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

GREEK DOCTOR,
CINDERELLA
BRIDE

BY

AMY ANDREWS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For my father. For everything.

GREEK DOCTOR, CINDERELLA BRIDE

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.

‘What are you working on?’ Alex asked as he approached.

Isobella felt the jump of muscles in her neck as his husky question abraded her sensitised flesh. She’d been hyper-aware of him wandering around the lab. No matter where he’d been, he’d always seemed to be in her peripheral vision, and the muscles of her shoulders were bunched tightly from forcing herself not to look. Being hunched over a microscope for two hours was not good health practice—as Alex had taken pains to point out.

She schooled her features, her fingers tightening around the base of the microscope as she looked up and gave him a polite smile. ‘The software for Reg’s presentation decided to go haywire this morning. I’m cross-checking the specimens against the graphics to make sure they correlate.’

Alex nodded, searching for a softening in her steady brown gaze. ‘Did you get the Darwin sample yet?’ he asked.

‘This morning,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s already catalogued and entered into the database.’

The database was extensive, comprising not just skin-scrapings from individual victims but actual tentacular material, and digital photos of the different stages of the dermonecrotic lesions caused by the tentacles of the box jellyfish as they adhered to their victims’ skin.

‘Was it a Fleckeri?’

‘Yes. Would you like to examine it?’ she asked politely.

He gave her a slow, measured look, as if he was searching for something, and she nervously lowered her eyes from the intensity of his gaze. Her vision was now level with the open neck of his shirt, and she found her eyes inexplicably drawn again to the fascinating scars.

‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Alex said, amused at her stilted formality.

‘Of course. No trouble at all.’

Isobella rose stiffly from her high stool, not lifting her gaze, waiting for him to stand aside so she could pass by him to the fridges where the specimens were stored.

He took a step back, and she dragged in a calming breath as she retrieved the skin-scraping from earlier. She could feel his gaze on her back, and her fingers trembled as they closed over the specimen container.

She passed it to him wordlessly, taking great care not to make contact with him as she did so. He smiled his thanks and she returned it with a tight smile of her own relieved when he turned his back on her and set about preparing the slide.

What the hell was the matter with her? Two hours in the company of Alex Zaphirides and she was in a total dither. She didn’t do dithering. Certainly no one she’d met in the laboratory world had been dither material. Mostly they were science geeks or maths nerds.

And that was what she liked about it. It was safe. Secluded. Nobody recognised her in here. Nobody asked inane questions or fluttered by half-naked, despairing that they’d run out of lipgloss. Nobody cared what label she was wearing, or whether her shoes matched, or what the light reading was. She was part of something much bigger. Worthwhile.

She watched him as he parked his very nice pin-striped butt on her high stool, and found herself wondering if he wore boxers or jocks.

Oh, for crying out loud!

‘You’ll need to adjust the magnification,’ she said, for something to say to get her mind out of his trousers. ‘I have it specially adjusted for my glasses.’

Alex twisted on the stool and looked at her. ‘Thanks. I got it,’ he said.

Idiot! Of course he would know that. Now he was probably wondering why on earth he’d hired a babbling dunce. She’d worked hard to prove that beauty could also come with brains. Worked hard to suppress the beauty part altogether. For God’s sake, she hadn’t worn make-up in sixteen years! She didn’t want to blow all her hard-earned years of study and work because her seriously hot boss had resuscitated her long-dead libido.

‘So, tell me about the case,’ Alex murmured, as he adjusted the magnification and the sample came into focus.

Alex’s softly burred voice barely reached her from where she stood, and she moved reluctantly closer. She took a steadying breath and reeled off the facts as concisely and scientifically as she could.

‘Eight-year-old female. Minimal exposure to the tentacles. Didn’t require the antivenin or even hospitalisation.’

‘Have we got parental consent to enter the little girl into the dermonecrosis study?’

Isobella nodded. ‘Trish, our Northern Territory field officer, has arranged it. She’ll follow up and chronicle the progression of the scarring for us. She’s already e-mailed the first lot of photographs.’

‘I’ll take a look at them too, if you don’t mind?’ Alex murmured.

‘Sure,’ Isobella agreed faintly as she watched him work.

She went into more detail, grateful to be concentrating on the facts of the case and ignoring the waft of pure male aroma that emanated from Alex’s body in tantalising waves. Every little movement in the chair, every twist of a dial, drifted more in her direction. He smelled of cut grass and wet earth and wild honey, and she had the strangest urge to bury her face in his neck just to see if his skin tasted as sweet.

His rumbling voice, occasionally interrupting to clarify a point or ask a question, was like hundreds of invisible fingers undulating seductively against her skin. Like the caress of an anemone swaying in tropical waters. She wanted to stretch. Close her eyes. Sigh. Purr.

‘What was the weather like at the time of the envenomation?’

