The fierceness of that silver gaze was too much to take head-on.

Heat surged in her head, cascaded all over her body. Her face had to be radiating a red as deep as her hair by now. Her eyes escaped his, only to stray over the rest of him, and—wow! Everywhere she looked, every detail of his striking features and awesome physique—and the thoughts they provoked—were even more blush-worthy.

But something was wrong here. Very wrong. Besides feeling like a derailed train, she felt as if she knew him—as if she should know him.

Then it struck her. Hard, then harder. With the force of a jackhammer right upside her head.

No wonder she felt she’d known him all her life.

She had…

Dear Reader

I’ve always believed heroes are not born but made. I also believe heroes don’t know they’re heroes—not even when others insist on it. This lack of self-satisfaction is what marks a true hero for me. Vidal, my hero, never suspected he was one—even feared he was the reverse. Both he and Cassandra, my heroine, started out in a wrong place in life, but worked unstintingly to become the best people they could.

I love to explore the life path of people who better themselves, people I can cheer for, fear for, and find total satisfaction when they get the happily-ever-after they deserve. I loved going along for the ride as Vidal and Cassandra made life-changing adjustments and discoveries, and struggled with their prejudices and misconceptions—about themselves and each other.

I hope you will enjoy the ride too.

Olivia Gates

Recent titles by the same author:

EMERGENCY MARRIAGE

DOCTORS ON THE FRONTLINE

Airborne Emergency

Olivia Gates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

For my father. The power behind my soul,

the vision behind my being. You live on in me.

CHAPTER ONE

“OF ALL names, my new boss had to be a Vidal.”

Cassandra St James winced. She was talking to herself out loud, sounding like a hissing cobra, no less. No wonder the woman ahead of her in the queue had given her that funny look.

What was really funny was that just his name still raised her hackles this way. Brought every sort of fierce nastiness she thought she’d outgrown bubbling to the surface again.

So their mission leader, the man they were transiting in Madrid Airport to pick up, was blighted at birth with ‘the name’. Him and a million other men in Spanish-speaking communities. Her Vidal was an Arroyo Martinez. He must be in some hyper-advanced surgical center, performing million-dollar esthetic miracles. Her new boss was a Santiago, and he was devoting three months to a grueling, payless humanitarian mission.

She shook her head, paid for her breakfast, tossed her mane of curls back. Better focus on something else. Her life’s much-needed new direction, for example. That began today. Her plans to explore new medical frontiers, to break the monotony and the dead ends, were in motion at last. And from the way she saw—saw...

Eyes. Steel and silver. They slammed into her across the huge, bustling cafeteria and held her prisoner. Wouldn’t let her look anywhere else. Not even at the face they belonged to.

Her heart lurched and the next scheduled breath just wouldn’t come.

Whoa! What was that? She didn’t do that. Didn’t do instant overwhelming attraction and X-rated thoughts. Or delayed ones, for that matter. Didn’t go hot and gooey when a man looked at her. And the man was just looking at her.

OK, so no one had ever looked at her that way—ogled her blatantly, sure, especially since she’d set foot in this land of self-appointed Latin lovers—but this...this devouring was something else altogether.

People passed in front of her, blocking her vision, severing the connection.

Oh, thank you! She made use of the time out, reached one of the elegant plate-glass tables, swore softly when she splashed cappuccino over her French pastry.

Don’t look. She did. She had to, to find out just what that bolt of chemical reaction was all about. Bodies still blocked her view. Then suddenly she had a clear shot of him again and...he was no longer on the other side of the cafeteria!

He was cutting his way through the packed crowds, head and shoulders above other people. Coming to her. Oh, wow!

Her mind stuttered to a standstill as his purposeful stride eliminated the gap between them, then kicked off again, in a jumble.

He was going to talk to her. He wanted to talk to her. Oh, yes! But what would he say? What would she say? She must look hideous. Her hair was a worse-than-usual mess. Not even lip gloss. She must still be puffed up with that horrible deathlike sleep on board the plane—not that those lethal eyes said anything, but—

A bloodcurdling shriek went through her like a scythe.

Cassandra jerked around, but not before she saw his eyes snapping from consuming to concerned as they refocused behind her, searching out the source of distress.

The shrieks continued, rising to a manic pitch. People were running, some away from the source of disturbance. That added to her confusion until she remembered where they were. In an airport screams might easily be interpreted as some sort of danger. Her first impulse was to rush to help. It must be all her medical training, and probably her knight-to-the-rescue genes as well.

Shouts in many languages echoed. She made out enough to know there’d been an accident. Someone—a child—was injured, unconscious.

She was running by now, towards the milling crowd. He was ahead of her, his growls cutting a clear path to the victim in seconds.

It wasn’t as easy for her. The crowd closed up again in his wake, didn’t part for her as it had for him. She had to shove and elbow away layer after layer of onlookers, trying to get to the object of their horrified fascination.

Her shouts of, “Let me pass. I’m a doctor,” didn’t make any impression on the predominantly Spanish audience. Then she heard his voice again, snapping something in Spanish, and suddenly she had a front-row view of the emergency.

A hysterical woman being restrained, dragged away. A motionless boy on the floor, or at least a head of golden hair. The rest of him was obscured by the man’s huge crouching body. He was already administering CPR.

She groaned. So the boy had arrested. If the man could judge that. And he’d volunteered to resuscitate him—probably on the strength of a technique picked up from some medical TV drama.

Falling to her knees beside him, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Señor? I can take over while you make sure an ambulance is on its way. I’m a doctor.”

He withdrew to deliver cardiac compressions, didn’t even look at her. “I got that already.”

She started. His voice—a bass rasp that was just as potent as the rest of him. Concise, cultured. And American. American?

Later. Focus! “Great, so if you’ll just...” Her eyes fell on the boy’s face before the man swooped to deliver another breath and the words stopped in her throat. The boy’s mouth—it was burned!

Fighting off the wave of horror that years of handling the worst medicine had to offer hadn’t eradicated, Cassandra’s eyes darted around, summing up the situation. A boy of less than three. A pretty plastic tree a few feet away with dangling electric toy planets. They’d been glowing minutes ago. Not any more.

The boy must have bitten the electric cord to pluck one off.

Her stomach heaved again. The center of the burn encompassed both lips in a two-inch, grayish-white, depressed area: the current’s point of entry. Electrical burns were far worse than thermal ones as the current arcing through the tissues damaged everything along their path down to the bone. This one, when it healed, would look awful and result in horrible complications, from mouth contraction to tongue adhesions to bone involvement, causing everything from disfigurement to drooling to speech impairment.

