Шэрон Кендрик - Surgeon Of The Heart

Outside, the sensation of freedom became even stronger. The warm June evening seemed to beckon her with the promise of untold pleasure. People were sitting outside cafés, sipping their aperitifs, their mood relaxed. Laughing and chattering, all the time in the romantically lilting tone of the Italian language.

As she walked along the wide streets Catriona reflected that it was a world away from her usual life as a busy staff nurse in a huge Leeds hospital.

Born in the south of England, she had nevertheless eschewed London for her general nursing training, preferring instead the wild beauty of the north, together with that part of the country’s reputation for good, solid and gritty common sense. Leeds Northern General Hospital, too, was not simply famous throughout Great Britain for its standards of care, but throughout the whole world. And in particular it had one of the best equipped cardio-thoracic units anywhere.

Surgery was carried out by the General’s own fine surgeons, but such were its prestige and teaching facilities that visiting surgeons from all around the globe vied for places there.

Catriona had known quite early on in her career that the exacting role of theatre nurse was her preferred speciality. She loved the order that theatre work demanded, coupled with the excitement of participating in an operation. It suited her cool, quick-thinking temperament. The ward nurses were often scornful about their colleagues in Theatre, saying that they weren’t proper nurses, since they had nothing to do with patients, but Catriona thought this a load of baloney. The strictness and discipline needed to get you through a nursing training were exactly what were needed to equip you with the skills to assist a surgeon.

In search of a suitable restaurant, she walked along, sniffing at the air appreciatively, not feeling a bit like Catriona Bellman, the staff nurse widely tipped for early promotion—the coolly efficient creature the juniors liked, yet feared, so exacting were her standards. The theatre nurse who was respected by the surgeons, yet so immune to their frequent passes that she had earned herself the nickname ‘Ice-Queen’. She smiled to herself. If they could see her now, soaking up the heady warmth of the summer evening, strolling along without a care in the world. She wasn’t remotely recognisable as the ‘Ice-Queen’ tonight!

She didn’t, she reflected, even look much like the usual Catriona Bellman. The usual chic, understated garments that had become her trademark had proved hopelessly hot and too confining for the blazing furnace of the sticky Roman summer, which she had badly underestimated. The clothes she had brought were totally unsuitable, so what better excuse for spending some of her hard-earned wages than to splash out on some new ones?

She was wearing a floaty dress of green she had bought in a small boutique. It drew attention to the unusual green of her long-lashed eyes, in whose depths could occasionally be seen flecks of a darker green, and of gold. The tiny shoulder-straps lay over skin tanned to a pale brown, a tan that was unexpected, considering that her hair was a cross between blonde and red, a colour that defied description. Thick, but hopelessly straight, the superbly cut bell shape of the bob made the best advantage of it.

She eventually found a restaurant that satisfied all her criteria for eating out on her last evening. It was full of Italians, it wasn’t too expensive, and the food was superb. She ordered green lentils cooked with oyster mushrooms and bacon, followed by slivers of duck in fresh pasta, and a home-made lemon ice-cream. Much to her surprise, she managed to eat the lot! Feeling pleasantly replete after a cup of strong and delicious coffee, she took her time and meandered slowly back towards the hotel, vowing that one day she would return to this beautiful city. And hadn’t she thrown her coins into the Trevi Fountain on the previous day? That meant she would definitely come back!

It was still early, and she hesitated outside a café not far from where she was staying. It was such a beautiful evening. Why go back just yet? Knowing her luck, the dogged Glenn would probably be lying in wait for her, wanting to interrogate her about her evening out. Why cut the evening short? She’d be back home in Leeds tomorrow, and—much though she loved the place—it would be bound to be raining!

She found herself a table with a good view of the busy street, and sat down to wait to be served. She was so engrossed in watching an enormous woman dressed in black, berating a man tall enough to tower over her, who none the less looked petrified, that she didn’t notice the man standing over her until he spoke.

‘Excuse me?’

She looked up quickly, slightly unsure. ‘Are you the waiter?’ she asked tentatively.

He gave a laugh at this, a deep throaty laugh, and she knew immediately that her question had been utterly ridiculous, for this man was no waiter.

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I am not the waiter. But I can order you a drink, if you like. I could even join you for one—if you would not object?’ The dark eyebrows were raised quizzically.

She looked at him carefully. Very tall. Far too good-looking. Hair the colour of a raven’s wing. Olive skin. Deep brown eyes fringed by lashes any woman would kill for. Obviously Italian, but with English that was faintly accented, but unusual. He was dressed in a superbly cut dinner suit, with a shirt so white that it could have been featured in a soap-powder commercial! Waiter, indeed! Anyone less like a waiter she’d never seen!

He seemed to find her hesitation amusing, and spread his hands out in the very expansive way that was so curiously continental. ‘You are worried, yes, that you will not be safe with me? But let me tell you, English rose, that you would be far safer with me than on your own. To your left I see a group of young men who are eyeing you shamelessly. To your right is a gentleman, no longer in the first flushes of youth, but who still, it is easy to see, fancies himself as something of a ladies’ man.’