Alex waited a moment, and then looked up from the specimen when Isobella didn’t reply to his question. Her eyes were shut, the heavy fringe of her lashes behind the glass just as fascinating as the rest of her. They fluttered and then opened, her brown gaze showing its first real emotion as it widened in shock. She opened her mouth to say something and a delicate shade of pink fanned her exquisite cheekbones.

‘Why aren’t you coming to dinner tonight with everyone else?’

Isobella shut her mouth and blinked at the rapid change in topic, her embarrassment at being caught with her guard down completely forgotten. Nematocysts, Chironex Fleckeri, statistical data—these were all things she could have answered questions on, had prepared to be questioned on. She hadn’t been prepared for him to pry into her personal life.

She raised her hand to her throat, reflexively stroking the material covering her neck, strengthened by its presence. ‘I…I don’t…socialise…outside of work hours.’

It was true. Anyone present would have confirmed it for Alex. She just wished it didn’t sound so…lame.

He quirked an eyebrow. She didn’t socialise inside of work hours either. ‘You are unhappy here? You don’t like your colleagues?’

His gaze bored into hers. How was it possible to have eyes that blue? She lowered her gaze. ‘I’m very happy here. I like them fine,’ she dismissed.

Alex eyed her thoughtfully. Her discomfort was palpable. ‘You have other plans? A date, maybe?’

Isobella frowned. ‘Certainly not,’ she said primly. Who did he think she was? Did he think she’d blow off a work function for a man?

Alex chuckled. She was so affronted he had no doubt she was telling the truth. ‘Well, in that case I’m going to have to insist.’

Alex’s husky laughter, even over a phoneline from a thousand kilometers away, had always managed to turn her insides to mush. But this close she felt sure she was going to melt into a puddle right at his feet. There was no way she could sit at a table and have dinner with him. In fact she planned to avoid him for the rest of the week.

‘Dr Zaphirides—’

‘Ms Nolan?’

Isobella saw the slight lifting at the corner of his mouth and a dimple almost took her breath away. Damn him—she would not let him charm her.

‘Alex. I’ve worked for you for two years. I’m here early every morning and I don’t clock off till way past my time. Are you displeased with my work?’

‘No.’

She almost sagged. His earlier criticism had left her with a nagging sense of insecurity. ‘Then I believe the time after I leave the lab is my own. To do with as I wish.’

Alex bowed. ‘But of course. Tonight, however, I’d like you to have dinner with me.’

Isobella knew he didn’t meant him personally. But his cerulean eyes had a way of making her think she was the only person in the room. And he was so close, his wild honey and cut grass aroma wrapping her in a seductive web.

She opened her mouth to protest again, but he cut her off. ‘Isobella.’

She felt goosebumps feather her skin as he elongated the vowel at the end of her name as he had done so often on the phone, his husky voice and slight accent a deadly combination.

‘We are a team. It’s a rare event to have us all together. We have made great progress towards our goals. I think a little team-building and a pat on the back for everyone is warranted once in a while. It’s my thank-you to you all for keeping my Brisbane lab running smoothly. It would spoil everyone’s evening not to have you there. You would do me a great service if you agreed to join us.’

Isobella doubted very much whether she would be missed. Oh, she knew she was respected for her work, but she doubted that anyone felt close enough to her to miss her socially. She had, after all, deliberately cultivated distance.

‘Please, Isobella.’

His rumbled request weakened her resistance. Surely she could manage a few hours out of her comfort zone in the real world? One night out couldn’t hurt, could it? She never went out. And the big boss had made a direct request. How churlish would it look to refuse his hospitality?

She became aware of how close they were standing. She took a step back and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Certainly, Alex,’ she acquiesced, with as much formality as she could muster. ‘If you insist. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to retrieve some documents from the printer.’

Alex inclined his head and watched her walk away, her back straight, her stride wooden, her reluctant acceptance rankling.

He should be pleased. So why did her I’d-rather-poke-myself-in-the-eye-with-a-sharp-stick demeanour bother him so much?

CHAPTER TWO

ISOBELLA got into the shower with an impending sense of doom. Damn Alexander Zaphirides and his ‘Please Isobellaaaaa’. Even now it washed over her as easily as the water sluicing over her skin, tightening her nipples, causing a heat down low that not even the cool shower could extinguish.

No, no, no. That was not why she had agreed to go out tonight. It had nothing to do with his husky request. Or the way he looked. Or his wild honey smell. It was strictly a business affair. Accepting his gesture of thanks as everyone else was. And he had insisted.

Thank God he was only here for the week, if this was how much havoc he’d created in just one day. On Friday he and Reg were going to the symposium in Cairns, and then he would be flying back to Melbourne.

She only had to get through the next few days.

Or she could take some sick leave—God knew she had a mountain of it. Plead a mysterious illness. The presentation was essentially complete, so her absence wouldn’t cause too much disruption.

She switched off the tap hard and dried herself briskly. Who was she kidding? Her? Off work for a few days? She never took time off. She hadn’t had a single sick day in her time with Zaphirides Medical Enterprises. Not even last winter, when she’d caught a really bad flu and had felt like death warmed up. Hell, she hadn’t pulled a sickie—ever. Taking a few days off would cause an immense stir.