But she was way ahead of herself here. No point worrying about those burns now. Keeping the boy’s circulation going and oxygen reaching his brain was the number-one priority. She’d better take over and make sure the kid got the best chance. This guy might have taken a course in resuscitation, but young children needed a totally different resuscitation protocol than adults. What would be perfect technique for an adult, or even an older child, would crush the boy’s chest with the hard, two-handed compressions, or burst his lungs with the forced ventilation. Even if he knew enough not to be too forceful, he would probably not know that the 80 compressions and the 16 breaths per minute of the usual CPR would be too few to make any difference.

“Sir...” The man withdrew from a breath and she noticed his technique for the first time. It shut her up again.

One large hand pressed down with rapid, shallow compressions. She counted them—at this rate, they’d be an optimum 120 per minute. The other hand had two fingers locating the right position on the sternum, just below the nipple line. The five-to-one ratio of compressions to breaths resulted in 25 breaths per minute, delivered with just the right force. Everything done to the letter of advanced life support protocols for a child that age.

No—not TV-trained after all. This man knew what he was doing. And then some.

Feeling redundant all of a sudden, she fell back on her heels, taking stock, her heart itching at the idea that the man was adding further injury to the mutilated tissues every time he delivered a breath into the boy’s inert lungs. Not that that could be helped.

The mother’s wailing filtered through to her from a distance. What she must be feeling—the sheer horror and despair! But, then, she hadn’t been watching her little one closely enough and she... Cassandra’s censorious thoughts stumbled, hot shame squashing them.

Look who’s being holier than thou, she thought. Safeguarding kids every minute of the day was one of life’s impossibilities. She could vouch for that. What about the right-on-his-head dive Aaron had taken out of his crib, in front of both Amanda and herself? Luckily, he had been OK. No thanks to them.

Her focus returned to the crisis. So the man was delivering first-rate CPR. Working with the presumption it would prove effective, she should assess the boy’s other injuries—other burns, any limb angulations. The generalized muscular contraction the jolt must have caused could have been violent enough to fracture bones.

The next second, coughing brought her out of her absorbed examination. The man’s coughing.

Still coughing yet not missing a beat, he looked up and she again felt as the boy must have felt the moment that devastating current had arced through his body.

“You a real doctor?” he panted.

Her mind was shut down, but her smart mouth must have been on auto. “No, I’m just a surgeon.”

He came up from the next breath with the banked fire in his eyes flaring, promising sensual retribution. Later, they said. Now he only rasped, “OK, Dr Surgeon—take over respiration.”

She swooped down for the next breath, cringing at having to bear down on the boy’s burnt lips but forcing herself to form a tight seal over his mouth. The man immediately set up a perfect rhythm of compressions with her, then went into another coughing fit.

“Good thing you’re here,” he gasped once he’d brought himself under control. “No reason to inoculate the kid with more of my resistant strains.”

OK, not just a highly trained bystander, then. That was doctor-talk.

“That is,” the man added, his voice dipping lower, “if we manage to save him.”

Cassandra’s heart lurched. “We will!” she gasped after the last breath.

“Hold that thought.” He looked up at one of the men standing above her and fired rapid Spanish at him. The bystander rushed to get his cellphone out of his jacket pocket then, following his directions, called a number and placed the phone to his ear. He shot out a string of what sounded like commands into the phone, then nodded to the man, who removed the phone and placed it back into his pocket.

Curiosity overwhelmed her. Who had he called? And how come he sounded perfectly American one moment then clearly Spanish the next? No time, and no breath left to ask. From then on they resumed their efforts in silence, snatching eloquent glances every time she raised her head from a breath. At least, she thought they were eloquent. She felt they were exchanging their gratitude for sharing the massive responsibility with each other. Admitting their strong attraction.

She could also just be hyperventilating.

But she hadn’t been when that bolt had hit her a few minutes ago. All right, so she had been hit by bolts like that before. But she hadn’t been a thirty-year-old then. Merely a stupid teenager who’d just discovered her sexuality and had gone about picking the most disastrous choice to be the focus of her infatuation...

Rushing feet announced the paramedics’ arrival, breaking into her untimely musings. How long had it taken them to make it here? And who had the man called? She’d lost track of time, felt as if she’d been fighting for the kid’s life for a day— drowning in his eyes all her life...

His curt words brought her back to the crisis. “Get a bag-valve mask, a cardiac monitor, the defibrillator, and cut his clothes!”

Yes, definitely a doctor. And he wasn’t relinquishing their victim to the paramedics’ care. Good—she wasn’t about to either. She was seeing this through.

“But it’s been over fifteen minutes, and if he’s still in arrest—” one of the paramedics started, but the man cut him short.

“I started CPR almost immediately.”

“But still...”

“Did no one report he’d been electrocuted?”

That stopped the paramedic’s arguments. In electrocution, since the heart had no underlying disease causing the arrest, resuscitation should continue for far longer than for any other cause of arrest. There was always hope an electrocuted victim could revive after protracted resuscitation efforts.

She delivered one last breath before snatching the bag-valve mask from a female paramedic’s hands, sealing it over the boy’s face and beginning positive pressure ventilation with 100 per cent oxygen. The man stopped the cardiac compressions to attach the cardiac monitor’s electrodes to the boy’s chest.

Following through with her ventilatory assessment, Cassandra grabbed a stethoscope and listened to the chest. “Chest rising well, equal air entry over both lungs.”

The man nodded, finger on the boy’s carotid artery, eyes on the monitor. He added his own assessment. “Still pulseless, though—heart’s in ventricular fibrillation.” He turned to the paramedics.

“Charge the defibrillator.”

In seconds they’d handed him the paddles of the defibrillator.

“Everyone, clear!” he shouted.

The first shock produced no change in heart rhythm.

“Increase the charge,” he ordered.

A second then a third shock still produced no effect. And three shocks were the limit at a time.

“Back to CPR, then,” Cassandra said. “Time for venous access and intubation.”

“Yes.” He made way for the female paramedic to take over cardiac compressions. “Which do you want to handle?”

She didn’t relish the idea of coming near the boy’s mouth again. “I’ll take venous access.”

He held her eye for a second, jolting her yet again. He understood her reluctance—sympathized? With a nod, he turned to the other paramedic. “No. 2 Miller laryngoscope, straight blade, 4.5 endotracheal tube, uncuffed.”

Whoa! Not just a doctor. A specialist of some sort. An anesthetist maybe? Whatever, the man was just too impressive altogether...

