clenched white-knuckled in frustration, and acted without thinking. She reached out and covered his hand with her own. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she told him fiercely. ‘It’s the monsters that planned this atrocity. Nothing,’ she added firmly, ‘will be achieved from beating yourself up about it or imagining a hundred if-only scenarios.’
Gianfranco Bruni froze, his eyes glued to the small hand curled over his.
The irrelevant thought that he had rather lovely hands, shapely and strong with long tapering fingers, flashed through her head as she gave one last squeeze before releasing her grip.
‘You really mustn’t blame yourself,’ she insisted earnestly.
There was a short uncomfortable pause.
‘My son’s welfare is all that need concern you, Nurse. I thought we had established I do not need my hand held or my brow mopped by a ministering angel!’ He gave a sub-zero smile, raised one sable brow and added, ‘Do you understand?’
The colour flew to her cheeks. The man was hurting, sure, but was there any need for him to be quite so unpleasant?
‘I understand,’ she said, keeping her voice level.
‘Good,’ he grunted, dragging the chair closer to the bed and folding his long length into it. ‘I’m sure you graduated top of empathy in your class, but save it for someone who prefers mushy sentiment to proficiency.’
‘I hope one doesn’t preclude the other, Mr Bruni,’ she said quietly.
‘Dervla, is there a problem?’
Dervla, who hadn’t been aware of the charge nurse’s approach, started as he spoke. She took a deep breath and willed her pulse rate to slow. ‘No, no problem.’
John gave a nod, but did not look entirely convinced as his glance slid from Dervla to the tall Italian. ‘Mr Bruni, I’ve arranged for a porter with a wheelchair to take you to Casualty. One of the plastic surgeons is standing by.’
Gianfranco Bruni looked at him blankly.
‘Porter?’
‘With a chair.’
‘You think I am an invalid?’
‘It’s hospital policy, Mr Bruni, and the sooner that head wound is sutured, the better.’
‘My head?’
Dervla was not surprised to see John’s expression sharpen into suspicious concern as he looked at Gianfranco Bruni. The Italian looked so baffled by the reference that she suspected he had forgotten he was injured, or maybe he hadn’t even noticed.
‘You’ve got a deep gash six inches long on your forehead,’ the charge nurse explained. ‘You didn’t lose consciousness at any point, did you?’
Gianfranco Bruni gave a dismissive wave and turned away. ‘It’s a scratch,’ he retorted irritably.
Dervla’s exasperation got the better of her. ‘Your scratch is bleeding all over the floor.’
The Italian’s head slewed back. ‘Who, Nurse, do you think you are talking to?’
‘I think I’m talking to a man who would prefer deference to the truth, an extremely stubborn man who wouldn’t relinquish control if his life depended on it.’
It was hard to tell which of the two men was looking more astonished by her outburst.
‘Dervla,’ John began, ‘it might be better if you—’
‘It’s bleeding.’ They both turned in unison to see Gianfranco Bruni looking at the blood on his fingers, his expression oddly blank.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she cautioned, regarding him warily. He wasn’t the most obvious candidate, but she had seen big, tough-looking chaps faint away at the sight of blood—especially their own.
His head came up with a snap. ‘I am not alarmed. Just give me some tape—a dressing or something to cover it.’
‘This is not a do-it-yourself hospital, Mr. Bruni,’ John intervened quietly.
‘She can do it,’ the Italian said suddenly, stabbing a finger towards Dervla.
Dervla’s jaw dropped. ‘Me!’ She really hoped he didn’t mean what she thought he did.
‘Nurse Smith is—’
‘Is she not able?’
‘Of course she’s able, but after the plastic surgeon has sewn you up there will hardly be a scar.’
The Italian looked at the other man, his upper lip curling as he snarled contemptuously, ‘You think I give a damn about my face?’
His hand lifted in an angry gesture that invited them to look at the object under discussion. It was an invitation that Dervla found hard to refuse.
He might dismiss his looks, but in her opinion a man who looked like him could be forgiven a little of the vanity he appeared to despise.
‘Surely your surgeons have better things to do today than sew up my scratch? My son is not the only one fighting for his life,’ he bit through clenched teeth as he stared with dark pain-filled eyes at the unconscious figure in the bed. ‘I want her,’ he said without looking at Dervla. ‘Nurse Smith.’
They said it was always good to be wanted—but they were wrong, Dervla decided grimly as her stomach churned with unprofessional trepidation.
John shrugged, shot Dervla a questioning look and to her dismay asked, ‘Are you all right with that, Dervla?’
Dervla, who was about as all right with it as putting her hand in a live electric socket, struggled to conceal her irrational horror.
‘Don’t worry. I am not litigious,’ the Italian remarked as she hesitated.
Her head turned and her eyes brushed the cynical deepset eyes of the injured billionaire. ‘I’m not worried about you suing me.’ And she had no doubt about her ability to perform the relatively minor procedure; she had sutured hundreds of wounds. No, her reluctance had more to do with an irrational and strong disinclination to touch the man.
‘The plastic surgeon would make a much better job. I don’t usually—’
His broad shoulders lifted fractionally in a fluid shrug. ‘So be flexible.’
‘Because you won’t be?’
The suggestion brought his narrowed scrutiny zeroing in on her face. Beside her Dervla was dimly aware of John looking astonished and not very happy.
‘You worked that out faster than most people.’
Was that a compliment? she wondered. The lift of one corner of his wide, sensually sculpted mouth might have been his version of a smile …? But then again, she thought, maybe not.
It was five minutes later when Dervla