She was just going to have to get through the week as best she could. Her infatuation with him was ridiculous. There was absolutely no point getting herself into a dither over a man that she was never going to have. She’d resigned herself to her asexual existence many years ago, and no one had ever tempted her out of her self-imposed celibacy. She wasn’t about to let a man who looked as if he could have his pick of beauties ruin her hard-won reputation.

Isobella wrapped the towel around her, anchoring it under her arms, and wandered into her room. She felt edgy and stared at the clothes in her wardrobe, wondering what the hell she was going to wear. Damn it, she never thought about what she had to wear any more. She had a cupboard full of high-necked garments, and she usually just put her hand in and picked one.

But then she hadn’t gone out socially in years with anyone outside her family. And she never had to give too much thought to what she wore to work. Loose and comfortable were essential, and it was always covered by her white coat anyway. Fashion just didn’t come into it.

The fact that she always dressed to hide and camouflage her figure and that tonight she was thinking purely of fashion made her restless and annoyed. She was suddenly thinking of all the beautiful outfits she’d worn in the past. In another life. Coveting them and that time as she hadn’t in years. Why? So she could attract Alexander Zaphirides?

A man whose abrupt, dispassionate dismissal of her this afternoon had left her in no doubt of his utter disinterest? His gaze had swept over her body as if she was of no more interest to him than a bug squashed on the pavement. It was crazy to entertain any other thoughts.

And she knew better than that. Paolo dumping her had been lesson number one. Anthony had been lesson number two. Even now the memory of Anthony’s response, how he had recoiled from her, still had the power to crush her into the ground. She’d been foolish to dare even to think that a man could see beyond the physical.

She shut the cupboard in disgust, trying to beat back the memories, trying to not give the swell of despair that had overwhelmed her so often sixteen years ago any purchase. It was no use getting caught up in the bitterness and anguish of the past.

Except maybe as a reminder. Maybe a good hard look at herself would remind her that this infatuation with Alex was out of the question.

She stalked into her sister’s room, heading straight for Carla’s full-length mirror. Isobella only had a small high mirror in her en suite bathroom, preferring not to be reminded on a daily basis of her mutilated body.

She peeled the towel off her body, standing naked before the glass. She clenched her hands by her sides, still shocked by her appearance after all these years. How could she blame Anthony for his reaction when her first instinct was to run screaming away from herself too?

She forced herself to look, though. It was brutal—emotional shock therapy at its worst—but it was also just what she needed. She wasn’t Izzy Tucker the high-flying international model any more. She’d made the decision at nineteen to turn her back on that world jaded by hypocrisy and the relentless pursuit of beauty. And she’d been at peace with her choice and excited about starting a new phase of her life.

But she hadn’t been prepared for the final cruel blow that had taken her controversial decision to turn her back on a successful high-profile modelling career and punished her for it. Her life as she had known it had ended during a photo shoot on an idyllic North Queensland beach sixteen years ago. In fact it had nearly ended full-stop.

The evidence still taunted her today, as she gazed in the mirror. Her nudity didn’t register. All she could see were the marks where a box jellyfish, a Chironex Fleckeri, had wrapped its tentacles around her waist, disfiguring her, branding her with its ugly signature. And almost killing her in the process.

The purple whip-like scars that criss-crossed her abdomen were as mean-looking as ever. They’d faded a little over the years, but essentially each tentacle had left its savage mark, causing a permanent welt and marring the once sought-after bikini body that had graced many a magazine cover.

Isobella trembled with the effort it took not to look away in disgust. It had been a cruel twist of fate to have her career end on such a note, instead of on the high she’d imagined. At nineteen, being selected as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had been a major coup, and the perfect ending to a stellar career. And then it had all gone to hell.

Isobella secured the towel around her, unable to look any longer. She collapsed back on her sister’s bed, staring at the ceiling, allowing herself to wallow in self-pity for a moment or two. It had been a long time since she’d let herself be pulled back into the awful quagmire of grief. A tear squeezed out from behind her lids and she let it trek down across her temple.

Damn Alexander Zaphirides. She hated this. It was his presence that had unsettled her so much. Here she was feeling sorry for herself when in reality she’d been exceedingly lucky. For one, she’d survived, and from what she’d been told, things had been touch and go for quite a few weeks.

And for another, her decision to leave modelling had already been announced, and she’d been happy and excited about embarking on a new career. She’d already made the mental shift away, preparing herself for a new chapter in her life. Had she been counting on continuing modelling when she finally awoke from her drug-induced coma she would have been very disappointed. The phones had stopped ringing. A disfigured model was no good to anyone.

Over the years she’d managed to develop a philosophical outlook to the incident. An acceptance, even, that there had been a grand plan for her—a destiny, a fate bigger than hers, beyond her control.

That was why she believed so much in the research that Alex was conducting. Helping to find a topical treatment for the dermonecrotic lesions caused by Chironex Fleckeri before they scarred its victims permanently. To date there had been no agent identified to reduce the long-term scarring, and she was at the forefront of the research.