Drool over him later. Get a line into that little boy.

He finished the intubation, slipped the ETT in place, tested its correct placement and decompressed the stomach to further aid ventilation. Everything done with staggering speed and precision. It didn’t make Cassandra feel any better about her struggle to locate a vein.

“No luck?”

She bristled at his question, brought the spurt of irritation under control and made one last attempt. No go.

“Let me do that.” He reached out to take the cannula out of her hands.

She turned on him. “You got a way to inflate his collapsed veins?” His eyebrows rose at her vehemence, his hands, too, in a conciliatory gesture. “You go ahead, then,” she muttered. “Administer epinephrine though the ETT. I’ll go for the intraosseous route.”

That hard, hot energy he emitted spiked, the explicit awareness in his eyes back in full force. Still, when he talked, he was the personification of professionalism. “0.2 mg/kg epinephrine, 1/1000 solution,” he ordered the paramedic.

Her heat rose. Her concern, too. “0.1 mg/kg is the maximum initial dose via ETT!”

“No.”

“Just no?”

“Yes.”

Overconfident, imperious. She hated that in men.

“I assume you do know what you’re doing?”

“I do.”

And she really believed he did. It was probably why overconfident imperiousness looked good on him.

She turned to the paramedic. “You have an intraosseous kit?”

“No, but we have spinal needles,” the paramedic said.

“Close enough. Get me an 18-gauge needle.” The efficient man handed it to her in two seconds flat. “Ready Ringer’s lactate solution, two bags, and giving sets while I do this.”

She located the point of insertion in the boy’s tibia, an inch above the medial malleolus in his foot, inserted the needle perpendicular to the bone with a screwing motion until it ‘gave’ when she entered the marrow cavity. A centimeter in, she stopped, removed the needle, leaving the catheter in. In seconds she had her line secure and fluids pumping into the inert boy.

“Good job. No extravasation?” her resuscitation partner asked, checking whether any fluids were leaking out of the bone. She shook her head and he said, “Better deliver the subsequent doses of epinephrine via this route, then.”

They did that and after a minute he sighed. “There’s a slight change in rhythm—no palpable pulse, though. We’ll have to shock him again.”

They went through the three-shock routine again. With the last shock, the cardiac monitor blipped the hoped-for change.

“He’s back.” The man’s expression didn’t reflect the relief in his voice. Her anxious eyes jerked to the cardiac monitor to make sure. “Sinus rhythm, 80 beats per minute. A bit slow, but we have him back.” He reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder. “Good work.”

Relief and pleasure at his praise, at his touch, melted her tense face into a wobbly smile. One he didn’t return, the intensity back instead. His eyes went to her lips, rested there until they began to swell, open—then he turned to the crowd and said something in Spanish. Something about la madre. Telling them to allow the mother back? Cassandra had forgotten all about her. He hadn’t. Nice...

Then everything crashed back on her after the vacuum in which she’d been suspended, with only the man and the boy for company. Even the paramedics had been faceless tools of assistance. Now everything seemed to zoom into existence once again. Bystanders. The wailing mother. Then a second set of medical personnel materialized on the scene.

The man jumped to his feet, exchanged rapid conversation with one of them, and suddenly she was shoved to the side. The frantic mother hurled herself at her toddler, people again restrained her, the newcomers descended on the scene and implemented the protocols of moving a critically injured victim with total efficiency.

Then just as suddenly, the whole crisis receded, leaving her behind.

He was leaving her behind!

He was walking away with a man who probably was the pediatric intensivist who was taking over the case, deep in conversation. Not looking back.

In seconds all she could see of him was the back of his regal head receding out of sight as the sea of people between them thickened then obscured her vision.

As anticlimaxes went, this one was a whopper.

But what had she expected? What was there to expect? They were both waiting to catch planes that would probably take them to opposite ends of the earth. The best they could have had was an hour of—of what? And, anyway, what could possibly top what they’d just shared: dragging a life back from the brink of death? Anything from then on would have been an anticlimax. Never had she shared such an intense experience with anyone. At work she collaborated with others, saving lives, daily, but it had never been this immediate, this synergistic.

Now he was gone and the whole incredible experience was over.

She straightened, delayed reaction hitting her. It was already as if nothing had happened, the scene reverting to what it had been previously: busy morning traffic in an international airport.

So, what to do now with enough leftover adrenaline to power her for a month? How to stop it from turning on her, making her legs dough and her nerves exposed wires?

Sit down before you collapse.

Though that wasn’t such a bad idea right now. It might bring him back, then he would...would...

For heaven’s sake! Would what? What was wrong with her? She’d never reacted this way to a man before. Not since...

Her thoughts screeched to a halt again. So did her racing heart.

He was coming back.

His eager stride was eating up the space between them, as if a tape had rewound, snipping out the footage of the last explosive half-hour, resuming time at the moment before they’d heard that scream.

Now it was exclusively personal again, the fierceness of that silver gaze was too much to take head on. Heat surged in her head, cascaded all over her body. Her face had to be radiating a red as deep as her hair by now. Her eyes escaped his, only to stray over the rest of him, and— Wow!

She’d definitely missed a lot during the crisis. Everywhere she looked, every detail of his striking features and awesome physique—and the thoughts they provoked—were even more blush-worthy.

This was getting surreal. After Steve and Daniel, not to mention Rick, she wanted a man and a man’s attention like she wanted incurable acne. Anyway, they were passing ships in the night—or planes in the morning—and when it came to looking and fantasizing, she was all for handsome men. And this man wasn’t...

No. It would almost be an insult, calling him that. He was...one of a kind. Unadulterated power and maleness in human form. And now she knew the package housed as formidable a brain, his appeal shot to an all-new high. Appeal? Ha! What a lame word to label the jarring response he was wringing from her.

But something was wrong here. Very wrong. Besides feeling like a derailed train, she felt as if she knew him, as if she should know him.

Then it struck her. Hard, then harder. With the force of a jackhammer right inside her head.

No wonder she’d felt she’d known him all her life.

She had.

He was Vidal! Despicable, mercenary, cold-blooded, self-serving Vidal Arroyo Martinez. The man whose very name had been anathema to her for the past fourteen years. The user, the deserter. And that was just for starters.

He was really here. This was really him. Of all coincidences, of all places. When just an hour ago she’d been cursing her luck that she had a boss with the same first name, memories of him had come back to disturb her more than they had in years. Had the intensity of her antipathy summoned him or something?

