She didn’t know how she’d looked at him, answered back. She guessed she’d launched into sarcastic mode, her automatic defense mechanism when overwhelmed. She barely remembered what she’d said, all her focus on keeping her face and tone empty so she hadn’t betrayed her upheaval to his scrutiny.
And, damn him, he’d scrutinized. His eyes, the eyes she would once have done anything to see igniting with approval, with passion, had left her face, only to travel over her, leaving burn marks wherever they landed, scorching away her hard-won stability.
While he’d been as stable as a mountain, betraying nothing at the sight of her but the certainty that he remembered her, and the same indifference with which he’d ignored her offer of her life to mess up for as long as he pleased. Then, as if he hadn’t treated her like a leper, as if they’d never even met before, her pitiful barbs breaking off his force field of assurance and superiority, he’d approached her like an inexorable storm, rattling every cell in her body with alarm and awareness. Then he’d gowned her.
He’d circled her, like a predator biding his time, giving his prey a nervous breakdown wondering if he’d pounce at once or if he was sated and was only playing, would prolong the sadistic game until he was hungry again. He’d let her feel him, quake with his nearness, had flayed her with his breath, his scent, his hands hovering over a body that was suddenly a battleground for every forbidden hunger and recollection, tugging at her with strings made of her gown’s ties, her cruel memory and his far more pitiless reality.
She didn’t know how she’d remained on her feet.
She had to stay away from him. For the time she was here, and until she reached a decision. She couldn’t let his effect tamper with her logic and self-control again. Sam. She was here for Sam.
But she couldn’t stay away right now. He was looking at her, clearly summoning her.
Rigid, grudging steps brought her opposite him, across the table he’d elected, as the well-oiled machine of his surgical team brought in the first two patients, placing one in front of them.
She cast her gaze to the patient being placed at the next station. She may be here to settle a personal issue, but she’d also signed a contract, had made a commitment to do the best job she could, as she always did. She’d better locate her misplaced composure and professionalism.
She gulped down a steadying breath, forced her eyes to seek his. The moment those obsidian infernos slammed into her she was tempted to say Let the test begin or Do your worst.
Instead, she said, “Where do you want me?”
Back in my office, spread on my desk, naked and open and begging for me.
Ghaleb gritted his teeth. These lust attacks were getting preposterous. And infuriating.
He harnessed his anger—at her for the weakness only she had ever engendered in him, at himself for letting her still wield that power—and emptied his gaze. “I want you right here.”
“You mean I’ll take this patient?”
“I mean you’ll work with me on this patient.”
“Two patients, two so-called head surgeons handling one. Anything wrong with that picture, I wonder?”
“We’ll handle every patient together. Es-Sayed Elwan in station two was brought in now because it’ll take the length of es-Sayedah Afaf’s operation to get him prepped.”
She gave him a glance that made him feel she was probing him, fathoming his motivations.
Then, without giving away her conclusions, she turned to their sedated patient, took in the field of surgery being prepped. “So, what will it be for her? Lumpectomy or simple mastectomy?”
“Lumpectomy.” He asked for their patient’s films to be clipped on the backlit screen feet away. Viv examined them.
She was back in a minute. “Localized tumor in a breast with no signs of lymph-node involvement.” She murmured her diagnosis, mirroring his. “Perfect for a breast-conserving procedure. Will she have radiation of the rest of the breast afterwards, or is the lumpectomy the limit of her treatment?”
“Why do you ask?”
She shrugged as she examined the woman’s breast, translating X-ray evidence into the physical one. “I ask because she must be over seventy and some schools of treatment think radiation doesn’t offer a better prognosis for her age group. I don’t know if your center subscribes to this belief or not.”
“What would be your recommendation?”
“Radiation afterwards, no question, if her general condition allows it. Even though women of her age are said not to be at risk of a hormonally induced recurrence and therefore wouldn’t benefit from radiation while risking a higher incidence of its side effects, recent research overwhelmingly proves those receiving radiation remain free of cancer longer than women who don’t.”
“And what do you think my center opts for?”
“How would I know? You may be the most advanced center in the world but I’ve seen many who run a close second who suffer from unchanging attitudes and biases toward new research. Superiority spawns prejudice, not to mention an all-knowing streak and the tendency to play God.”
And that had to be a double entendre. Making reference to the way he’d walked away from her?
He didn’t see a connection but was certain this summation wasn’t all about the pompous and misguided decisions and views many highly regarded surgeons and medical establishments made and advertised.
Unable to fathom the rebuff he felt singeing him, he drawled, “Let me assure you that at the Jobail Advanced Medical Center we embrace all substantiated research and commit a major part of our resources, human and financial, to furthering said research and to cementing its results into facts. Radiation after lumpectomy for older women is our recommendation.”
She only gave a nod, continued examining the patient.
Just like that? No comment? No more digs?
No. None. Was that what she’d become? Not given to saying a word more than necessary? Closing a subject once it had been satisfactorily resolved? What had happened to cause that reversal? Where had the gushing, hyperactive, excitable young woman gone? Where had this serene, stable and centered woman sprung from?
And was now the time to ponder such mysteries, ya ghabbi?
Exhaling his frustration, he murmured for a scalpel. Once it was in his palm, he stared at it. He’d almost forgotten his plan. Now he remembered, he no longer wanted to go through with it.
Before he gave in to another impulse, he extended the scalpel to her. “You do the honors.”
She didn’t spare him a glance as she palmed the scalpel, adjusted her position. Before he opened his mouth, she made a sure-handed incision around the areola. The approach he hadn’t had time to recommend, maximizing accessibility to the tumor.
He moved forward, tension draining by degrees as he fell into step with her, assisting her as she accessed the tumor and extracted it with a surrounding layer
