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‘There wasn’t one part in this book where I wanted to stop. Once I’d started it was hard even to read the ending, but once I did it made everything seem right. I am an avid fan of Ms Andrews, and once any reader peruses this book they will be too.’
—CataRomance.com on TOP-NOTCH SURGEON, PREGNANT NURSE
‘A wonderfully poignant tale of old passions, second chances and the healing power of love … an exceptionally realistic romance that will touch your heart.’
—Contemporary Romance Reviews on HOW TO MEND A BROKEN HEART
200 Harley Street:
The Tortured Hero
Amy Andrews
MILLS & BOON
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For Carol, Scarlet, Alison, Lynne, Kate, Annie and Louisa.
It was fun working with you ladies—
let’s do it again some time!
Table of Contents
Praise for Amy Andrews
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
ETHAN HUNTER NEEDED a drink.
Bad.
After five hours of complicated surgery his legs ached like a bitch and finding the bottom of a bottle was the only sure-fire way to soothe the fiery path of hot talons tearing from thigh to calf.
It was that or painkillers, and Ethan refused to be dependent on drugs.
‘We’re heading to Drake’s, Ethan,’ a voice with a thick Scottish brogue said from behind. ‘Why don’t you join us?’
A sudden silence descended into the male change-room as Ethan turned around to find Jock, the anaesthetist from the surgery, addressing him. He looked around at the four others, who’d all been chatting merrily until now. Clearly none of them were keen on having Ethan join them.
Jock didn’t look particularly enthused either.
Not that he could blame them. The longer the surgery had taken, the more his legs had ached, and the more tense and terse he’d become. Accidentally dropping an instrument had been the last straw, and kicking it childishly across the floor until it clanged against the metallic kickboard of the opposite wall hadn’t exactly been his most professional moment.
He hated prima donna surgeons, but his simmering frustration at his shot concentration and the pain had bubbled over at that point.
Even so, he didn’t need or want their duty invitation, no matter how much he craved some alcoholic fortification. Ethan was just fine with drinking alone.
In fact, he preferred it.
‘No thanks, Jock,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get back to the clinic.’
Which was true. There was an important case file he needed to familiarise himself with on Leo’s desk. And some classy fine malt whisky to go with it.
He looked around at his colleagues. ‘Thanks for your help in there, everyone. Good job.’
There was a general murmuring of goodnights and then Ethan was alone. He sank gratefully onto the bench seat just behind him, easing his legs, muscles screaming, out in front of him. He shut his eyes as the pain lessened considerably and sat there for long minutes as the rush of relief anaesthetised the lingering tension in the rest of his body.
It felt so damn good to be off them!
But he couldn’t sit here forever. Work called. He reluctantly opened his eyes and reached for his clothes.
The black cab pulled up in front of the imposing white Victorian facade on Harley Street. Like the many clinics and physician’s offices that called Harley Street home, the Hunter Clinic was as exclusive as the address implied.
Ethan’s father, celebrated plastic surgeon James Hunter, had founded it over three decades ago, and it had gone on to become world-renowned as much for its