Whatever, he was here. And he was now no more than a foot away, coming to tower over her, almost touching her. Then touching her. His thigh against her hip, his hand going to her arm, smoothing it up and down. Familiar, forward. Then his mouth was against her ear, his whisper penetrating her brain, turning it to mush.

“Miss me?”

Her heart kicked, turned. Recognizing him wasn’t making any difference, was it? His virility was overwhelming her senses, overriding her mental aversion. She should make some comeback. Cutting and condescending.

He talked first, his eyes sweeping her face, her body, until she felt he’d touched her all over. “I missed you.”

The exaggeration hit all her indignant spots. “How could you miss me? Apart from handling the emergency together, we practically haven’t met yet!”

“Oh, we’ve met all right!”

So he remembered her?

“We don’t need formalities. Even without sharing the emergency, which can’t be topped as introductions go, we met the moment our eyes did.”

Oh, boy. So this was the legendary Vidal in action. The world had turned so much, the day had come when she was on the receiving end of his devastating seduction technique. It shouldn’t be having any effect. She knew all about him, was onto his every heartless trick.

What should be and what was had nothing in common.

Oh, why did he have to sound like that? Had he always sounded like that? Opened his mouth and poured out those deepest, darkest vocal caresses?

She didn’t remember. He’d barely ever talked to her, if at all. The silent type he’d been. Not any more, it seemed.

He was going on. “Sorry I had to leave you like that. Had to discuss the little boy’s continuing care with Miguel, my assistant, about his oral burn, arrange for his follow-up and future corrective surgery. He thought it was incredible for both of us to be here, just in time to help. I think it’s more than incredible.”

“You think so? I bet you there are dozens of doctors floating around the airport. If it hadn’t been us, it would have been another couple of people.”

“Maybe, but what about us—before the emergency?”

She was already busy groping for theories to explain her shocking reaction to him, for why he’d singled her out.

He wasn’t giving her time to think. “Come on, let’s go somewhere where we can...talk.” He tugged gently on her arm, his arm going around her shoulders until he had her in the curve of his body, steering her away from the crowds.

In a minute she found herself towed into a VIP lounge, two security men holding the door open for them. Inside there were just three other people, very distinguished-looking men in thousand-dollar suits.

So the man had clout. Didn’t hesitate to throw his weight around. It figured. From his more than shady beginnings, he’d always been an opportunist, bent on climbing up as high as he could reach in the world. Over anyone. Years ago, when she’d finally stopped following his progress, and had made sure no one told her any more about him, he’d already reached the top.

He turned from closing the door and bore down on her. “I came back running, though I knew...” Those long, strong fingers, his precise surgeon’s tools, went to her hair, tucking it behind her ear, the motion intimate. Penetrating. As if he’d touched her in all her secret places. Blood whooshed in her brain, amplified by the sudden change from the hubbub of the open airport to the lounge’s soundproofed serenity. “I knew you’d wait for me.”

She sat down on the plush couch before she fell, and looked up at him as he came to stand above her.

He’d changed. As a young man he’d been incredible. Now...now he was a fully matured force of nature.

No wonder she hadn’t recognized him.

Broader, leaner. Tougher. Harsher. And those eyes—no wonder she hadn’t recognized them. She’d never really seen them behind the obscuring glasses he’d never taken off. Those were now gone. As was the raven, unruly mane, the sallow tinge of years of study and sun deprivation and the yucky facial hair of the last six years of their...relationship. Now he was all silver-laced uncompromising crop, deep bronze and clean-shaven slashed lines.

He’d changed all right, for the best. Only on the surface, no doubt. She’d bet good money the inside changes were for the worse.

If that was possible.

Another thing had changed: the way he looked at her. At their last meeting, he’d looked at her as if she’d been a human-sized parasite. Now the look in his eyes said...plenty.

It also said he still didn’t recognize her.

The Vidal Arroyo Martinez she had known would have rather been skinned alive than be within a five-mile radius of her. Let alone hit on her.

Ooh, but this was just too delicious! Her anonymity was a great weapon at the moment. No way was she passing up the chance of using it. Let her see how far he’d go if she played this game his way. If she gave him as much rope as he needed to hang himself with.

Her heart was still thumping hard enough to shake her, but her old imp had resurfaced. A dizzying mixture of resentment and excitement drove her on. She fluttered her lashes at him, the exaggerated huskiness in her voice only half pretense. “And as I did, what do you intend to do with me?”

Surprise invaded those annihilating eyes. Though it was followed by a flare of raw hunger, she saw her response had thrown him. He hadn’t expected her to be as outrageous as he was.

Oh, yes. Revenge was going to be so sweet.

CHAPTER TWO

“DO YOU really want me to tell you? Or shall I surprise you?”

Vidal heard the aroused tone of his voice, felt his body hardening even more, had no control over it at all.

What was happening to him? What was he doing?

Instead of gulping down some coffee and heading for the plane he should have boarded an hour ago, he was waxing poetic, all but pouncing on the woman. A woman whose name he didn’t even know. A woman who might even be engaged or married.

His eyes darted to her hands—those supple, skilled fingers, made for taking lingeringly into his mouth...

Whoa. Focus, Vidal.

No rings. Good. Great.

But why great? Why should that matter? In an hour he’d leave, never see her again. And, anyway, she’d said she was a surgeon. That probably explained the absence of rings. She wasn’t wearing any kind of jewelry at all. And she should—she should wear sapphires, like her eyes—and nothing else, with just his leg thrown over hers for cover...

What was wrong with him? He didn’t pursue women. Never. Not even in his mind. In fact, he’d turned dodging them into an art. So what was he doing, standing there like a hormone-ridden adolescent, panting over this—this...vision?

Vision? The woman wasn’t even beautiful!

No, just the answer to his every taste and fantasy.

“So, will you tell me? Or will you just stand there and hyperventilate?” The vision was also all but laughing her head off at his eagerness. He should mind. He didn’t.

He gazed into her disarming eyes and something warm and soft spread in his gut. Let her make fun of him if it would keep them radiating that wicked innocence, make that exquisite head tilt, letting that burnished carmine hair riot over those full...

That’s it. He’d gone over the edge. Right into mental breakdown.

He’d thought he’d been suffering from clinical depression. But no depression manifested as uncontrollable lust and a desire to make a fool of oneself. Maybe manic depression?

Oh, whatever. It was worth it. She was worth it.

“I am far from back to normal.” He pitched his voice lower, throwing himself into this weirdness of wanting to be open, needing to communicate. “And right now I’m wiped out. I forgot how exhausting CPR can be. If it wasn’t for you taking over ventilation, I think I would have passed out. So I could say that’s why I’m hyperventilating. But I won’t. It’s you. You leave me breathless.” He reached out, ran his thumb over the elegant line of her nose, tracing the soft freckles’ pattern. She let him, her eyes turning turquoise with... equal eagerness?

