He shouldn’t feel this towards Viv’s son. The son whose father was unknown—who surely couldn’t be him.

Surely she would have told him if she’d even suspected it? He couldn’t identify what “this” was, but it was too powerful, too…

“What are you doing here?”

His heart stopped as if with a close-range bullet.

Breathless, pulseless, he jerked his head up, around.

And there she was. Viv. In another camouflaging get-up, fresh out of a shower or a bath, hair darkened with wetness, flushed, fragrant even at this distance. And mad as hell that he was here.

It only sent his rioting emotions screeching. How he hungered for her. And now he knew how much she’d suffered, how much she’d endured, what she’d triumphed over, how much he’d mistreated her, the hunger was gnawing at him body and soul. And then there was Sam…

Olivia Gates has always pursued many passions. But the time came when she had to set up a ‘passion priority’—to give her top one her all—and writing won. Hands down.

She is most fulfilled when she is creating worlds and conflicts for her characters and then exploring and untangling them bit by bit, sharing her protagonists’ every heartache and hope and heart-pounding doubt until she leads them to their indisputably earned and glorious happy ending.

When she’s not writing she is a doctor, a wife to her own alpha male, and a mother to one brilliant girl and one demanding Angora cat. Please visit Olivia at www.oliviagates.com

Recent titles by the same author:

DESERT PRINCE, EXPECTANT MOTHER

THE SHEIKH SURGEON’S PROPOSAL

THE DESERT SURGEON’S SECRET SON

BY

OLIVIA GATES

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my editor, Sheila Hodgson, for doing it yet again—getting the best book out of me.

To my mother, husband and daughter, for the support, enthusiasm and inspiration. Can’t do it without you all.

CHAPTER ONE

SHEIKH GHALEB BEN ABBAS ben Najeeb Aal Omraan fought down another wave of reluctance.

He really needed to get over it. Admit it. That he couldn’t be everywhere, do everything himself.

He’d long put being a surgeon and the driving force behind the advancement of Omraania’s health system first, but his duties as heir to the throne weren’t going anywhere. In fact, his father was pressuring him to be more proactive in matters of state. He’d chosen to press harder during the last months, at a time when his new position as Head of Surgery at Jobail Advanced Medical Center, his crowning project, was threatening to overwhelm his schedule.

He’d resisted the need for someone to share that vital position, the one closest to his heart, from day one. It had taken almost making a fatal mistake during a kind of surgery he’d done in his sleep for years to make him admit he might have been pushing himself too far. Adnan had jumped on the admission, had suggested a replacement head of surgery, amending his suggestion to co-Head at Ghaleb’s point-blank refusal. One to have until Ghaleb put matters in order and decided whether to make the position permanent, with the “co” in front of “Head” or without it.

Adnan had put out the ad for the position throughout the medical world, and applications had swamped him. Ghaleb’s requirements had easily eliminated most of the applicants and Adnan had flown to the States to interview the few remaining candidates. His choice was arriving today. Right now, actually.

Ghaleb changed direction, heading to Adnan’s office instead of to his own private elevator to the surgical floor. He caught him at the door.

Adnan swung around. “I’m going to receive your new cohead of surgery, Somow’wak, show her around. Would you like me to schedule a meeting after you finish your list?”

Her? He had nothing against having a female co-head, but it was a matter of statistics that there were more successful male surgeons.

“Don’t bother, Adnan,” Ghaleb said as he bypassed him, had him almost running to keep up with him as he cleared his personal territory encompassing most of the top floor and swept through the workstations of his immediate staff. “The place to meet my co-head of surgery is in the OR. She doesn’t have to impress me with her character, just her surgical skills.”

“I’m confident she will, Somow’wak. She’s the only applicant who answered all your requirements. Her résumé is astounding.”

“If she answered all my requirements, Adnan, her résumé might be too astounding to be true.”

“I truly don’t think so, but in the unfortunate situation she doesn’t live up to the promise—”

“I’ll hold you responsible for wasting my time.”

Adnan looked mortified. Ghaleb felt contrite at once. Adnan was his right hand and advisor. His friend. And he had few friends. None really. His position and vocation precluded intimacy, with its demands of time and trust, with its inherent dangers. He’d never been free to choose friends, to risk making errors of judgment. To answer the clamoring of his heart…

Apart from his father, he had only two allies he’d trust with his life. Adnan was one of them. He shouldn’t pummel him with his frustration at being forced to admit his limitations.

He gave Adnan’s shoulder an apologetic squeeze. “I trust your judgment, Adnan, more than my own sometimes. That’s why I let you make this decision for me. But it’s no big deal if she doesn’t live up to her promise. You’ll just renew your search. I can hold out a few more months until you find a replacement.”

“That’s what worries me, Somow’wak, not that I wouldn’t have lived up to your faith, but that you can’t hold out under the same strain. You’ve been juggling responsibilities for too many years that would bring half a dozen men to their knees in months.”

“We won’t have this debate again, Adnan. I’m taking the most major step in managing these responsibilities, but I’m not going to settle for anything but the best person for the job. Better no help than inferior help.”

Adnan knew this was where he fell silent. Ghaleb breathed in relief. He’d ended another confrontation with him. With himself.

He was admitting he’d only postponed it, was about to exit the corridor connecting his inner domain to the floor’s reception hall when the momentum of his strides and thoughts faltered, died.