It had been almost a calling from a divine force when she’d seen the advertisement just over two years ago. She’d been working in burns scarring research, but had known instantly the dermonecrosis study was her destiny. It was too late for her—but for future victims? It had been a challenge, a calling she hadn’t been able to deny.

And nothing had swayed her from that path for two years. Nothing. Not thoughts of her past or of the unfairness of life or the vile flu. She’d had her face glued to a microscope, obsessively stalked the world wide web, and stayed back way too many nights leaving no stone unturned.

But now, tonight, with the prospect of having to socialise with a man who was sexier than a hundred Greek gods, she wanted to be beautiful again. To be Izzy again. If even just for a night.

Damn it. Damn her vanity to hell!

‘Hey, babe? Are we having a slumber party?’

Carla? Her plane wasn’t due back until later tonight. Was it? Isobella dashed away the moisture beneath her lids. She gave a shaky laugh, not bothering to rise from the bed. ‘Sure, if you like.’

She looked up as Carla came into her line of vision. She looked as professional as she always did in her stewardess uniform. Her sister frowned down at her as she pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt.

‘Move over,’ she ordered, and flopped back onto the mattress like a felled tree next to her.

‘Exhausted?’ Isobella asked as she watched Carla shut her eyes and give a deep contented sigh.

‘No.’ Carla shook her head. ‘What year is it?’

Isobella laughed, and could have hugged Carla for arriving home at the precise moment she needed a pick-me-up. ‘Poor Carla. Flying around the world, staying in gorgeous hotels, waiting on rock stars and screen gods. Italy is so hard to take this time of year.’

Carla laughed too. ‘I’m afraid I pulled the economy section this time. Crying babies and a group of soccer hooligans who tried to set a new record for the most beer consumed on a transatlantic flight.’

Isobella laughed again, and they both lay looking at the ceiling for a while.

‘So?’ Carla said. ‘What’s up?’

Isobella exhaled a pent up breath. ‘Dr Alexander Zaphirides, that’s what.’

‘Good grief!’ Carla’s head turned and she looked at her sister. ‘That’s right. Sorry—I’d forgotten McHusky was in town.’

Isobella smiled. Carla was the only person she’d ever confided in about her infatuation with her boss’s voice. And her sister had nicknamed him very aptly.

‘Is he as gorgeous as his voice suggests?’

Isobella nodded miserably. ‘I think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.’ And she had seen some very beautiful men.

Carla raised herself up on an elbow and looked down at her sister. ‘Hah! Told you,’ she crowed.

‘I’m having dinner with him tonight.’

Carla sat up and stared at her sister incredulously. ‘You are?’

Isobella shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘He insisted.’

‘Well, I like him already.’

‘Don’t get too carried away. The whole team will be there.’

‘But still,’ Carla grinned. ‘You and McHusky.’

‘Carla, be sensible,’ she chided, absently rubbing her finger over the small scar in the centre of her neck. ‘Nothing good can come of this.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. He’s finally getting you out of this house. Pulling you out of your comfort zone. For that I think the man deserves a medal.’ Carla jumped up. ‘Come on, let’s get you ready. What are you going to wear?’

‘I haven’t got anything to wear,’ Isobella murmured, feeling so depressed she just wanted to crawl into her bed and pull the covers over her head. ‘I think I’ll just plead a headache and stay home.’

Carla regarded her sister seriously. ‘Izzy. What harm can it do?’ she asked softly.

Isobella looked at her sister, flinching slightly at the childhood endearment—the name that had been on every designer’s lips back in her heyday.

Was Carla mad? What if she wanted more?

She’d trained herself to not want more. Of anything. She didn’t want to open the lid on a whole bunch of cravings she’d kept tightly locked away.

Carla lay back down on the bed. ‘Not all men are like Anthony, babe. You have a great figure. Stop hiding it.’

Isobella snorted. ‘I had. Past tense.’

‘Your figure is as divine now as it was when you were storming those Paris catwalks.’

Isobella heard the slight trace of envy in Carla’s voice. The sisters were chalk and cheese in the looks department. Carla was shorter and curvier, and although her figure was trim she always struggled to keep weight off. Isobella could, and did, eat like a horse, with no negative side effects whatsoever.

‘You know what I mean,’ Isobella replied.

‘Babe. Any man worth his salt won’t care about what you look like with your clothes off,’ Carla said gently.

Isobella shook her head incredulously at Carla, knowing full well that the male of the species usually judged women exactly on what they looked like under their clothes. ‘I look hideous!’

Carla shook her head. ‘God. Once a model always a model. You have such a screwed-up body image, babe. So, your body’s not what it was? But you are far from hideous. Your scars are part of you. You can lock yourself away because of them or live despite them. Beauty is more than skin-deep, and any man who judges you for the marks on your body isn’t worthy of oxygen.’

