Fast forward seven years to now. There were shadows beneath those beautiful eyes—a combination of exhaustion and pain over the last few days, she’d guess—but Prince Marco was still the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. And now he was a man, not a boy. The youthfulness had gone from his face, and he’d filled out from being a tall and slightly skinny youth to having hard, perfect musculature.
And his mouth … It still promised sin. The ultimate temptation. A mouth she could remember giving her almost unbearable pleasure. It would be oh, so easy to let herself act on the old attraction.
Well, she was just going to have to resist that urge, because the likes of him were definitely not for the likes of her. And she wasn’t stupid enough to jeopardise her career for one of the few sweet memories of her past. She’d worked way too hard for that.
‘My grandfather’s called Sebastian,’ he continued. ‘I was named partly after him. So it made sense to use his name—one of my middle names.’
‘What was wrong with calling yourself Marco?’
‘It would’ve made it too easy for the press to make the link,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t want everyone thinking that I was just some bored aristocrat slumming it.’
‘Weren’t you?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I wanted to make a difference.’
She could almost believe him.
Except … ‘You left without a word.’
He sighed. ‘I was called back to the Palace. My grandfather was ill. It would’ve been too complicated to explain.’
‘And you couldn’t have told me that you’d been called home because of a sick family member? You were that paranoid about the connections being made?’
‘I didn’t say that all my decisions have been the best ones—or the right ones,’ he said, and looked wryly at his strapped-up hand. ‘Or I wouldn’t have this.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Shrapnel. Well, glass,’ he said. ‘It severed a tendon.’
Which was pretty much as she’d been briefed. Patient: male, late twenties, royal, soldier, severed flexor tendon, needs physio work to regain mobility and movement in his hand.
The last thing she’d expected was for it to be the man who’d broken her heart to the point that she’d sworn off relationships for good and focused on nothing but her career.
Which was what she should be doing right now. Professional was good: it would put some much-needed distance between them. ‘Ethan said the repair was a success. So now it’s my job to get your hand mobile and working properly again.’
‘Is it going to be a problem, Becca?’ he asked. ‘Working with me?’
She shrugged. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’
Was it her imagination, or had she seen a flicker of hurt in his eyes just then?
Well, tough. He’d hurt her. Badly. And, besides, she was pretty sure it was his ego that was hurt and nothing else. He might think of himself as Prince Charming, but she had absolutely no intention of playing Cinderella. Or fawning adoringly over him. She’d be cool and calm and professional, and treat him just as she would any other patient. With care and kindness, and just a little bit of necessary detachment.
‘You can drop the “Royal Highness” bit,’ he said.
‘What would you like to be called today?’ The snippy question was out before she could stop it.
He sighed. ‘I guess I deserve that. Call me Marco. And I hope I can still call you Becca.’
Oh, help. The way he said her name. That slight trace of a Spanish accent, so incredibly sexy. It made her knees buckle.
Resist, she reminded herself. This was a job. He was a patient, and she had to treat him with the utmost professionalism. And he was also a prince. They had no possible chance of a future together, and she wasn’t going to wreck her career for just a fling.
‘I guess. May I have a look at your hand?’ she asked.
He indicated his strapped-up arm with his free hand. ‘Help yourself.’
Gently, she removed the strapping and took the hand strap off the splint.
* * *
Seven years.
She’d changed. Back then Becca had still been a girl. Nineteen years old, a little shy. Beautiful.
Now she was all woman.
Even with her soft curves hidden beneath a sexless starched white coat, with that glorious auburn hair tamed back in a ponytail and those beautiful green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses, Becca Anderson was gorgeous.
Worse still, Marco knew what it felt like to kiss her. How her body responded to his when they made love. How her breathing changed just before she climaxed.
Ah, hell.
This was so inappropriate it was untrue.
Becca Anderson was his hand therapist, and Ethan Hunter had told him not to flirt with any of the female staff at the clinic.
Ha.
Flirting wasn’t the half of it.
What would Ethan Hunter say if he knew just how far things had gone between Marco and Becca all those years ago?
Marco had to get a grip.
Which was half the problem; right now his left hand didn’t have a grip. That was what Becca was going to fix.
And he needed to think of her as a medic. Not as a woman.
In fact, he needed not to think of her at all. Since he’d left her behind in South Africa he hadn’t let himself think about her. Well, apart from the day after the doctor had confirmed that his grandfather had come through the heart bypass operation safely and would be just fine. Marco had gone back to the children’s aid camp, then. For her.
Except she’d left, two days previously, with no forwarding address.
The one girl who’d seen him for himself instead of as a prince. Who’d made his summer feel full of magic. Who’d made him fall in love with her shy, gentle sweetness.
He’d lost her. And he hadn’t been able to track her down, even with the help of a private detective; somehow she’d managed to vanish completely.
And all sorts of things could have happened in the last seven years. He glanced swiftly at her left hand. There was no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t committed. She might not wear rings to work, given that she was a hand therapist. She could have a family, now. A child.
Besides, she’d made it very clear how she regarded him now. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’
So he needed to stop thinking about her, right now, and do what he’d done for the last seven years: keep himself busy at work, and then play just as hard with a string of totally unsuitable women. Not let himself think about the girl he’d left behind.
‘You’ve made a real mess of this,’ she said, examining his palm. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Hunter didn’t tell you?’
‘Soldier, severed tendon.’ She shrugged. ‘So I’d guess it happened in action?’
‘My windscreen was blown out. I put up my hand to protect my eyes.’
‘No wonder you severed a tendon.