Four of Adnan’s aides appeared at the far end of the glass-faceted, soaring-roofed space and walked toward them. They surrounded a statuesque woman in the formation of flanking an honored guest.

Everything about the woman bombarded him like punches.

Her clothes impeccable for the climate and culture, their looseness instead of obscuring, showcasing each long limb and ripe curve, each undulation of feminine assurance and fluid grace. The severe bun he just knew would cascade to a waterfall of gleaming butterscotch when released. The eyes deep-set in self-possession. The features sculpted by a god of beauty. She had the bearing of someone who knew her worth, her effect, exuded it with each breath.

His lungs burned, imploded.

This woman was nothing like the woman who occupied his memory, the creature who’d seemed to have been powered by the sun itself, the intensity and instability of its solar flares emanating from every move of her extra-slim, deeply tanned body, from every flash of her golden eyes, every ripple of the untamed layers of her sun-blazing hair.

But there was no doubt. Not for a second.

That goddess in the distance was her.

Viv.

The woman who’d shown him what being totally loved felt like, who’d taught him what surrender to emotional and sensual overload meant. The woman he’d thought he’d never be able to live without. The one he’d rushed to that fateful day seven years ago to offer a life by his side here in Omraania, risking so much, only to overhear her saying he’d meant nothing to her.

Viv. The woman he’d been struggling to forget every day of those years. Here. Walking into his center as if she owned it, head held high, looking ahead like a princess in a royal procession, turning every head and turning to no one herself, uncaring of everyone’s scrutiny. And unaware of his.

What was she doing here?

“Ah, there’s Dr. Vivienne LaSalle, right on time.”

Adnan’s pleased words pummeled him.

She was the woman he’d picked to be his co-head of surgery?

Ghaleb staggered back into the shadows, his heart battering his ribs. Adnan turned to him in alarm.

“Maolai? Are you all right?”

No, he was not all right. He’d never been so shocked in his life. After all these years he’d remained secure she’d forever reside within the boundaries of bitter memory, she was here. In his kingdom, invading his territory, emerging from the shadows of addiction to become reality once more.

Ya Ullah, how had this happened? She’d applied for the job? Why? She was Adnan’s choice? How?

There could be one answer. She’d managed to fool him. Just like she’d managed to fool him when she’d made him pick her for the position of his research assistant. It hadn’t been on merit he’d chosen her back then either. He’d taken one look at her, had felt her eating him alive with her eagerness and singeing him with her energy, and he hadn’t considered anyone else. He’d been smitten with a glance.

He’d still resisted. How he remembered how he had. He hadn’t had time let alone a place in his life for her. But she hadn’t taken no for an answer and within days his resolve had disintegrated. He’d touched her and had been consumed body and reason in the conflagration that had followed.

This time he’d relied on Adnan’s reason, though she’d clearly tampered with his, as well.

Anger, bitterness and shock roiled with the surge of unquenched hunger. And among the seething, reason struggled to be heard. It cried that the sane course of action was to send her out of Omraania on the spot. Without letting her know he’d seen her.

Without letting her see him.

He was in no condition to listen to reason.

She had a plan, coming here. No doubt the same one she’d had when she’d pursued and seduced him in the past. She’d wanted a life of luxury as his mistress. She’d even begged him for it when he’d come to his senses. Why not give her the chance to play it out? After all, he had to reward such effort, didn’t he?

But what he really needed was to see her for what she really was, to erase her generous, guileless image, the persona that existed out of bounds of logic, retaining a viselike hold on him.

What he needed was closure.

He knew how to get it.

He turned on Adnan. “Restart your search for a co-head of surgery. Now.”

After a moment of shock at his viciousness, Adnan rushed to say, “Maolai, I realize her looks are deceiving. I had the same reaction when I first saw her, thought she couldn’t possibly have the experience and stamina to hold such a position, but—”

“But she convinced you otherwise,” Ghaleb spat, his vehemence purging a measure of shock and anger, accessing his misplaced equilibrium. “Now she’ll have to convince me. Send her to scrub and gown.”

Adnan was at a loss now. “So you will still interview her?”

“I will start my list,” Ghaleb tossed over his shoulder as he strode back to his office. “You will restart your search.”

Vivienne walked deeper into the medical center touted as the most advanced on the planet, escorted by the four behemoths who made her feel like a head of state who might be assassinated—or a fugitive who might make a run for it—at any second.

She concentrated on regulating her breathing, her steps, stared ahead to ward off the curiosity bombarding her, fought down the waves of nausea and anxiety. And exhaustion.

She’d been in surgery till she’d gone to collect Sam and Anna for the trip here. Then, throughout the thirteen-hour nonstop flight aboard Ghaleb’s flying palace, she hadn’t had a wink of sleep. She’d set foot in Omraania two hours ago, had barely deposited her family in the lavish accommodation he’d provided before rushing here without pausing.

She’d been stunned by the royal treatment, but Adnan El Khalil, her recruiter, had enlightened her. This wasn’t personal. Being Omraania’s foremost surgeon and the crown prince’s co-head of surgery was a huge deal. Ghaleb would have treated anyone he gave the position to with the same extravagance.

She’d been stunned he’d given it to her, even if she did fit his requirements to a T. She’d applied expecting to be rejected out of hand. When she’d been chosen, she’d been forced to conclude either Ghaleb had forgotten who she was or he didn’t consider their past liaison, insignificant to him as it had been, a reason not to accept her when she was the best person for the job.

