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She wanted to devour him on the spot.
Years of celibacy and an ugly duckling complex had made her ripe for this moment. Alex Zaphirides wanted her. Alex Zaphirides, who could have anyone. It just didn’t make sense.
‘Are you sure this isn’t an any-port-in-a-storm thing?’
He heard the genuine bewilderment in her voice. She sounded small and impossibly young in the big, dark night. ‘Maybe because I can see beneath all that camouflage? Behind the big glasses, baggy clothes and white coat. You are a beautiful woman, Isobella Nolan.’
How many years had it been since she’d been told that? She’d heard it so often in her younger years she’d never really appreciated it. Until now. Alex Zaphirides thought she was beautiful.
Her hand was on his bare chest, resting near his shoulder, and he was warm and solid. And he wanted her. He thought she was beautiful. Was he spinning her some pretty lies? No. She believed him. She’d heard enough false platitudes during her modelling years to know sincerity when she heard it…
Praise for Amy Andrews’s previous titles
‘There wasn’t one part in this book where I wanted
to stop. Once I’d started it was hard to even read the
ending but once I did it made everything seem right.
I am an avid fan of Ms Andrews, and once any reader
peruses this book they will be too.’
—Cataromance on TOP-NOTCH SURGEON, PREGNANT NURSE, Medical™ Romance
‘Amy Andrews’ luxurious Italian backdrop is so
beguiling that readers will believe they’re walking
along the craggy Mediterranean coastline and smelling
the garlic and onions wafting from Mamma Medici’s
homey Italian kitchen.’
—Cataromance on THE ITALIAN COUNT’S BABY, Medical™ Romance
Amy Andrews has always loved writing, and still can’t quite believe that she gets to do it for a living. Creating wonderful heroines and gorgeous heroes and telling their stories is an amazing way to pass the day. Sometimes they don’t always act as she’d like them to—but then neither do her kids, so she’s kind of used to it. Amy lives in the very beautiful Samford Valley, with her husband and aforementioned children, along with six brown chooks and two black dogs. She loves to hear from her readers. Drop her a line at www.amyandrews.com.au
Recent titles by the same author:
THE SINGLE DAD’S NEW-YEAR BRIDE*
DR ROMANO’S CHRISTMAS BABY*
TOP-NOTCH SURGEON, PREGNANT NURSE*
THE OUTBACK DOCTOR’S SURPRISE BRIDE
*Brisbane General Hospital
BY
AMY ANDREWS
For my father. For everything.
CHAPTER ONE
ISOBELLA NOLAN peered through her microscope at the latest skin scraping they’d been sent. The envenomation had occurred a few days ago off Darwin. The nematocysts were definitely those belonging to Chironex Fleckeri, more commonly known as the box jellyfish, and she gave an involuntary shudder.
A phone started to ring, breaking her concentration. Most days she could block out the background noise of the lab and its twenty research assistants, completely absorbed in her work. But today she couldn’t settle. Meeting the big boss for the first time since she’d begun working for Dr Alexander Zaphirides two years ago was going to be nerve-racking.
Not least because she had a massive crush on him. Or on his voice anyway.
Isobella looked up from her microscope, identifying the offending noise as belonging to laboratory director Reg Barry’s phone. Her immediate boss wasn’t at his station, and she scowled at the insistent pealing, pushing her glasses back up her nose as she snatched up her own phone and stabbed her finger at the flashing light indicating Reg’s extension.
‘Hello? Trop Med Research, this is Isobella.’ She peered back through the scope as she rattled off the standard greeting.
‘Oh? Isobella? I thought I dialled Reg’s extension?’
Isobella pulled away abruptly from the eyepieces and gripped the phone hard as the gravelled tones of Dr Alexander Zaphirides’ voice rasped along her nerve-endings, raising the hairs on her arms and instantly tightening her nipples. She shut her eyes, letting it wreak its usual havoc on her central nervous system. God, the man had a voice you could drown in!