Isobella knew what her sister was saying was right. She’d heard Carla and her parents say it a thousand times. She did have a skewed sense of beauty. She knew that. The international fashion scene was as catty as it was cut throat. It was hard to overcome how much it had screwed with her head.

‘I know, I know.’ She sighed. ‘I just wish…I wish it had never happened.’ Another tear squeezed out from beneath her lids and she wiped it away. It had been years since she’d uttered those words. Damn Alexander Zaphirides!

‘Me and you both, babe.’ Carla raised herself up on her elbow. ‘Not least of all because those first few weeks you spent in Intensive Care were so harrowing there wasn’t a day that went by when we didn’t think you were going to die. But here you are. Alive. Don’t let it keep robbing you of your life.’

Yes, Carla was right. She was right. But even though she’d already decided to give up modeling, the whole reverse fairy-tale—the swan turning into the ugly duckling—had been a huge psychological blow. Her self-esteem had taken an even bigger hit than her body. Her physical scars had reduced slightly over time, but she still grappled with her mental ones every day.

‘Now up!’ Carla ordered, grabbing Isobella’s arm. ‘Let’s find you something to wear.’

Isobella followed reluctantly, and stood passively while Carla hunted through her cupboard.

‘Aha! This. You bought it and never wore it. It’s perfect.’

Isobella looked at the dress Carla was brandishing. It was one of many things she’d bought over the years since the accident, despite knowing she’d never wear it. Mainly because she didn’t socialize, but also because it revealed more than it concealed. But the female inside her had been unable to resist. The Fleckeri’s brand might have robbed her of her confidence, but it hadn’t taken away her love for shopping or beautiful clothes.

It was the colour of a deep merlot, and was made from a fabric that clung in all the right places. Isobella shrank from it. ‘No. It’s too… It’ll show my trachey scar… I can’t possibly…’

‘It’s perfect,’ Carla bossed.

The feminine side of her wanted to reach out and touch the very sexy dress, but Isobella knew if she touched it she’d be a goner. ‘It’s all wrong.’

‘Why did you buy it, then?’ Carla demanded.

Because it was beautiful. ‘It’s not the image I’m trying to project,’ she said primly.

‘McHusky is here for a few days, and then you won’t see him again. Don’t you want to at least make him drool a little?’ Carla held up her thumb and index finger with a whisker of space separating them. ‘It’s one night, babe. Just one. Don’t you want to feel like a woman instead of a nerdy, four-eyed lab geek?’

‘Hey,’ Isobella protested at her sister’s blunt assessment. But she could hardly refute it. A ‘four-eyed lab geek’ was the image she’d meticulously presented to the world. ‘I do not want to attract Alex.’

Carla shrugged. ‘So do it for yourself. You just said you wished it had never happened. Put on the dress and pretend for one night that it didn’t. Be Izzy again.’

Carla held out the dress, and Isobella felt herself reach for it against all her better judgments.

Alex wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from Isobella tonight. In fact he wouldn’t have been surprised had she not shown at all. But secretly he’d hoped that maybe they’d all get to see a little more of the person beneath the coat and the glasses.

Unfortunately not.

He spotted her the second she walked in. She was late, and he’d been eyeing the doorway while making polite conversation with Roland about the project. She paused at the ‘Wait here to be seated’ sign, searching for their table.

She was wearing horrible baggy trousers and a shapeless shirt that flared down from a mandarin collar in an A-line and left everything to the imagination.

She looked around, her eyes darting from table to table. She seemed nervous, one hand clutching at her bag the other pushing her god-awful glasses back up her nose. Her left foot tapped, and she flinched as a man at a table near the door let out a booming laugh.

She was obviously uncomfortable as her gaze continued to flit around the room, and he started to wonder whether Isobella suffered from agoraphobia. She had seemed perfectly at home in the lab, albeit completely alarmed at his suggestion that she come out tonight. But here she looked completely out of place.

She finally spotted them, and he noticed her hesitation before she squared her shoulders and moved towards them. One thing was certain—Isobella Nolan did not want to be here.

Without the camouflage of the white coat he could see her legs were long and slender as she strode to the table but the second she stopped the layers of trouser material swallowed their shape.

Isobella was conscious of her colleagues all watching her as Alex stood and greeted her. His husky rumble rendered her powerless to move. Her nipples hardened as if he had reached out and trailed his fingers across her breasts.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ She addressed the table. ‘I was…’ mentally hyperventilating ‘…my sister held me up.’

‘You’re here now.’ Alex nodded. ‘We saved a seat for you.’

Isobella was pleased to see her legs were still obeying impulses from her brain, even if the rest of her body was not. The empty seat was directly opposite Alex, and she cursed Carla for delaying her departure.

She stroked her throat reflexively as she settled in her chair, reassured by the presence of the high collar. She nervously adjusted her glasses, pleased she had changed out of the dress after Carla had retired to her bed. The dress had looked amazing, and had felt so feminine against her skin, with its clingy fabric and plunging neckline. But she lacked the confidence to wear it. She would have felt exceedingly self-conscious in it, and she was already way out of her depth.

