‘How do you think? Skiing, drinking with my celeb friends and guffawing so hard at the peasants I didn’t look where I was going, fell over and severed my tendons,’ Marco drawled.
Ethan gave him a level stare. ‘How about the truth?’
Common sense kicked back in. Hunter needed to know what had happened because it might affect the way he fixed the damage. Dr Herrera should have briefed him fully, but then again maybe Hunter was the thorough type and didn’t just take other people’s words for granted. Marco himself never accepted a brief without asking questions to make sure that nothing had been missed. Maybe Hunter was the same.
‘I was in a convoy of Jeeps. The one in front of me drove over a bomb. My windscreen imploded and I put my hand up to protect my eyes.’ Judging by the mess of his hand, that was just as well—or he’d be blind as well as having a potentially useless hand.
‘Bomb.’ Ethan stiffened. ‘I see.’
Interesting, Marco thought. Was this the brother who’d been an army doctor? Marco shrugged with the shoulder that wasn’t strapped up. ‘I was in Afghanistan.’
‘You were a soldier.’
‘Am a soldier,’ Marco corrected. ‘And I hate being cooped up instead of being where I belong, leading my men and sorting out that whole mess out there. Making a difference. Making things better. But …’ He blew out a breath. ‘I guess it’s still no excuse for being rude to you just now.’ He’d been unprofessional and let the pain get to him when he should have known better—both from growing up as a prince in the glare of the public eye, and then from his military training. Time to defuse the situation. ‘I apologise.’
‘I apologise, too,’ Ethan said, surprising him. ‘Just because you’re rich and royal, it doesn’t mean that you’re …’ He grimaced.
Marco knew exactly what he meant. It was something that he hated himself, particularly in some of the people who liked hanging around his brother. He gave a mock braying laugh, and grimaced back. ‘Pampered.’
Ethan seemed to relax at last. ‘Yeah.’
‘You were out there, too?’
Ethan shrugged. ‘That’s not important.’
‘When did you get hit?’
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think I was hit?’
Marco nodded at his own arm and Ethan’s leg. ‘Different limb, same kind of pain.’
They shared a glance, and Marco knew that Ethan Hunter understood the rest of it. The frustration of being stuck here when your heart was back there.
‘What have they done so far?’ Ethan asked.
‘Flushed my hand to clean it, put on a dressing. I take it you were the one who said not to suture my palm?’
‘Yes. Can you feel anything in it still?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Marco admitted. ‘The pain’s gone into a blur.’
‘Was it just glass, or is there anything else I need to know about?’
‘Glass, mainly. Maybe a bit of dirt. But Herrera cleaned me up.’
Ethan nodded. ‘Glass isn’t going to show up brilliantly in radiography. I need to give you a CT scan to make sure all the glass is out and nothing else is lurking in there, and then I’ll do the op.’
The scan seemed to take for ever. But finally Ethan Hunter was satisfied.
‘No more glass. Good. OK, what I’m going to do is open up the wound so I can find the cut ends of your tendon, and then I’m going to stitch them back together. I’ll put a splint on to protect the repair. Your skin’s a mess, so you might need plastics—we’ll see what it looks like when your hand’s healed. And you’ll need physio to get that hand working properly again.’
‘Right. So how long will I be in the clinic?’
Ethan looked thoughtful. ‘This happened nearly twelve hours ago and you’ve flown a long way. I want you in here for the next twenty-four hours so I can keep an eye on the repair. Theoretically, then you could go home. But, given who you are and the fact that you’ll have the press hounding you all the way between your place and here when you come in for treatment …’ He rolled his eyes. ‘And we can certainly do without them hanging round outside and getting in the way while they wait for a glimpse of you.’
Marco could do without that, too. ‘I don’t want the press knowing I’m in England. If the story blows, then I might not be able to resume my tour of duty. It’ll put my men at risk.’ The ones that were left. The ones that hadn’t been killed, thanks to his wrong judgement call.
Ethan nodded. ‘Then you’re better off staying here for a while. You’ll need to see the hand therapist in any case.’
Marco frowned. ‘But if I do go home after a few days, can’t the hand therapist come to me?’
Ethan gave him a look that said very clearly, Stop being a spoiled rich prince. ‘You’re not her only patient.’
‘Of course. Sorry. Patience isn’t one of my … um … virtues.’
That earned him half a grin.
‘Thank you. For sorting this out.’
Ethan shrugged. ‘You don’t need to thank me.’
Marco knew why he’d said it. ‘Because it’s your job,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what you did out there, too.’
Ethan turned away so Marco couldn’t read the expression in his eyes—which in itself told Marco a lot. He’d seen that a few times before, in other people. So he was pretty sure that something had happened out there and Ethan Hunter didn’t want to think about it.
‘I need to get you in the operating theatre,’ Ethan said. ‘I’ll do the repair under a general anaesthetic because it’s fairly complex. It should take about an hour; though it might be longer if I find more damage once I open up your hand.’
‘I’d rather not be out cold.’
Ethan rolled his eyes. ‘OK, Zorro, if you want to be a hero.’
‘Zorro?’ Marco narrowed his eyes at him.
Ethan didn’t look away or flinch; he clearly wasn’t fazed by who Marco was.
‘OK,’ Marco said, ‘I admit I learned to fence at school, and I did some training with the Sirmontane international fencing team.’ Not that he was going to boast about the gold medal he’d won. He didn’t need to score points with Hunter.
Ethan shrugged. ‘I picked the right name for you, then. Probably that’s what your men call you when they don’t think you can hear them.’
For the first time in what felt like half a lifetime, Marco heard himself laugh. ‘Yeah, probably. OK. If you need me out totally, then fine. Do what you have to. But make it quick.’
‘Is this your sword arm?’ Ethan asked.
‘No. It’s my fret hand.’
‘You play guitar, too?’ Ethan feigned a yawn. ‘You’re such a cliché, Zorro. Do you dance flamenco as well?’
‘Flamenco’s dull. I prefer tango.’ Marco waited a beat. ‘You get better sex after a tango.’
Ethan grinned. ‘Probably just as well you won’t be playing guitar for a while.’ Then he sobered. ‘Don’t flirt with my female staff, Zorro. Any of them.’
‘As if I would,’ Marco said, enjoying himself now. He had a feeling that he and Ethan Hunter could be friends. Scratchy friends, maybe. But still friends. Because they each understood where the other was coming from.