occupants of the room. “Where do we begin?”
The words to a famous old musical song came to mind, but there was no way she was breaking into song. Not around this particular man. Besides she couldn’t compete with the likes of Julie Andrews.
“A lot of these people are just meeting friends and family here.” She nodded at the foursome who were even now passing through the wooden and glass doors off to the left. “The clinic seems to have become almost as much of a meeting place as Stavros’s taverna. And, since the bar is within walking distance, it makes it ideal.”
With its traditional white stucco exterior and well-manicured gardens to the side of it, the clinic was a beautiful building, combining old-world charm with all the modern amenities of a medical facility. The Serenity Gardens boasted many nooks and crannies, ideal for intimate conversations, and benches were sprinkled along a curving walkway which was wide enough for wheelchairs and yet rustic enough to invite exploring. A white sea wall and a boat dock were newer additions.
“I can see that. Theo always did want this place to be more than just a medical clinic. Hence the so-called Tranquility Gardens.”
“They’re called the Serenity Gardens, and it doesn’t sound like you approve of the addition.”
He shrugged, his dark shirt pulling tight over muscular shoulders. Shoulders her eyes had no business lingering on. She hauled her attention back to his face.
“It’s not that I disapprove,” he said. “I just don’t believe a manufactured place can bring tranquility. Serenity,” he corrected. His smile came back, although the left side of his mouth didn’t quite lift as high as the other. “Although Theo is convinced it can.”
“I think it can as well. It’s where I see most of my patients.”
“How does that work? Did Theo put an exam room out there?”
The image of a hospital bed nestled between the flower pots made her smile back. “No. Not yet, anyway. I use the exam rooms, obviously, for physical investigation, but the garden is much more conducive to talking things through.”
“Things? Such as unfavorable diagnoses?”
“Not exactly. I guess this is where I should say that I’m a psychiatrist.” She held up her hands. “No couch jokes, please.”
His head jerked back, a muscle in his jaw twitching for a second before going still. “Couch jokes are the farthest thing from my mind at the moment. Theo hired you?”
She bit her lip. Maybe the Serenity Gardens wasn’t the only thing Dr. Patera would disapprove of. “I just happened to be on the island when the earthquake hit. I stayed to help. It’s on a volunteer basis at the moment.”
“The quake happened over a month ago. What about your own practice?”
It was her turn to shrug. “I’d already given notice at my hospital, so I’m kind of between jobs.”
“And where was that? In Athens?”
Ah, he thought she actually lived in Greece. One of the perks of having parents who had immigrated to Canada from Greece when she was a kid was that she was bilingual. The fact that he hadn’t heard any trace of an accent made her happy. As did the ease with which the islanders seemed to have accepted her.
“No, I lived in Canada. Toronto.”
“Your family is Greek, though.”
It wasn’t a question. “Yes. They moved there when I was young.”
Someone came up on his right and said something to him. Dr. Patera turned his head to give the man his attention and Lea’s breath stalled in her lungs at what that shift of position revealed.
Scars. Big ones.
Wickedly thick, they began at the lower half of his strong square jaw and formed twin streams that coursed down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Continuing on to those shoulders she’d just been admiring? Probably. The scars were paler than the rest of his skin. So they were old.
How old?
God. Those wounds must have been agonizing when they were fresh. Debriding. Skin grafts. Therapy to allow for movement. All part of third-degree burn treatment.
What had caused them? An explosive device? Some kind of caustic agent? Maybe he’d been in the military or something. She had a feeling that what she’d thought was an attractive lopsidedness to his smile might be due to the contracture of skin and muscle drawing everything down. Her gaze traveled to his chest. How many more scars were hidden beneath his clothes?
Her mind tossed an image of a very naked Dr. Patera at her—one who aimed that scrumptious crooked smile right at her and sent her brain into overdrive. She swallowed hard, feeling a weird shifting sensation burrowing through her midsection. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip.
Oh, Lord, what was once seen could not be unseen.
Except she hadn’t really seen him naked. She’d just—
His attention shifted back to her with a suddenness she hadn’t expected. She released her lip in a hurry, but it was too late. She knew it the second his eyes flickered to her mouth and back up.
* * *
She’d seen them. His damned scars.
He gave an inner grimace. They were kind of obvious. His tendency to keep his right profile to a person was ingrained from years of trying to keep the damage to his skin out of sight. Hidden, but not forgotten.
Along with his sense of shame?
Probably. The two things seemed to go hand in hand. It was one of the things that had kept him from wanting to come back to the island. Almost every person on Mythelios knew what he’d done. Or at least they thought they did.
Except Dr. Risi, here. And now even she had seen the evidence—she just didn’t know the reason for it.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d participated in the founding of this clinic. He’d wanted to leave after medical school and never come back. And for the most part he’d done exactly that. But his three best friends in the world had been determined to take their parents’ tarnished legacies and turn them into something good. And as long as he could give his input from a distance he was good with that. His traveling did the trick for the most part. He was able to give his nods of approval from afar, except when they absolutely needed his physical presence.
Like now.
If he’d expected to see a quick show of pity on this new doctor’s face, though, he was sorely disappointed. She met his gaze with steady green eyes that gave nothing away.
That was probably the psychiatrist in her. She was trained to listen without judging. Not to seem shocked or horrified, no matter how ugly the story. Or how hideous the outward appearance.
His dad—after a rare crack had appeared in his chilly demeanor—had once sent him to a shrink in Athens, six months after the accident. But Deakin, his scars still fresh and painful, had refused to say anything. After four sessions