Luckily the same couldn’t be said for her underwear. Lingerie was a major weakness of hers—always had been— and the feeling of soft satin and the rub of lace was one she freely indulged. Something had to compensate for the blandness of her lab wardrobe and the fact that no one at the table tonight knew the silken wisps that lay beneath her baggy clothes made the wearing of them bearable.

Conversation resumed at the table, and Isobella feigned interest. Reg was beside her, talking about the presentation, and she nodded and replied and made some suggestions on automatic pilot, while at the same time taking absolutely none of the discussion in.

She was aware of Alex’s too frequent gaze on her. It felt heavy against her skin, and she wanted to look him straight in the eye and tell him to stop. What did he want from her? She was here, wasn’t she?

His presence was just too disturbing by far. Every husky word and gravelly chuckle coming from his perfectly sculptured mouth vibrated the air currents around her, causing a feather-light friction all over her body that was as erotic as it was distracting. He was hitting a big ten on her McHusky scale, which only ramped up her nervousness several more notches.

It didn’t help that he looked amazing tonight. He was wearing a shirt the exact shade of his cerulean blue eyes, which somehow managed to magnify his utter maleness tenfold. He hadn’t shaved before coming out, and the light growth of stubble at his jaw drew her gaze like a helplessly addicted moth craved light.

When he laughed his face creased into irresistible dimples, and the skin around his eyes crinkled into little lines that she just wanted to reach out and touch. Smooth. Kiss.

And then there were the scars on his neck, fully displayed again. As Reg talked about Cairns she found herself thinking that if he only wore his shirt buttoned up, and a tie, they’d be completely covered. Why didn’t he? She had the same urge to touch them as she did his eye crinkles. Feel their irregularity. Smooth them. Kiss them.

‘I don’t know, Roland,’ Alex said to the man sitting beside him. ‘I think it’s a field that attracts a more mature workforce. Most people seem to come from other occupations into the lab. Take Isobella, for example. She was a nurse before becoming a research assistant.’

Tuned in as she was to the rumble of Alex’s conversation, Isobella’s head snapped up instantly.

‘Really? I didn’t know that,’ Roland murmured.

She heard the surprise in Roland’s voice and saw it mirrored all over his face. In fact the whole table was looking at her, as if Alex had just proclaimed she’d been a nun prior to joining the team.

Imagine their surprise had he announced she’d been on track to becoming the next supermodel.

Isobella looked at him. His blue eyes were challenging her to elaborate. Her cheeks grew warm beneath her colleagues’ scrutiny, and her pulse pounded through her head. She thought at this moment she quite possibly hated Alexander Zaphirides.

Hated his supreme confidence and how comfortable he looked in this social situation, in contrast to the near panic that was sweeping through her own veins. She hated him for insisting she come tonight, dragging her out of her comfort zone and then putting her in the spotlight. She wanted to crawl under the table and hide from prying eyes.

How the hell did he know this stuff anyway? She’d gone through the interview process with his admin people, and whilst she assumed he’d had the final say she’d also assumed he’d taken their recommendation and approved her employment without more than a cursory glance at her application.

‘Yes,’ Isobella confirmed, uncomfortably aware of the growing silence. She wasn’t used to being the centre of attention any more. She was used to fading into the background. She didn’t want their interest piqued. ‘For a while.’

‘And what made you decide to jump ship?’ Alex probed.

Conscious of everyone waiting for her response, Isobella squirmed. This was none of his business—none of their business. But avoiding the question would only serve to arouse further interest. After all, this was a social evening with colleagues. People talked about themselves in social situations.

Which was exactly why she avoided them.

Isobella suppressed a sigh. Where did she start without sounding like a complete loon? By saying that six weeks in hospital had given her a true appreciation for what nurses did? That it had been a natural progression for her, eager for a new career and jaded from the selfishness of modeling, to fall into that honourable profession? That she’d enjoyed being a nurse— in fact missed the patient contact more than she allowed herself to admit? But it had been too…social? And…open.

How crazy did that sound? Even if it was the truth. Her nursing colleagues, used to being entrusted with people’s most personal details, had never really understood her desire to keep to herself. Their candidness and their expectation of it being returned had made her uncomfortable. Also, the uniforms had made hiding her tracheostomy scar really difficult. Civvies and a white coat had been an absolute dream.

‘I enjoyed being a nurse very much,’ she said primly. ‘But…’ Isobella adjusted her glasses. ‘I wanted to try something different.’

Alex noted the nervous fiddle, and the way her gaze didn’t quite reach his eyes. She was lying. He wanted to reach across the table, whip those god-awful glasses off her face and demand to hear the truth. He hated that she hid herself behind those dreadful, unfashionable, clunky frames.

‘Did you have to retrain?’ Roland asked.

Isobella nodded. ‘I did a science degree, majoring in medical research.’ Thanks to her modelling years she’d had a nice nest egg saved, and had been able to undertake her degree full-time and not have to worry about money.