It was just louder than a whisper, its pitch husky, with a slight roughness to it that came and went. He seemed to have as little control over the pitch changes as a teenage boy, but there was nothing juvenile about it. It was smoother, softer, sexier. Mature. The slightly discernible accent hinting at his Greek heritage added an illicit edge. It was blatantly sinful. It was a voice that Lucifer would covet.
‘Isobella? Are you still there?’
His voice whispered its treachery into her ear and she gripped the phone harder as her whole body responded to the rasp of his words. There was endless speculation around the lab as to the origins of his husky voice, ranging from growths on his vocal cords to a tragic accident. She preferred to think it the result of a misspent youth. Screaming rock songs into microphones, smoking a pack a day, and drinking way too much bourbon.
‘Isobella?’
The pitch was louder this time, more insistent, less indulgent, and she sat up straight, blinking at the shocking direction of her thoughts. ‘Sorry, Dr Zaphirides… I was…’ What? Fantasising about you in tight jeans and an earring? Isobella cleared her throat. ‘Reg isn’t at his desk at the moment.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I was just ringing to say that my flight’s been delayed. Airport’s fogged in. Crazy Melbourne weather. I’m going to be later than I thought. Probably won’t be landing in Brisbane till late this afternoon.’
‘Er, right. Okay. I’ll let him know.’
‘Thanks. See you later, Isobella.’
Isobella shivered as the husky note in his voice lengthened the vowel at the end of her name and dragged it out deliciously. His silky promise brushed along her skin as if he’d reached through the phone and physically caressed her.
Stop it!
This was stupid. He was her boss. And it was dimwitted in the extreme to fantasise about the man who had hired her and could just as easily fire her. For God’s sake, she was going to be meeting him for the first time in a few hours. The last thing she needed was to blush furiously the minute he opened his mouth. Or swoon into a puddle at his feet the second he purred Isobellaaaaaaa.
Which she just might, if his looks were anywhere near as impressive as his voice. His voice said masculine. Movie-star. Just-come-down-from-Mount-Olympus-Greek-sex-god. And according to gossip—which Isobella abhorred, but which was unfortunately rife in the cloistered environment of a lab—he was the original tall, dark and handsome. Gossip also said he was autocratic, intelligent, intensely private and didn’t suffer fools gladly.
Good. She’d hate to be working for an easily distracted, laissez-faire pretty boy, content to appeal only to the lowest common denominator. The dermonecrosis project she was heading up was too important for that.
Way more important than his appearance. And if his reputation was anything to go by he would resent the hell out of being gossiped about as if he was a prime piece of meat at a market. She better than anyone knew how insulting it was to be judged on physical appearance. The man was utterly brilliant, owning a string of highly successful labs all involved in cutting edge research.
Her own project was a typical example. It was more exciting than anything she’d ever done in her life—including walking a catwalk in Paris. It was ground-breaking stuff. He could look like the Elephant Man as far as she was concerned, and it wouldn’t matter.
She realised she was still holding the phone, and replaced it as if it had scorched her palm. She had a busy day and she would not spend it thinking about her mysterious boss and his too-sexy-to-be-real voice. She had the sample to catalogue, a literature review to begin, and the finishing touches to put to the presentation Reg was giving at the symposium he and Alex were attending at the end of the week. She had more than enough on her plate.
Things didn’t go according to plan, however. It seemed everything this morning was conspiring against her to prevent her from doing her work. The computer system kept crashing, necessitating several reloads of lost data, and when she went through the symposium presentation, the slides were for some reason all jumbled. To cap it all, it took her ages to find online articles for the literature review she was undertaking.
And of course her mind kept wandering to the owner of that voice, and the fact she would be face to face with him by day’s end. Thank God she lived far, far away from that voice. The voice that had talked in her ear two or three times a week for the last two years. The voice that, despite its faultlessly businesslike, asexual tone, was in her dreams most nights.
Her mood grew blacker as the morning progressed, and when everyone started to leave for lunch she was grateful for some peace and quiet. She liked it best when she was alone in the lab. In fact her favourite part of the day was when everyone had gone home and there was just her, her microscope, and the background hum of the electronic gadgets that surrounded her.
