The Surgeon's Proposal Read online

  ‘Don’t do this again,’ she told Dylan abruptly. ‘Please.’

  ‘You said that,’ he answered, ‘as if you’re worried I’m about to make you my good deed for the month.’

  ‘And aren’t you? I can see the evidence right now.’

  He laughed. ‘You have a point. But if you’re telling me not to…’

  ‘I’m telling you not to, Dylan.’

  ‘OK.’ He took the lids off the containers, filling her nostrils with the sweet, hot aromas of chilli and lime and coconut and curry. ‘Dig in. Since it’s a one-off event, we may as well enjoy it to the full.’

  Dylan opened the chilled white wine and filled the stemmed glasses with liquid the colour of pale straw, as clear and inviting as the water in the pool. He lifted his glass in a gesture which invited Annabelle to do the same, and they moved to clink them together, eyes fixed on each other. How had that happened? When had she looked up at him?

  ‘To changed plans,’ he said, then pulled back and took his glass away at the last second. Annabelle’s hand jerked a little, and she felt foolishly deprived, like Duncan if his ice cream dropped off its wooden stick halfway to his mouth. ‘Or are you not yet ready to make a toast like that?’ Dylan asked.

  Annabelle put her glass down hard. ‘You’re arrogant, aren’t you, Dylan Calford? Beyond a bit of guilt at the inconvenience of your timing, you still think you saved me.’

  ‘And you don’t agree? Even after today?’

  ‘Of course Alex behaved badly. Anyone would have. It was an emotional situation for both of us. For everyone in the room! I got my head down, and I handled it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to. You weren’t the one who called off the wedding. He’s the one who’s made a mountain out of a molehill.’

  ‘Easy to dictate how other people should behave when you’ve never been in a situation anything like that.’

  She saw his jaw tighten, heard the staccato hiss of his breath and thought, Good one, Annabelle.

  She knew his divorce had rocked him. Everyone knew it, since he hadn’t tried particularly hard to hide the fact. She remembered a couple of times when she’d been in the nurse’s change-room and he hadn’t known anyone was there—or he hadn’t cared. There was a wall-mounted phone in the corridor just outside, and she’d heard him talking to Sarah.

  Not the words. She’d tried not to listen. But the tone and the cadence of a man’s voice gave away a lot. Low and emotional, tight and strident with anger. Once his pager had gone off and they’d both been called into emergency surgery. That time, she had heard.

  ‘It’s urgent, Sarah, so I have to go. Can we talk about this later? Please? It’s a bit unfair, isn’t it, to just—? Well, you knew that when we got married. I didn’t hide it from you. Look, anyway. Later. No? OK. OK, Sarah, but don’t ever accuse me of not being prepared to talk!’

  When Annabelle came out of the change-room, he was still pacing the far end of the corridor, his capable body angular and tightly wound, and she didn’t even think he’d seen her. Ten minutes later, in surgery, he was cool and controlled as always—a team leader, never a whip-cracker.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised now. ‘That was overstepping—’

  ‘It’s all right. We’ve started doing that to each other a bit, haven’t we?’ he agreed, and the way he watched her was like a flood of hot sunshine, or a cloud of fresh scent. ‘Minding each other’s business instead of our own.’

  They both knew why. They didn’t need to say it. It was like a secret that only the two of them knew. Linking them together. Pulling them together. Tangling them in sinuous, silky cords of shared awareness. If she’d been doubtful, earlier, about the extent to which he felt this, too, she wasn’t doubtful any more. They wanted each other. They desired each other. And she couldn’t remember when she’d ever felt like this before.

  She must have. Surely. But it didn’t feel familiar. It felt unique, and she knew she hadn’t felt it for Alex.

  Should she have felt it for a man she’d been ready to marry? Or was the quieter, less physical attraction between two people more reliable, stronger and more enduring? She didn’t know.