“And you’ll leave me in suspense? Oh, the torture!” she gasped in perfect damsel-in-distress mode, her lament both intentionally silly and provocative.

Her teasing tickled his all but forgotten sense of humor. Madre de Dios, she was inviting his intimacy—and what an invitation. Heat rose inside him, took him over.

“Want to know what’s torture?” He placed his arms on both sides of her, bore down on her. Her fresh scent deluged him, mock-distressed lips just a breath away. She only deserved that he devour them. His eyes moved from her lips to her eyes, explicit with his desire. Then he voiced it. “Another minute without tasting you.”

Her eyes flickered, her lips opened on a tiny gasp. Then her breath rushed out, scorching his cheek. Would she back off?

She didn’t.

Purpose settled in her bewitching eyes. Those smoldering, exuberant, piercingly intelligent eyes. Eyes to drown gratefully in. But was that challenge, too? Conviction that he’d back off?

Not on her life. Or his. He was out of control, and loving it. Only one thing mattered: showing her how much she affected him. Taking this to the next level, right now. He wanted this to continue, wherever it took him. Wanted to connect with her, bind her somehow, so he’d find her again when he returned.

He sat down on the couch beside her, his hands reaching for her, stinging with the need to make contact with her. Her eyes shot wider before her lids fell, obscuring her reaction. Her head was a perfect fit cradled in his large palm, angled for his deliberate approach. Her heat rose to meet his, igniting him.

It had been too long. Forgotten—no, unknown. That blast of awareness, that gnawing anticipation. He was still alive after all.

His other hand dipped in the curve of her waist. Dios—that steep, firm curve. She gasped. He drew her closer until her breasts brushed his chest. Her every nerve seemed to tremble and buzz under hands that felt like electrodes of a monitor, tapping into her reactions, recording them. Turbulent, anxious, feverish. Or were those his sensations, doubling back up his awareness pathways?

His eyes scanned for signs of apprehension, rejection. None. She was nervous, yes, but willing, impatient for him. As he was for her, for those lips.

At the last second, he remembered. His lips landed on her velvet cheek instead. “You got enough of my resistant strains today,” he murmured against her flesh, burying his hunger in a trail all the way down to her pulse, settling there and feasting. Dios, this was hot, powerful—unprecedented. She lurched, panting as hard as he was. It was the same way with her. “Querida...”

“Cassandra, there you are!”

The voice drowned his whisper, snapped their surroundings back. He turned vexed eyes around, saw a brunette walking up to them.

“Thought you must be going crazy, looking for this. Apparently not.” The woman held up a handbag, but her eyes were on him. He almost groaned at the familiar combination of extreme female interest and curiosity. “A woman gave it to me. She’d seen us together earlier, said you’d left it behind in the cafeteria when you ran to the emergency. She’d also seen you...rushing here. Sorry I mucked it up a bit. I had to produce something to prove to the guards it’s yours.”

Vidal still heard the woman talking, yet made no sense of anything any more. The name ‘Cassandra’ was sinking into his mind like a megaton depth charge. Then it exploded.

Cassandra.

She was a Cassandra? As in Cassandra St James?

No. No. Dios, no! You can’t be this cruel.

Thoughts screeched, frantic for a way out, until something started burning inside his head.

It had to be someone else. The world was full of Cassandras.

Si, ciertamente. Full of Cassandras who were American, surgeons, redheads and in Madrid Airport at the same time Cassandra St James was.

And God didn’t have anything to do with any of this. He had only himself to blame. He had felt something cataclysmic brewing the moment he’d seen her. Felt it and disregarded it. Chose to mis-interpret it even.

But this—this was far worse than anything his morbid imagination could have conjured up.

It was her.

Arthur’s daughter. Arthur’s daughter.

Not only that but, if memory served, and it did, the most obnoxious creature who’d ever lived. And he’d been making a fool of himself over her. Far more than a fool. Totally out of line. Totally out of control.

Totally out of character.

Rewind and erase. That was the only way out. Forget his every thought and word and action since she’d turned around in that cafeteria with that pouting glower setting her unique face on passionate fire.

But time travel and rewriting history aside, he just had to resolve the flaming mess he’d made. The poor kid would go into shock the moment he told her who he was.

OK, fine, so she wasn’t a kid any more. And she’d never been ‘poor’. Or a kid, for that matter. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a pink-haired holy terror. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be shocked now. She hadn’t seen him since that fateful day fourteen years ago when he’d come so close to...

Anyway, she’d probably forgotten he existed. Now, when she found out who exactly it was who’d been coming onto her, hot and heavy, who’d had his hands, his lips all over her—Dios, would she believe he hadn’t recognized her?

Breathe. Snap out of it. He couldn’t take refuge in shock any longer. His hands were still around her. Limp and nerveless but still there. He had to remove them, had to look at her some time. At last he did. And what he saw in her eyes...

Blood surged to his head, smearing his vision red.

No need to worry about confronting her with his identity.

She knew who he was.

She’d known all along!

* * *

This was better than anything she’d expected.

Vidal had gone from white to green to blue. And now purple.

He realized who she was. Realized she was way ahead of him in the recognition department. And he didn’t like it. Whoo boy, didn’t he ever.

Let him taste crushing embarrassment for a change.

Savor his humiliation later. Run and leave him stewing in it. “Oh, thanks, Ashley.” She stood up, making one last contact with his arm as he drew it away, and almost collapsed down again. Her hand trembled as she took the handbag, her other hand on Ashley’s arm more for support than for steering her away, too. It wasn’t that easy to distract Ashley from gaping at Vidal. She tried harder. “And I hope you kissed that lady for me. It would have been a nightmare if it had gotten lost. What would I have done without... identification?”

She wished she could turn to see her jibe’s effect. She couldn’t. She could barely keep upright, stop herself from collapsing in demented giggling. She didn’t need to look, though. Fury emanated from him, coming faster, hotter, bombarding her, sinking into her flesh, giving her a pretty good idea of how he was feeling.

“Someone would have reported it to airport security sooner or later,” Ashley said, resisting Cassandra’s efforts to move her, her eyes darting from her to Vidal, full of avid questions.

“All personnel of the Jet Hospital heading to Casablanca, Morocco, please, board now at boarding gate number 19.”

The announcement was a summons from the heavens. A perfect escape. “See? Even if they had, I probably wouldn’t have had time to collect it.”

