The Rebel Doc: Tempted by Her Italian Surgeon / The Doctor's Redemption / Resisting Her Rebel Doc

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Resisting Her Rebel Doc (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Tempted by Her Italian Surgeon (#u0400c727-bc8d-5c8b-a0d8-a279d8c5b44d)

Louisa George

CHAPTER ONE (#u0400c727-bc8d-5c8b-a0d8-a279d8c5b44d)

‘WHAT ON EARTH …?’ Ivy Leigh blinked at the image downloading to her inbox, pixel by tiny pixel.

A … bottom?

A beautiful perfectly formed, tanned, bare bottom. Two toned thighs, a sculpted back … a naked male body, in what looked like a men’s locker room. A tagline next to the pert backside read: Dr Delicious. As perfect as a peach. Go on … take a bite.

She swallowed. And again. Fanned her hot cheeks. She might have imposed a strict dating hiatus but she still had an appreciation of what was fine when she saw it. But why on earth would her work computer be the recipient of such a thing?

Maybe the spam screens on the hospital intranet server weren’t up to scratch. Adding a new note to her smartphone to-do list—Call IT—she let out a heat-infused sigh that had nothing to do with sexual frustration and everything to do with this new job. Two weeks in and yet another department she needed to pull into order. Still, she’d been employed here to drag this hospital into the twenty-first century and that was what she was going to do, no matter how many toes she trod on.

Twisting in her chair to hide the offending but not remotely offensive bottom from anyone who might walk past her open office door, she sneaked a closer look at the image, her gaze landing on a pile of what looked like discarded clothes on a bench. No, not clothes as such …

Scrubs?

Please, no.

Dark green scrubs bearing the embroidered name of St Carmen’s Hospital. She gasped, and whatever vague interest she’d had dissolved into a puddle of professional anxiety … her bordering-on-average day was fast turning bad.

So who? What? Why? Why me?

She slammed her eyelids shut and refused to look at the accompanying email message.

Okay, big girls’ pants.

Opening one eye, she took a deep breath and read.

From Albert Pinkney. St Carmen’s Hospital Chairman. His formidable perfectly English pronunciation shone through his words. ‘Miss Leigh, what in heaven’s name is this? Our new marketing campaign? Since when did St Carmen’s turn into some sort of smutty cabaret show? This is all over the internet like a rash and is not synonymous with the image we want to present. The benefactors are baying for blood. We are a children’s hospital. You’re the lawyer—do something. Make it disappear. Fix it.’

Because she was probably the only person who could solve this—when all else failed call in the lawyer to shut it down, or drag some antiquated law out and hit the offender with it.

And, damn it, fix it she would. Although making it disappear would be a little harder. Didn’t Pinkney know that once something was out on the net, it was there for ever? Clearly he was another candidate to add to her social media awareness classes.

First, find out who this … specimen belonged to. Now, that was going to be an interesting task. ‘Becca! Becca! ‘

‘Yes, Miss Leigh?’ Her legal assistant arrived in the doorway and flashed her usual over-enthusiastic grin. ‘What can I help you with?’

‘Delicate issue … You’ve been here a while and have your ear to the ground. You must know pretty much all of the staff by now. Have you any idea who this … might belong to?’ Ivy twisted away and made a ta-da motion with her hands towards her computer screen.

‘Oh, my…’ Becca fanned her face with the stack of manila folders in her hand. ‘Take a bite? I’m suddenly very hungry.’

Me, too. ‘That is so not the point. Can you see our logo? Right there. We can’t have this sort of thing happening, it’s very bad for our reputation.’

‘Not unless we’re trying to attract a whole tranche of new nurses … No? Wrong response? Sorry.’ Becca gave a little shrug that said she wasn’t sorry at all and that, in fact, she was really quite impressed. ‘It’s very nice. It is kind of perfect. And it says it belongs to a doctor so we can narrow it down. We could do one of those police line-ups, get the main suspects against the wall and …’ She looked back at the picture, her voice breathy and high-pitched. ‘I’m happy to organise that.’

‘Get in line.’ But, seriously, how many years at law school? For this? This was what she’d studied so hard for? This was why she’d hibernated away from any kind of social life? Her plan had always been to get into a position where she could safeguard others from what she’d had to endure, to prevent mistakes that cost people their happiness. Not chastise a naked man about impropriety. Still, no one could say her job didn’t have variety. ‘I don’t want to narrow it down, Becca, I want it gone. We need to send out a stack of take-down notices, get the PR team onto damage limitation. And whoever put this out there is going to learn what it’s like to feel the wrath of Ivy Leigh.’

It was late. The cadaver transplant he’d just finished on a ten-year-old boy had been difficult and long, but successful, with a good prognosis. He had a planned surgery list lined up for tomorrow and a lot of prep to work up. A ward round. And now this—an urgent summons to a part of the hospital he had not even known existed. Or, for that matter, cared about. The legal team? At six-thirty in the evening? Wouldn’t all the pen-pushers have gone home? Matteo Finelli’s mood was fading fast. He rapped on the closed door. Didn’t wait to hear a response, and walked right in. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes.’ The woman in front of him sat up straight behind an expensive-looking wide mahogany desk that was flanked by two filing cabinets. Beyond that a large window gave a view over the busy central London street. It was sunny out there and he imagined sitting in a small bar or café with the sun on his back as he downed a cold beer. Instead of being in here, doing this.

Apart from a calendar on the desk there was nothing else anywhere in the room. Nothing personalised, no photos, no pens, stapler … anything. She either had a bad case of OCD or had just moved in. Which would explain why he had not heard of her or seen her around. She ran a hand through short blonde hair that made her look younger than he’d imagined she must be to have achieved such a status and such a large office.

Cool green eyes stared at him. The blouse she wore was a similar colour—and why he’d even noticed he couldn’t say. Her mouth, although some would say was pretty, was in a tight thin line. She looked buttoned-up and tautly wound and as if she had never had a moment of pleasure in her life. She met his anger with equal force. ‘Mr Finelli, I presume? Please, take a seat.’

He didn’t. ‘I have not time. I was told you needed to see me immediately … What is the problem?’

‘Okay, no pleasantries. Fine by me. I’ll cut to the chase. Tell me …’ The eyes narrowed a little. Her throat jumped as she swallowed. Emerald-tipped fingers tapped on a keyboard and an image flickered onto the screen. ‘Is this you?’

There was no point in concealing his laugh. Whoever had taken the photo had held the lens at a damned fine angle. He looked good. More than good. He whistled on an out breath. ‘You like it?’