200 Harley Street: The Soldier Prince

He indicated his strapped-up arm with his free hand. ‘Help yourself.’

Gently, she removed the strapping and took the hand strap off the splint.

* * *

Seven years.

She’d changed. Back then Becca had still been a girl. Nineteen years old, a little shy. Beautiful.

Now she was all woman.

Even with her soft curves hidden beneath a sexless starched white coat, with that glorious auburn hair tamed back in a ponytail and those beautiful green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses, Becca Anderson was gorgeous.

Worse still, Marco knew what it felt like to kiss her. How her body responded to his when they made love. How her breathing changed just before she climaxed.

Ah, hell.

This was so inappropriate it was untrue.

Becca Anderson was his hand therapist, and Ethan Hunter had told him not to flirt with any of the female staff at the clinic.

Ha.

Flirting wasn’t the half of it.

What would Ethan Hunter say if he knew just how far things had gone between Marco and Becca all those years ago?

Marco had to get a grip.

Which was half the problem; right now his left hand didn’t have a grip. That was what Becca was going to fix.

And he needed to think of her as a medic. Not as a woman.

In fact, he needed not to think of her at all. Since he’d left her behind in South Africa he hadn’t let himself think about her. Well, apart from the day after the doctor had confirmed that his grandfather had come through the heart bypass operation safely and would be just fine. Marco had gone back to the children’s aid camp, then. For her.

Except she’d left, two days previously, with no forwarding address.

The one girl who’d seen him for himself instead of as a prince. Who’d made his summer feel full of magic. Who’d made him fall in love with her shy, gentle sweetness.

He’d lost her. And he hadn’t been able to track her down, even with the help of a private detective; somehow she’d managed to vanish completely.

And all sorts of things could have happened in the last seven years. He glanced swiftly at her left hand. There was no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t committed. She might not wear rings to work, given that she was a hand therapist. She could have a family, now. A child.

Besides, she’d made it very clear how she regarded him now. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’

So he needed to stop thinking about her, right now, and do what he’d done for the last seven years: keep himself busy at work, and then play just as hard with a string of totally unsuitable women. Not let himself think about the girl he’d left behind.

‘You’ve made a real mess of this,’ she said, examining his palm. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Hunter didn’t tell you?’

‘Soldier, severed tendon.’ She shrugged. ‘So I’d guess it happened in action?’

‘My windscreen was blown out. I put up my hand to protect my eyes.’

‘No wonder you severed a tendon. You’re lucky it didn’t sever an artery and you bled out on the field. Or it could’ve severed your whole hand.’

‘I know.’

Not that it made him feel any better. He’d been over and over what had happened the last two days and nights. Thinking about what he could have done differently. What he should have done differently. But it didn’t change what had happened. Or do anything to lessen the guilt. He’d phoned every single wife, every single mother, and apologised for not taking better care of their loved ones while they were under his leadership. They’d all been grateful that he’d phoned, amazed that a prince would bother to share his memories of their husbands and sons. They’d cried. They’d even thanked him.

And it hadn’t made a scrap of difference. He still hated himself for making those mistakes. For not bringing all his men safely home.

‘Others weren’t so lucky.’ He sighed. ‘Those who were injured have the best possible care. Those who …’ There was a lump in his throat and he couldn’t say the rest of it.

‘Marco, you were in a war zone. People get injured. They die. You can’t blame yourself for that.’

‘They were acting under my orders.’

She shrugged. ‘I take it other people were injured, or killed, following the orders of someone else?’

‘Well—yes,’ he admitted.

‘And do you blame the officers for those deaths?’

He sighed. ‘I guess not.’

‘Then don’t blame yourself. If it hadn’t been your orders, it would’ve been someone else’s. I think you’re suffering enough without adding guilt to it. You just did your job, Marco.’

How had she become so wise? he wondered.

To his relief, she changed the subject back to his injury. ‘The first few days of physio, you’re just going to do some gentle exercises. These will help to prevent your tendons becoming stuck in your scar tissue.’

‘Stuck?’

‘Then Ethan would have to operate again. And the outcome might not be so good second time round.’

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘I’m under orders to do what you tell me.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘And a prince takes orders from ordinary people?’

Score one to her. ‘The rule is, medical orders outrank military orders.’

‘What about royal orders?’

He shrugged. ‘As far as I know, royal orders from Sirmontane only work inside my country. And right now I’m in your country, not mine.’

‘Touché.’ She sighed. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to snipe at you.’