‘I imagine it can.’
It already has, his look said. On that dance floor.
His dark pupils flared. ‘Australian army?’
‘Yes. My parents met as new recruits and both followed military careers.’
‘Exciting? Interesting?’
‘Difficult … for them both, I think. One member of a family in the military is hard enough, but both parents trying to work up the career ladder meant a lot of discussing, juggling, arguing, vying for priority. What their child wanted came at the bottom of the pecking order.’
She’d learnt to speak loudly and fight hard to get heard.
‘Constantly moving and growing up on bases makes you grow a thick skin and a quick mouth. But, hey, I can shoot in a straight line and hit a target at a hundred metres.’
‘Me too.’ At her frown he illuminated, ‘Farm boy.’
Now, that was a surprise. He oozed class and rubbed easy broad shoulders with a rich and famous clientele. ‘Irish farm boy to Harley Street surgeon? That must be an interesting story.’
‘Not really.’ His smile disappeared and he looked at her as if she’d stepped over some imaginary line. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he quickened his step. She got the message—working together was okay, even kissing wasn’t a step too close, but sharing intimate details …? Never. And that suited her just fine. The less she shared about the life she’d left the better too.
As they entered the unit Kara observed an atmosphere of calm chaos—a feeling that matched her stomach. Although being surrounded by busy people was much less intense than being alone with Declan. She knew how to act here. There were protocols and policies, standards and codes. Out there in the real world, the dating world, the rules were far too confusing.
She breathed out and put her professional hat firmly on. ‘So, all the staff are up to speed with privacy requests, and everyone has been told not to comment at all to anyone phoning in, regardless of who they say they are.’
‘Excellent.’ He nodded, walking into the room he’d personally had allocated to Safia. ‘This looks perfect, but keep the bed away from the window.’ He peered through the blinds down to the road outside. ‘No one should be able to see her here on this floor. As soon as she arrives we’ll need to check her pain levels and medication. I don’t want her to be scared we’re going to hurt her when we remove the dressings. Then I’ll need an immediate blood screen to make sure she’s haemodynamically stable. Then … then we can take a good look and see what we’re dealing with.’
‘No worries.’ She picked up the clipboard on the end of the bed and checked all the correct paperwork was in place.
‘So.’ Declan glanced around. ‘What’s her ETA?’
Kara glanced at her watch. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Excellent.’
Although this was a devastating case, he looked wired and ready. This was another side of him she’d heard about but hadn’t yet encountered: his infectious enthusiasm for his work. It seemed the man had many sides apart from his infamous charm, and yet—as she’d witnessed—a mysterious unwillingness to open up about anything personal.
Which was fine. Because she would not let that kiss get in the way of her job. Or let that body of his distract her from her purpose. Or those eyes … Her stomach did a little cartwheel … Those eyes staring at her with playful teasing.
‘So, Kara Stephens, it looks like we have just enough time to check out the sheets.’
‘What?’ Her pulse rocketed.
The smile he flashed her was nothing less than wicked. ‘Thread count?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’ And she blushed again, because one mention of sheets and their thread count was the furthest thing from her mind.
‘I SAID, DON’T touch me.’ A pair of dark, frightened eyes, trying desperately hard to be brave, peered out through a face covered in bandages. ‘Go away.’
Kara leaned in to the bed and lowered her voice. This was getting precisely nowhere, but she could not and would not rush her patient. ‘I’m sorry, Safia, but we are going to have to remove the dressings sometime so we can see your burns and then treat them. We just want to help.’
‘What part of go away don’t you understand?’ Her muffled voice was thick with the tears the teenager steadfastly refused to allow. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Does it hurt? I can give you some more medicine to take the pain away. You must tell me if you need more.’
The girl shook her head.
‘I’ll do it slowly and carefully. I promise.’
But Safia raised a heavily bandaged arm and pulled the sheet over her head. The spaghetti of tubes reverberated at the swift move. An alarm rang out.
Kara took a moment to compose herself, checked the drips were patent, reset the machines and tried again. And she would continue trying until the poor girl agreed. However long it took. The theatre was booked from eight tomorrow morning. That gave her about eighteen hours. She hoped it would be enough. ‘Your Highness …’
‘Let me try.’ Sheikh El-Zayad of Aljahar, the girl’s father, stepped forward. ‘For goodness’ sake, Safia, do as you’re told. We’ve been waiting for twenty-five minutes for your bandages to come off and it’s getting past a joke. The doctors can’t do their job and you won’t get better.’
‘I’m never going to get better. This is it. Scarred for life. So get used to it.’
The Sheikh frowned. ‘Do as the doctor says. Stop behaving like a child.’
She is a child. Kara bit that thought back. He had just endured the worst thing any parent could live through—watching his child suffer—and no doubt wanted her full co-operation to get better. But seventeen was barely mature, and the ramifications of such injuries would surely make anyone scared and fractious.
She shot a look over to Declan as he finished his conversation with the Sheikh’s wife, psychologically prep-ping her for the forthcoming procedures and long-term treatment plan. Throughout the long thirty minutes of cajoling and waiting she’d felt Declan’s eyes on her, assessing, weighing her up, his playful teasing forgotten, cemented now into something much more serious.
‘So to recap—’ He leaned forward to speak to Safia’s parents. ‘We’re planning to do a series of operations over the next few weeks. Because Safia’s wounds are of differing severity and depth each one will be in its own individual recovery phase. Some wounds, I understand from her notes, are ready for closure or grafting tomorrow. Some will have to wait for closure because they need debriding. I’ll keep you fully informed as we proceed.’
Declan’s demeanour was one of total calm and efficiency, yet he commanded an
