‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘But still you liked it.’
Now she looked like she was trying not to laugh, that pretty mouth curling at the edges, light in the green eyes. ‘You are very annoying, Matteo. Okay. If I say yes, will you shut up?’
‘Perhaps. Take a chance and see.’ He raised his eyebrows and waited. And waited some more as the silence in the room became amplified and the lack of anyone else there became more and more obvious. They were alone and if kissing was on the agenda it could happen here. Now. And no one apart from them would ever know. He perched on the edge of one of the tables. ‘And …?’
She glared at him, all humour and frustration and tightlipped. And eventually she shook her head and tsked. ‘God, will you never give up? I liked the kiss, okay?’
As he’d thought. ‘Good. You said it and nothing bad happened, so it wasn’t so hard to be honest and open, was it? I liked it too, but it wasn’t a sensible move.’
‘No. It wasn’t.’
‘And if we do it again?’ What was it about her that made him so rash? He wanted to say things to her that he’d never said to anyone else. ‘You will slap me with a sexual harassment complaint?’
‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t do that. I fully acknowledge my part in it.’ The smile gave way to a frown. ‘It is mighty tempting.’
Indeed it was. Achingly so. And a lesser man might well have tried it again. But Matteo knew the score, he had nothing but respect for her and would not step over a line that she drew. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be friends with her, somehow.
Friends? What the hell? A debate began to rage in his head. A man could have female friends, couldn’t he? But friends with the woman he’d locked horns with last week? With the woman who enraged and entranced him? He’d find being friends with her very hard indeed. It would have to be work colleagues or nothing. ‘So, we won’t do it again. But for a moment last week I had a glimpse of what you could be like. You let me see a tiny chink of who the real you is. And then, bam, it was gone, all hidden behind the designer suit and the frumpy blouse.’
Her voice rose as she looked down at her top. ‘It is not frumpy. It was exclusive—’
‘And you are always so antagonistic, always fighting. Why did you have to learn to be like that?’ His chest tightened a little, because he knew damned well that no one was born like that, knew that slamming up defences and fighting your corner was a learnt response. He’d been through that and out the other side, learning to withhold his need to fight back. Because, in the end, all that did was make situations worse.
Except, of course, when it was to do with a mandatory training course. He’d keep on fighting against that.
‘I didn’t realise. Oh.’ Two hot spots blossomed on her cheeks. ‘Is that how I come across? Antagonistic?’
Her frown deepened and he immediately regretted what he’d said. ‘Maybe only to me.’
‘I’m ambitious, I want to do well,’ she railed at him. ‘And I’ve earned my stripes, so in certain situations I get to call the shots.’
‘I understand.’
She glanced at him as she dragged the door open with her free hand and held it open, leaning against it. ‘Do you? Really? You understand how hard it was for someone like me to have achieved what I have?’
‘Someone like you? What does that mean?’
‘Oh, nothing. Forget it.’ With that she stalked out of the room, favouring her left foot as always, and walked down the corridor.
‘No. Tell me.’ He caught her arm. There was a dare in her, a level that he connected with that was fresh and new and challenging and he liked it. A lot. She had depth, layers. Layers he’d like to unwrap. So, what the hell, he was never one to flinch from a challenge. ‘I want to know.’
Her shoulders hitched nonchalantly as she slowed to a halt, surprise lacing her eyes as she looked first at his hand on her arm and then at his face. She was hiding behind bravado that was flimsy and fragile.
‘Let’s just say I didn’t exactly have the most conventional route to getting to where I am now. At times it was a struggle and I had to fight very hard, to push myself. I have high expectations and I expect everyone to have the same. Sadly, they don’t. I don’t like to call it fighting or antagonistic, I prefer determined. Gutsy. And damned hard work. But, whatever it is, I learnt that to get anywhere you have to be prepared to go further than anyone else. And you always have to do it on your own. Because, in the end, you’re the only person you can rely on.’
So, somewhere along the line she had been hurt. He got that now. And a dark feral anger shook through him, the ferocity of it shocking him so much he took a step backwards. But he shook it off. Not his problem. Not his fight. He never allowed himself to get swept up in a woman’s dramas.
So he was startled by his reaction, his need to fight on her behalf. To protect her. And by the rush of something that clutched at his chest as he saw the pain in her eyes, and the fight. He dropped his hand from her arm but followed her, picking up her pace. ‘They certainly picked the right person for the job here, then. I love St Carmen’s but they do need to be brought into the twenty-first century. You’ll have a challenge on your hands to do that.’
Once again they found themselves at the lift and she pressed the button. No jab-jab-jab this time; she didn’t appear to be in such a hurry to get away from him. ‘At least we agree on something. For sure, they do. I don’t know when the employee contracts were last brought into line with the most recent laws, or the sexual harassment policies, not to mention the complaints procedures, but it wasn’t this side of the millennium. So it’s a hard enough job as it is, without having to be sidetracked by some jumped-up surgeon’s bottom.’
‘Touché, Ivy. Touché.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘That’s not Italian for “You can touch it,” by the way.’
‘Ha! In your dreams, Finelli.’ She flung him a disdainful sideways glance and shook her head. But he could see, as she hit the lift call button again, that her hands had a tremor. She was all talk of ballsy and brave, but underneath she was bubbling and boiling. ‘Now, you must have something more important to be doing?’
More important, undoubtedly, but not as interesting. ‘Yes.’
She nodded, all businesslike, as a queue began to form behind them for the lift. ‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
‘On Ward Four. Seven-thirty. We’ll meet there.’
‘Be prepared, Finelli. I’ve been doing my homework.’
Prepared? Sure. He kept trying to be, but just when he thought he’d got everything under control Ivy Leigh knocked him backwards or sideways or just plain upside down.
As Ivy stepped onto Ward Four she was consumed by the memories, the smell, the rush-rush of the nurses as they bustled by. The fear. That was it, the place smelt of fear. And no doubt that had not been the intention of the interior designer who’d recently been appointed to cheer the place up. Sure, they’d done a great job with the bright primary-coloured walls and the jungle-animal theme.
But it still smelt of fear.
Or maybe that was just her impression. Surely it was, because the kids she could see were cheerful and smiling and the parents too. It was just her and her memories. Of learning to walk again. Of the pain. And the loss. Of not knowing who was going to turn up to take her home. If, indeed, she had a home to go to.
Brushing those memories away, she fixed on a smile and headed towards the huddle of medics standing around a bed. As she closed in on them she heard Matteo’s voice, soft and soothing,