. The project must always be paramount.’
The intenseness of his Aegean gaze as it burrowed into hers was intimidating, and she nodded dumbly as his husky compliment was completely obliterated by his gravelly reprimand of her work practices. ‘Of course, Dr Zaphirides.’ She saw his full lips flatten. ‘I mean…Alex.’
He nodded. Her prim politeness bothered him for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
Isobella could only stare after him. His long-legged, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered retreat was fascinating, despite the slow burn of pique rising in her chest. The last thing she saw as he disappeared was the decadent brush of his hair against his collar.
She almost sagged to the ground in relief when he left, and stumbled back to her desk, sitting down with shaking knees. The whole atmosphere had seemed charged by his enigmatic presence, and she was pleased to be alone as reaction to his sheer masculine beauty took over.
Well, the rumours weren’t wrong. He was sexy and autocratic in spades, and his commanding Greek heritage gave him an edge—an extra dollop of authority that was impressive. Quite what he was doing locked away in a lab she wasn’t sure. Alexander Zaphirides should be gracing magazine covers, selling aftershave and whisky and expensive watches.
And Isobella knew what she was talking about. At the zenith of her international career she’d worked with some of the world’s top male models. She had no doubt that Alex could have moved easily amongst their number.
She groaned inwardly. Great! Not only did the man have a voice that could practically bring her to orgasm over the phone, but he had a body that was giving her the vapours after only a few minutes in his company. What the hell was the matter with her? The man had wrapped a thinly veiled criticism in a compliment. Questioned her commitment to the project. No one did that.
How dare he?
Two hours later, Alex watched Isobella surreptitiously as she peered through her microscope. The dreadful large dark-rimmed glasses that marred her face butted against the eyepieces of the scope. Her long platinum-blonde fringe had flopped forward from its side parting, and instead of sweeping elegantly across her forehead, as it had earlier, it obscured her face from him.
Her hair was cropped severely at the back, almost boyish in its brevity, shaped into the contours of her skull, exposing cute ears and feathered lightly at her nape. He caught a hint of bare flesh before the high collar of her shirt encroached on the very elegant line of her neck.
She was so not what he’d imagined. Not that he’d spent his days and nights wondering what one research assistant in his Brisbane lab looked like, but it bugged him nonetheless. He was usually very good at mental imaging. He had spoken to Isobella on a regular basis for two years, and with her precise speech, her prim and proper vocabulary and her polite way of keeping things strictly business had pegged her as a mousy middle-aged spinster.
And she appeared to be working overtime trying to project that image. Except she was failing miserably. The glasses were a classic example. He’d definitely expected to see her wearing a pair—even a pair that most respectable grandmothers wouldn’t be seen dead in—but somehow they didn’t disguise her features.
Instead the large, ugly frames accentuated the kittenesque quality of her make-up-less face. Its heart-shaped perfection. The delicateness of her nose, with its fascinating tilt at the tip. The mastery of her high cheekbones.
Nor did the two-sizes-too-big white lab coat hide anything. It hung on her like a sack, only emphasising the slightness beneath. The shapeless covering hinted at the litheness of her frame in all its small-boned glory. The pertness of her breasts and the flatness of her stomach. It was more alluring in a lot of ways than a skintight outfit would have been. It teased, hinted, heightened.
The same could be said for the baggy tracksuit pants she wore. Every movement, every twist and pivot as she reached for equipment, outlined the narrowness of her calves beneath.
