How to Resist a Heartbreaker

‘Celebrating?’

‘I think so.’ It paid to be cautious. The first twenty-four hours were often the decider, although with transplants the decider could be years down the track. He’d laid it all out to Mitch and Jodi, plain and simple; Jamie’s operation had resulted in a functioning kidney, but a lot could still go wrong. Too much.

He didn’t want to go there. Emotions had no place in a surgeon’s work and in his career he’d always managed that—but saving his nephew’s life? That was all kinds of different.

Bill slid the beer bottle across the bar, his eyebrows raised in understanding. The great boutique beer, plus the fact the staff never asked questions or gave advice, was the reason The Shed was Max’s home away from home. After a heavy day of intense surgery he relished the chance to de-stress the best way he could in familiar surroundings, followed by some kind of hot physical workout—a bed was optional.

Here in the public bar there was no one save a couple from the phlebotomy unit and a single woman a few seats down with her back to him. A mass of thick dark curls covered her shoulders.

His gaze drifted down her straight back, stopping short at the taut line of the black long-sleeved blouse stretched across her spine. Her dress was more funereal than fun, so much so he wondered why she’d be in party central. Most girls here showed far more skin. Intrigued, his gaze travelled over the narrow dip of her waist. The flair of her skirt over a decent amount of hip. The right amount.

He imagined running his palm over those curves.

Running a cool hand over the back of his neck instead, he eased the tension in his shoulders. Man. After eight hours of surgery his hyped muscles needed a release. And he knew the perfect way.

A quick drink first. Then hit the back bar. Then … maybe … who knew? The night was still young.

‘Barman? Excuse me? Hey.’ The curls shivered as the woman raised her hand. ‘Excuse me. Another mojito, please.’

Bill’s pupils widened as he leaned across the bar to Max, his voice low. ‘Been here an hour. Had three already.’

Following Bill’s line of vision, Max caught a view of her face. In an urgent and acute response something twisted in his gut, tightened with an awareness that was full and powerful. Hell. It had been a long time since he’d had that kind of immediate reaction to a woman.

Her hair framed a soft face, kissable lips with a smattering of red lipstick. Almost perfect features—cute nose, a dusting of freckles. She was the kind of woman any man would give a second glance to. And most would chance a third. But the clip in her voice screamed that she was a woman not to be messed with.

So of course his interest ratcheted up the scale. Fiery women always presented a challenge. And, boy, did Max love a challenge. He hadn’t become Auckland’s most successful transplant surgeon without pushing a few boundaries.

Okay—a lot of boundaries.

She caught him looking at her but he refused to look away.

Her eyes. Wow. Large, dark, almond-shaped, glittering with something. Hurt? Anger?

Which in itself was a warning sign. But, hell, a conversation didn’t mean a whole lot of anything. And if it went further—he’d lay out his intentions from the get-go. Starting with nothing deep and meaningful. Ending with don’t ask for forever.

Max leaned across the bar to Bill. ‘Is she waiting for someone? Been stood up?’

The barman shook his head. ‘Nah. Don’t think so. She hasn’t checked her phone or looked at her watch.’

Good. Not stepping on anyone’s toes. He didn’t break that brotherhood code as easily as others. As easily as Mitchell had. Max raised his beer to her. ‘Tough day?’

‘And getting tougher by the minute.’ She took her refreshed drink and turned her back to him.

‘Okay, I get it. You don’t want to talk, right?’

Swivelling round, she gave him a full-tilt death stare. Definitely anger in her eyes. Hurt was a distant cousin. ‘Gee, whatever gave you that idea? Very sorry, but my back’s not feeling very chatty tonight.’ She turned away again, but not quite as far as she’d gone before.

‘Watch you don’t get whiplash with all the swivelling around.’ He caught her profile. The uplift of her chin. Tight lips.

And very possibly the hint of smile.

He’d been on the verge of leaving, but the fading smile reeled him in.

Never one to admit defeat, he slid into the seat next to her, determined to make that smile last a little longer. ‘It’s okay. We don’t have to talk.’

