Read Online The Surgeon's Miracle / Dr Di Angelo's Baby Bombshell by Caroline Anderson / Janice Lynn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caroline Anderson / Janice Lynn
Tags: Medical
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you’re cold—have you seen enough?’ he asked, and she nodded, so they headed back towards the car. She snuggled down inside the jacket and turned the collar up, and he looked at the glow in her cheeks and thesparkle in her eyes, and felt a surge of regret that this wasn’t a real relationship, that they were in his room together under false pretences and that once they returned to Audley tomorrow it would all come to an end and they’d go back to normal, him the overworked, harassed consultant, her the overworked but always cheerful ward sister.
Hell, it was going to be hard to do that. He’d forgotten what they were supposed to be doing, had let himself get carried away by the moment and spent the day having fun with her—good, clean, healthy fun, free of ties and responsibilities and obligations, and it had been wonderful.
He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to fold her against his chest and hold her tight, just stand there with her in his arms while time stood still and the world moved on without them. But he couldn’t. He had responsibilities that day, and he’d shirked them long enough. The ball was taken care of, but he had a duty to the other guests, and his mother was probably going to hang him out to dry if he didn’t get back there soon.
Either that or she’d be planning the wedding.
He unlocked the car, opened the door for her and as she slid in and reached for the seat belt their eyes met and she smiled.
‘Thank you, Andrew. I’ve had the best day,’ she said, and he just couldn’t help himself. He leant in and kissed her—the lightest, slightest brush of his lips against hers, but his heart kicked hard against his ribs and blood surged through him.
He stepped back and shut the door a little more firmly than was necessary, went round and slid behindthe wheel and drove home in silence, regret for what could never be wedged like a ball in his throat.
If the dinner party had been a glittering occasion, the ball that night promised to be a firework display. The place had been a hive of activity from dawn onwards, and the pace had only picked up as the day went on. Now, though, was the lull before the storm. The cars and vans were gone or parked out of sight, the stage was set, and she felt a tingle of excitement. She’d never been to a white-tie ball before, and she was assailed by doubts about Amy’s dress.
Oh, well, nothing she could do about it now. It was all she had with her and it would have to do.
Andrew changed first. He disappeared into his dressing room and emerged in trousers and a shirt hanging open down the front. The wing collar was attached, but the stiffly starched front was meant to close with studs. The studs he had in his hand.
‘Can you put these in for me? This shirt is an instrument of torture and I just can’t do it. There’s a pocket here you can put your hand in to make it easier to reach,’ he demonstrated, and so she found herself nose to nose with his warm, solid, muscular chest, breathing in the scent of cologne and soap and, underlying it all, the drugging, masculine scent of his body.
Following his instructions, she put the first stud through from the back and her fingers brushed against the soft scatter of dark hair, sending heat coursing through her.
Darn it, how could he do this to her? She was almost whimpering by the time she’d fastened the last one, her fingers against the shirt front picking up the steady, even beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, thesolidity, while the subtle spicy tones of his aftershave curled around her nostrils and teased her.
Andrew was struggling, too, the feel of her fingers tormenting him unbearably. ‘All done,’ she said at last, and he thanked her, stepping back the moment her hands fell away, and wheeled round and disappeared to assemble the rest of his elaborate and formal dress.
He wondered if she had any idea of the effect she had on him. Watching her, her soft, full bottom lip caught
Hell, it was going to be hard to do that. He’d forgotten what they were supposed to be doing, had let himself get carried away by the moment and spent the day having fun with her—good, clean, healthy fun, free of ties and responsibilities and obligations, and it had been wonderful.
He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to fold her against his chest and hold her tight, just stand there with her in his arms while time stood still and the world moved on without them. But he couldn’t. He had responsibilities that day, and he’d shirked them long enough. The ball was taken care of, but he had a duty to the other guests, and his mother was probably going to hang him out to dry if he didn’t get back there soon.
Either that or she’d be planning the wedding.
He unlocked the car, opened the door for her and as she slid in and reached for the seat belt their eyes met and she smiled.
‘Thank you, Andrew. I’ve had the best day,’ she said, and he just couldn’t help himself. He leant in and kissed her—the lightest, slightest brush of his lips against hers, but his heart kicked hard against his ribs and blood surged through him.
He stepped back and shut the door a little more firmly than was necessary, went round and slid behindthe wheel and drove home in silence, regret for what could never be wedged like a ball in his throat.
If the dinner party had been a glittering occasion, the ball that night promised to be a firework display. The place had been a hive of activity from dawn onwards, and the pace had only picked up as the day went on. Now, though, was the lull before the storm. The cars and vans were gone or parked out of sight, the stage was set, and she felt a tingle of excitement. She’d never been to a white-tie ball before, and she was assailed by doubts about Amy’s dress.
Oh, well, nothing she could do about it now. It was all she had with her and it would have to do.
Andrew changed first. He disappeared into his dressing room and emerged in trousers and a shirt hanging open down the front. The wing collar was attached, but the stiffly starched front was meant to close with studs. The studs he had in his hand.
‘Can you put these in for me? This shirt is an instrument of torture and I just can’t do it. There’s a pocket here you can put your hand in to make it easier to reach,’ he demonstrated, and so she found herself nose to nose with his warm, solid, muscular chest, breathing in the scent of cologne and soap and, underlying it all, the drugging, masculine scent of his body.
Following his instructions, she put the first stud through from the back and her fingers brushed against the soft scatter of dark hair, sending heat coursing through her.
Darn it, how could he do this to her? She was almost whimpering by the time she’d fastened the last one, her fingers against the shirt front picking up the steady, even beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, thesolidity, while the subtle spicy tones of his aftershave curled around her nostrils and teased her.
Andrew was struggling, too, the feel of her fingers tormenting him unbearably. ‘All done,’ she said at last, and he thanked her, stepping back the moment her hands fell away, and wheeled round and disappeared to assemble the rest of his elaborate and formal dress.
He wondered if she had any idea of the effect she had on him. Watching her, her soft, full bottom lip caught
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