200 Harley Street: The Soldier Prince

‘But I lied to you about who I was. I can understand you being angry about that.’

‘It’s not so much that you didn’t tell me who you were, it’s the fact that you left without a word.’

‘So did you,’ he pointed out.

She blinked. ‘I did not. You were the one who left, not me.’

‘But you left the camp without a forwarding address.’

She frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I came back for you when my grandfather pulled through his operation,’ he said.

Her cheeks went pink. ‘I didn’t know that. And, anyway, what happened between us was obviously just the equivalent of a holiday fling. It was over years ago, and we’re both very different people now.’

He caught her gaze and held it. Was it over? The attraction was still there, for him. And the way her pupils grew slightly larger when she looked at him made him think that maybe, just maybe, it was the same for her. ‘Are we?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes.’ She looked away. ‘I worked hard to get this job. I’m not going to let anything put that in jeopardy. You’re in London for a few days—maybe a few weeks, until your tendon is healed enough—and then you’ll be back to doing whatever it is princes do.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Which is?’

‘How should I know?’

She sounded ever so slightly flustered.

Interesting.

Was it seeing him again? Had it brought back memories? Did she remember what it felt like to kiss him? Was she, like him, tempted to find out if it was still the same between them?

‘And it’s none of my business what you do,’ she said.

‘I was in Afghanistan,’ he said softly. ‘There’s a media blanket in place to keep my regiment safe. They don’t report anything about me, so my team isn’t targeted. Nobody knows I was hurt out there, and nobody knows I’m here. Well, apart from my team back at the base, my family, and the clinic staff here.’

‘And you want to keep it that way.’

He nodded. ‘To keep my team safe. I guess the media will find out eventually that I’m here.’

‘Not from me or anyone else at the clinic, if that’s what you’re asking. There is such a thing as patient confidentiality. And we’re very strict about that, I can assure you,’ she said crisply.

‘Thank you.’ He took her hand with his good hand, and squeezed it lightly before letting her go again.

Mistake.

Because his body remembered the feel of her skin against his. Intimately. And it reacted instantly.

Oh, hell.

Just as well she wasn’t looking at anything other than his busted hand. He took a deep breath, willing his body to calm down. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be following her instructions, not lusting after her.

‘Now, you need to do these exercises every hour,’ she said.

All businesslike and bossy. And Marco rather liked this new side of Becca. She was professionally confident, rather than the shy teenager she’d been.

‘You need to keep the splint on, but you can take the hand strap off while you’re doing the exercises. You start with three reps of this one.’

‘Three reps?’ He smiled. ‘You sound like a gym instructor.’

She frowned. ‘Stay out of the gym. Any pressure on this hand while it’s healing and you’ll be looking at permanent disability.’

‘I’ve already had that talk from Ethan. Though he says I’m allowed in the gym to do sit-ups and squats with a stability ball, provided I keep my body balanced and don’t use my left hand.’

‘That figures,’ she said. ‘Bodyweight exercises only.’

‘And walking lunges.’

She went pink again. ‘So was that you in the gym, the other day?’

She’d recognised him without seeing his face clearly? That was even more interesting. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘I wasn’t there. Just passing the glass door on my way out of the pool. And I assume Ethan told you to stay out of the pool?’

‘And put a bag over my arm when I have a bath or shower so I don’t get the splint wet. Yup.’ He looked at her. ‘But I could spectate at the pool. Do you swim a lot?’

‘It’s in my schedule.’

So she wasn’t going to let him push her into telling him anything about herself. Interesting.

‘It’s a cliché, you know,’ he said, enjoying himself.

‘What is?’

‘Having a temper to go with your hair colour.’

‘I don’t have a temper.’

‘Don’t you, Becca?’ he asked softly. ‘Or are you just gentle with your husband and children?’

‘My marital status is my business,’ she said coolly.

Maybe, but at least now he knew what it was. If she’d actually been married she would’ve told him, to put him in his place. Or she would’ve turned into a proud mamá like his sister Arabella, ready to show off photographs of her children at the least excuse.

‘Your first exercise, Your Royal Highness,’ she said crisply. ‘Use your right hand to curl each finger of your left hand down to the top of your palm.’ She demonstrated with her own hand.

He couldn’t help flinching as pain lanced through his hand.

‘Did that hurt?’ She didn’t sound like a vengeful harpy. She sounded concerned. Caring. But in a professional capacity.

‘A bit,’ he admitted.