Julie raised her hand to cover the scar. ‘I am happy with my face the way it is,’ she said stiffly.
Pierre reached out and, taking her hand, gently pulled it away. ‘It is a beautiful face,’ he said, looking her directly in the eyes.
He was so close she could almost distinguish the individual eyelashes framing his deep blue eyes. Eyelashes like that were wasted on a man, she thought, trying to ignore the way her heart had started galloping. Then what he had said sank in. He had called her beautiful. Her heart beat even faster. Did he really believe that? She gave herself a mental shake. No, of course he didn’t—he was just being kind. It was far more likely that he just couldn’t stop himself from complimenting every woman who crossed his path.
‘Your bone structure is perfect,’ he continued, scrutinising her face with a professional eye. ‘You are lucky. No amount of plastic surgery can ever improve on that.’
Anne Fraser was born in Scotland, but brought up in South Africa. After she left school she returned to the birthplace of her parents, the remote Western Islands of Scotland. She left there to train as a nurse, before going on to university to study English Literature. After the birth of her first child, she and her doctor husband travelled the world, working in rural Africa, Australia and Northern Canada. Anne still works in the health sector. To relax, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, walking and travelling.
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MILLS & BOON
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Gu mo theaghlach an Uibhist—gu h-araid Lachie—tapadh leibh.
(To my family in Uist—especially Lachie—thank you.)
CHAPTER ONE
DR JULIE MCKENZIE wrapped her fingers gratefully around her coffee-cup and sank back in her chair in the doctors’ mess and closed her eyes briefly. What she wouldn’t do for a couple of hours’ sleep. She had been up all night. Just as she had been about to go home and crawl into bed for a couple of hours of much-needed sleep, the head of surgery—Mr Crawford— had asked her to stay on.
‘The new locum consultant is starting today,’ he had told Julie. ‘And since you’ll be working under him for your rotation on Plastics, I think it’s a good idea if you stay on and meet him.’
His tone had made it clear that it wasn’t optional. Besides, Julie was curious, even a little anxious, to meet her new boss. She had enjoyed working with Mr Crawford for the last six months in General Surgery, but as part of her training she was scheduled to spend the next three months attached to Plastic Surgery.
She lifted a hand and touched the scar that ran from the corner of her eye to her jawbone, feeling its raised surface under her fingertips. It was ironic, really, her working in Plastic Surgery. On the other hand, her own disfigurement meant she was drawn to the specialty. At least she would have no difficulty empathising with patients who sought help.
A polite cough aroused her from her reverie. Grief! She realised she had been on the point of dropping off. She jumped to her feet, knocking over her half-drunk cup of coffee. A hand shot out, catching the mug just in time to prevent the hot liquid from spilling over the carpet. In front of her stood Mr Crawford and, holding the errant mug, a blue-eyed man with thick black wavy hair, who was looking at her a half-smile playing on his lips.
Her heart gave an odd erratic beat. He was, by far, the most gorgeous man Julie had ever seen outside the movies. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet at least, with eyes that glinted like diamonds. Only a slightly hooked nose prevented high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth from looking feminine in their beauty. He was lean but well built, his theatre greens sat low on narrow hips. Julie felt her mouth go dry. She couldn’t ever remember having such an immediate and powerful attraction to a man before. Julie swallowed a groan. She was acutely conscious that her scrubs were crumpled and that she looked a mess after having been on her feet for twelve hours straight.
‘Dr McKenzie, I’d like to introduce you to Dr Pierre Favatier, our new consultant plastic surgeon. He will be with us for the next couple of months.’
Dazed, Julie held out her hand and felt it engulfed. She looked down. He really did have the most beautiful hands, she thought, the long elegant fingers of a piano player or a surgeon.
‘So this is Dr McKenzie,’ he said in a deep husky voice that made her think of late nights in smoky bars.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Julie said, mortifyingly aware that she sounded breathless.
‘And I am pleased to meet you too,’ he said formally echoing her greeting, and then added, ‘I hope you hold a scalpel more firmly than a coffee-cup.’
She could detect a glint of humour in his eyes. God, was he aware of the effect he was having on her?
‘Of course. You startled me—that’s all!’ she said defensively.
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said politely, and, despite the gleam in his eye, Julie wasn’t sure whether he was joking.
‘I understand that you will be my junior while I am here? Mr Crawford speaks well of you.’ He was French. That much was clear from his accent, although it was faint and only evident in the way he pronounced the h’s at the beginning of words.
‘Mr Crawford is right.’ She cast a grateful look at her chief. ‘I am an excellent surgeon—whatever first impression I gave you there.’ Well, she was. In whatever other area she lacked confidence, it wasn’t in her surgical ability, and although she knew she ran the risk of appearing arrogant,
