‘You were telling Safia about your sisters. “They call me Dec,” you said, or something.’
‘Why do you need to know?’
Her forehead furrowed into a deep V and her eyes sparked with humour and intrigue. ‘I don’t need anything. I was just making conversation. It’s what human beings do to fill that very long gap between birth and death. Communication.’
She held his gaze and it felt as if she was throwing down a gauntlet. One he could run with or one he could walk away from.
‘Only, I don’t have any siblings, and I always thought it’d be nice to have some. It’s just a chat, Declan, as we while away the minutes. Not an interrogation.’
She was right. It was just talking. It wasn’t exactly baring his soul. And he’d always been a sucker for gauntlets. ‘Well, if I were you I’d rejoice in your single-child-dom, Kara—because, trust me, you do not need four sisters.’
‘Four? Wow.’
‘All younger. All a giant pain in the ass …’
She laughed. ‘Growing up amongst that must have been busy. But fun, though?’
‘It was messy … crazy … loud. Very loud. And awash with wayward hormones.’ Remembering the madcap phone call that morning, he shrugged, smiling to himself. They might well be irritating, but they were his. ‘Still is.’
‘But it explains how you can deal so well with kids like Safia.’
‘I don’t know about well. The way I see it, all girls want to be treated like princesses. It just so happens she is one. But underneath they’re generally the same. They worry about how they look, who they’re becoming, what they want to do with their lives. Love. Boys … yeah, boys mostly, if my lot were anything to go by. Trouble all round.’
He’d had the job of being the man of the house thrust upon him way too young and had had to make sure they somehow had the basics, like enough food to eat, even when they hadn’t had the money to buy it. Then as they grew up he’d watched his sisters have their hearts broken and wanted to kill the culprits, but decided not to. He had negotiated conversations about teenage pregnancy and underage sex, about dating rules and bedtimes, had nursed sisters with period pains and migraines and tummy aches of dubious origin. And finally he’d escaped only when he’d known they were all grown up and relatively safe. Escaped being a geographical rather than a psychological term.
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.
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.