  All she did know was that she didn’t want to feel this way about Dylan Calford. Not now. Not when it only served to confuse her.

  ‘We can stop,’ she said. ‘We can stop doing it. Putting our noses into each other’s business, I mean. And everything else. Heaven knows, I don’t want to. I’m not remotely happy about being in this situation. Without your interference on Friday, none of this would be happening.’

  Now, there’s an appealing thought, Dylan decided.

  He wasn’t ready for this either. Didn’t want to analyse the whys and wherefores too closely. He just knew he wasn’t. Not yet. He was too bruised, too cynical, too battle-wearied. He needed to regain a little of his faith in the human race. And a nice woman like Annabelle Drew didn’t deserve to be picked up for a sizzling yet casual affair and then cast aside—which was about all he felt capable of doing at the moment.

  The growing chemistry between them suggested she’d be great at the sizzling part. It was the casting aside that wouldn’t work.

  A week ago, he’d never thought of sex and Sister Drew in the same breath. Now he wondered how he’d ever be able to separate them again. Across the table, bathed in a light that was far too mellow and golden to be safe for either of them, she had started to eat. She was taking refuge in it, looking down at her plate, as if avoiding eye contact with each other might help.

  So far, however, it wasn’t helping him. The light made her hair shine, and the dipped gaze silhouetted the black satin length of her eyelashes against her flushed cheeks. She lifted a forkful of chicken and rice to her lips and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and every movement she made mesmerised him and had him dwelling on the other things that hands and lips and hair could do. The things they could do in bed.

  ‘Mmm, it’s good,’ she said, and her mouth made a pouting kiss shape on the last word.

  Dylan’s brain went foggy. She was talking about the meal, not the hot images that filled his mind. He tried to say something helpful, like which restaurant he’d picked it up from, and what this particular dish was called, but neither of those details had stuck. As for something a little more ambitious and intellectual…

  ‘Spicy food really works in the hot weather, doesn’t it?’ he said at last.

  Oh, brilliant!

  But she smiled and seized on the topic, although it didn’t deserve such zealous attention. ‘Yes, like hot tea.’

  ‘Or beer so cold it makes your forehead ache.’

  ‘Or a cold shower. Do you ever do that on a hot night? I don’t dry myself, I just stand in front of an electric fan before I get dressed until I’m freezing, and then I float around with some actual energy for about twenty minutes until I get sticky again.’

  ‘I swim at night a lot,’ he said.

  ‘You have a pool, too?’ Brisbane’s back gardens were thickly dotted with them, in a climate which permitted outdoor swimming most of the year round.

  ‘Yes, very private, like yours,’ he answered, ‘only my privacy comes from the courtyard wall, not from jungle greenery like this. I don’t really have a back garden, just a landscaped pool surround. I’ve swum at four in the morning on a hot night. If I can’t sleep, or if I get home after a call-out to the hospital.’

  ‘I love swimming at night,’ she agreed.

  She glanced across at the pool, and he wondered if she’d swim tonight after he’d gone. Would she bother to put on her suit, or would she simply peel off the skirt, the clingy, scoop-necked top and whatever she wore beneath it and slip, seal-like, into the blue water?

  He spent the rest of the meal using conversation to fight the vivid pictures in his mind, and they ended up having a rambling talk about a dozen different things that went on for at least an hour and a half.

  ‘Well,’ Annabelle finally said.

  This was unbelievably nice. Two glas
ses of wine to cool the pleasurable bite of the spice in her mouth. Coffee, to go with the French apple tart she hadn’t spotted in the fridge earlier. The table was a mess of leftovers, but it didn’t matter. Whether it was fatigue or wine—probably both—she felt deliciously light-headed.

  And happy. Stupidly happy, really, under the circumstances.

  Must remind Mum about taking her antibiotic. What if she needs a second course?

  ‘You’re rounder than I’d thought you’d be, Dylan,’ she told him a little unsteadily, to cut off the drone of worries in her head.