Now she was in his territory. And though the job description assured her of minimal exposure to him, she was bound to see him.

And she didn’t want to see him. Not in this life, not in the next. The man she’d once loved beyond sanity and self-preservation, the man who’d taken everything she’d had to give then walked away, not even sparing her a goodbye.

But anguish at losing him, agony and anger at being so cruelly discarded, had soon ceased to matter. Pregnancy changed a woman’s priorities. Having a baby had changed her, period. Forever.

Still hurting from their breakup, she’d forced herself back to her feet. She’d no longer been a woman who’d been trampled on. She was a doctor who’d fought to be the best she could be to provide the best life for her son, and a mother whose life revolved around him.

She’d agonized over whether to tell Ghaleb he’d fathered a son or not. But she couldn’t risk it.

As the heir to the throne of a conservative kingdom, Ghaleb had had no place in his life for her beyond the stolen, secret months they’d had together. She hadn’t been able to predict what he’d do if he’d learned about Sam. The possibility that he might have taken him away to have him raised to his specifications away from the winds of scandal, had kept her silent. And just like she’d forced herself to realize she hadn’t needed him, she’d become convinced Sam wouldn’t either. She’d been determined she’d be all the family Sam needed. And that had been before she’d been blessed to have her aunt become a part of their tiny family, too.

But as Sam had grown, so had his questions about his father. Lately they’d grown more insistent, often bitter, even frantic.

She’d been sorely tempted to tell him his father was dead, to close that chasm once and for all. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words, had spent the last months in an agony of doubt.

Was she being selfish? Was she heeding her scars and disregarding Sam’s needs? If she took what Ghaleb had done to her out of the equation, could she believe he’d want to know his child? And if he did, surely now that Sam was this old and attached to her, he wouldn’t consider taking him away from her? Maybe they could arrange something so he’d be in Sam’s life? Would Sam’s life be better if Ghaleb was in it? Was it time to find out the answer to these questions? If it was, how could she find them out?

Then Ghaleb had started combing the medical world for a co-head of surgery. Everybody thought the job an incredible professional and financial opportunity, which it was.

But to her it was a sign, an unrepeatable chance to enter Omraania for a while, be in Ghaleb’s milieu, to make an informed and final decision, one she wouldn’t regret. To bring father and son together, or not.

And she was here, and she’d see him again, even if in passing and mainly from afar, and maybe one day soon she’d tell him…

What if his reaction was to treat her with the same contempt he had when she’d offered him carte blanche with her life? What if he didn’t believe her and all she managed was to sustain another humiliating blow? She couldn’t afford injuries now that both Sam and Anna counted on her. What if he did believe her and her worst fears came to pass? What if he snatched Sam and kicked her out?

Had she made a mistake coming here? Was it too late to turn around, take Sam and Anna and run back home?

Stop it. Breathe. You’ve been over this a thousand times.

There was no other way to settle Sam’s mind, his future.

She unclenched her fists, inhaled a tremulous breath.

She’d do this. It would be okay. After a no-doubt brief meeting with the insanely busy Ghaleb, who wouldn’t give her the time of day anyway, she’d take on the responsibilities of her temporary position where she’d begin gauging his personality unblinded by the passion that had once swallowed her whole or by the hatred that had in the intervening years. She’d observe him from afar, in his working environment, analyze his character and predict his actions through his behavior, through others’ view of him. She’d take her time about coming to a decision how to proceed…

“Dr. LaSalle. If you’ll come this way, please?”

She rose from the depths of chaos to find Adnan two feet away from her. She’d been looking through him for what seemed like a while now.

She blinked, croaked, “What?”

“I’m sorry if I’ve spoken too fast, Dr. LaSalle,” the lanky, dark man said in an impeccable British accent much like Ghaleb’s, though his was devoid of the exotic inflections and intense undertones that had turned Ghaleb’s into a hypnotic weapon. “I was anxious to inform you of the surgery list awaiting you.”

“Surgery list?” she rasped, her voice roughened by disuse and confusion. “But we were supposed to have a reconnaissance tour—”

“We will have one later,” Adnan cut in smoothly. “Right now there’s been a change of plan.”

But there couldn’t be, she almost cried out.

She had counted on everything going according to plan. If that was changing already, she didn’t know what she’d do, and it had to be Ghaleb who’d changed them… God, why?

Calm down. “Is there an emergency?” she asked.

“No, Dr. LaSalle.” Adnan gestured for her to precede him.

So it wasn’t a situation where he needed every surgeon around to pitch in. So maybe he wanted her to get to work at once?

No matter what his reasons were, she had no choice but to comply.

Her love for Sam made sure of that. It would make her do anything. Even letting Ghaleb pull her strings again.

She gritted her teeth and let herself be pulled.

Ghaleb looked down at his hands, gripping the edges of the stainless-steel sink, fascinated by how white his knuckles were.

Any minute now his plan would unfold.

If he could call the impulse he’d acted on a plan.

Not that ten more days of contemplation would have afforded him a better course of action.

After all, Viv was here to be co-Head Surgeon no less, wasn’t she? Then she had to abide by the test he’d had in store for said co-Head. Let them meet across the operating table so she’d show him her qualifications, or lack of them, at once.

He had no doubt it would be a lack he’d uncover.