Catriona looked both ways, unable to stop herself from smiling. He was perfectly right.

‘So, you see, you would do far better to have me as your protector, wouldn’t you?’ The brown eyes twinkled disarmingly.

Ironically, it was the very role that Glenn had been offering her earlier, and which she had so disdained. That same offer from this man was quite a different kettle of fish. Sensible Catriona Bellman in cold and rainy Leeds would probably have told him just where to go, but the sun-warmed and relaxed Catriona Bellman found herself charmed, flattered, and more than a little intrigued.

She looked up at him. ‘Please do sit down. I’d be delighted for you to join me.’

‘Thank you.’ He pulled the chair further back to accommodate very long legs, and sat down. A waiter appeared immediately. ‘Now what will you have to drink?’ the dark man queried.

She had already had half a bottle of wine at dinner, and was feeling quite mellow. The most prudent thing to have would be another of those small black coffees. Such a pity that she wasn’t feeling in the least bit prudent!

‘You choose,’ she declared impetuously.

He smiled, and inclined his dark head graciously. ‘Of course! Now let me see. All the English come here and they drink sambuca—which does not have a particularly wonderful bouquet, in my opinion. In fact, the only things to commend it are the flaming coffee beans floating on the top, which always produce a gasp of surprise—so predictable, and far too predictable for you, I think. No, you shall have something very special indeed.’ And with this he spoke in a torrent of Italian, of which Catriona understood not one word.

The waiter scurried off, and the man surveyed her, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. ‘Now we must introduce ourselves, since I cannot call you English rose all night. What is your name?’

‘It’s Cat.’ She saw the dark eyebrows raised in surprise, and hastened to explain. ‘Well, I was christened Catriona, but everyone calls me Cat.’

‘Cat!’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘Yes, Cat is good. You have eyes like a cat.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you purr like a cat when you’re happy? Do you scratch like a cat when you’re mad?’

His words brought faint colour to her cheeks. There was nothing too wayward or shocking in what he’d said, but the deep, soft, faintly accented voice was having a remarkable effect on her pulse-rate. She knew that he’d noticed her blushing, and, feeling unusually gauche, she strove to give her voice its normal cool assurance. ‘And you are?’

‘Nico,’ he smiled, looking as if he was about to say more, when the waiter appeared with the drinks.

It was hard to define what the drink tasted of. It was cool, but it warmed her. Tangy, yet at the same time sweet, and smooth. It slid down her throat with velvet ease, and she gave a small sigh of satisfaction.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

‘I love it,’ she replied fervently.

‘Do you, now?’ he murmured. ‘And what else do you love?’

She met his eyes. Green stared into fathomless darkness. I could love you, she thought. Quite easily. ‘I love Italy,’ she told him.

‘I know you do. Tell me what you love about it.’

She felt as though he’d put a spell on her, enchanted her. Words seemed to spill from her lips as never before. He asked her questions, but not about her life—about her thoughts, her fears, her dreams. She felt as if he could read her very mind itself, and then thanked goodness that he couldn’t, for then he would have known how much she was wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.

‘There is music inside.’ He inclined his head towards the direction of the interior of the café. ‘Would you like to dance?’

This was crazy, she thought. Sheer madness. Even as she thought it, she found herself nodding, allowing him to pull her chair back and lead her through.

There was, indeed, music. To Cat it sounded like a heavenly choir. He took her into his arms, and she felt as though she’d come home after a long, long journey.

She didn’t know how long they danced for, she only knew that there had never been a dance like it. She seemed to fit so perfectly into his arms, her head gently resting against the broadness of his chest. She was floating, dreaming—she must be. Things like this just didn’t happen to girls like her.

She didn’t remember at which point he suggested they leave. She didn’t say anything as they walked through now deserted streets to his car. There was an air of magic surrounding them. He drove her through unfamiliar streets, which became more imposing and more tree-lined with each moment, drawing up at last outside a white house, where the scent of some shrub filled her senses with its fragrance.

He led her inside. She was aware of opulence and faded splendour. He didn’t put any lights on, but instead took her through to a room whose uncurtained windows let in the bright silvery light of the moon. The moonlight, with its surreal glow, only added to her feeling of unreality. Somehow she was in his arms, where she belonged, and he was whispering to her.

‘Do you want to dance some more?’

Her voice sounded heavy, drowsy. ‘No.’

‘A drink, then? Some more grappa?’

‘No.’

‘What, then? This. . .?’ And he bent his head and started to kiss her. ‘Is that what you wanted all the time, my little Cat?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed against his parted lips. ‘Yes. Yes.’

The sweetness of his breath was more intoxicating than the grappa she had drunk. Cat had been kissed before, naturally, but this might just as well have been the first time, for it made every other kiss fade into insignificance.