Her stomach grumbled loudly. She’d been too nervous to stomach breakfast this morning—a most unusual occurrence for her. Thanks to a blessed metabolism she was always hungry, and right now she was starving! She pulled a muesli bar from her bag and munched at it as she tapped away at her keyboard.
She wouldn’t be missed in the staffroom as she rarely ate lunch with her colleagues. It wasn’t that Isobella didn’t like the people she worked with; it was more that she resented wasting time away from her microscope. She loved to eat, but food and other human necessities came a poor second to the project. She could eat just as easily on the job.
Plus, being an intensely private person, she preferred her own company. Yes, here in the tropical medicine lab they were a team, a unit, all working towards a common goal, but the self-directed nature of her work appealed to the loner in Isobella.
In a lot of ways the lab was her refuge—a place where she could hide behind her glasses and white coat without censure—and whilst she was forced to share it with others, it didn’t mean she had to make her life an open book.
In fact Isobella had a reputation at the lab for discouraging any form of interaction that didn’t directly involve the project. She was polite, but distant. She’d never fostered close relationships or socialised outside of work hours. She didn’t indulge in gossip or innuendo. In short, she was invisible. Which suited her just fine.
Oh, she knew in the beginning there’d been speculation about her. No one had been able to pigeonhole her, and that had obviously been intriguing. She’d have to have been stupid not to have known that her colleagues had talked about her behind her back. And, having rebuffed some early advances from male colleagues, she didn’t need her science degree to figure out that her sexuality had been called into question.
But she had steadfastly ignored it all, concentrating on her work, weathering the gossip with aplomb, and gaining a good deal of respect in the process. And eventually, through quiet indifference, she’d dropped right off their radar.
Hmph! If only they knew. She’d walked the catwalks of Paris and Milan from the age of fourteen—the bitchiest workplace in the world. She’d suffered far greater insults.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’
Isobella felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention as the gravelly enquiry from the work area wrapped itself around her body. Alex? She leaned to the side slightly, looking around the partition that hid her desk from view.
‘Hello?’
That voice again. It was him. Alexander Zaphirides. And it seemed as if the rumours had been spot-on—even in profile the man redefined tall, dark and handsome. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored navy pin-striped suit, with a pale lemon shirt beneath, left open at the neck, and devoid of a tie.
He wasn’t supposed to be here yet.
Her hand clutched at her throat in a familiar comforting gesture, then she grabbed the edge of her desk and forced herself to her feet, stepping into the lab proper on shaky legs. ‘Ah, yes—sorry, Dr Zaphirides.’
Alex turned slightly towards the voice. ‘Isobella?’
Oh, God! His voice was even sexier in the flesh. She nodded, walking towards him, her outstretched hand trembling slightly. ‘I didn’t think you were due in till later?’ Isobella hoped her voice sounded normal, because to her own ears it sounded high, practically a squeak.
‘The airline managed to get me on an earlier flight,’ Alex replied, shaking the proffered hand as she drew near, quickly assessing her baggy white coat and huge glasses. So this was Isobella Nolan? ‘We meet at last, Isobella.’
Alex bowed his head slightly, and Isobella was curiously charmed by the old-fashioned gesture. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly parched, and forced a polite smile to her lips, ignoring the warmth of the big hand enveloping hers. She felt a silly flutter in her stomach.
‘Nice to meet you, Dr Zaphirides,’ she murmured.
At five-eleven Isobella didn’t usually have to look up too far, but Alex had a good few inches on her. She blinked as she took in his features, her gaze zooming in on the splendour of his face. The man looked as if he really had just descended from Mount Olympus. His face was a work of art. Nobel and statuesque, with two indentations bracketing the chiselled perfection of his mouth.
He could have sat for Rodin. He certainly could have modelled for GQ. The planes of his face were sublime, his bone structure magnificent. His square jaw was dusted with dark stubble and his head was crowned with dark, lush locks styled into just-got-out-of-bed tousled glory, completing his god-like stature.
