Italian Surgeon to the Stars

Praise for Melanie Milburne

‘Fast-paced, passionate and simply irresistible, Sydney Harbour Hospital: Lexi’s Secret is a powerful tale of redemption, hope and second chances that sparkles with richly drawn characters, warm-hearted pathos, tender emotion, sizzling sensuality and uplifting romance.’

—CataRomance

‘A tale of new beginnings, redemption and hope that will make readers chuckle as well as wipe away a tear. A compelling medical drama about letting go of the past and seizing the day, it is fast-paced and sparkles with mesmerising emotion and intense passion.’

—GoodReads on Their Most Forbidden Fling

From as soon as MELANIE MILBURNE could pick up a pen she knew she wanted to write. It was when she picked up her first Mills & Boon® at seventeen that she realised she wanted to write romance. After being distracted for a few years by meeting and marrying her own handsome hero, surgeon husband Steve, and having two boys, plus completing a Masters of Education and becoming a nationally ranked athlete (Masters’ swimming), she decided to write. Five submissions later she sold her first book and is now a multi-published, bestselling, award-winning USA TODAY author. In 2008 she won the Australian Readers’ Association most popular category/series romance, and in 2011 she won the prestigious Romance Writers of Australia R*BY award.

Melanie loves to hear from her readers via her website, melaniemilburne.com.au, or on Facebook: facebook.com/melanie.milburne

After completing a degree in journalism, working in the advertising industry, then becoming a stay-at-home mum, Robin Gianna had what she calls her ‘midlife awakening’. She decided she wanted to write the romance novels she’d loved since her teens, and embarked on that quest by joining RWA, Central Ohio Fiction Writers, and working hard at learning the craft.

She loves sharing the journey with her characters, helping them through obstacles and problems to find their own happily-ever-afters. When not writing, Robin likes to create in her kitchen, dig in the dirt, and enjoy life with her tolerant husband, three great kids, drooling bulldog and grouchy Siamese cat.

To learn more about her work visit her website:

RobinGianna.com

Italian Surgeon to the Stars

Melanie Milburne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

One of the things I love about being a writer is that I never have to look very far for the characters for my stories. They nearly always come looking for me. Jem Clark is one such character.

I wrote Jem’s younger sister Bertie’s story, A Date with Her Valentine Doc, with the intention of it being a one-off first person Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™ especially for St Valentine’s Day. (By the way, I had so much fun writing that story!) But right from the start Jem was there, with her story just waiting to be told. In fact she was so real to me I sent an email to my editor using her voice!

Jem is a strong and sharp-tongued young woman, with a take-no-prisoners attitude. You have been warned!

Thankfully, I didn’t have to look very far for my hero, Alessandro Lucioni. My Mills & Boon® Modern™ Romance readers will already know how much I love an Italian alpha hero—and a deeply tortured one even more so.

I hope you enjoy Italian Surgeon to the Stars as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Warmest wishes

Melanie Milburne

To Amy Thompson—a fellow poodle-lover, a fantastic friend and a fabulous beauty therapist. You are one of the sweetest and kindest people I know. xxx

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Melanie Milburne

About the Author

Title Page

Dear Reader

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

EVEN THOUGH I’M a fully qualified teacher I still hate getting called into the headmistress’s office. I get this nervous prickle in my stomach, like a bunch of ants are tiptoeing around in there on stilettos. My knees feel woolly and unstable. My heart starts to hammer.

It’s a programmed response from my childhood. I was rubbish at school. I mean really rubbish. Which is kind of ironic since I ended up a teacher at the prestigious Emily Sudgrove School for Girls in Bath, but that’s another story.

Being called in to the office nearly always means there’s a problem with one of the parents—a complaint or a criticism over how I’m handling one of their little darlings. Everyone knows helicopter parents are bad news. But, believe me, fighter pilot ones are even worse.

I stood outside the closed door and took a calming breath before I knocked on the door and entered.

‘Ah, here she is now,’ said Miss Fletcher, the headmistress, with a polished professional smile. ‘Jem, this is Dr Alessandro Lucioni—a new parent.’

The words were like a closed-fist punch to my heart. Bang. I’m sure it missed a beat. Maybe two. Possibly three. I stood there with a blank expression on my face … or at least I hoped it was blank. God forbid I should show any sign of the shock that was currently rocketing through me.

Alessandro was a parent? A father? He was married? He was in love?

The words were like a ticker tape running through my head. But then it flipped off its spool and flickered in a tangled knot inside my head. One of the stray tapes wrapped itself around my heart and squeezed until it hurt.

Alessandro gave a formal nod and held out a hand. ‘Miss Clark.’