“Of course you would have. They wouldn’t have taken off without you!” Ashley’s astonished glance all but asked about her walking away from Vidal without a glance. Vidal, the man whose lips had been buried in her neck just minutes ago. Lips that must have sucked dry all her energy and bravado, right along with her sanity.

She had to run. Now. “Let’s hurry. No reason to keep everyone waiting.”

She’d taken only one step when his voice broke over her. “Everyone can wait while you introduce me to your friend, don’t you think...Cassandra?”

His voice. Glacial. Hair-raising. Oh, lord. She hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t thought how this would end. How he’d retaliate. What if he got abusive?

Well, let him try. Then he’d really get exactly what was coming to him.

Puffing out her chest, she turned. And swayed. His eyes slammed into her again, not with instant desire and enveloping heat, but with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. An incensed Vidal, suppressed violence crackling from his every pore, his formidable body a foot away from hers, trapping her against the wall more effectively than if he’d crushed her to it...

Intimidating. She hated to admit it, but he’d been intimidating then and he was far more so now. She hated, too, to find herself wanting to deny any knowledge of his identity. Oh, no. She’d see this through.

“Oh, we really don’t have time for that now, Vidal.”

He rose. The world shrank. “But we do, querida. As much time as we need.”

The change in him was spectacular. No passion now. No humanity. This man looked every atom the soulless narcissist she knew he was.

Those eyes will never feast on you again, make you soar.

Oh, stop it!

This was Vidal. He’d been faking it all. Handing her a line. And even if he hadn’t been, he was the only man in the species she’d condemned beyond redemption.

“Vidal?” That was Ashley, squeaking. “You’re Dr Santiago? Our mission leader?”

“No!”

“Yes.”

It took a heartbeat for his calm answer to Ashley to sink in. Then it hit. This time, when her heart stopped, it felt as if it would stop forever.

* * *

Vidal saw Cassandra’s reaction, felt it. He’d been counting her breaths, her blinks, the times she’d licked her lips—those lips... Focus. Focus. Not on what he’d thought, felt. On who—what she was. What she’d done. What she was thinking, feeling.

This was news to her. She hadn’t known he was her mission leader.

How come? Could it be...? Hmm.

Maybe this situation wasn’t a total disaster after all.

Before any of them could utter another word, the security guards entered the lounge, deeming Ashley had had enough time to deliver the bag and should leave.

Ashley shrugged her disappointment. “We’ll meet properly on board the Jet, Dr Santiago,” she said. “I’m your mission logistician, by the way.”

It took him a moment to notice Ashley’s extended hand. He shook it with a calm nod, calmness that was totally artificial, and saw her widen her eyes meaningfully into Cassandra’s shocked ones, giving the message, Later. Oh, yes, he’d love to be there “later,” when Cassandra explained this whole mess to her colleague.

The moment the door closed behind Ashley, Cassandra sat down again. Fell down, more like. Savage satisfaction frothed inside him. Good. She was as flabbergasted as he was. But she couldn’t be as enraged. All he wanted was to pull her up, haul her into his arms and crush her to his... No, no. He had to stop this, squash it. This was Arthur’s daughter. He couldn’t think of her that way. Off limits. She was off limits.

“Ha ha!”

His eyes narrowed on her. Saw shock receding, challenge replacing it. What now?

She rose to her feet again, hooked her handbag on her shoulder, tossed her magnificent hair. His body, his head tightened. Dammit. Damn her!

“Good one, Vidal. You almost had me there for a moment.”

“Which moment would that be? The one before or the one after Ashley set me straight? The one before, I definitely had you—”

She interrupted him, voice and eyes sharp, color high. “Let’s not play any more games. You know what I mean. Now if you’re satisfied...”

“Satisfied?” He’d never known frustration like this. Recognizing her should have killed his craving. His body shouldn’t still be on fire. This was the woman who’d once been a thorn in his side, who’d given him a harder time than his parents and jailers combined. Who’d clearly matured into a bona fide monster. “And I only realized there was a game going on five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, but you’re quick on the uptake, I’ll give you that. You tossed it right back at me. So, now we’re even and I have a plane to catch.”

She’d decided he was bluffing, was feeling all secure and relieved again.

That’s nice, he thought viciously. Now, to string her along or not to string her along? There was the score of those ten years she’d just knocked off his life expectancy.

He stepped into her path as she made to hurry away. She couldn’t stop in time. His body broke her momentum. He jerked back the moment she did. This was ridiculous, this current that constantly arced between them.

He should just let her go, get his bearings, stock up stamina for a confrontation, let her find him on the plane—take it from there.

No. They had to settle this now, in private. He couldn’t jeopardize the mission with personal vendettas. Drawing this out, to get back at her, was also not on.

There was another call to board the Jet. Her eyes turned from wary to anxious to angry in seconds.

“Vidal, get out of my way and go pick up someone else.”

“Is this any way to talk to an old friend and your new boss?”

“Since you’re neither, I’ll talk any way I please. You’ve had your joke, Vidal. Now move!”

“Don’t worry. The Jet won’t leave without me. You transited in Madrid to pick me up after all.”

“Cute. You could have read that in the papers. There’s been enough publicity over the maiden voyage of Global Aid Organization’s first Jet Hospital over the last couple of days.”

He sighed. There was only one way she’d believe him.

He took her arm and towed her out of the VIP lounge, through the special exit connecting it with the boarding gates.

“You’ve taken this far enough, Vidal!” she spluttered, yet stopped resisting him when she found gate 19 at the end of the corridor. Her steps picked up speed, thinking she’d escape him there, leave him behind and forget about him and the whole nasty episode. If only. No such luck.

“As far as you took your...prank?” They’d reached the boarding checkpoint. She flashed her special pass at the woman, the pass GAO issued its volunteers which would get them on and off the Jet in all their stops around the world. The moment she was ushered in she shook off his hand and strode ahead. He let her go. He’d join her soon enough.

He nodded at the woman who insisted he shouldn’t even produce his pass. “You go right in, Dr Santiago. It’s lovely to see you again. We’ve been hearing all about your Jet Hospital project. May I tell you how great it all sounds? Have a safe and productive journey.”

He passed into the tube connecting the airport to the Jet. Cassandra was rooted there, a look of absolute horror on her expressive face.

She’d heard. Now she knew. It should taste good, getting back at her.

It didn’t.

He’d been bracing himself for three months in purgatory being in constant contact with her. But suddenly purgatory sounded good. He’d take purgatory.

For now it seemed he was getting hell.