‘I was going to be an engineer at uni.’ Reg joined in the conversation. ‘Bored me stupid.’

Isobella could have kissed Reg for stepping into the conversation, sparking others to share their stories. Not that she heard what they were saying. She was conscious only of Alex’s eyes on her. He knew. She could tell. Knew that she had fobbed him off. His Aegean gaze held hers and she was powerless to look away.

Alexander Zaphirides was a man who could see right past her reserve. And, frankly, it scared the hell out of her.

The meal and the conversation flowed around her for the next couple of hours, requiring very little input from her—thankfully. Most of the chat centred around the Cairns Envenomation Symposium, and Alex and Reg’s scheduled visit to the Piccolo Island scientific station. The facility, situated on a small island north of Cairns, sent many box jellyfish specimens their way, and both men were keen to look around.

Isobella added very little, uncaring of the itinerary or any of the other topics. Her colleagues heeded her shuttered demeanour, but Alex felt no such compunction and drew her into the conversation with practised ease at every opportunity. Not even Isobella’s guarded, progressively stilted replies seemed to daunt him. She knew he was doing it deliberately. And she knew he knew she knew.

Isobella finished her dessert and wondered what the time was, and if it was too early to leave. Just listening to his voice was its own brand of erotic torture, and she’d had more than she could take for one evening. Once or twice a week for a couple of minutes at a time was usually more than enough for her sanity. His voice, those eyes, made her want things she couldn’t have.

‘Have you got the time, Reg?’ she asked quietly, turning to face him.

Reg turned his wrist. ‘Nine-thirty.’

Isobella heard the slight puff in his reply and frowned. Reg was sweating and looking a little pale. Sure, it was November, but the restaurant was air-conditioned. ‘You okay?’ she asked.

Reg nodded. ‘Heartburn’s playing up,’ he nodded, rubbing his chest.

Isobella nodded back. Reg wasn’t the healthiest specimen of manhood she’d ever seen. He had a massive beer belly and lived on liquid antacid. He always seemed to be swigging on a bottle. She’d never pried into whether or not he’d ever had it checked out, because she didn’t believe in prying. But he was looking particularly pasty just now. ‘Have you got your antacid with you?’ she asked.

‘Nah. Left it at the lab. Probably time for me to mosey on home anyway. The wife doesn’t like being in the house at night by herself. She’s pretty annoyed about me going up north for the week. I think I’m in the bad books enough.’

Reg stood and made his goodbyes, and Isobella took the opportunity to depart also. ‘Think I’ll call it a night too,’ she said, rising to her feet.

Alex rose, his gaze glittering his disapproval, telling her he knew she was chickening out. Isobella returned his look defiantly. He didn’t own her, and she’d had enough of this charade.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Reg,’ he said, turning his attention away from Isobella, holding out his hand. ‘I’m really looking forward to attending the symposium with you.’

Reg nodded, and Alex frowned as he felt the sweatiness of Reg’s palms. He looked at the man closely. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

Reg nodded briskly. ‘Bloody heartburn.’

Isobella felt a prickle of unease as Reg turned and staggered a little.

‘Reg?’ Alex flicked a glance at Isobella, who was also regarding Reg with obvious concern.

Then Reg clutched his chest and let out a guttural moan, before sinking to his knees on the ground beside his chair.

‘Reg!’ Isobella sank down with him, a hand on his arm, knocking her chair over in the process.

Alex strode around the table and joined her as their work colleagues hovered around. ‘Call an ambulance!’ he barked, straining his voice as he positioned himself behind Reg, easing the man back to support him whilst reaching for Reg’s pulse.

The fast, erratic pace was worrisome, and whilst Alex might not have practised real medicine in quite a few years, he’d never quite forgotten what a heart attack victim looked like. And Reg’s pale, cold, clammy skin was a big red warning flag. The man certainly fitted the description of heart-attack-waiting-to-happen.

The entire restaurant stopped as Alex’s hoarse demand sliced through their evening merriment, and then bedlam ensued as people gasped, some stood and at least one person from every table made an emergency call.

‘Reg, have you ever had angina before?’ Isobella demanded.

Reg groaned, still clutching his chest. ‘No.’

‘The pain? What’s it like? Does it go anywhere?’ she fired again.

‘Down my…my arm,’ Reg huffed. ‘I feel like…like an elephant’s sitting on my chest.’

Isobella glanced up at Alex. She looked away quickly, stunned that even in the midst of this crisis he could take her breath away. Reg cried out again, gripping his chest, and then slumped against Alex. Isobella shook him vigorously and called his name.

‘It’s no use. He’s not responsive,’ Alex said.

Her hand trembled as her fingers sought his carotid pulse.

‘Anything?’ Alex demanded.

Isobella kept her fingers in place, praying for a bound, a flutter, any movement against her fingers to prove that everything was okay. She shook her head and looked at Alex again. ‘Nothing.’