During their time together they hadn’t worked together much, and never in the OR. He’d heard of her proficiency as a surgeon but hadn’t seen evidence of it himself. He’d concluded it had been her father’s influence as financial director of the hospital where she’d worked that had gotten her good reports and opportunities. She’d boosted the latter with her beauty and charisma. Hadn’t she made him give her a position he could have given to a dozen others who would have done it more justice? A position it had become clear she’d fought for to be near him, to seduce him? And once she had, work had been the last thing on his mind, too.

Now she’d conned her way into another position. One he didn’t believe for a second she fit, as she’d proclaimed she did. Still, with him there to make sure she did no damage, he was interested to see her try to live up to her claims.

And fail miserably.

That way, it wouldn’t be personal history or preconceptions that decided him against hiring her. He wanted it to be her inadequacy. He’d see for himself how much of that résumé of hers was fabricated. Then he’d close her chapter forever….

All his hair stood on end, as if he’d been doused in a field of static electricity. A presence. Unmistakable even after all these years. Viv.

Every caution told him not to move, to let her initiate the confrontation. Every instinct screamed for him to turn, catch that moment when she was as off guard as he was. It was the hot, sharp sound that spilled from lips he knew to be rose-soft and cherry-tinted, which had once wrung incoherence from him in soul-wrenching kisses and moans, that shattered the stalemate.

He swung around. And déjà vu engulfed him whole.

Time rewound to that moment he’d first laid eyes on her. When she’d gotten him alone in another scrubbing/gowning anteroom, in another life, to convince him to choose her.

Had he brought her here to reenact their first meeting? Had she somehow made him do it?

Anything seemed possible as some override function inside him ignored mental commands, urging his senses to roam her, feast on her, relive again the unrepeatable attraction. It was as if everything that had happened since the last time he’d left her arms had been erased. It was as if it would be the most natural thing in the world to surge toward her, that she’d rush to a halfway melding, all the sooner to get lost in each other’s arms.

She stood as transfixed as him, her eyes wide in shock as great as his. And, he could swear, as genuine.

The conviction jogged him out of the surreal timelessness where nothing had gone wrong between them to the distasteful present with its preposterousness.

Shocked? When she was here in full premeditation?

But no. She was shocked. This was no act. Not any more than his own loss of control, his own plunge into that time warp.

So what did it all mean?

He exhaled the breath trapped in his lungs, admitted he had no grasp of this situation, much less control over it. He turned fully to her, stood straighter, preparing for the inevitable. The passing of shock and what must follow of her old methods of enticement and seduction.

But what was this, surging inside him, shocking him again with its power? Eagerness? Did he actually want to see blatant invitation in her eyes, in her stance, in the way she’d call his name as if to say, Take me, ravish me, finish me, now?

He licked parched lips, counting down the seconds before her gaze heated, her posture relaxed, beckoned…

“So, we meet again, Dr. Aal Omraan. Or do you only answer to His Royal Highness Crown Prince Ghaleb now?”

CHAPTER TWO

GHALEB COULD ONLY STARE at the woman who no longer resembled Viv beyond the basics.

She pursed her lips as the last of the shock he’d detected drained, steel replacing it. “I assume it was you who ordered me to report to the OR?”

B’hag’gejaheem—by hell, what was going on here?

Her voice was the same, velvety and rich like chocolate and red wine, but he’d never imagined it could sound so… cold. And that was nothing to how those whiskey eyes swept him as if examining an uncertain specimen and finding it deplorably wanting.

“Of course it was you.” She answered her own question with a flick of an elegant hand. “I’ve been here only two hours and I already realize nobody breathes here without your say-so, let alone thinks, speaks or acts.” She let go of his gaze, as if she found nothing about him of interest, hers sweeping around for something worthy of her attention. “I assume you want me to scrub?”

The answer that almost escaped his lips was, I want you to tell me who you are, and where Viv, the old Viv, is.

Where was the woman who’d fluttered around him, inundating him with hunger and appreciation? Though it had been an act, why wasn’t she continuing it now?

From experience he knew women went to any lengths to capture or resurrect prosperous men’s interests. And as one of the richest men in the world, a royal and a celebrated surgeon to boot, he defined prosperity, was one of the most vigorously pursued.

So was this her new act? The one she’d determined would reignite his interest?

If it was, it was succeeding. Spectacularly.

And why not? He’d play it her way. He’d give her all the rope she needed to hang herself. Then, when he’d had the satisfaction of looking her in the eye and reading her admission of defeat, he’d send her out of Omraania, out of his life. This time forever.

“Your assumptions are correct,” he finally drawled, advancing on her in steps he hoped looked measured when they were, in fact, impeded by lingering upheaval. “Those concerning yourself. I assure you I don’t surround myself with automatons or thralls.”

“Sure. Thanks for sharing that.” Sarcasm? He couldn’t be sure with her face and voice expressionless. “Will you, please, send your head non-automaton non-thrall to direct me to the OR where I’m needed after I’ve scrubbed? I’ll be exactly ten minutes.”

Sarcasm. His lips twitched, not on mirth, on indecision how to react. “Adnan isn’t one of my medical personnel. His role ended when he escorted you here. I’ll take over from here.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She moved toward one of the lockers. “So, what’s on the list this morning?”

“Ten surgeries.”