Alex dropped his hand. ‘I think it’s about time you called me Alex.’
His husky request brushed along her nerve-endings as his gaze captured hers. She was forced to concede that his eyes were almost as compelling as his voice. They were blue—a surprise, given his bronze colouring. A blue like she’d never seen before.
No, that wasn’t true. She had seen it before. On a photo shoot on the volcanic isle of Santorini in Greece. The exact blue of the Aegean had been difficult to label back then, but she knew she was seeing it replicated in the cerulean depths of Alex Zaphirides’s gaze.
She nodded. ‘Of course, Dr… I mean, Alex.’
He laughed at her stumble, a sexy rasping chuckle that deepened the indentations either side of his mouth into flirty dimples and flashed a glimpse of his perfect white teeth. She looked away, momentarily dazzled, her gaze drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple in the bronzed column of his throat.
His open-necked shirt afforded her an unrestricted view, and her eyes widened at the large, L-shaped surgical scar that bisected half of his neck and ran up towards his right ear. It was white and faded, but still a noticeable mark. No wonder his voice was so gravelly. He’d obviously done some serious damage at some stage. But how? Which rumour was true?
Below it, a smaller but much more livid scar marred the centre of his throat. It was only a centimetre or so long, but it was raised, almost keloid in nature. She knew what it was without even having to ask, for she had a matching one of her own. At some stage in his life he’d had a tracheostomy. Were the two scars related?
She raised her hand nervously to her own throat, grateful to feel the familiar comforting presence of material covering her own unsightly blemish. She marvelled at how at ease with them Alex had to be to show his scars off to the world. Sixteen years later, she still reviled the marks that had disfigured her. She couldn’t imagine a time when she’d ever be at ease with them.
‘Where is everyone?’ Alex enquired.
‘They’re in the staffroom, having lunch,’ Isobella said, conscious of the thrum of blood through her head.
‘And you?’
She frowned. He was looking expectantly at her, but it seemed all her usual thought processes were scrambled by his sandpaper voice and the sexier-than-Zeus vibes he emitted. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You don’t eat lunch?’ He looked her up and down. Beneath her primly buttoned, baggy white coat he could just make out a lanky frame, and despite the distraction of her hideous too-big-for-her-face glasses her dainty bone structure was clearly evident. His mother would cluck her tongue in disapproval.
Isobella blushed under his scrutiny. He was looking at her as if she was a particularly uninteresting lab specimen. A first for her. Most men needed to fall prey to her sharp tongue and experience her specialised freezing-out routine before they looked at her with such complete uninterest.
She shrugged. ‘I usually just grab a bite at my desk. There’s always so much to do.’
Alex frowned. Just last week Reg had mentioned Isobella’s tendency to become completely absorbed in her work. Her dedication was impressive, but Isobella Nolan was a workplace health and safety nightmare. ‘You do understand the importance of regular breaks? It’s not good for you to be hunched over a microscope all day.’
Isobella blinked. She’d have thought Alexander Zaphirides would understand her drive. She’d bet good money he hadn’t got to where he was today, a pin-up boy for medical enterprise, by strict adherence to the rules. ‘Don’t worry. I mix it up.’
Alex frowned again. He suspected from what Reg said that she didn’t ‘mix it up’ as much as she should. ‘Good. I can’t afford to have one of my team leaders and best researchers off work because she isn’t following guidelines. The project must always be paramount.’
The intenseness of his Aegean gaze as it burrowed into hers was intimidating, and she nodded dumbly as his husky compliment was completely obliterated by his gravelly reprimand of her work practices. ‘Of course, Dr Zaphirides.’ She saw his full lips flatten. ‘I mean…Alex.’
He nodded. Her prim politeness bothered him for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
Isobella could only stare after him. His long-legged, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered retreat was fascinating, despite the slow burn of pique rising in her chest. The last thing she saw as he disappeared was the decadent brush of his hair against his collar.
