LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      Another busy day ahead, Becca thought as she walked up the steps to 200 Harley Street. And that was just how she liked it.

      Or maybe not, she thought, as she walked into the reception area to find the clinic’s Head of PR in a smooch with her new husband.

      ‘Put the surgeon down, Lexi,’ she said with a smile.

      ‘Very funny.’ Lexi gave Iain a last kiss and waved him off to his consulting room. ‘Actually, Becca, you’re just the woman I wanted to see.’

      ‘Oh, yes?’ Becca asked carefully. Usually this meant that Lexi was planning a PR campaign and wanted to talk the staff into doing something crazy. If Lexi had been anyone else, Becca would have made a polite murmur and avoided her, but Lexi was one of the few people she’d grown close to. Not quite close enough to confide in her about the past, but she was the nearest Becca had to a friend.

      ‘I wanted to give you the heads-up on our new patient. Well, he’s going to be yours. He’s in Theatre with Ethan right now.’ Lexi shepherded Becca towards her office. ‘He’s a bit high-profile—’

      ‘So we need to keep everything under wraps.’ Becca rolled her eyes. She was familiar with the drill. ‘Got it.’

      ‘I know you’re the soul of discretion—but I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t dot all the Is and cross all the Ts,’ Lexi pointed out gently.

      ‘I know.’ Becca smiled at her. ‘Sorry. I guess I got out of the wrong side of bed this morning. So tell me about my patient.’

      ‘A prince, no less.’

      Becca wasn’t that impressed, knowing that the clinic had an A-list clientele. ‘What’s he in for?’

      ‘Flexor tendon. He was injured on a tour of duty, so that’s another reason we want it kept under the media’s radar.’

      ‘A soldier prince?’ Despite herself, Becca was intrigued.

      ‘Young, tall, dark and handsome,’ Lexi intoned. ‘Prince Charming.’

      A heartbreaker, then. Becca had met the type before. And been stupid enough to get her own heart broken by one, at a time when she’d still been dragging her life back out of the gutter.

      Most of the women at the children’s aid camp in South Africa had fallen under Seb’s spell; but, knowing that men couldn’t be trusted not to hurt you, Becca had avoided Seb like the plague. She’d been so determined to stay in the safety of her shell. But Seb had been patient. He’d made her feel special, had spent time talking to her about everything under the sun. And finally she’d relaxed with him and let him bring her out of herself. In the process, she’d fallen deeply in love with him. Enough to give herself to him. She’d even let herself dream of a future with him …

      And then he’d left. Without even saying goodbye. He’d abandoned her. And the lesson had been branded on her heart: the only person she could ever really rely on was herself. Which was why she’d kept people at arm’s length and dedicated herself to her career ever since.

      Lexi frowned. ‘Are you all right, Becca?’

      Wild horses wouldn’t drag the truth from her. ‘Sure.’ She faked a smile.

      Luckily it was convincing enough, because Lexi continued, ‘Even covered in mud, and looking as if he hasn’t slept for days, our prince is sex on a stick.’

      Becca groaned. ‘And here’s you married for about five seconds. Shouldn’t you still be in the disgustingly loved-up stage, too busy to notice other men?’

      ‘I’m married, not blind.’ Lexi grinned. ‘And don’t tell Iain I said that.’

      Becca just laughed. ‘Right. I have patients to see. Catch you later.’

      After the operation, Marco woke in the recovery room. It was warm and comfortable and he wanted to go back to sleep.

      Except then he threw up. Violently.

      ‘OK. We’ve got you.’ Gentle hands wiped his face clean and helped him sit up.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the nurse.

      ‘Don’t worry. It happens all the time.’

      Right at that moment, Marco was really grateful for her kindness.

      ‘You’re round, then?’ Ethan asked, coming over to him.

      ‘Uh-huh.’ And his mouth felt disgusting. ‘Did it work?’

      ‘We’ll see.’

      ‘My arm feels numb and floppy.’ Which was enough in itself to make him panic. And it was at that point that he noticed it was propped up on pillows. ‘Does this mean I can’t use it?’

      ‘It’s completely normal for your arm to feel numb and floppy after an op. And the pillows are there to support your arm and keep it elevated—that controls any potential swelling. I want your arm up at shoulder level and your hand above your heart, and you need to use pillows to support your hand when you sleep,’ Ethan said.

      ‘Got it.’ Marco still felt groggy. ‘Though you might have to remind me again tomorrow. I’m not sure how much of what you’re saying now is going to stay in my head.’

      ‘Sure.’ Ethan paused. ‘When the anaesthetic wears off, it will be painful. So don’t be a martyr, Zorro. Take the painkillers my team offers you.’

      Marco had the distinct feeling that Ethan was talking from experience. What had happened to him in Afghanistan? Had he lost someone—a member of his team, or someone he loved? Did he blame himself for it, the way Marco blamed himself for losing some good men? Had he not taken painkillers as a way of punishing himself?

      ‘So when can I use my arm?’ Marco asked.

      ‘The short answer is, you can’t. If you try to use that hand before your tendons have healed fully, the tendons will split apart. And, apart from the fact that I don’t like having to repeat work, a second repair won’t be as effective as the first.’

      Marco absorbed this. ‘How long do the tendons take to heal?’

      ‘A couple of months.’

      Marco stared at him in disbelief. ‘No way. You’re kidding.’

      ‘And that’s only for using your hand for light activities. You drive a motorbike?’

      ‘Car,’ Marco said.

      ‘Good. That’ll probably be OK in a couple of months. A motorbike would take a bit longer.’

      ‘Mountain bike?’

      Ethan shook his head. ‘Sports you can do a month after that. And then maybe you can start to do heavy activities, as long as you haven’t had any problems with scar tissue.’

      Marco stared at him, horrified. He couldn’t possibly be serious? But Ethan wasn’t smiling. ‘So basically you’re saying I take at least three months off and be a pen-pusher?’ Do a safe job while his men faced all the danger. Be a spoiled prince, leading safely from well behind the lines. That so wasn’t who he was. He sighed. ‘That really doesn’t sit well with me.’

      ‘Tough. It takes as long as it takes.’ Ethan shrugged. ‘Don’t

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