to see her try to live up to her claims.
And fail miserably.
That way, it wouldn’t be personal history or preconceptions that decided him against hiring her. He wanted it to be her inadequacy. He’d see for himself how much of that résumé of hers was fabricated. Then he’d close her chapter forever….
All his hair stood on end, as if he’d been doused in a field of static electricity. A presence. Unmistakable even after all these years. Viv.
Every caution told him not to move, to let her initiate the confrontation. Every instinct screamed for him to turn, catch that moment when she was as off guard as he was. It was the hot, sharp sound that spilled from lips he knew to be rose-soft and cherry-tinted, which had once wrung incoherence from him in soul-wrenching kisses and moans, that shattered the stalemate.
He swung around. And déjà vu engulfed him whole.
Time rewound to that moment he’d first laid eyes on her. When she’d gotten him alone in another scrubbing/gowning anteroom, in another life, to convince him to choose her.
Had he brought her here to reenact their first meeting? Had she somehow made him do it?
Anything seemed possible as some override function inside him ignored mental commands, urging his senses to roam her, feast on her, relive again the unrepeatable attraction. It was as if everything that had happened since the last time he’d left her arms had been erased. It was as if it would be the most natural thing in the world to surge toward her, that she’d rush to a halfway melding, all the sooner to get lost in each other’s arms.
She stood as transfixed as him, her eyes wide in shock as great as his. And, he could swear, as genuine.
The conviction jogged him out of the surreal timelessness where nothing had gone wrong between them to the distasteful present with its preposterousness.
Shocked? When she was here in full premeditation?
But no. She was shocked. This was no act. Not any more than his own loss of control, his own plunge into that time warp.
So what did it all mean?
He exhaled the breath trapped in his lungs, admitted he had no grasp of this situation, much less control over it. He turned fully to her, stood straighter, preparing for the inevitable. The passing of shock and what must follow of her old methods of enticement and seduction.
But what was this, surging inside him, shocking him again with its power? Eagerness? Did he actually want to see blatant invitation in her eyes, in her stance, in the way she’d call his name as if to say, Take me, ravish me, finish me, now?
He licked parched lips, counting down the seconds before her gaze heated, her posture relaxed, beckoned…
“So, we meet again, Dr. Aal Omraan. Or do you only answer to His Royal Highness Crown Prince Ghaleb now?”
CHAPTER TWO
GHALEB COULD ONLY STARE at the woman who no longer resembled Viv beyond the basics.
She pursed her lips as the last of the shock he’d detected drained, steel replacing it. “I assume it was you who ordered me to report to the OR?”
B’hag’gejaheem—by hell, what was going on here?
Her voice was the same, velvety and rich like chocolate and red wine, but he’d never imagined it could sound so… cold. And that was nothing to how those whiskey eyes swept him as if examining an uncertain specimen and finding it deplorably wanting.
“Of course it was you.” She answered her own question with a flick of an elegant hand. “I’ve been here only two hours and I already realize nobody breathes here without your say-so, let alone thinks, speaks or acts.” She let go of his gaze, as if she found nothing about him of interest, hers sweeping around for something worthy of her attention. “I assume you want me to scrub?”
The answer that almost escaped his lips was, I want you to tell me who you are, and where Viv, the old Viv, is.
Where was the woman who’d fluttered around him, inundating him with hunger and appreciation? Though it had been an act, why wasn’t she continuing it now?
From experience he knew women went to any lengths to capture or resurrect prosperous men’s interests. And as one of the richest men in the world, a royal and a celebrated surgeon to boot, he defined prosperity, was one of the most vigorously pursued.
So was this her new act? The one she’d determined would reignite his interest?
If it was, it was succeeding. Spectacularly.
And why not? He’d play it her way. He’d give her all the rope she needed to hang herself. Then, when he’d had the satisfaction of looking her in the eye and reading her admission of defeat, he’d send her out of Omraania, out of his life. This time forever.
“Your assumptions are correct,” he finally drawled, advancing on her in steps he hoped looked measured when they were, in fact, impeded by lingering upheaval. “Those concerning yourself. I assure you I don’t surround myself with automatons or thralls.”
“Sure. Thanks for sharing that.” Sarcasm? He couldn’t be sure with her face and voice expressionless. “Will you, please, send your head non-automaton non-thrall to direct me to the OR where I’m needed after I’ve scrubbed? I’ll be exactly ten minutes.”
Sarcasm. His lips twitched, not on mirth, on indecision how to react. “Adnan isn’t one of my medical personnel. His role ended when he escorted you here. I’ll take over from here.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She moved toward one of the lockers. “So, what’s on the list this morning?”
“Ten surgeries.”
She didn’t bat a lid as she removed her jacket, exposing a sleeveless beige blouse. He came to a stop, his gaze trapped by the perfection of her arms. And even in these sterile surroundings, with everything else making erotic thoughts out of bounds, lust kicked in his loins. His mouth watered.
Seemingly oblivious to his state, she strode to the nearest sink, picked up a prepackaged, presterilized brush impregnated with surgical detergent, held her hands below the tap for the infrared sensor to kick in. “Care to elaborate?”
He tamped down the urge to stride to her, take her by those arms, run stinging-for-their-softness hands all over them before branding them with his tongue and teeth, tasting their cream, biting into their vitality.
Ya Ullah, he shouldn’t have abstained from feminine pleasures for so long. Now he was starved.
But no. He hadn’t been. Not until he’d seen her. So mental aversion hadn’t even dulled the sharpness of the hunger. So he hadn’t been cured, had only been an addict forced to abstain…
“Six minimally invasive procedures.” He supplied the answer a raised eyebrow pressed for, struggling to imbue his voice with a tone as offhand as hers. “Vascular and thoracic, one lumpectomy and one simple mastectomy, and two second-stage damage-control surgeries. All up your street, I believe?”
She nodded without looking at him as she wet her
