200 Harley Street: The Shameless Maverick. Louisa George

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      And yet with all his experience he still couldn’t fathom the workings of a woman’s brain. Except that he definitely knew when it was time to leave—which was around about the time she started talking about a future.

      Kara laughed. ‘But I can see the pride in your eyes and hear it in your voice. You love them all, clearly.’

      ‘Yes, I probably do—but don’t ever let them know that or they’ll take even more advantage. And I chose a job hundreds of miles away from them just to put a good stretch of Irish Sea between us.’ He laughed along with her. ‘Thankfully none of them are any good at swimming, most of them get seasick, and they can’t afford the airfare—otherwise I’m damned sure they’d be here. Making my life hell in England too.’

      But in reality he might as well be living back home, seeing as they couldn’t or wouldn’t make a single damned decision without him. Which was why he kept his tiny slice of private time simple. No getting involved on any kind of scale. His life was already too full of responsibilities and women without taking on another one.

      Kara smirked as they entered the out-patients’ reception. ‘I guess you have to go where the work is.’

      ‘Is that what you did? It’s a long way from Sydney to London, and you didn’t have four sisters dragging at your heels.’

      ‘I needed a change. Coming here was a good move for lots of reasons.’

      The way she said that didn’t convince him that her move to London had been a positive choice. She rubbed her thumb around the base of her left-hand ring finger as her eyes darted upwards. She seemed to be searching for an answer. Not the truth, just an answer.

      Seemed everyone had their demons. And he was inexplicably intrigued, even though he’d made it his life’s purpose never to be drawn into a woman’s dramas unless he had a failsafe get-out plan.

      She peered up at him and his world tilted a little. He wasn’t used to scrutiny, or to someone pushing him for more—or wanting to give it. So why would she have this effect on him?

      ‘And you, Declan? Why choose burns reconstruction when you could have the glory and financial reward of cosmetic surgery? Breast augmentation? Tattoo removal? Enhancement of the rich and famous? Why specialise in burns?’

      The way she adeptly deflected the conversation told him she didn’t want to delve deeper into her reasons for coming here and he could respect that.

      But, hell … His chest tightened by degrees. The questions she was asking. Questions people asked him periodically, but not usually straight after a conversation about his family. Or after a consultation with a badly scarred woman. Questions that he didn’t want to answer. Wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t no matter how much her sharp green eyes reached down into his soul and tugged.

      ‘Ah, you know … it’s just how it worked out.’

      And with that he turned and walked away.

       CHAPTER THREE

      SO THE GREAT Declan Underwood had walls so high even a simple conversation couldn’t penetrate them, Kara mused as she scrubbed up the next morning. She would do well to remember that.

      She should have remembered it last night too as she lay in the dark and thought about the way she’d fitted so neatly into his arms on the ballroom floor all those months ago. And the way he’d tasted—of something fresh and new, of an experienced man. Not like the previous kisses she’d experienced from the kid she’d known her whole life. The way Declan’s big broad shoulders—a match for any Aussie rugby league player’s—looked as if they could carry the weight of a million problems. But she hadn’t wanted to share hers. No, she’d had other things on her mind. Nice other things. Naughty other things.

      And she should have remembered it too when Declan’s face had been the last thing she’d thought of before she’d fallen asleep. Almost the first thing to flash through her brain as her alarm clock blared. The very first thing, as always, had been the thick thud of loss. The reality of how much her life had changed. The tiny slash of almost white skin where her wedding ring used to be.

      But this morning the sharp sting of regret hadn’t been quite so harsh.

      Even so, she still hadn’t thought about the barriers Declan had erected, or the way he’d turned his back on her. She’d simply remembered how sweet it had felt when he’d hammered against her barriers with one scorching touch of his mouth.

      The same mouth that was now grinning at her as he walked into the scrub room. She put the little heart jig down to excitement at the forthcoming surgery and nothing to do with the sudden scent of soap and spice, or the soft brown eyes, or the way his biceps muscles lengthened as he reached for the tap.

      The V neck of his top bared a tantalising amount of suntanned chest and she imagined what might be underneath the navy cotton scrubs … Sometimes a working knowledge of anatomy did a girl nothing but harm. Especially first thing in the morning.

      He opened a sterile pack and laid it on a trolley, put on the surgical cap and mask and began washing with the nailbrush, rubbing small circles over his fingers, hands, up his arms.

      ‘Good morning, Ms Stephens. Sleep well?’

      ‘Hi. Um … Yes, thanks.’ Liar. Sleeping and thoughts of Declan Underwood were not satisfactory bedfellows.

      She dried her hands, pulled on her gown and snapped on her gloves. Took a quick check in the mirror and relaxed. There was no way there would be any kind of sexual vibes happening today—hair in a cap and body in oversized scrubs really didn’t scream goddess or available. Or any kind of hot-for-you. Thank God.

      ‘And shouldn’t it be top of the mornin’?’

      ‘A whole millennia of culture reduced to the diddly-diddly. Sure, and we’re all leprechauns.’ He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

      That tall, broad body was the furthest thing from a leprechaun she could imagine.

      ‘And shouldn’t it be g’day?’

      ‘Cobber. If you’re going the whole reductive stereotype, it should be g’day, cobber. Or sheila. And don’t forget the cork hat.’

      ‘Same language but not a lot of commonality, eh? That’s a shame. A real shame.’ He dried his hands, gowned up and smiled. ‘Perhaps we should try to forge some middle ground, Kara? There’s a whole lot more I could teach you about Irish culture … In the interests of international relations. Obviously.’

      ‘Obviously.’ Was that a come on? Or just a joke?

      Aaargh. Having been a one-man woman for so long, she didn’t understand the language of flirting.

      No matter. She didn’t have time to compute. At that moment he stepped back, catching her unawares in the tiny airless room. His hip brushed against hers and she turned too quickly, slamming body to body against him. Tingles ran the length of her spine as her heart continued a jig that was all diddly-diddly.

      ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

      His СКАЧАТЬ