‘Get out of here. Really?’ Her ribcage rose and fell quickly as she turned to face him, slim fingers running a diamond locket along a thin silver chain at her throat.

Her dark gaze slid from his face down his body and back again. ‘People actually say that? Is it from Cheesy Pick-ups for Dummies?’ She held up her hand. ‘Wait. No. It’s a phone app, right? Lame Lines for Getting Laid. ’

‘Ouch. Cruel. I’m mortally wounded.’ He touched his heart for effect. ‘Actually, it’s from Just trying to be friendly dot com. But forget it. I’ll leave you in peace.’

She blinked. ‘No. I’m sorry. Come on, hit me with another line.’

‘That was my best shot. I’m all out.’ He winked, took his phone out and whispered, ‘Quick. Help me out here. What was that app called again?’

‘Yeah, right. Like you’d need it.’ She laughed. The glitter in her eyes turned to one of humour. Her mouth kicked up at the corners—she was fighting it, but he’d made her laugh. And that gave him a sharp punch of pride to his gut. She clearly got a kick out of the sparring and, hell, judging by the effect of that smile on his libido, so did he.

Her eyebrows lifted. ‘You must have some more lines? Surely? Tell you what—you try them on me and I’ll rate them out of ten. Then no other poor unsuspecting woman has to put up with the bad ones.’

‘Okay.’ He took a slug of beer and rose to the bait. If it meant a few more minutes laughing with her, then game on. Then he’d go out back. ‘My friend’s all-time favourite was “Hey, darling, do your legs hurt from running through my dreams all night?”’

‘No. No. No. Stop. Running away from a nightmare, more like.’ She grimaced and put her fingers in her ears. ‘That’s terrible. A very poor three. Please don’t tell me people actually use that?’ Her head tipped back a little as she laughed.

He was mesmerised by the delicate curve of her throat. Imagined placing a kiss in the dip lined with the silver chain. When she leaned forward again he got a delicate scent of flowers. Made him want to inhale way more deeply than he should.

Boy, he definitely needed to get out more.

She shook her head. ‘Was that your best shot? You are so bad at this.’

‘Thank God, I’ve never needed them. Obviously.’

‘The worst one I ever heard was “Is your dad a baker? Because you’ve got a nice set of buns.”’ She snorted into her drink, then pointed to her face. ‘Hey. Eyes up here.’

‘Clearly he was a good judge of … character.’ Max reluctantly dragged his gaze from the swell of her blouse-covered breasts back to her smiling mouth. Whatever shadows had been haunting her when he’d arrived had gone. Her eyes shone clear and bright. Job done. ‘Seriously, you just looked like you could do with cheering up.’

‘And you voted yourself cheerleader? How sweet.’ Her eyes narrowed and she pointed at him. ‘But I was managing just fine without the benefit of your help. Now you should go. Thank you.’

Huh? This was new. He hadn’t been knocked back for a very long time.

Adrenalin pumped round his veins. Instinct told him they could have fun together—and his instinct was rarely wrong. That and the fact he always liked to win meant he’d have to up his game. The chase usually lasted all of two seconds once they knew who he was, what he did. ‘And yet here you are, smiling … er?’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Max.’

‘Max.’ She paused, clicked her fingers together. ‘Max … Max Maitland. You’re that guy. Thought I’d seen you before.’

‘Seen me where?’ Because he sure as hell hadn’t seen her. He’d have remembered.

‘I had my first-day orientation on the paediatric high dependency unit today. While you were doing your rounds I looked after little Jamie for a few hours. He’s gorgeous.’

‘Yes. Yes, he is.’ A weird tightness squeezed his chest. He breathed it out, chalked it up to the long day. He’d just left Jamie sleeping soundly in his mother’s arms, tubes and drains permitting. He’d looked so small, still a baby really. Renal failure sucked at any age—but at three? The world wasn’t fair. He quickly checked his phone. No messages. No news was good news. ‘He’s my nephew.’