‘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 gaze met hers and for a split second, maybe two, he watched her. Some weird connection tugged between them. His eyes misted with something akin to confusion, along with an unmistakable heat that seemed to whoosh all the oxygen from her lungs.
His arms were splayed high in front of him, so as not to desterilise them, but that made his face closer to hers. Damn lucky he was wearing a mask or his mouth would have been in frank kissing range.
The heat coming off him was electric, almost palpable. He smiled. Or at least she thought he did—hard to tell under that mask, but his forehead crinkled and laughter lines creased at his temples.
‘Nothing to apologise for, Kara. No harm done. In fact … I like it.’
So did she. And, oh, if it wasn’t enough just to have that soft accent tug on her heartstrings.
She swallowed through a dry throat, pushed the Theatre door open with her hip and gestured for him to walk through in front of her. How the hell would she spend a morning in surgery staring at those eyes, listening to that voice, looking at that body, and get out whole? He was going to reduce her to a hot mess of unruly hormones.
So she would take a leaf out of his book and refuse to engage in conversation about anything other than the task at hand.
Forcing words out was harder than she’d expected. ‘So. How’s Safia doing? When I popped up to see her an hour or so ago she didn’t say much. I got the impression she was hanging out for you to visit.’
He shrugged. ‘She’s okay, I suppose. She’s scared about the operation. Actually, she’s scared about the pain. I did warn her about the initial sting of the graft sites, but we talked about pain relief and I’ve discussed it with Paul, the anaesthetist, so she should be well covered when she wakes up. I’ve warned her we can’t fix it all today, and that she’ll have negative pressure dressings on and to expect lots of tubes.’
‘Great. And the parents? They seemed to think you were going to restore her to her former beauty.’
His left shoulder hiked. ‘I had a long and honest meeting with them last night and showed them the digital blueprint we mocked up of how we hope Safia will look after the surgeries. They understand that we can only do so much, and that a lot is dependent on how Safia heals, the kind of scarring we get, whether she complies with physio. Although I still think they’re a little unrealistic. My main concern is that she maintains function in those hands. But she’s here and agreeing to treatment and that’s the best we can hope for right now.’
He turned as the technician wheeled Safia in.
‘Okay. Let’s go. Hands first and then her face. We’ll start with debriding.’
It was like watching an artist at work. A study in concentration, he was efficient but thorough. Instead of the brash rock music favoured by a lot of surgeons she’d worked with Declan chose something that was uplifting but gentle. There was a positivity to it, something that soothed yet entranced.
Or was that just him? Kara couldn’t tell.
Even though he was the senior member of staff he treated everyone in the room with the same respect and took his time to explain his procedures.
‘See here?’ He gestured to Safia’s damaged cheek. ‘If we want to get a good result we have to consider the whole area as a unit, not just the part that’s damaged, otherwise the scarring will be ridged. It’s a multi-thickness burn—only second degree here, but here, where her face hit the dashboard, it’s deeper. So I’m going to have to use a split thickness graft.’
‘And attach it with absorbent stitches? Or glue?’ She passed him some gauze just as he reached out for it. The third time she’d anticipated his next move.
‘In this case, I’d say stitches.’ He shook his head, as if trying to get rid of a wayward thought. ‘What did you do in Sydney?’
‘Oh, this and that. Music concerts, swimming, going out with friends. My husband was away a lot so I was able … to … study …’ She slowed right down and noticed all eyes were on her.
Surgery.
That deep, luscious voice was asking about the Croft-wood’s choice of surgical closure techniques—not about her private life. Her chest tightened. Duh. There went her credibility.
‘Er … usually stitches. But glue if we thought the dressing wouldn’t be knocked or slip easily. Really it depended on the patient and the damaged area.’
She flatly refused to look him in the eye. Flatly. But she knew she was the single beacon of bright red in an otherwise white and sterile environment.
‘Husband?’
The accusation hung in the air along with the ghost of that kiss. As she turned to look at him his eyebrows rose.
God. She focused instead on the tube of antibiotic ointment in a dish to her left. Did he really think she’d have kissed him if she’d had a husband? When she’d entered her marriage it had been with an innocent and pure belief in forever. Too bad forever couldn’t happen.
‘Not any more.’
‘Okay.’ Declan’s voice was impassive. ‘Great work, team. Thanks for your help. She’s good to go to recovery. I’ll head up to have a chat with Mum and Dad after the next surgery.’
The technicians got busy taking Safia out and preparing for the next patient, leaving Kara alone for snatched minutes with Declan. Goddamn, the man stirred a smorgasbord of emotions in her. Right now it was a huge dose of embarrassment.
‘Er … About before …’
‘Kara …’
He glanced up from the surgery list he was reading. About what? his look said. The kiss? The husband?
He removed his surgical mask, his mouth tipping up halfway to a wry smile. ‘Your life is your life. You don’t have to explain.’
‘I shouldn’t have rabbited on.’
‘Oh, no, to the contrary, we were all riveted. Concerts? Swimming?’
The omission of husband made her faux pas even more mortifying.
She shrugged. ‘What can I say? We’re a nation