was so not what he’d imagined. Not that he’d spent his days and nights wondering what one research assistant in his Brisbane lab looked like, but it bugged him nonetheless. He was usually very good at mental imaging. He had spoken to Isobella on a regular basis for two years, and with her precise speech, her prim and proper vocabulary and her polite way of keeping things strictly business had pegged her as a mousy middle-aged spinster.
And she appeared to be working overtime trying to project that image. Except she was failing miserably. The glasses were a classic example. He’d definitely expected to see her wearing a pair—even a pair that most respectable grandmothers wouldn’t be seen dead in—but somehow they didn’t disguise her features.
Instead the large, ugly frames accentuated the kittenesque quality of her make-up-less face. Its heart-shaped perfection. The delicateness of her nose, with its fascinating tilt at the tip. The mastery of her high cheekbones.
Nor did the two-sizes-too-big white lab coat hide anything. It hung on her like a sack, only emphasising the slightness beneath. The shapeless covering hinted at the litheness of her frame in all its small-boned glory. The pertness of her breasts and the flatness of her stomach. It was more alluring in a lot of ways than a skintight outfit would have been. It teased, hinted, heightened.
The same could be said for the baggy tracksuit pants she wore. Every movement, every twist and pivot as she reached for equipment, outlined the narrowness of her calves beneath. Her height worked against her, and a glimpse of slim ankle peeked out between the hem and the sock line of her very sensible, workplace-health-and-safety-approved closed-in shoes.
She twiddled the knob on her microscope and his gaze was drawn to her long, elegant fingers. They were free of jewellery, and he tried hard to think if he knew any female over the age of twelve who didn’t wear at least one ring. Her nails were cut short and polish-free. Everything about her said plain, ordinary. It said, Don’t look at me, pass me by, ignore me. So why was he so compelled to notice?
Because. Because despite her efforts to the contrary she was classically beautiful. Tall, long-limbed, cheekbones to die for, full cherubic lips that formed a perfect bow. And her eyes? A soft brown that reminded him of all the things that were bad for him. Rich espresso, expensive chocolate and hard, dark toffee.
Give her glasses trendier frames, or ultra-modern no frames—hell, even a set of contacts—and give her some clothes that flattered her figure and she’d be a damn knockout. So why? Why was a woman who would look good in a paper bag hiding herself away behind an over-sized white coat and polo-necked shirts?
He wandered towards her, intrigued despite himself. Isobella hadn’t shown the slightest interest in him, and that in itself was enough to pique his curiosity. Without any vanity Alex knew that women were drawn to him. They always showed interest.
‘What are you working on?’ Alex asked as he approached.
Isobella felt the jump of muscles in her neck as his husky question abraded her sensitised flesh. She’d been hyper-aware of him wandering around the lab. No matter where he’d been, he’d always seemed to be in her peripheral vision, and the muscles of her shoulders were bunched tightly from forcing herself not to look. Being hunched over a microscope for two hours was not good health practice—as Alex had taken pains to point out.
She schooled her features, her fingers tightening around the base of the microscope as she looked up and gave him a polite smile. ‘The software for Reg’s presentation decided to go haywire this morning. I’m cross-checking the specimens against the graphics to make sure they correlate.’
Alex nodded, searching for a softening in her steady brown gaze. ‘Did you get the Darwin sample yet?’ he asked.
‘This morning,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s already catalogued and entered into the database.’
The database was extensive, comprising not just skin-scrapings from individual victims but actual tentacular material, and digital photos of the different stages of the dermonecrotic lesions caused by the tentacles of the box jellyfish as they adhered to their victims’ skin.
‘Was it a Fleckeri?’
‘Yes. Would you like to examine it?’ she asked politely.
He gave her a slow, measured look, as if he was searching for something, and she nervously lowered her eyes from the intensity of his gaze. Her vision was now level with the open neck of his shirt, and she found her eyes inexplicably drawn again to the fascinating scars.
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Alex said, amused at her stilted formality.
‘Of course. No trouble at all.’
Isobella rose stiffly from her high stool, not lifting her gaze, waiting for him to stand aside so she could pass by him to the fridges where the specimens were stored.
He took a step back, and she dragged in a calming breath as she retrieved the skin-scraping from earlier. She could feel his gaze on her back, and her fingers trembled as they closed over the specimen container.
She passed it to him wordlessly, taking great care not to make contact with him as she did so. He smiled his thanks and she returned it with a tight smile of her own relieved when he turned his back on her and set about preparing the slide.
What the hell was the matter with her? Two hours in the company of Alex Zaphirides and she was in a total dither. She didn’t do dithering. Certainly no one she’d met in the laboratory world had been dither material. Mostly they were science geeks or maths nerds.
And that was what she liked about it. It was safe. Secluded. Nobody recognised her in here. Nobody asked inane questions or fluttered by half-naked, despairing that they’d run out of lipgloss. Nobody cared what label she was wearing, or whether her shoes matched, or what the light reading was. She was part of something much bigger. Worthwhile.
She watched him as he parked his very nice pin-striped butt on her high stool, and found herself wondering if he wore boxers or jocks.
Oh, for crying out loud!
‘You’ll need to adjust the magnification,’ she said, for something to say to get her mind out of his trousers. ‘I have it specially adjusted for my glasses.’
Alex twisted on the stool and looked at her. ‘Thanks. I got it,’ he said.
Idiot! Of course he would know that. Now he was probably wondering why on earth he’d hired a babbling dunce. She’d worked hard to prove that beauty could also come with brains. Worked hard to suppress the beauty part altogether. For God’s sake, she hadn’t worn make-up in sixteen years! She didn’t want to blow all her hard-earned years of study and work because her seriously hot boss had resuscitated her long-dead libido.
‘So, tell me about the case,’ Alex murmured, as he adjusted the magnification and the sample came into focus.
Alex’s softly burred voice barely reached her from where she stood, and she moved reluctantly closer. She took a steadying breath and reeled off the facts as concisely and scientifically as she could.
‘Eight-year-old female. Minimal exposure to the tentacles. Didn’t require the antivenin or even hospitalisation.’
‘Have we got parental consent to enter the little girl into the dermonecrosis study?’
Isobella
