dating was still focused on having fun. The moment a woman started dropping hints about ‘taking things to the next level’ she was no longer welcome in France. Or in Notting Hill for that matter.
He loved women but he didn’t do next levels. It was better to break a heart in the early days, well before things got serious, than to risk shattering a life, or worse, lives. His childhood was a case in point, and furthermore, no one ever knew precisely the duration of a second chance.
Surprised by the unexpected direction his musings had taken him—he didn’t do dark thoughts and he certainly wasn’t known for them—he left Tristan’s room and contemplated the hour. It wasn’t quite eight. As it was a Thursday night there’d be a sizeable hospital crowd at the Frog and Peach and he’d be welcomed with open arms for his dart skills. Oddly, the thought didn’t entice. He had an overwhelming urge to do something completely different. Something wild that would make him feel alive.
Parkour in the dark?
Alive not dead, thank you very much.
Still, parkour in daylight this coming weekend was worth investigating. He pulled out his phone and had just brought up a browser when he heard, ‘G’day, Alistair.’
Astonished, he spun around at the sound of the broad Australian accent. Although he’d heard Claire Mitchell use the informal Aussie greeting with other people, she’d always been far more circumspect with him. Well, with the exception of one or two lapses. In general, he knew she tried to be polite with him and that she found it a struggle. Did it make him a bad person that he enjoyed watching her keep herself in check? The woman was always buttoned up so tightly it wasn’t surprising she cracked every now and then.
Now she stood in front of him with her hands pressed deep into the pockets of her once starched but now very end-of-day limp doctor’s coat. Her hair was pulled back into its functional ponytail and a hot-pink stethoscope was slung around her neck. A tiny koala clung to her security lanyard along with a small pen on retractable elastic. Her utilitarian white blouse and medium length black skirt were unremarkable except that the skirt revealed those long shapely legs that taunted him.
Her feet were tucked into bright red shoes with a wide strap that crossed her instep just below her ankle and culminated in a large red button that drew the eye. He suddenly understood completely why Victorian gentlemen had waxed lyrical over a fleeting glimpse of a fine ankle.
He scanned her face, looking for clues as to why she was suddenly attempting a colloquial greeting with him. ‘G’day, yourself,’ he intoned back, with a fair crack at an Aussie accent.
Behind her sexy librarian-style glasses her eyes did that milk and dark chocolate swirly thing he always enjoyed and—was she blushing?
‘Do you have a minute?’ she asked, quickly pushing her glasses up her nose as they continued walking towards the lifts.
‘Always. Problem?’
‘Um.’ She surreptitiously glanced along the corridor, taking in the nurses’ station that was teaming with staff. She suddenly veered left into the treatment room.
Utterly intrigued by this uncharacteristic behaviour, he followed. ‘Shall I close the door?’
She tugged hard at some stray strands of her hair before pushing them behind her ears. ‘Thanks.’
He closed the door and flicked the blinds to the closed position before leaning back against the wide bench. Claire stood a metre or more away, her plump lips deliciously red. He shifted his gaze and—Damn it! His eyes caught on a fluttering pulse beating at the base of her throat. She really had the most gloriously long, smooth neck that just begged to be explored.
That’s as may be, but remember, most of the time she’s a pain in the ass. Not to mention she’s your trainee.
‘Alistair,’ she started purposefully, and then stopped.
‘Claire.’ He couldn’t help teasing back. He’d never seen her at a loss before and it was deliciously refreshing.
She took in such a deep breath that her breasts rose, stressing the button he was pretty certain sat just above her bra line. Was it delicate sheer lace or plainly utilitarian? It was his experience that plain women often wore the sexiest underwear.
With that mouth, she’s hardly plain.
As if on cue, the tip of her tongue peeked out, flicking the bow of her top lip.
His blood leapt.
She cleared her throat. ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way but...’
Trying to look utterly unaffected by her, he cocked one brow and reminded himself of all the times she’d been critical of him. ‘My sensibilities haven’t stopped you from giving me your opinion before.’
This time she definitely blushed, but somehow she managed to wrestle her embarrassment under control with dignity. ‘True, but that was work. This doesn’t exactly fall into that category. Although I suppose it does technically if you—’
‘You’re babbling,’ he said, hoping it would force her to focus. At the same time, he had an absurd and unexpected need to rescue her from herself.
Her head jerked up so fast he was worried her neck might snap but then she hit him with a gimlet stare. He forced himself not to squirm as an unsettling feeling trickled through him. Did she see straight through the man he liked to show the world? Had she glimpsed the corner edge of the bubbling mess he kept securely sealed away?
‘As the head of the department of neurosurgery,’ she said tightly, ‘I think it’s important you lead by example and attend the Spring Fling.’
The Spring Fling? Surely he’d misheard. ‘You mean the neurosurgery spring symposium?’
She shook her head and once again the blush bloomed on her cheeks. She swallowed and that damn tongue of hers darted out to moisten her lips. This time as the zip of heat hit him, he pushed off the bench to try and shake it off.
‘I mean the fundraising ball,’ she said slowly, as if the words were being reluctantly pulled out of her.
He couldn’t resist. ‘Are you inviting me to the ball?’
Her eyes widened in consternation. ‘No!’ For a moment, indignation spun around her before fading with a sigh and a fall of her shoulders. ‘I mean perhaps. Yes. In a manner of speaking.’
His mouth twitched. ‘It’s good to know you’re so decisive.’
Her chin shot up, jabbing the air. ‘You can tease me all you like, Mr—Alistair, but you know as well as I do that at the bare minimum there should be a neurosurgery staff table at the ball.’
Damn it to hell. She was absolutely right but how had she found out he wasn’t going? He’d been keeping that bit of information to himself, more out of embarrassment than anything else. A couple of months ago, just before Claire had arrived, he’d had a particularly tough day. He’d lost a patient—a two-year-old boy with a brainstem glioma—and for some reason he’d avoided the sympathetic eyes of his staff at the Frog and Peach. He’d hit a trendy bar in Soho instead, and in retrospect, he’d consumed one whisky too many.
It had been enough to scramble his usually
