hoped so.
Or at least that they could put the past behind them. Because not only would he be seeing her tomorrow but he’d be working with her too. As a paediatric reconstructive surgeon, Olivia had been given clearance by Leo not only to assist in Ama’s surgeries but to scrub in on any of the Hunter Clinic’s cases during her stay in London.
The humanitarian side of the clinic, which was Ethan’s baby, worked with charities from all round the world—Olivia’s charity being just one. Consequently it had a reasonably robust operating schedule—many of the cases were kids. There would be plenty of opportunities for Olivia to keep her skills up to date while she juggled her hosting responsibilities for Ama.
And Ethan knew having another pair of hands—skilled hands—would allow them to do so much more.
But team work was critical.
He couldn’t change what had happened in the past, and he was pretty damn sure she wouldn’t want to rehash it either, but he could treat her with the respect she deserved going forward.
He took another sip of his whisky as the questions circled round and round his brain. Questions he didn’t have answers for. Questions that could drive him nuts.
That could drive him to the bottom of Leo’s decanter.
But he’d come too close to being his father, to taking the easy way out, a while back—he wasn’t going there again.
He sighed and reached for the heavy walnut desk, grabbing hold and dragging the chair closer, trying to use his legs as little as possible. And there it was, right on the edge in the middle of the desk, Ama’s chart.
Ethan placed the decanter and his glass on the table and pushed all thoughts of Olivia aside as he opened the chart and started to read.
Olivia Fairchild was late. She checked her watch for the hundredth time as she paid the taxi driver. The cool October evening, a far cry from the heat of Africa, closed in around her as the taxi took off and she turned to face the familiar building on Harley Street.
Late or not, she took a moment to collect herself and clear her throat of the emotion that she’d been battling on the cab-ride. She blinked back stupid tears. Getting Ama and her mother settled into their room at the Lighthouse Children’s Hospital had been more emotional than she’d expected. She felt flustered and off-kilter rather than cool and professional, which was what she’d hoped to be when she came face to face with her past.
But Ama had got to her tonight—just as she had from day one. She’d been so apprehensive of her strange new world, and so distressed when her mother had left the room with the interpreter to attend to some paperwork, that Olivia had felt completely out of her depth.
For nine years Ama had known nothing other than a small village in sub-Sahara Africa where she’d been closeted away, not allowed to go to school or play with the other kids because of her disfiguring condition.
London must be terrifying.
Olivia, who had spent a lot of the past six weeks building a rapport with Ama, had tried her best to comfort the girl, but sometimes only mother-love would do and Ama had cried and cried until her mother returned.
And, oh, the way she’d clung had been gut-wrenching!
Olivia had been able to feel the frantic beat of Ama’s heart through her painfully skinny ribs as the little girl had held onto her for dear life. And Olivia had clung right back, rocking her slightly, shushing her gently, feeling so inadequate in the face of the girl’s anguish.
It had reminded her of the day she’d found Ama and her mother, both wailing and crying in the street, clinging to each other as two men engaged in a heated discussion had grabbed at them, trying to pull them apart. She hadn’t been able to bear it.
A passing car hooted, bringing her back to the here and now, and Olivia shivered as the Hunter Clinic came back into focus. She took a deep breath, steeling herself to enter.
Her heart pounded as she mounted the stairs and pushed through the heavy doors. After-hours the clinic was hushed and deserted and she took a moment to absorb it all. Except for the stark whiteness of the updated décor, visible even in the darkened interior, it looked the same as she remembered—exclusive, luxurious, old money. It smelled the same. It felt the same.
And yet it didn’t. It was familiar … yet not.
Maybe it was because she was different? Not the same starry-eyed Olivia who had trusted her heart to the Hunter boys only to be used in their toxic games and have it crushed into the dirt.
Older. Wiser.
Stronger.
It was warm inside and she undid the toggles on her duffle coat as her boot heels tapped on the exquisite grey and black marble floor on her way to Leo’s office. It felt like a lifetime ago now since she’d walked these corridors on her frequent trips to see Ethan.
Ethan.
Olivia’s heart skipped a beat as her stride faltered.
No. She would not think about him tonight. She wasn’t here to see Ethan. She was here to see Leo.
Ethan would come tomorrow. And tomorrow would be soon enough.
Despite only the most subdued light, coming from lamps placed in discreet alcoves, her feet took her to Leo’s office without any real direction from her brain. Once there she didn’t stop to give herself time to think or doubt, she just reached up to knock on the door, surprised when it swung silently open under the weight of her closed hand.
For a moment, peering into the sumptuous darkened office, with just a desk lamp illuminating the room, she thought the man sitting at the desk, head bent over a chart, looked like Leo and she smiled.
‘Leo,’ she called from the doorway, her voice hushed as seemed appropriate in the quietness of the deserted building.
Ethan, who’d been too intent to register the knock, looked up as his brother’s name spilled from Olivia’s lips, and even a decade down the track he still felt the impact of that mouth.
Wide and sexy, forming a natural pout that had always fascinated him. A mouth he’d kissed.
He’d missed.
It was a startling realisation for a man who’d felt dead inside for the past year. And he wasn’t sure he liked it.
What the hell was she doing here? Didn’t her flight arrive early tomorrow morning?
‘Olivia,’ he acknowledged, watching as her eyes, always two huge chocolate pools shimmering with emotional intensity, grew even rounder.
He should stand—innate good manners dictated that he should—but his legs felt about as supportive as wet noodles and he didn’t trust them. Thankfully Olivia seemed too stunned to call him on it.
Olivia blinked as all the oxygen in the room was sucked right out. ‘Oh …’
Ethan. Not Leo. Ethan. Her heart pounded in time to the drumming of his name through her brain.
Ethan.
