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

‘To recap, we have a social media policy for three main reasons: protecting patient confidentiality; protecting and promoting our brand; and protecting our staff. Be very sure that what you say is how you want to be seen, and remember that if something you put up on networking sites can be connected with St Carmen’s or our patients in any way then that may result in disciplinary action. There is a lot of chatter out there and how we present ourselves is extremely important; it’s very hard to erase a message or a footprint once it’s out. These things have a habit of coming back to bite us in the proverbial behind.’

Matteo watched as Ivy’s eyes flicked to him and he felt the sting of her retort. Okay, so having his behind out there for all the world to see hadn’t been the wisest idea his friend had had, and Matteo was starting to understand a little of the ruckus it had caused. St Carmen’s had a solid reputation for putting children first and he could see that having a connection with a naked man may well have done some damage. But, really, four sessions to get that message across? What in hell could next week’s workshop be about?

Poison Ivy was certainly passionate about her job, he’d give her that. And her presentation skills had been first rate. He got the impression that public speaking was something she could do with finesse but that she didn’t exactly love it. Her voice was endlessly enthusiastic, and he caught a hint of an accent … although not being native to England he couldn’t quite place it. She certainly looked the part with another smart dark trouser suit and silk blouse—today it was a deep cobalt blue that had him reminiscing about the summer skies back home. And he felt another sting—sharp enough to remind him of the folly of thinking too hard and investing too much. And that love, in its many forms, could cut deeply.

But Ivy’s ballsy forthrightness coupled with the curve-enhancing trousers and form-fitting blouse had piqued his imagination. Although why, he didn’t know, she was the exact opposite of everything he usually liked in a woman. He went for tall women, and she was petite. He had a track record of tousled brunettes, and she was blonde with a … what was it? Yes, a pixie cut. He liked to entertain and enthral and she showed nothing but disinterest bordering on contempt. He wasn’t usually spurned—spurning was his role. Ah, no—he never led a woman to believe he would give any more than a good time. Until the good times became more one-sidedly meaningful—and that was the signal to get out.

Putting this sudden interest down to the thrill of the chase, he nodded to her, raising his eyebrows. Do go on.

She gave him a disinterested smile and looked at someone else. ‘I hope you’ve all enjoyed our journey into cyberspace and an overview of social media opportunities—as you can see, they are many and varied and more are exploding onto our screens and into our homes every day. Now that we’ve highlighted our hospital policy, I hope you can see how and when mistakes can be made, even from the comfort of your own sofa when you think you’re engaging in a private conversation. Nothing is ever private on the internet. Next week we’ll be talking about the good, the bad and the very ugly of social networking sites. In the meantime, in the words of someone much wiser than me … when it comes to the World Wide Web, don’t be that person with the smartphone making dumb mistakes.’

And everyone around him seemed to have enjoyed themselves immensely. She gave a shy smile at their applause and then concentrated on logging off the laptop and clearing away her papers.

He followed the queue to the door but before he’d made it out he heard her voice. ‘Mr Finelli?’

‘Yes?’

She stepped down from the small stage and walked towards him, trying hard but not quite managing to hide the limp that now, at the end of a day when she’d mostly been standing, clearly gave her pain. ‘I hope that was insightful?’

‘It could have been a lot quicker.’

‘Not everyone is as quick thinking as you.’ She bit her bottom lip as if trying to hold back a smile. ‘Besides, we have some very recalcitrant staff members who insist they know better than we do on these matters. I need to make sure I hammer out our message loud and clear.’

Remembering her barb, he gave her a smile back. ‘I felt the hammer.’

‘Good. My job here is done. I hope in future you’ll be contemplating how to send positive messages that reflect the nature of our business. Or, indeed, not sending messages at all.’

‘The only positive messages I need to send are in the numbers of children I and the renal department save. And in how many families don’t have to endure suffering or loss of life.’

She studied him. ‘Well, maybe a bit of help in drumming up support for your unit is in order? You could harness the wave, do some awareness campaigns and get … what? What is on your wish list?’

He didn’t need to think twice about this—the same thing every transplant unit across the world wanted. ‘More organ donors, more people willing to sign up to donate when they die. More dialysis machines. More research.’

‘So put your thinking hat on and see if you can come up with a way of reaching out to people across the internet. Without taking your clothes off? There are plenty of people here in London wanting to help a good cause … but many more reaching out across the internet. Just imagine … Well, have a good evening, I’ll see you in the morning. Bright and breezy.’ Then she gave him a real smile. An honest to God, big smile that lit up her face. And, Mio Dio, the green in her eyes was intense and mesmerising. Her mouth an impish curl that invited him to join her in whatever had amused her. And something in his chest tugged. It was unbalancing and yet steadying at the same time.