She almost sagged to the ground in relief when he left, and stumbled back to her desk, sitting down with shaking knees. The whole atmosphere had seemed charged by his enigmatic presence, and she was pleased to be alone as reaction to his sheer masculine beauty took over.
Well, the rumours weren’t wrong. He was sexy and autocratic in spades, and his commanding Greek heritage gave him an edge—an extra dollop of authority that was impressive. Quite what he was doing locked away in a lab she wasn’t sure. Alexander Zaphirides should be gracing magazine covers, selling aftershave and whisky and expensive watches.
And Isobella knew what she was talking about. At the zenith of her international career she’d worked with some of the world’s top male models. She had no doubt that Alex could have moved easily amongst their number.
She groaned inwardly. Great! Not only did the man have a voice that could practically bring her to orgasm over the phone, but he had a body that was giving her the vapours after only a few minutes in his company. What the hell was the matter with her? The man had wrapped a thinly veiled criticism in a compliment. Questioned her commitment to the project. No one did that.
How dare he?
Two hours later, Alex watched Isobella surreptitiously as she peered through her microscope. The dreadful large dark-rimmed glasses that marred her face butted against the eyepieces of the scope. Her long platinum-blonde fringe had flopped forward from its side parting, and instead of sweeping elegantly across her forehead, as it had earlier, it obscured her face from him.
Her hair was cropped severely at the back, almost boyish in its brevity, shaped into the contours of her skull, exposing cute ears and feathered lightly at her nape. He caught a hint of bare flesh before the high collar of her shirt encroached on the very elegant line of her neck.
She was so not what he’d imagined. Not that he’d spent his days and nights wondering what one research assistant in his Brisbane lab looked like, but it bugged him nonetheless. He was usually very good at mental imaging. He had spoken to Isobella on a regular basis for two years, and with her precise speech, her prim and proper vocabulary and her polite way of keeping things strictly business had pegged her as a mousy middle-aged spinster.
And she appeared to be working overtime trying to project that image. Except she was failing miserably. The glasses were a classic example. He’d definitely expected to see her wearing a pair—even a pair that most respectable grandmothers wouldn’t be seen dead in—but somehow they didn’t disguise her features.
Instead the large, ugly frames accentuated the kittenesque quality of her make-up-less face. Its heart-shaped perfection. The delicateness of her nose, with its fascinating tilt at the tip. The mastery of her high cheekbones.
Nor did the two-sizes-too-big white lab coat hide anything. It hung on her like a sack, only emphasising the slightness beneath. The shapeless covering hinted at the litheness of her frame in all its small-boned glory. The pertness of her breasts and the flatness of her stomach. It was more alluring in a lot of ways than a skintight outfit would have been. It teased, hinted, heightened.
The same could be said for the baggy tracksuit pants she wore. Every movement, every twist and pivot as she reached for equipment, outlined the narrowness of her calves beneath. Her height worked against her, and a glimpse of slim ankle peeked out between the hem and the sock line of her very sensible, workplace-health-and-safety-approved closed-in shoes.
She twiddled the knob on her microscope and his gaze was drawn to her long, elegant fingers. They were free of jewellery, and he tried hard to think if he knew any female over the age of twelve who didn’t wear at least one ring. Her nails were cut short and polish-free. Everything about her said plain, ordinary. It said, Don’t look at me, pass me by, ignore me. So why was he so compelled to notice?
Because. Because despite her efforts to the contrary she was classically beautiful. Tall, long-limbed, cheekbones to die for, full cherubic lips that formed a perfect bow. And her eyes? A soft brown that reminded him of all the things that were bad for him. Rich espresso, expensive chocolate and hard, dark toffee.
Give her glasses trendier frames, or ultra-modern no frames—hell, even a set of contacts—and give her some clothes that flattered her figure and she’d be a damn knockout. So why? Why was a woman who would look good in a paper bag hiding herself away behind an over-sized white coat and polo-necked shirts?
He wandered towards her, intrigued despite himself. Isobella hadn’t shown the slightest interest in him, and that in itself was enough to pique his curiosity. Without any vanity Alex knew that women were drawn to him. They always showed interest.