She didn’t bat a lid as she removed her jacket, exposing a sleeveless beige blouse. He came to a stop, his gaze trapped by the perfection of her arms. And even in these sterile surroundings, with everything else making erotic thoughts out of bounds, lust kicked in his loins. His mouth watered.

Seemingly oblivious to his state, she strode to the nearest sink, picked up a prepackaged, presterilized brush impregnated with surgical detergent, held her hands below the tap for the infrared sensor to kick in. “Care to elaborate?”

He tamped down the urge to stride to her, take her by those arms, run stinging-for-their-softness hands all over them before branding them with his tongue and teeth, tasting their cream, biting into their vitality.

Ya Ullah, he shouldn’t have abstained from feminine pleasures for so long. Now he was starved.

But no. He hadn’t been. Not until he’d seen her. So mental aversion hadn’t even dulled the sharpness of the hunger. So he hadn’t been cured, had only been an addict forced to abstain…

“Six minimally invasive procedures.” He supplied the answer a raised eyebrow pressed for, struggling to imbue his voice with a tone as offhand as hers. “Vascular and thoracic, one lumpectomy and one simple mastectomy, and two second-stage damage-control surgeries. All up your street, I believe?”

She nodded without looking at him as she wet her forearms to the elbows, assurance itself. “Dead center, yes.”

Then she began to scrub. Just as he felt he’d disappeared from her senses’ radar, she raised her eyes. “You have someone around to help me gown, or shall I go the solo route?”

He couldn’t answer right away. Not when his mind was being swamped with all the times he’d ungowned her, so to speak, exposing her to his impatience and hunger.

When he answered, his voice sounded like raking through gravel. “I’ll gown you.”

That exquisite eyebrow rose again. Had she heard the gruffness, known its import?

But her gaze wasn’t taunting, or knowing. It was empty. “I know I’m here to share a position with you, but isn’t gowning me taking the coworker thing outside the job description?”

Share a position. A thousand images inundated him, of every position he’d shared with her, the ecstasy they’d wrung from each other’s bodies in each. Had she meant the double entendre?

No. She hadn’t. He was sure her comment had been professional. If her dismissal of his authority could be called that. But there was no sexual innuendo in anything she said or did. Or she was a more undetectable actress than he’d imagined.

Thinking a closer look might avail him of better judgment, he closed in on her. “I assure you that helping fellow surgeons gown isn’t outside my job parameters.”

She finished scrubbing, held up her hands to drip-dry before picking up a sterile towel folded over the gown/glove packs and began a flawless drying technique. “Really? So does Crown Prince and Head of Surgery have Scrub Nurse or Circulator in the fine print of expected duties? Who would have thought?”

A jolt coursed through him again. No one talked to him like that. Ever. Not even her. Especially her. Not in the past.

But why the jolts? Had he come to expect deference beyond decorum and professionalism that it shocked him she was speaking freely in his presence? Admittedly, he hadn’t been approachable in recent years, but had she been right? Had he gone beyond maintaining the distance his status demanded into imposing a form of oppression?

Not that she was affected by whatever intimidation he emitted. She hurled out her thoughts as they formed.

“Isn’t life full of surprises?” he drawled, almost to himself.

She volunteered no answer to that but reached for a gown and began unfolding it, her sterile procedure perfect.

He advanced on her then, unable to stay away a second longer. The closer he got, the worse it got. Her scent reached out to him, enveloped him. Yes. This was it. Unchanged. Sweet and fragrant and exuding sensuality.

He reached her as she placed her arms inside the sleeves, circled her in one aching sweep, careful not to come into contact with any part of her. For sterile conditions, he told himself.

He began adjusting her scrubs around her lush body, focused on regulating his breathing, his urges. She stood there all through, eyes downcast, seemingly unbreathing.

He was tightening her belt when his surgical team entered the hall en masse.

He almost groaned in disappointment. Now he’d have no excuse to demand that she return the favor. She was already moving away, snapping on gloves on her own.

Resigned that this interlude had come to an end, that this face-off had gone against his expectations and certainly in her favor, he turned to his own scrubbing and gowning, acutely conscious of her every movement, every breath.

In minutes he turned to her again, impatient to continue his study of her—and sustained another shock.

She was smiling. At anesthesiologist Hisham Sukhr and resident Aneesah Othman. She hadn’t smiled at him since she’d walked into the hall. Not even a mockery of a formality.

She’d never smiled at him like that.

And he suddenly realized what had been missing from the smiles she’d once lavished on him. This, what flowed from her smile right now. Ease. She’d always been…tense, even forced, for the lack of more appropriate words, around him.

Had it been a manifestation of the artifice she’d practiced? Looking at her now, it was impossible to believe she was capable of artifice. Which was too stupid a thing to think.

Even more stupid was the surge of anger and animosity he felt as he watched the scene unfold. Anger toward her for showing him how delightful her ease was, but that he’d never warranted it. Animosity toward Hisham, his most trusted anesthesiologist, whose eyes sparkled with the covetous thoughts any male would have about Viv…

Ya Ullah. Was he on the verge of a breakdown, as Adnan insisted he was? Was he angry at Viv for not being cordial with him? Was he jealous that another man coveted her on sight? When in either case he should expect nothing less, nothing else?

It was time to put an end to this stupidity, get on with his plans. Before he forgot what they were and why he’d hatched them.

He moved to the door connecting to the OR he’d chosen. As the door slid open, he turned and a hush fell over the buzzing room.

