She spoke again. ‘There we go, that’s better.’
It was that accent. It didn’t fit with his Mediterranean dream princess.
It confused him. Made his brain hurt. No—that wasn’t his brain, that was his head.
He blinked again. The smell of the Adriatic Sea assaulting his senses. His skin was prickling. All of a sudden he felt uncomfortable. Something wasn’t right. He was wet. Not just damp but soaked all over.
In the space of a few seconds the jigsaw puzzle pieces all fell into place. The young boy drowning, his attempt at saving him and the almighty crack to his head. He pushed himself up.
‘Whoa, sailor. Take it easy there. You’ve had a bump on the head.’
‘You can say that again,’ he mumbled, squinting in the sunlight. ‘And it’s Doctor, not sailor.’
The princess’s face broke into a wide perfect-toothed smile. ‘Actually, I’ll correct you there. On board, you’re a sailor first, doctor second.’
David Marsh leaned forward, clutching some wet credentials in his hand. He held out his other hand. ‘Well, this is an interesting way to meet our new boss. Gabriel Russo, I’m Dr David Marsh, your partner in crime. And this…’ he nodded towards Francesca ‘… is Francesca Cruz, one of our nurse practitioners. But as you’ve just been mouth to mouth with each other, introductions seem a little late.’ He signalled to the nearby crewmen. ‘We’re just going to get you on this stretcher and take you to the medical centre to check you over.’
Francesca felt a chill go down her spine at the name. She recognised it but couldn’t for the life of her think why. She stared at him again. Was he vaguely familiar? She was sure she’d never met him, and with features like those he wasn’t the kind of man you’d forget.
Gabriel looked horrified and shook his head, water flying everywhere. ‘No stretcher. I’m fine. I can walk.’ He pushed his hands on the bottom of the boat and stood up, standing still for a few seconds to make sure his balance was steady.
His eyes found the thick rope securing the small boat to the quay before he stepped over the gap and back to the safety of solid ground. He spun round to face Francesca. ‘How’s the boy? Is he all right?’ But he’d turned too quickly and he swayed.
She caught hold of his arm and gave him a cautious smile. ‘He’s on his way to the medical centre to be checked out. He was conscious, breathing but distinctly pale when he arrived. Now, how about I get you a wheelchair?’
‘I don’t do wheelchairs.’
She signalled over his shoulder. ‘I can be very bossy when I want to be.’
Dr Marsh cut in, ‘I can testify to that. Particularly if you think you’re going to get the last chocolate. I should warn you in advance that’s criminal activity in the medical centre.’
Gabriel felt pressure at the back of his legs as he thudded down into a wheelchair that had appeared out of thin air. ‘I said I don’t do chairs,’ he growled.
‘Let’s argue about that later,’ said Francesca as she swept the wheelchair along the dock.
The hairs on his arms were standing on end and he started to shiver—an involuntary action—a sign of shock. A few seconds later a space blanket was placed around his shoulders.
He grudgingly pulled it around him, noting the efficiency of his new staff and the easy rapport and teamwork—all good signs. Within a few seconds his nurse appeared to have walked the hundreds of yards along the dock and was pushing him up the gangway.
This was a nightmare. The worst way possible to meet your new staff. Yet another reason he should never have taken this job.
She seemed to turn automatically to her left, heading toward the service elevators. Gabriel felt mild panic start to build in his chest. Could this day get any worse?
Then she quickly veered off to the right. ‘Where are we going?’ he growled.
‘To the medical centre. We’re already on Deck Four so it will only take a couple of minutes.’ If she was annoyed by his tone there was no sign.
Gabriel heaved a sigh of relief and settled back in the chair. He’d be fine once he got something for this headache and was out of these wet clothes. Then he could get started.
The chair turned sharply into the modern medical centre. Consulting rooms, treatment rooms, in-patient beds and state-of-the-art diagnostics and emergency equipment. He knew the spec for this place off by heart—it was impressive, even by his exacting standards.
She wheeled him through to one of the rooms and pulled the curtains around the bed, pushing the brake on the wheelchair. She disappeared for a second and came back with a towel and set of scrubs.
Francesca’s brain was whirring. Gabriel Russo. Why was that name so familiar? Then it hit her like a ton of bricks falling from the sky. She had seen him before. Only last time he’d been wearing a pair of white designer swimming trunks and been perched on the edge of a multi-million-pound yacht, his arm lazily flung around the shoulders of her bikini-clad friend Jill.
The Italian stallion, Jill had called him and that picture had adorned her flatmate’s bedside cabinet until one night when a sobbing Jill had phoned Francesca at 3:00 a.m. to come and pick her up.
Francesca would never forget the sight of Jill in her sodden green designer gown, her hair plastered around her face and tears running like rivulets down her cheeks after Gabriel had flung her out of his penthouse flat.
Jill had been broken-hearted over his treatment of her and had taken a good few weeks to get over him—a long time for Jill.
And Francesca had waited a long time, too—to tell this man exactly what she thought of him. He was alive. He was breathing. His heart rate was sound. After a few general observations for head injuries he should be fine. There was a determined edge to her chin; it would be criminal to waste this opportunity. And she had absolutely no intention of doing so.
Something was wrong. Something had changed. He could sense it immediately; the tension in the air was palpable. Right now, all he wanted to do was climb into that pristine white bed, close his eyes and lose this thumping headache.
But the soft side of his Mediterranean princess had vanished and she was staring at him as if he were something she’d just trodden on.
Or maybe he was imagining it? Maybe the resuscitation and head knock had affected him more than he’d thought?
‘You’re Gabriel Russo.’
Gabriel’s pounding head jerked in response to the sharp tone in her voice. He wasn’t imagining it. ‘I thought we had established that.’
‘No, you’re Gabriel Russo, Italian stallion.’ She lifted her fingers in the air, making the quotation mark signs, wrinkled her nose and then continued, ‘Stinking love rat. You used to date my friend Jill—until you threw her out of your apartment in London at 3:00 a.m. in the pouring rain.’
‘No one’s ever called me Italian stallion to my face before.’ He felt almost amused. The nickname had been plastered across the press often enough. He wasn’t used to being blindsided. Then again, he wasn’t used to being resuscitated.
Jill. The name flickered through his brain. He’d certainly dated more than his fair share of beautiful women and he’d worked all over the world. Something fell into place. London. No. Let’s hope she wasn’t talking about that Jill. Just what he needed—a misguided, loyal friend. If his head wasn’t thumping so much this could almost be funny. Not only that—Ms Misguided was a knockout. A beautiful work colleague would never be a problem. But an angry, venomous one would be. This was a small team. They had to work together. It could be badly