They exchanged a look, both knowing this was a very bad development. If he’d lost his cardiac output so quickly then the heart attack must be significant.

‘Clear some of these tables back.’

His voice might have been low but it was laced with urgent authority. He shifted so he could lie Reg on the ground. It was too cramped to do adequate CPR, and the paramedics were never going to get a trolley in here.

‘I’ll look after the airway,’ Alex said to her. ‘Can you do compressions?’

She nodded, her medical training coming back to her with surprising clarity. ‘Pass me my bag,’ Isobella said to one of her colleagues.

She fished in it and found the small sealed package she was looking for. ‘Here.’ She passed it to Alex.

Alex looked at the protector kit. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ripping it open to reveal a handkerchief-sized square transparent piece of plastic, with a central two-way mouthpiece to prevent the exchange of bodily fluids during expired air resuscitation. He inserted it into Reg’s mouth and delivered his first two rescue breaths.

‘What’s the ETA on the ambulance?’ Alex asked, pausing while Isobella performed the chest compressions.

‘It’ll be here in a few minutes,’ Roland confirmed.

A waiter pushed through the crowd. ‘Here,’ he announced, ‘we have this. Will this help? My boss had it installed last year, when our head chef had a heart attack.’

Isobella and Alex looked up to find the waiter holding a portable automatic defibrillator. At this particular moment it was worth more than the Holy Grail.

Alex grinned as Isobella kept up her chest compressions. ‘Yes, sir, it most certainly will.’ He relieved the waiter of the treasure.

Alex wasn’t overly familiar with this type of unit, but he knew that once switched on it gave audible prompts and only delivered a shock if it deemed the patient’s rhythm warranted it. It was designed for lay people to use, and at the moment it was Reg’s best chance. Alex knew that early defibrillation was crucial to ensure the best outcome in this rapidly deteriorating situation.

He worked around Isobella, tearing Reg’s shirt open and slapping the two adhesive pads in the indicated positions on Reg’s cold, clammy chest. The automated voice on the machine asked them to cease CPR while it assessed the rhythm. They waited for the machine, and Alex tried not to notice the way Isobella’s blonde fringe had fallen forward in his peripheral vision.

The machine prompted him to deliver a shock, and asked everyone to stand clear. ‘Stand clear,’ Alex said, raising his voice, cursing the gravelly wobble and the havoc the increased volume wreaked on his damaged vocal cords.

He put his arm out in front of Isobella’s chest and urged her back further. The last thing he wanted to do was to electrocute her. ‘Stand clear,’ he repeated to the crowd as his finger hovered over the button.

When Alex was satisfied no one was in contact with Reg’s body he hit the green button, and Reg’s body arced as the electricity charged through him. The machine re-evaluated and prompted another shock, and Alex delivered the second one.

Finally Reg moved. He gasped and moaned and the entire restaurant seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Welcome back, Reg,’ Alex murmured as he helped Isobella roll the big man on his side.

He looked at her and she gave him a relieved smile. A totally candid, non-guarded, elated smile. It was exhilarating. He grinned back, pleased beyond measure to be finally seeing the real Isobella. It was only the wail of a siren breaking between them that stopped his sudden impulse to lean over and kiss her soft full lips in triumph.

The paramedics pushed through the crowd, and then it was a blur of activity as they applied oxygen and hooked the patient up to their own monitor. Reg was throwing worrying ectopics and having short runs of ventricular tachycardia as the paramedics hastily inserted an IV and administered some GTN spray under his tongue.

‘Let’s scoop him and go,’ the female paramedic said. ‘I don’t like the look of his rhythm.’

Isobella and Alex assisted, and they had him on the stretcher and were loading him into the back of the ambulance in two minutes.

‘Ring my wife,’ Reg whispered to Isobella, pulling the oxygen mask aside.

‘Yes, I will.’ Isobella nodded, her anxiety increasing at the grey tinge to Reg’s skin.

‘I’m going with him,’ Alex said to her.

‘I’m so sorry about the symposium,’ Reg groaned as they locked the stretcher into place.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Alex dismissed. ‘Nothing is more important than getting you better.’

‘You can ride in front,’ the paramedic said to Alex as she slammed the back doors.

Alex nodded. He turned to Isobella. ‘Well, that’s one way to break up a party.’

Isobella gave him a weak smile as his voice scratched along her taut nerves. The adrenaline that had surged into her system during the crisis was making her even more sensitive to its sinful eroticism.

‘Thanks for your help tonight.’

‘It was nothing,’ she dismissed.

He nodded. The ambulance engine roared to life. ‘I need a favour,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise.

Isobella hesitated, wary of the sudden gleam in his too intriguing eyes. ‘Okay…?’

‘I need you to come to Cairns with me.’

Isobella blinked. What the—? ‘No.’

‘It’s not a request.’ Alex grinned at her increasing look of horror. ‘I’ll have the tickets transferred,’ he said, turning away.

Isobella gaped at him, watched him climb into the cab. No way. No way was she going away for a week with him.

Absolutely not.

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