“Now that Dr. LaSalle has introduced herself, we’re ready to start our list.” With that, he entered the OR.

Everyone followed in a silence loud with surprise that he hadn’t given Viv the esteem of a formal introduction and welcome in front of her future team and subordinates. From her there was only opacity. She’d closed her mind to him.

Viv walked into the OR last, struggling not to wobble.

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

She’d accepted the position because it dictated she’d meet Ghaleb possibly a couple of times initially, to set things up, then she wouldn’t see him again as she did his job when he wasn’t around. He shouldn’t be here, about to begin a ten-surgery list with her. Why wasn’t he leaving her to it?

This had to be a test. One he would have subjected anyone he’d install as his co-head to. A one-off. Yes. She could live with that. She thought. She hoped. If she survived the next hours…

Stop it. Why was she going to pieces like this?

But she knew why, didn’t she? She’d entered to scrub, had seen him standing there with his back to her, and it had been like being catapulted back to the past, to that time she’d sought him out, to sell him on choosing her for his research assistant’s position.

She’d seen him many times from afar till that moment, each time suffering a jolt of awareness at the power and charisma compounding the impact of his phenomenal looks and physique. She’d known he had the same effect on every female with a heartbeat, but had been convinced one close-up look would take care of all that.

Then he’d turned to her and her self-assurance had boiled and evaporated, then his answering awareness had turned hers into compulsion. She’d hurled herself at him, a moth fully aware of its fiery end yet hurtling deliriously toward the flame. Then he’d left her and her world had turned upside down. It had taken months to set it right. How could she let herself be taken by storm again?

Oh, she knew how. This time he’d turned to her only to show her her memories had been merciful. Or the years had been cruel, conspiring with maturity to chisel his physique to godlike perfection, hone his beauty and effect to lacerating levels.

She didn’t know how she’d looked at him, answered back. She guessed she’d launched into sarcastic mode, her automatic defense mechanism when overwhelmed. She barely remembered what she’d said, all her focus on keeping her face and tone empty so she hadn’t betrayed her upheaval to his scrutiny.

And, damn him, he’d scrutinized. His eyes, the eyes she would once have done anything to see igniting with approval, with passion, had left her face, only to travel over her, leaving burn marks wherever they landed, scorching away her hard-won stability.

While he’d been as stable as a mountain, betraying nothing at the sight of her but the certainty that he remembered her, and the same indifference with which he’d ignored her offer of her life to mess up for as long as he pleased. Then, as if he hadn’t treated her like a leper, as if they’d never even met before, her pitiful barbs breaking off his force field of assurance and superiority, he’d approached her like an inexorable storm, rattling every cell in her body with alarm and awareness. Then he’d gowned her.

He’d circled her, like a predator biding his time, giving his prey a nervous breakdown wondering if he’d pounce at once or if he was sated and was only playing, would prolong the sadistic game until he was hungry again. He’d let her feel him, quake with his nearness, had flayed her with his breath, his scent, his hands hovering over a body that was suddenly a battleground for every forbidden hunger and recollection, tugging at her with strings made of her gown’s ties, her cruel memory and his far more pitiless reality.

She didn’t know how she’d remained on her feet.

She had to stay away from him. For the time she was here, and until she reached a decision. She couldn’t let his effect tamper with her logic and self-control again. Sam. She was here for Sam.

But she couldn’t stay away right now. He was looking at her, clearly summoning her.

Rigid, grudging steps brought her opposite him, across the table he’d elected, as the well-oiled machine of his surgical team brought in the first two patients, placing one in front of them.

She cast her gaze to the patient being placed at the next station. She may be here to settle a personal issue, but she’d also signed a contract, had made a commitment to do the best job she could, as she always did. She’d better locate her misplaced composure and professionalism.

She gulped down a steadying breath, forced her eyes to seek his. The moment those obsidian infernos slammed into her she was tempted to say Let the test begin or Do your worst.

Instead, she said, “Where do you want me?”

Back in my office, spread on my desk, naked and open and begging for me.

Ghaleb gritted his teeth. These lust attacks were getting preposterous. And infuriating.

He harnessed his anger—at her for the weakness only she had ever engendered in him, at himself for letting her still wield that power—and emptied his gaze. “I want you right here.”

“You mean I’ll take this patient?”

“I mean you’ll work with me on this patient.”

“Two patients, two so-called head surgeons handling one. Anything wrong with that picture, I wonder?”

“We’ll handle every patient together. Es-Sayed Elwan in station two was brought in now because it’ll take the length of es-Sayedah Afaf’s operation to get him prepped.”

She gave him a glance that made him feel she was probing him, fathoming his motivations.

Then, without giving away her conclusions, she turned to their sedated patient, took in the field of surgery being prepped. “So, what will it be for her? Lumpectomy or simple mastectomy?”

“Lumpectomy.” He asked for their patient’s films to be clipped on the backlit screen feet away. Viv examined them.

She was back in a minute. “Localized tumor in a breast with no signs of lymph-node involvement.” She murmured her diagnosis, mirroring his. “Perfect for a breast-conserving procedure. Will she have radiation of the rest of the breast afterwards, or is the lumpectomy the limit of her treatment?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugged as she examined the woman’s breast, translating X-ray evidence into the physical one. “I ask because she must be over seventy and some schools of treatment think radiation doesn’t offer a better prognosis for her age group. I don’t know if your center subscribes to this belief or not.”