“You’re not Vidal Santiago!”

Cassandra heard the choking words, realized she’d said them. It was a miracle she could speak at all. This had to be a nightmare. He had to be lying. This woman back there had to have made a mistake. Another victim of Vidal’s hypnotic powers.

“We can stand in this tube all morning or we can board and talk about this later.” He took her arm and she shook him off again. He sighed. “All right. Here...” He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, produced his pass and held it up inches from her eyes. His photograph, even grimmer than reality, but him. And the name beneath it. Vidal A. Santiago.

“You can’t be Vidal Santiago. Your name is—”

“Was Arroyo Martinez—both my father’s and mother’s family names, in the Spanish tradition. I changed it.”

“How? When? Why?”

“Through legal paperwork, a few years ago. That’s how and when. As for why, I didn’t think I owed it to either my father or mother to carry their family names. Satisfied?”

He’d asked that question before, in utmost incredulity. It was her turn to be incredulous. He’d changed his name? How come her father hadn’t mentioned that? Did he even know? No, he probably didn’t. Oh, he always said Vidal kept in touch with him, always tried to make excuses for him. But here was proof that he didn’t. Her father would have known of his name change if he had. And because he didn’t, there she was, with Vidal as her boss. She was going to see him every minute of every day for the next three months!

“Oh, no, you can’t be my boss.”

“Well, I am. And, believe me, I share your horror. But the solution to this mess is all in your hands.”

“My hands? What are you talking about?”

“If you take the first flight back to Los Angeles, all this will be over.”

“Why don’t you take the first flight to—to Geneva or Dubai or any other scenic location where you usually stay?”

“Because I’m the mission leader. Without me there’d be no Jet Hospital maiden voyage.”

“And without me you’d be minus your chief surgeon and second in command.”

“I’m willing to give up the luxury of both.”

“You know you can’t. And I’m not willing to give up this mission just to make you more comfortable.”

“You’d be more comfortable, too. And you don’t have to worry about the mission. I’ll find a replacement.”

“You mean you have surgeons of my qualifications falling over themselves to volunteer for this mission?”

“Not really, but—”

“So when do you expect to get someone else? A week before the mission’s over? Or do you intend to postpone it until you do?”

“A day’s delay costs tens of thousands of dollars...”

“So there will be no postponement, will there? If I leave, you go out there short-staffed, boss.”

His neutral glance turned dark. Forbidding. She shivered and looked away, refusing to let him see how he rattled her. “So we’re trapped, aren’t we?”

A moment’s silence, then he exhaled. Without volition, her eyes went to his. They’d emptied again. When he spoke again his voice was as vacant. “Seems so. And since we are, let’s not make much out of this. It was really too silly. So, whatever you were putting me in my place for, I hope it’s out of your system now.”

He didn’t know what for? He didn’t remember? Probably. He must have had a thousand similar incidents in his life. Not that that incident had been what had driven her to lead him on. Her loathing had ceased to be personal long ago. She had endless reasons, family-related as well as professional, to despise Dr Vidal Arroyo Martinez, a.k.a. Vidal Santiago.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned and walked away. In a minute, he disappeared through the door of the aircraft. Feeling stupid and very, very small all of a sudden, Cassandra followed, reality sinking in with each step.

Please. Let me wake up screaming, in a cold sweat and in my seat.

She didn’t. And wouldn’t. This was one nightmare she’d have to live through.

* * *

“Come in Dr St James,” Vidal said when she stood hovering at the door of the cockpit, his voice and his face expressionless. So, that was how it was going to be from now on, huh? She should have felt relieved, but she only ached with disappointment. Losing that fierce hunger that ate her up, made her soar with giddy gratification... “Meet Captain Harry Styles.”

Giving herself a mental shake, she shook the captain’s hand. Vidal went on. “Harry is our operations manager and the best pilot on planet earth.”

The tall blond man guffawed. “That’s right, Dr St James. And Vidal can tell no lies.”

Nice man. A few years older than Vidal, open, with loads of positive energy. Not like the debilitating electricity Vidal generated. She liked him at once. Her smile warmed, tension seeping out of her. “Cassandra, please. Dr St James is a mouthful.”

“With pleasure, Cassandra. Lovely name for a lovelier lady. My opinion of surgeons is fast changing.” Harry winked at Vidal.

Some intensity entered Vidal’s blank expression as he looked at his friend, yet there wasn’t even the shadow of a smile to answer the man’s wide grin. The Vidal she’d known hadn’t been given to smiling. Come to think of it, he hadn’t smiled at her at all so far. Not even when he’d been intent on seducing her. He’d scorched her to the bone with his blatant desire, but no smiles.

“It would have been scary if you found me lovely, Harry.” Vidal’s dry answer brought another guffaw from Harry. Vidal’s lips twisted. She couldn’t call that a smile either. “So, Cassandra, I presume you’ve met everyone?”

She shook her head. “No. I boarded the Jet after a six-hour wait in Los Angeles airport and fell asleep the moment I hit my seat. I woke up when we landed in New York then went right back to sleep the rest of the way to Madrid. I haven’t gone over the Jet either. Just studied the schematics and leafed through my job description.”

“That’s what mission leaders are for. We’ll go over everything in detail together, the technical matters as well as the mission specs.” Vidal turned to Harry. “How about introducing your flight crew to Cassandra now?”

“Sure,” Harry said, and picked up the mike.

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Please, no. Let me get to know them during the trip, one by one. If you line them up and fire names at me, they’ll just spill out of my other ear.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” Harry grinned at her.

“Realistic at least,” was Vidal’s dry rejoinder. “I’ve met only a few here, too. So, what would you advise, Harry? Should I brief everyone and lay down the ground rules now, or later after take-off?”

“You go ahead now. It’ll be another half-hour before take-off,” Harry said.

“Call everyone for me, then.” He turned those cool eyes on her. “After you.”

Smiling a goodbye at Harry, she preceded Vidal out of the cockpit, almost bumping into the man entering it in her haste to move away from him. Murmuring a greeting to Sean McMahon, the co-pilot she’d already met, she almost shouted for Vidal to keep away from her. But he was away now, a few footsteps from her. Yet his aura was all around her. She finally flopped into her seat, the one she’d chosen in the third row, shaking with relief at having put a few meters between them.

By now, Harry’s page had brought the flight’s medical volunteers and all other personnel flocking to their seats. Vidal stood in the left aisle, beside the huge screen facing the seating area.