  ‘And you’ve had too much wine.’

  ‘No…Yes,’ she admitted. ‘A little. Your fault. You kept pouring it. One glass is all I’m good for, especially when I’m tired. I’ve had two tonight.’

  The bottle still had a couple of centimetres left in the bottom of it.

  ‘And I’m round?’

  ‘Rounded, I meant. Orthopaedic surgeons are supposed to be more predictable. Narrower, or something. More focused.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Well, you know, playing the banjo. It’s supposed to be golf. Something with networking possibilities.’

  ‘Don’t like golf. And there was absolutely no point in me taking up an instrument I had to get serious about. My friends are very generous to let me do the odd practice with their band.’

  ‘And some of that teen stuff you told me about.’

  ‘Running away to try and join the navy when I was fourteen and a half? I was miserable when my father’s company first sent him and my mother here. Thought I could jump ship in San Diego or Hawaii and hitch back home to Illinois. Five years later, though, when they got sent home again…’

  ‘You didn’t want to go back.’

  ‘I was at university here, and I had a girlfriend.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘We reached an amicable parting of the ways a year or two later. Long time ago. Don’t know what she’s doing now.’

  Alex. What was he doing now? She should have been with him tonight, enjoying the first week of their marriage, talking about moving more of her things to his place and getting a real estate agent in to look at this house. Instead, she was still here. Alex had had several boxes of her belongings delivered here while she’d been at work, and they were piled in her small third bedroom, awaiting her attention.

  And yet she had another man in the house.

  Annabelle saw that the watch on Dylan’s wrist read ten forty-five, and her feeling of light-headed contentment fled, the way a pleasant dream sometimes fled when her alarm went off, way too early in the morning to be civilised. She stood up.

  ‘Dylan, I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised it was getting so late.’

  ‘I had,’ he drawled.

  He stood up, too, not in a flurry like she had, but lazily, reluctantly.

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I was still debating which thing I should say.’

  The dangerous glint in his dark eyes warned her not to ask about what he considered his choices to have been.

  ‘Are you in surgery tomorrow?’ she asked quickly.

  As an orthopaedic registrar, he usually was. At this stage in his career, he would spend around thirty hours a week performing a wide range of procedures, and that didn’t count his extensive periods of time on call for emergencies. If Annabelle managed to move her hours to nights, as she was hoping to do—she was seeing the unit co-ordinator about it tomorrow—she would still see Dylan fairly often.

  She’d see less of Alex, who only came in at night when Dylan called on him. She wasn’t yet sure how she would feel about this and, in the greater scheme of things, it wasn’t important. The goal was to have more time with Duncan and Mum.

  ‘Yes, I’m in surgery,’ Dylan was saying. ‘I’m not sure what’s scheduled tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll find out. In about eight hours. Which is too soon.’ She stifled a yawn, and saw him touch a hand to the outside of his hip pocket to confirm that he had his keys.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said.

  He didn’t offer to help clear up, which she was grateful for. She began to follow him to the door, not quite shooing him out but close. He didn’t resist, but then, at the last moment, he turned. ‘Throw those empty containers out, OK?’

  Annabelle hadn’t expected it, and almost barged into him, bringing herself to a halt on wobbly feet just a fraction of a second before they made contact. His hand shot out to her shoulder, heavy and warm, and he muttered, ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you were right behind me.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He still had his hand on her shoulder, and her breath felt fluttery.

  ‘Don’t wash them out, Annabelle.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She’d totally lost track of what he was saying.

  ‘I’m not making sense.’ The front hallway was dark, and his face was shadowy and hard to read. Only his eyes seemed clear, with fragments of light from the street reflected deep within them. ‘The take-away containers.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Don’t wash them out to store Duncan’s snacks in, or something. You were going to, weren’t you?’

