About the Author
MEREDITH WEBBER says of herself, “Once I read an article which suggested that Mills & Boon were looking for new Medical Romance™ authors. I had one of those ‘I can do that’ moments, and gave it a try. What began as a challenge has become an obsession—though I do temper the ‘butt on seat’ career of writing with dirty but healthy outdoor pursuits, fossicking through the Australian Outback in search of gold or opals. Having had some success in all of these endeavours, I now consider I’ve found the perfect lifestyle.”
Hearts of Gold
The Children’s Heart Surgeon
The Heart Surgeon’s Proposal
The Italian Surgeon
Meredith Webber
CHAPTER ONE
THE music followed Alex from the ballroom to the bar— deserted now the dancing had started. The band was the best, seducing even the most staid of attendees at the congress onto the floor, and as his feet moved to the beat he felt vague regret that he hadn’t brought along a partner.
He gave a huff of self-mocking laughter as he ordered a brandy.
What partner? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a girlfriend for long enough for her to qualify for the word.
His own fault, as his last non-partner had pointed out, but she had been wrong about the cause. Wrong to blame his focus on his work.
What he couldn’t handle in a relationship was emotional dependency. Put that way he sounded cold, which he knew he wasn’t. But what woman would understand that he carried so many emotional burdens and expectations in his work that he was looking for escape from them in his private life?
Impossible, his sister had told him. In any good relationship there has to be an element of dependence…
He shook his head in denial of his thoughts and sipped his brandy, moving his head in the action just enough to realise he wasn’t alone at the bar. Way down the other end of the horseshoe, deep in shadow, he caught a glimpse of silvery hair, moving like a moonbeam on flowing water.
A woman swaying to the music, as alone as he was but feeling the lure of the beat in her body.
He hesitated a moment, aware that what he was about to do was totally out of character, then with great deliberation he put down his glass, stood up off the stool and moved towards her.
She was dressed all in black, which explained why he’d only seen her hair in the shadows, and still she swayed, unaware of his approach.
‘The music’s great. Would you like to dance?’ He spoke quietly but knew he’d startled her, for she stopped abruptly and he could have sworn her pale skin turned even paler.
Behind him, he sensed the barman watching both of them—suspicious of him, protective of his female customer.
It was her turn to hesitate, but then she gave a smile so sad it hurt his heart.
‘I’m not dressed for a ball, and I’m fresh out of fairy godmothers,’ she said, holding out her arms to show him she was wearing black trousers and a high-necked black sweater.
‘We can dance outside,’ he said. ‘On the terrace.’
Then he waited, willing her to say yes—willing her to dance with him because, for some unfathomable reason, it suddenly seemed important that she did.
He waited for ever, it seemed, until she gave a why-not, almost fatalistic kind of shrug and slipped off her stool.
He took her arm, tense as a steel rod, and led her out onto the terrace. Beyond it, manicured lawns led down to a large artificial lake, but the moonlight shining on the water was authentic, and the stars in the black night sky twinkled like fairy lights.
She was slim and lithe, and once she relaxed very light on her feet. In fact, she danced with a grace that made his dancing better—made him feel like someone from an old movie. Fred Astaire? Was that the dancing guy’s name?
Her body fitted his so they moved as one, gliding across the terrace to the strains of the big band inside.
A moment out of time.
He was aware of that even as he held her in his arms, and an inner instinct told him to remember it, so he looked at her face, seeing a dusting of freckles across her pale skin and dark shadows beneath her eyes. He’d seen shadows like those under the eyes of his patients’ parents. Shadows etched by emotional pain and physical exhaustion.
He held her closer, wanting to protect her, forgetting he needed to avoid emotional dependency.
Forgetting he didn’t know her.
He was vaguely aware the real music had stopped, but he heard it playing in his head and danced on, knowing she, too, was hearing it—dancing to it. Then it started up again, a different tempo—slower, more seductive.
He felt her body stiffen beneath his hands, but he wasn’t through dancing yet. Through holding her! Could he will her to open her eyes so he could see their colour? They’d looked dark in the shadows of the bar, but with her fair hair and pale skin, they could be light. Her lips were pinker than the skin around them, which wasn’t saying much. No lipstick, but he could see their shape—their soft, ripe fullness.
Best he think about her eyes again, he told himself, but his feet had guided them to the darkest corner of the terrace and as the music slowed their feet stilled while their bodies kept swaying to the tune, as close as two people could be—two fully clothed people.
Seduced by music, and moonlight on water, and the feel of the woman in his arms, he bent his head and kissed her.
There was a long, indecisive moment as she again stiffened in his arms, then as suddenly relaxed against him. She didn’t quite kiss him back, but didn’t pull away or slap his face, indicating, he decided, by these two negatives that he could continue with this gentle, exploratory quest.
He could feel her heart beating against her ribs and sensed a tension in her, as if kissing a strange man was a very risky business even with two hundred congress delegates and their partners within screaming distance. And while he guessed she wasn’t not enjoying it, she was also poised for flight.
Then suddenly she was with him, opening her lips to him, responding—whatever inhibitions had been holding her released.
Had they really kissed for an hour, or had they danced for longer than he’d thought they had? Afterwards he tried to work out the timing, but found he couldn’t.
Unless they had kissed for an hour…
Could anyone kiss for an hour?
All he knew was that they’d kissed for a long time, demanding more and more of each other until it had seemed they’d known each other’s blood.
Until he’d known they’d had to get off the terrace before they’d become a public spectacle!
‘Can I walk you to your room?’ he asked, voice husky with the passion kissing had aroused.
She leaned back in his arms, and looked up into his face. Dark eyes—brown or hazel, though he couldn’t tell which in the shadows—scanned his face, while his own eyes were riveted on her bruised and swollen—well-kissed—lips.
‘No,’ she said, and pushed away from him, but as he released her he felt a shudder pass through her body, as if his suggestion had repelled her.
When