He started immediately. “Good morning, everyone. For those who don’t know me, my name is Vidal Santiago. I’m your mission leader and I’m what everyone likes to call a plastic surgeon. I don’t know why—I haven’t operated on any dolls yet. I prefer the label of reconstructive surgeon, but who am I to argue with common opinion?” He paused as chuckles rose, then went on. “Before I give you a quick run-through of our mission and our facilities, let me thank each and every one of you for being here today. You could have been somewhere else making money, or at least sleeping in your own beds every night.”

He nodded to Louisa, the nurse Cassandra had spent the hours at the airport with, and she handed him a baton and nodded to a flight attendant.

The lights dimmed and the screen lit up, turning Vidal into a towering silhouette. The sight thumped in Cassandra’s chest, making it hard to breathe, to understand a word he said.

She tried harder, heard him saying, “I’m sorry for all the time you lost and the confusion over your roles and the mission’s schedule. The mess-up and the last-minute changes are all my fault, I’m afraid. But you have an idea about the mission and now I’m going to use this slide show to recap everything, make the transition from the theoretical to the practical and give you a clear overview of what this mission entails.”

He unfolded the baton to its two-foot telescoping length, rapped it onto his other palm, held it there like a principal addressing his third-graders.

“First, some boasting. No matter what other agencies tell you to the contrary, our Jet Hospital is the largest, fully equipped, self-contained airborne hospital ever built. We’re a one hundred per cent non-religious humanitarian effort and our mission is unequivocal: we’re citizens of the world and the Jet Hospital will be available to help the sick and needy of any nation.” He paused, then drawled, “Do inform me if I’m boring you to tears. My bite is worse than my bark, but, then, you’re all brave people or you wouldn’t be here in the first place. No contenders? Hmm—the kind of team I like to lead.”

A ripple of laughter echoed. Cassandra bristled. Mostly because she found her lips twitching, too. So the man had a sense of humor. When had he grown one? Or had he had it grafted?

“OK, after that back-patting we’ve all yet to earn, let’s get down to some hard facts. Louisa?” The first slide flicked on the screen. A cut-through diagram of the Jet Hospital. “I’ll be predictable and go from front to back. Behind the cockpit, the Jet has the crew transportation-educational center we’re currently in, which has a seating capacity of ninety. We’re below that number now, but as we land in our target countries and patients and local medical personnel join us on board, we might have to break out the folding beach chairs. I hope you brought your own.”

Another ripple of laughter. He didn’t wait for it to die down and went on, commenting on each slide as it came up. “These are the dental, ophthalmology, ENT—ear, nose, throat—stations. Here’s the trauma-triage area, the minor surgical-examination area, the pre-operative and recovery area with fourteen hospital beds. And last, in the back, the four surgical suites. Our facilities are state of the art, with the latest technology in diagnostic equipment, laparoscopic and arthroscopic surgical equipment and a complete pharmacy.”

“You mean we have a CT machine beneath all those covers?” Joseph Ashton, the mission’s head anesthetist, whom Cassandra had met briefly before boarding, asked.

“Give us a break, will you, Joseph? We’ve got everything, apart from CT and MRI machines— space limitations, you understand.”

“And how complete is the pharmacy?” a man she didn’t know asked.

“As complete as they come.”

Get to the important stuff, she was about to scream. She wanted this little reconnaissance over and Vidal out of her sight. And earshot.

“Are we going to talk about the mission details?” She was aware of everyone turning to look at her. She lowered her voice, injected neutrality in it. “Up until yesterday, there hasn’t been a definite itinerary. And what about the case load and distribution of responsibilities?”

He turned his eyes on her in the semi-darkness. Did they glow or was she hallucinating? Probably both.

“After Casablanca we go to Muscat, Oman; Hyderabad, India; Tashkent, Uzbekistan; and Baku, Azerbaijan. As for our case load, those have been preselected by our partnering medical facilities in each of these countries, on the basis of complexity and unavailability of proper treatment options locally. So your guess is as good as mine. Among us we do have enough expertise to handle anything they throw at us. As for responsibilities, those will have to be flexible. Each of you will still be in the position you signed on for, but I’ll work out a list of daily chores, then you will make sure everyone knows where to be and what to do on each given day.”

“Where to be? You mean in the different stations in the Jet?”

“No. To get the most done, whenever possible we’ll work in partnering hospitals and offsite clinics, even set up tents in auxiliary areas to treat medical conditions that don’t require the Jet’s facilities.”

“Is the training-teaching side of our mission still on? I heard it was off because of time constraints.”

“Then you heard wrong. We will be training local medical professionals in the latest medical and surgical procedures. Either on their turf or on ours, either by direct attendance or tele-medicine—broadcasting on-board surgeries in this miniature theater. There’ll be lectures, too, which each of you will contribute to.”

A general murmur of unease went through the audience.

“C’mon, folks. Stage fright never killed anyone. Start thinking of the most recent and effective procedures that benefit you in your specialty and write something comprehensive. Anyone needing any reference resources, we have two computers with a complete medical library.”

He waited until they settled again. “So...I expect you to get to know one another. Those I haven’t met, come later, one at a time, please, and introduce yourselves. Now, problems! When they’re medical, you report to me. If I’m unavailable, you report to Dr Cassandra St James. If it’s anything else, I advise you run to Harry, or anyone from our management team, consultants or logisticians.” He stopped, his eyes panning over the crowd. “Hi, there, Ashley.” Cassandra heard Ashley’s splutter. He moved his focus at once but Ashley’s distress didn’t end that easily. “OK— questions?”

No one said anything. What was there to say? He’d said it all.

So the man had rhythm, focus, and clarity of communication. He’d make a hell of an instructor.

He snapped the baton closed and sighed. “I see I’ve put you to sleep. Good, you’ll need it in the coming months. In fact, I advise you to grab every moment of rest you can. And don’t eat anything you don’t recognize. We don’t want any of you on our patient lists. Anyone interested in going over the Jet for real, follow me.”

The light came back on and she blinked. He passed by her seat, not even looking at her. Her every hair stood on end nevertheless. She rose, followed the line that had formed in his wake. All the women were in that line.

She gritted her teeth. His harem had already formed. The worst part was she knew why. She’d gotten a first-hand taste—and touch and scent—of his influence, hadn’t she?

But it wasn’t only that roiling inside her. Her mind was tangling over his contradictions. His multiple personalities, more like. Which was the real him? The Vidal who’d rushed to save the little boy, who was heading this most ambitious humanitarian mission? Or the Vidal who’d treated the people who loved him like dirt, who’d made a staggering fortune combining his surgical talents with the tricks he’d perfected through his years as a con artist and a thief?

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