I stared at his hand. That hand had known every inch of my body. That hand had coached me to my first orgasm. Those long, clever fingers had made me feel things I hadn’t felt before or since. The sight of that hand made memories I’d locked away twist and writhe and wriggle out of their shackles and run amok with my emotions. I could feel the spread of heat flowing through me. Furnace-hot heat. Heat that made me acutely aware of my sexuality and the needs and urges I usually staunchly, stubbornly, furiously ignored.

I brought my gaze up to his unreadable one. So he wasn’t going to let on that he knew me. Biblically or literally. Fine. I would play the same game.

‘Welcome to Emily Sudgrove,’ I said, and put my hand in his. His fingers were cool and strong, and closed around mine with just enough pressure to remind me of the sensual power he’d once had over me.

Okay. Forget about once. I admit it. He still had it over me. I felt the tingle of the contact. The nerves of my fingers and hand were lighting up like fairy lights on a tree. Sparking. Fizzing. Wanting.

‘Thank you,’ he said, with a brief flicker of his lips that passed for a smile—but I noticed it didn’t make the distance to his eyes.

Oh, dear Lordy me, his eyes! They were a dark lustrous brown. Darker than chocolate. Strong eyes. Eyes that could melt frozen butter like a blowtorch. Eyes that could be sexily hooded and smouldering when he was in the mood for sex. Eyes that could make my blood sing through my veins with just a look.

I felt his gaze move over my face in an assessing manner. I hoped he wasn’t noticing my eyebrows needed shaping. Why hadn’t I made the time for a bit of lady landscaping? Why, oh, why hadn’t I used the hair straightener that morning? My hair is my biggest bugbear. I hate my corkscrew curls. For most of my life I’ve had to endure dumb blonde jokes. At least when I tame my hair it gives me a little more credibility, or so I like to think.

Think. Now, there’s an idea. But my brain wasn’t capable of rational thought. I was in fight-or-flight mode. I wanted to get away from Alessandro—as I’d been doing for the last five years.

I’d seen glimpses of him from time to time. He’d saved the life of a London theatre actor a couple of years ago, which had made him into a celebrity doctor. He’s a heart surgeon. A pretty darn good one too—I have to give him that. He ripped my heart right out of my chest without anaesthetic. Oh, and the reason he’s called ‘Dr’, and not Mr like other surgeons, is because he’s done a PhD on top of his arduous training.

Talk about an overachiever. And people think I’m a workaholic. I reckon his business card would have to be one of those fold-out concertina ones, like those old-fashioned postcards, to accommodate all the letters after his name.

I saw him just a couple of weeks ago in Knightsbridge, when I was having lunch with my younger sister Bertie. He didn’t see me, thank God. He was with a blonde. A gorgeous supermodel type, with legs up to her armpits and perfect skin, perfectly shaped eyebrows and perfectly smooth straight hair. The type of woman he’s been seen out and about with ever since our relationship. Luckily my sister didn’t recognise him—or if she did she knew better than to say anything.

Urgh. I hate thinking about my relationship with Alessandro. I hate even using that term. It wasn’t a relationship—not for him, anyway. I was a rebound. That’s another word I loathe. I was a consolation prize. Not Miss Right, but Miss Will Do.

‘Dr Lucioni has enrolled his niece into your class, Jem,’ Miss Fletcher said into the canyon of silence.

Niece?

An inexplicable sense of relief collided with shock. He had a sister? A niece? Relatives? He’d told me he was an orphan.

I’d been amazed at how well he had done for himself when he had no one to back him. Not many people get to where he has without a leg-up somewhere along the way. But on the rare occasions when he spoke of his past he’d told me his parents died when he was a teenager and he had put himself through school and then medical school by working three jobs. There was no family money. No extended family support.

What other lies had he fed me?

I looked at him with a quizzical frown. ‘You have a sister?’

Something moved at the back of his eyes, like a stage-hand darting back into the shadows behind the curtains between acts.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She’s currently unwell, and I’m taking care of Claudia until she recovers.’

His voice … Holy guacamole. His voice was like a caress to my sex-starved body. It stroked over me like a sensual hand, making the base of my spine melt like a marshmallow in front of a campfire. The deepness of it, the mellifluous tone of it, the Sicilian accent even years living outside his homeland hadn’t been able to remove.

That voice had told me things I had no business believing. I had fallen for every word. Every shallow promise I had taken to heart. I was ashamed of how stupid I’d been. Deeply and cringingly ashamed.

I’d spent years scoffing at my hippie parents for falling for the latest fad and then I’d gone and done the same. I’d latched on to Alessandro like a directionless follower does a guru. I’d worshipped him. I’d been prepared to give up all I had to be with him. I would have walked—no, crawled on my knees—over glass or razorblades or burning coals or a pit of hissing vipers to be with him.

But what I’d thought we had was a sham. It was all smoke and mirrors. He hadn’t loved me at all. I was payback to the woman who’d dumped him for a richer man.