“What would be your recommendation?”

“Radiation afterwards, no question, if her general condition allows it. Even though women of her age are said not to be at risk of a hormonally induced recurrence and therefore wouldn’t benefit from radiation while risking a higher incidence of its side effects, recent research overwhelmingly proves those receiving radiation remain free of cancer longer than women who don’t.”

“And what do you think my center opts for?”

“How would I know? You may be the most advanced center in the world but I’ve seen many who run a close second who suffer from unchanging attitudes and biases toward new research. Superiority spawns prejudice, not to mention an all-knowing streak and the tendency to play God.”

And that had to be a double entendre. Making reference to the way he’d walked away from her?

He didn’t see a connection but was certain this summation wasn’t all about the pompous and misguided decisions and views many highly regarded surgeons and medical establishments made and advertised.

Unable to fathom the rebuff he felt singeing him, he drawled, “Let me assure you that at the Jobail Advanced Medical Center we embrace all substantiated research and commit a major part of our resources, human and financial, to furthering said research and to cementing its results into facts. Radiation after lumpectomy for older women is our recommendation.”

She only gave a nod, continued examining the patient.

Just like that? No comment? No more digs?

No. None. Was that what she’d become? Not given to saying a word more than necessary? Closing a subject once it had been satisfactorily resolved? What had happened to cause that reversal? Where had the gushing, hyperactive, excitable young woman gone? Where had this serene, stable and centered woman sprung from?

And was now the time to ponder such mysteries, ya ghabbi?

Exhaling his frustration, he murmured for a scalpel. Once it was in his palm, he stared at it. He’d almost forgotten his plan. Now he remembered, he no longer wanted to go through with it.

Before he gave in to another impulse, he extended the scalpel to her. “You do the honors.”

She didn’t spare him a glance as she palmed the scalpel, adjusted her position. Before he opened his mouth, she made a sure-handed incision around the areola. The approach he hadn’t had time to recommend, maximizing accessibility to the tumor.

He moved forward, tension draining by degrees as he fell into step with her, assisting her as she accessed the tumor and extracted it with a surrounding layer of healthy tissue, somehow managing to leave the breast looking untouched.

She placed the specimen in a collection vial and one of his nurses hurried with it to the adjacent lab. Viv turned her eyes to him, all he could see of her behind her mask.

“We’ll have our verdict in minutes,” he murmured. “You can move on to the next step while we wait.”

She at once made an incision in their patient’s armpit.

He tensed. “Removing the axillary lymph nodes?”

“I’m going for sentinel node biopsy.” She paused. “You have a different course of action?”

He didn’t. He gestured for her to go ahead.

She started dissecting the first node. His muscles tightened, ready to jump in. This was where surgeons of less than extensive experience messed up. But with every fluid, precise movement of her hands his tension eased. He couldn’t have done it better.

After he sent another nurse to the lab with the nodes, they spent the following minutes exchanging opinions.

The nurses came back with a favorable verdict and the rest of his tension dissipated. It ratcheted up again at Viv’s tremulous exhalation. He studied her, gauged her reaction.

Yes. There it was. Unmistakable. What echoed inside him.

She validated his analysis when she murmured, “Now I can hope this procedure will be the last es-Sayedah Afaf will suffer on account of that tumor.”

He muttered his corroboration. And as if to show him that was of no consequence to her, she removed the drain he’d inserted, murmured for suturing materials, then proceeded to give es-Sayedah Afaf one of the most undetectable suture jobs he’d ever seen.

They finally pulled back from the table, leaving the others to wrap up, and Viv slipped from the chair she’d asked for in mid-surgery and stretched her back. His eyes clung to her movements, each accessing memories of nights when he’d massaged that resilient back, luxuriating in her feel, in her pleasure, before he’d mounted her, given her what by then she’d been whimpering for…

He remained seated. He’d remain seated until she’d long left the OR, otherwise he’d have a scandal on his hands.

He realized she was looking at him when his face began to burn. He swung his eyes back to her, found her gaze on him, steady, neutral. Then she only said, “Next.”

And for the next ten hours, even forgoing a lunch break, they went through the varied, demanding list. By the time their last patient was wheeled to Resuscitation, there was no doubt in his mind anymore.

Doubts had started to crumble with that first incision she’d made. From then on, as she’d passed every test he’d thrown at her with ease and confidence, they’d disintegrated faster. They now lay pulverized at his feet. He had the verdict of his own eyes.

The only thing she’d been guilty of had probably been to understate her skills. As a diagnostician she was uncanny; as a surgeon she was unparalleled.

And he couldn’t believe how much that upset him.

It meant she really could just be here for the job.

Everything validated this theory. Her every nuance said she’d become the opposite of her old accommodating, approval-seeking self. Her antagonism had been superbly leashed in front of those she believed she’d oversee, but it had been unmistakable to him. And it was no act to whet his interest. His approval was the last thing she coveted. And it outraged him.

It was contrary of him when he had every reason not to wish for any personal reaction or interaction with her.

But now she was withholding it he wanted it, had to have it.

He would have it.

He would also find out how she’d become the woman who’d stood up to him, who’d surprised him at every turn, the woman he’d depended on through some of the most demanding surgeries possible.

And when he did so, he’d find out what her game was this time. He was certain there was far more than met the eye to Dr. Vivienne LaSalle.