  She nodded ruefully, and he smiled. ‘Thought so. You try too hard. You’re too good.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I shouldn’t be doing this.’ He gave her shoulder a little squeeze, and she felt his other hand come to rest on her hip, caressing it with light, slow strokes.

  ‘I’m not too good, Dylan. Don’t…make assumptions.’ They were standing impossibly close now, looking into each other’s faces. His mouth was just a grey blur in the darkness, his nose and his cheekbones highlighted by a diffuse streak of light.

  Time seemed to stand still. Annabelle heard the house creak, heard the soft rhythm of Dylan’s breathing.

  The possibility of a kiss made the air around them as thick and sultry as the air before a summer storm. Her heart throbbed, slow and heavy, and deep in her stomach there was an ache that was half pleasure, half pain. She waited, wanting it and not wanting it at the same time, not yet physically able to tear herself away from the powerful aura of their awareness.

  Almost in a trance, she reached up, wanting to trace the line of his lips with her fingers. Was his mouth really as close as it seemed? Was it warm and trembling, as hers was?

  ‘Dylan…’ she whispered.

  But before she could reach him, his hand captured hers and closed around it. He stroked her knuckles with the ball of his thumb, tangled his fingers in hers and made them dance with his—a slow, seductive dance that sent thrills of need flooding up her arm. She could feel his thighs against hers, hard and heavy and warm.

  Annabelle shivered, and knew that he would understand exactly what the convulsive movement meant. She ached for him. She wanted him. His touch and his heat, his breath on her skin, and his whispered words, low and husky, filling her mouth as they kissed.

  But it didn’t happen. Nothing specific or concrete broke the moment. Dylan dropped his hand from her hip, just as she dragged herself deliberately back from the giddy brink of what she felt. They each recognised the decision that the other one had made, and saw the tangled feelings reflected in each other’s face.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Sister Drew,’ Dylan said lightly, and ducked quickly through the front door he’d just opened, while Annabelle was still struggling for an acceptable, neutral reply.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DYLAN’S back ached sharply, low in his spine.

  A couple of friends had invited him for a sailing weekend and they’d gone down to Stradbroke Island. They’d taken advantage of summer’s light evenings to head out straight after work on Friday afternoon and hadn’t moored back at the marina until after dark on Sunday night.

  Two long days, three late nights, a lot of stretching and pulling on ropes, a lot of bending and twisting in cramped cabins. They’d fished and barbecued, swum off the side of the boat before breakfast and had
had a few beers at sunset. Dylan had been looking forward to the trip since Chris had mooted the idea some weeks ago, and he’d begged Chris and David to schedule it for a weekend when he wasn’t on call.

  It was the first break he’d taken in months, and the first stretch of free time in which his mind hadn’t been dominated by painful, repetitive, hostile thoughts about Sarah. It had felt like a celebration, and the marker of a new and better stage in his life. Some of his battle-weariness had healed and faded.

  He could look around and see that there were happy marriages. David and his wife had been together for fourteen years, and you could hear how much they loved each other just from the way David spoke to Liz on the phone.

  But now my back is killing me, Dylan thought. I feel like an old man!

  He was annoyed at himself. Firstly, because he’d been so sure he was fit, since he swam almost every day and jogged or hiked when he could. Secondly, because he’d been wrong about his fitness, and now he was paying for it.

  The pain was surprisingly sharp, surprisingly intense and extremely inconvenient only a couple of hours into a long day of surgery. He was handling all of Alex’s list today, since everything was routine. Alex was getting back a day late from a conference. This placed an added weight of responsibility on Dylan’s own shoulders…but at least it spared all of them the moody behaviour Alex was still acting out, four and a half weeks after he’d walked out of his own wedding.

  So far, the atmosphere in the operating theatre had been relaxed and pleasant this morning. If their current patient was numbered amongst those rare people who remained aware under general anaesthesia, he would have nothing to complain about. No one yelled. No one swore. No one said anything offensive—no jokes about a patient’s cellulite or ugly toenails.