it was Matteo. Matteo—she’d got to thinking of him like that. Not Mr Finelli. Not something over there and out of reach. But someone here … someone personal. Matteo. Someone she’d almost kissed, for the first time in what felt like a thousand years. All she could see of his face were those eyes, piercing, dark and direct as he looked at her. ‘Ah. Miss Leigh. You’re here. Come closer, please. Glad you could tear yourself away from your paper pushing.’
‘Good to be here.’ Liar.
‘Nancy got you some scrubs. Good. We don’t want to get your lovely office suits messed up with bodily fluids. Do come and get a better view of the procedure, my team will make space for you. I’m sorry we didn’t reserve the gold-tier seating. And it’s a little crowded as I need to teach as well as operate. Perhaps one day you’ll be able to help us raise money for a decent viewing room? That would make all of our lives easier.’
She gave him a sarcastic smile, which she knew he couldn’t see behind her mask so she stuck her tongue out instead. Then levelled her voice. ‘You know very well that I’m a lawyer, not a fundraiser. However, I’ll add it to your wish-list. Which is getting longer by the day.’
‘I know. We surgeons are so demanding, yes? You’d think we were wanting to save lives or something.’ For a moment he regarded her with humour, but it was gentle and not rude, and then he became very focused and professional. ‘Okay. This patient is Emily. She’s donating her left kidney to her daughter, who is twelve years old and suffers from polycystic kidney disease. Emily is a perfect match in tissue type and blood type. She’s a very active lady with no medical history of any note. With one kidney she is giving her daughter the chance to have a normal life. That is, of course, as long as her body doesn’t reject it, although live donors are generally better tolerated than cadaver ones. Once the kidney has been removed, I, and a team of other surgeons, will …’ He paused and looked over at Ivy. ‘Are you okay, standing there?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’m fine.’ Shifting the weight from her left foot, she eased more heavily onto her right. And then realised he was still watching her.
His eyes flicked to her feet and then back to her face. ‘This is a long procedure—in fact, it’s going to be a long day. Would … er … anyone like a seat?’ His voice, she noted, had softened, the jokey teasing quite gone. Which was not what she wanted or expected from him. He must have noticed her limp. Goddamn. When had that been? She didn’t want anyone’s pity; she could hold her own as well as the next person. He called out to the orderly, ‘Eric …? Do we have any chairs?’
And look weak in front of all these people. In front of her colleagues? Him? No way. She shook her head vehemently.
Matteo paused with a large green sheet in his hand. ‘If you’re sure? Everyone?’ But she knew he meant just her. ‘This is your last chance. We’re going to start imminently and then we all need to concentrate.’
Oh, God. Objection! she wanted to shout. Stop! But instead she fisted her fingers into her palms, dug deep to distract herself from her raging heartbeat. ‘I’m fine. Please, just do the operation.’
‘As you like.’ He nodded to her, the scalpel now in his hand catching the light and glinting ominously. ‘Here we go, everyone. One laparoscopic donor nephrectomy begins.’
An hour later and Ivy had run out of places to look other than at the patient and risk the chance of seeing blood. She knew the right-hand corner of the room intimately now and could have recited the words on the warning sign above the electrical sockets blindfolded. The ECG monitoring machine bleeped and she focused once again on the LED display. Lots of squiggly lines and numbers. A niggly pain lodged in her lower back and her legs were starting to ache. She didn’t even have anything to lean against—that would have been helpful. So she stood rooted to the spot, trying to blot out the chatter, the music, the smell. Words like tubular … renal ligament … haemo … blood. She knew that. And sorely wished she didn’t.
But while her heartbeat was jigging off the scale it was clear that Matteo’s wasn’t. As he worked three probes jutting out from the woman’s abdomen while watching his handiwork on a large TV screen, his voice was measured and calm. For all his macho Italian remonstrating, the man was a damned fine surgeon, she’d give him that. He was also a decent teacher, taking time to explain to everyone exactly what he was doing—which really was amazing. Keyhole surgery was detailed, precise and very, very clever.
Okay, so she’d misjudged him. He was not narcissistic when it mattered, he was giving of himself to his patients and to the assistants. But he was still annoying. And sexy. And had she mentioned annoying? ‘We need to divide the adrenal vein so it is the optimal length for transplantation …’
She focused on the music because his running commentary was making her feel slightly woozy. Or maybe it was the heat in the room. Her gaze drifted over to him again, down his mask-covered face to his throat. The V of skin visible on his broad chest was suntanned, his forearm muscles contracting and stretching as he worked.
He stopped and arched his back, checked the screen, and, as he dipped his head to resume his work, he caught her eye. She could tell by the crinkles at his temples that he was smiling—what kind of a smile it was, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to. Just one look at those eyes made her gut contract in a sizzling, heat-filled clutch. She wondered what it would be like to wake up to those eyes, that skin … Or what would have happened in that lift yesterday if she hadn’t pulled away.
She was darned glad she had pulled away … frustrated, but glad.
But what if she hadn’t? Would he have kissed her? And why? Why her when there were so many beautiful women for him to kiss?
My God. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t be thinking like that. She couldn’t be imagining what it would be like to have Matteo touch her. To kiss him … Not when someone’s life was on the line—although, thank goodness, not in her hands.
Not at all. She wasn’t the kind of girl to have flings and she didn’t want anything else. Didn’t even want a fling … unless …
No. Not a fling. Not with Matteo damned Finelli.
She felt her cheeks heat, shook her head to clear her mind and realised it took longer than normal for her vision to catch up. Nausea ripped through her, rising up her gut. She focused on his hands. Hands that were red with blood now. Thick and red … and … The heat in the room was toxic … and she felt cold and hot … and she could feel the blood drain from her face …
‘So you are with us again? That is good.’ Matteo tapped Ivy’s hand with as little force as he dared muster, but enough that she’d at least open her eyes. She looked so pale, so young lying on the trolley covered with a blanket. And as she was his responsibility in the OR he’d deemed it only right to check on her. That’s what he told himself anyway as she stared at him, her cheeks reddening. She started to sit up but he coaxed her back down. ‘Lie still. Your blood pressure dropped and you fainted. Are you feeling okay?’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Please, go in and finish the operation. Leave me here.’ Her eyelids fluttered closed, more, he figured, out of embarrassment than feeling faint again.
People fainted in the OR on a regular basis. Nothing extraordinary. Except that this time had been the first and only time he’d felt a need to barge in and carry the victim out. But even though he had stood there helplessly as she’d fallen to the floor he’d known that he was not in a position to run to her—no matter what. His patient was his first priority. ‘It is all done—it takes more than a vaso-vagal to make me leave someone on the table. You were well cared for
