href="#u5f2a19be-5912-5867-849f-a0da7f2dc016">Copyright
‘MAKE SURE TO get my best side, won’t you now?’ Declan Underwood joked to the army of paparazzi camped on the front steps of Princess Catherine’s Hospital as he parked his motorbike and removed his helmet.
He smiled towards his clicking, whirring audience, who clearly had nothing better to do than chase ambulances on a sunny summer morning, and tried to hide his growing irritation. The last thing he needed was more unwarranted delays, today of all days. He was not in the mood to be polite.
Making his way up the pale stone steps, he batted away questions like a tennis ace.
‘Is Princess Safia here?’ someone shouted from behind a long lens. ‘Is she going to make a full recovery? Will she be scarred for life?’
‘Now, come on, give a guy a break. I can’t hear one for the other.’ Toeing both the clinic’s and his own staunch professional line, Declan exhaled slowly and waited for them to settle. ‘As you know, ladies and gents, my hands are tied. There’s a young girl’s privacy to think of. I just can’t make any comment.’
Note: make sure the blinds are closed at all times. Move her to a higher floor. Increase security.
Sure, both the Hunter Clinic and the hospital affectionately known as Kate’s relied on positive press to further their reach and their work, but this was way too much interest in a young girl fighting for her life, regardless of her background.
Small wonder the Sheikh’s staff had been definitive in their demands to uphold their privacy. If any of Declan’s family had been involved in a tragedy such as this he’d want to protect them too.
He shuddered and damped down the tight squeeze in his chest. Had protected them, for all the good that had done.
‘Come on, Declan, it’s no coincidence that you—the country’s foremost burns reconstruction surgeon—are here and there’s a private flight scheduled to arrive from Aljahar any minute.’
Was that Fi … something—the journalist he’d spent a few dates with not so long ago? Trying to use her inside contacts to get more information? Tut-tut. Declan flashed her a particular smile. Similar to the one he’d given her as he’d left for the last time, whenever it was, that said, Hey, don’t push it.
With all the smiling his jaw muscles had begun to ache, but he knew that the Hunter Clinic boss, Leo, wouldn’t want his second-in-command to jeopardise the clinic’s new positive relationship with the media. ‘I’m so sorry, but you all know that I’m in no position to confirm or deny any rumours. You all know too that even if I did have any idea as to the whereabouts or condition of Princess Safia I couldn’t tell you a thing. The Sheikh, quite rightly, is very keen on confidentiality. But I’m sure he and his family appreciate all the concern and will issue a statement as and when appropriate. Now we need to leave the family alone to recover. And I need to go to work. Thank you so much.’
Closing the door behind him to a barrage of more camera flashes, he exhaled deeply and headed towards the burns unit. Two extensive surgeries, an afternoon clinic and an evening meeting amidst a swirl of media frenzy about a royal with devastating facial burns loomed ahead of him.
It was going to be a very long day.
‘You. Yes, you. Stop. Wait.’
A heavily accented raised male voice out in the hospital corridor drew Declan’s attention from the notes he was reviewing at his desk over his hastily snatched lunch break.
‘What’s all that noise on the street? The photographers? Newspapers? His Highness specifically said he wanted Sheikha Safia’s arrival to be discreet. His daughter is suffering and she needs peace and quiet. She is devastated about her injuries …’
‘Yes, I understand entirely,’ an unfamiliar voice with an Antipodean twang replied. ‘I have already spoken to Security and they are planning to transfer the Princess through the back door.’ Despite the clipped tones the voice was remarkably calm, smoky. Distinctly feminine. Declan put down the papers and listened.
The male voice cut in. ‘We understood Mr Underwood himself was going to oversee every detail.’
‘Of the surgery and treatment phases, yes, absolutely, but not everything on this list …’
She paused. Declan heard a rustling of paper.
‘He’s not responsible for the sheet thread count, or the menus or the quality of the glassware … I’ll get the services manager to check through all of that …’
‘And lilies—we asked for white lilies to decorate her room.’
‘Of course. The lilies. Item twenty-two.’
Not an ounce of agitation.
‘Unfortunately we don’t allow fresh flowers onto the burns unit. It’s an infection control issue.’
‘No?’
Agitation rippled off the man’s voice in streams enough for both of them.
‘But for the Sheikha you can do such a thing. She never stays anywhere without lilies. Be warned: His Highness expects high standards and he will get them. His daughter is the very most precious thing to him and he hates her to be upset. I insist you bend the rules.’
‘And I insist you leave the medical professionals to implement the rules, sir. We have them for a reason. No fresh flowers. The pollen can infect the wounds and make our patients very sick. It’s something we’re very strict about. No exceptions.’
Declan’s interest was piqued. Management had certainly stepped up their game by employing her. He smiled, imagining a stare-off between the mystery woman and the Sheikh’s aide.
‘Is there anything else? Sir?’
‘Do not take that tone. The Sheikh is very powerful and can have you removed from your position with just one word.’
The smile was wiped from Declan’s face. No one spoke to a member of staff in that way—whoever she was, and however spirited.
He scraped back his chair and walked into the corridor, watching the exchange from a distance, ready to pounce and squash the man if anything got out of hand. He got the feeling the woman wouldn’t thank him for interfering and for what that might imply: that she couldn’t handle it. When she clearly could. Bringing up his younger sisters had taught him to leave them alone with their arguments and only get involved if things got physical.
‘Well, I have a few words I could use too … but I won’t.’ With a voice so prickly, he hadn’t expected the woman to be so young and soft. She had her back to him, but something about her rang bells in Declan’s brain. Familiar bells. Warning bells.
The ponytail of light blonde curls, the neat curves in an ice-pink silk blouse and a straight black skirt that skimmed her knees—just. Sky-high black shoes with a razor-sharp heel that surely no one could feasibly walk in but which made her legs look impossibly long and … deeply sexy. A back as straight as a blade, and that voice … smoky …