‘Where are you from?’ For some reason his longing-to-leave brain had been outsmarted by his wanting-to-stay mouth.

Her smile melted away. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your accent. I’m not used to all the different ones yet. Other people say Landan … you say Lundun.’

Gathering all her gear together, she shovelled folders under one arm and carried a laptop in her hand. With a hitch of her shoulder she switched the lights out and then indicated for him to leave the conference room ahead of her while she pressed numbers into a keypad that sent the area into lockdown. ‘York. I’m from York, it’s in the north. A long way away. Three and a half hours’ drive—on a good day.’

‘Of course I have heard of it.’ He noticed a slight narrowing of her eyes and her voice had dropped a little. ‘And that makes you sad, being away from family?’

She shrugged. ‘No. Well … yes, I suppose. You know how it is. You do miss the familiar.’

‘I suppose you do.’ Maybe others did. He hadn’t been able to leave quickly enough and trips back home had been sporadic. Betrayal and hurt could do that to a man.

They neared the elevators and she paused, put her bag on the floor and pressed the ‘up’ button. ‘And you? You must feel a long way from home. Which is?’

‘A small village near Siena. Nothing special.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘You’re joking, right? Every Tuscan village is special.’

His village was. The inhabitants, on the other hand, not so much. ‘How do you know? Have you visited there?’

‘Florence, that’s all, just a quick weekend trip. It was lovely.’ Her ribcage twisted as she tried to hitch the now falling papers back under her arm.

He reached for them, his hand brushing against her blouse, sending a shiver through his gut. Strange how his body was reacting to her. Very strange. ‘Let me take those papers from you.’

‘I can manage.’ She stopped short and shook her head with determination and resolve, obviously trying to be strong when she didn’t need to be. He got the feeling that Ivy Leigh put a brave face on a lot—to hide what? Some perceived weakness? Something that was more than a problem with her foot.

‘I know you can manage. But you have too many things to carry and I have nothing. Let me take them.’ Without waiting for her to answer, he took the folders and slipped them under his arm, wondering what the hell the point of this was. She was on the other side—the annoying, bureaucratic, meddling middle-men side.

Talking with the enemy, helping the enemy, whatever next? Sleeping with the enemy? Pah! As if he would do anything so foolish.

And she obviously had a full appreciation of that. ‘I know what you’re doing, Matteo. You’re trying to get me on side and then you’re going to strike. Pounce … or something. Try to catch me unawares, try to convince me to set you free from my course and then hit me where it hurts.’

‘Never. I would never hit anyone.’ There had been a few times when he’d come close—okay, once when he’d stepped over that line and with good reason. But never again.

She looked confused. ‘Don’t panic, it’s a turn of phrase. I didn’t mean you’d really hit me. I know you wouldn’t do that.’

‘Good. And, actually, I was just being nice.’

‘Well, that is unexpected. Who knew you could be?’

The fleeting anger at the memories melted into humour. Ivy Leigh was good at sparring. He admired that. Always good to respect the enemy. Laughter bubbled from his chest. ‘Strange, yes, considering we are on opposite sides. The next thing we know we’ll be doing something ridiculous like going for a drink.’

‘Oh, no. I can’t do that.’ She jabbed the lift button again and tsked. ‘I never mix business with pleasure.’

‘I’m intrigued that you think having a drink with me would be pleasurable?’

Again there was a smile, but it belied a look in her eyes that was … half wistful, half anxious. ‘I’m sure the drink would be very pleasurable indeed. I’m very partial to a decent red. But, as I say, it’s not something I do.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Then I’m glad that we agree on something.’ But that wistful look remained, until she turned away.

There was no one else around. The place was silent. The conference area had all closed down for the night so it was just him and her and a buzz in the air between them that was so fierce it was almost tangible. ‘And you are going where now?’

She shrugged. ‘Back to the fifth floor, if this lift ever arrives. I have work to do.’

‘After five o’clock? All the other paper-pushers have long gone.’

Her lips curled into a smirk. ‘Pen. It’s pen-pushers not paper-pushers.’

‘I know, I know. I apologise. I’m still getting used to your idioms.’ And she was stunning when she smiled. Which, it appeared, made him tongue-tied too. Really? What in hell was wrong with him?