But her secrets would be surrendered. He wouldn’t think of a next step until he was in possession of every last one.

Viv staggered into the—thankfully deserted—ladies’ room, groped for the support of the nearest solid surface.

Her hand slipped off the quartz vanity top. She barely steadied herself then met her reflection in the mirror—and gasped.

It was like looking at the worst days of her life.

She looked nothing like the scrawny, sunburned, crackling-with-need woman Ghaleb had used and discarded. It was her expression—the vulnerability, the despondency she’d become resigned to after Ghaleb had left and throughout her pregnancy.

Bile rose, mortification splashing through her system, melting the grip of resurrected insecurity and misery.

She was damned if she’d let herself sink back into those. She was double-damned if she let him affect her this way, or at all.

But, damn it all, he did affect her. Worse than before. He got to her so badly she’d had to ask for a chair during surgery for the first time ever, murmuring something stupid about jet lag.

It seemed absolute power and endless privileges agreed more and more with Ghaleb the longer he had them. And he knew his effect, used it.

One thing made it all bearable. She’d passed his test. And then some. She’d almost had a nervous breakdown holding up under his pressure, but she had. She let reaction rack her now.

In hindsight, she would have preferred it if he’d forgotten her name, had hired her unaware it was her then been enraged at seeing her and sent her out of Omraania on the spot. The more she thought of it, the more she didn’t understand why he had hired her for such a position when he’d once thought her beneath the position she’d begged him for, that of a mistress he would frequent on his infrequent visits to the U.S. Was he really that detached and professional?

What was going on in that convoluted mind of his?

One thing she knew. If she’d thought meeting him again would settle her mind, she’d been catastrophically wrong.

She lowered her head to the sink and the tap turned on. Water streamed over her face, warm yet still cooling her burning skin…

“Are you okay, Doctorah Vivienne?”

She inhaled water, jackknifed up spluttering, found a pile of paper towels being shoved into her hands. She dried her watering eyes, focused on the younger woman with exquisite dark eyes and exotic features. The surgical resident whose name she’d forgotten.

God, that was all she needed. To cultivate a reputation for being a spaced-out lightweight among the people she was supposed to spend her two months in purgatory leading.

“I’m so sorry I startled you.” The woman looked contrite. “I heard you moaning and got worried.”

Viv forced a bright smile. “It’s jet lag catching up with me.”

The woman smiled back at her. “I can’t imagine how you lasted ten hours without a break, and with jet lag, too. I thought no one but Somow’ wel Ameer Ghaleb was capable of such staying power.”

At hearing Ghaleb’s name, her stomach gave a violent lurch.

She pressed a hand to it, forced another smile. “That must be hunger rearing its head, too. I’d better go and catch a bite to eat.”

“There are some of the best restaurants in Omraania here in the center. And before you go, let me tell you how great it was to see you at work. I’m now really excited about your appointment.”

Pleasure bubbled at her sincerity. Maybe today hadn’t been a total disaster after all. First successful surgeries, now an ally.

For the first time since she’d set foot in Omraania her smile turned genuine. “Thanks…uh…Dr. Ani—Anai—”

“Aneesah,” she supplied. “It means soothing companion.”

Viv’s smile widened. “I bet you are, too. Literally your name. You just made my day a hell of a lot better. Thanks again.”

Aneesah chuckled and headed farther into the ladies’ room. “Anytime, Doctorah Vivienne. See you in surgery.”

Viv watched her, her tension draining. She was soothing. Nothing seemed as bad as it had minutes ago. She was probably overreacting with exhaustion anyway. It was also normal to feel drained after a confrontation she’d been dreading for years. Sleep would cure everything. Tomorrow she’d figure out her next step.

She put on her jacket as she walked to the foyer, this time noticing every detail, marveling at the intricate patterns on the marble floor, the designs paneling the walls, the gigantic flower arrangement on the centerpiece fer forgé table. What did hotels look like here if a medical center was this luxurious? The medical facilities were a century ahead of anything she’d ever worked in, too. As for their accommodations, Sam and Anna had flipped when they’d seen where they’d spend the next two months.

Maybe she should adopt their attitude. Maybe it was the key to surviving this experience. Considering it an interlude, going with the flow, hoping for the best… Yeah, right.

Still following the patterns on the floor, she cleared the automatic doors, only for her gaze to stumble on large feet in camel-colored shoes, planted wide apart.

Without volition, her gaze traveled up the endless legs and powerful thighs attached to them, encased in superbly cut same-colored pants, hands deep in their pockets, stretching the fabric over the potency that had once…

She dragged her eyes up farther, only for them to cling to a black shirt covering an abdomen and chest forged from steel, three buttons left open to expose the mat of silky hair she’d once lost herself to the luxury of threading her fingers through, that had once settled on her breasts, chafing her into a frenzy…

She tore her gaze up to his, found him watching her.

As soon as he gauged he had her attention where he wanted it, he drawled, “I’ve designated a driver for you. He’ll be at your disposal 24/7. He’ll now escort you to your new residence. Since it’s a quarter to seven now, you should be there by a quarter past. I trust you can get ready in an hour?”

She replayed his question in her mind. It still made no sense. She swallowed, croaked, “Ready? For what?”

“For our working dinner. At eight-fifteen sharp.” Before she could say anything, he turned away. Just before he’d gone out of hearing range, he threw over his back, “Be ready.”

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