‘Claudia will be boarding with us,’ Miss Fletcher said.

I swung my gaze back to Alessandro’s. ‘Boarding?’

His expression gave nothing away. ‘I work long, sometimes unpredictable, hours at the hospital.’

I teach six and seven-year-olds. Key Stage One as we call it in the UK. Grade One in the US and other parts of the world. I know children in the UK go to boarding school a lot younger than anywhere else, but sometimes it’s a good thing. Sometimes. If a family is dysfunctional or not coping with the demands of kids then a well-run boarding school is a good option. Maybe even the best option in some cases. But I worry about kids who are shunted off before they’re emotionally ready.

Boarding school can be a brutal place for a child who is overly sensitive. I have a history of oversensitivity, so I kind of know about these things.

Mind you, I never went to boarding school. Maybe if I had my childhood would have been a little less chaotic. My sister and I were hauled out of school when we were six and seven respectively and taken off to live in a commune in the Yorkshire moors, where we were supposed to learn through play. We were there two whole years before the authorities tracked us down and stepped in.

My sister Bertie’s playing and learning was clearly of a much higher standard than mine, because she was a year ahead of her peers when she was placed back in the system. Unfortunately I was behind. Way, way behind. It took me years to catch up, and even now whenever I don’t know the answer to something I get that same sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach—a feeling of inadequacy, of not being smart enough, of not quite making the grade.

It doesn’t take a psychotherapist to understand why I chose to teach at a posh girls’ school. I needed to prove to myself that I was good enough to teach in one of the best schools in the country. But the thing I’ve come to realise is that it doesn’t matter how rich or poor your parents are—children are the same the world over. Some are strong academically; others, like me, can wangle the social side to their advantage. I made the art of fitting in into a science. I totally nailed it. Even though at times I compromised myself.

Alessandro was watching me with that same unfathomable expression on his face. Why had he chosen my school? There were dozens of boarding schools across the country. Why The Emily Sudgrove School for Girls in Bath? He worked in one of London’s top hospitals. He lived in Belgravia. Yes, Belgravia. I told you he’d done well for himself. Why didn’t he enrol his niece in a school closer to where he lived?

‘Dr Lucioni would like a tour of the school,’ Miss Fletcher said.

Her name was Clementine, but no one was allowed to call her that. She was proudly single and preferred Miss to Ms. She believed in formal address from her staff to establish respect, although she always called us by our Christian names when the children weren’t around.

‘Will you see to that, Jem?’ she added.

‘Sure,’ I said brightly.

See how good I am at playing the game? Show no fear. That was my credo. It comes in pretty useful as a teacher too. You’d be surprised at how knee-knockingly scary some six or seven-year-olds can be. Although nothing compares to a six-foot-three hot Sicilian guy you once had monkey sex with, but still …

‘Come this way,’ I said.

I felt him just behind me as I walked out of the office. If I stopped he would cannon into me. I was tempted to stop. It had been a long time since a man had touched me, even by accident. I’m no nun, but neither have I been getting out there much. Not lately. Not since …

I had to really think before I could remember. Ah, yes, I remember now. I had a blind date with a friend of a friend’s older brother a couple of years ago. God, what a disaster that was. No wonder I don’t like remembering it. He was on something illegal and kept leaving the table where we were having dinner to have another snort. It took me a while to realise what was going on. The third time he said he needed the bathroom I ordered the most expensive wine on the wine list, drank half a glass and then left him to sort out the bill. I don’t let men walk all over me any more. I get in first.

Speaking of illegal … There should be a law against men as good-looking at Alessandro Lucioni. I know the tall, dark and handsome tag is a bit of a cliché, but he’s exactly that. Tall and olive-skinned, and with the sort of looks that would make any woman between the ages of fourteen and fifty throw herself on the nearest bed and beg to be ravished by him.

He has sharply chiselled cheekbones and a prominent brow that gives him a slightly intimidating air whenever he frowns. His hair is thick and plentiful and not quite short, not quite long, but somewhere fashionably in between. He looks like one of those dishy European aftershave models. That day his hair was brushed back off his forehead, and it looked like the last time he’d done it he had used his fingers.

I wished I could stop thinking about his fingers. I was breaking out into a hot flush. I could feel it deep in my core. That subtle tensing of my girly bits as I recalled the way he had stroked me there. I pressed my knees together, but that only made it worse.

‘This is the … erm … library,’ I said as I pushed open the door.

He stood waiting for me to go in before him. He had excellent manners. That’s another thing I have to give him. Ladies first—that’s his credo. Yikes, why couldn’t I stop thinking about sex?

I turned on my heel and walked in with my head high, waving my hand to encompass the shelves and shelves of books. ‘We at Emily Sudgrove Academy pride ourselves on giving our girls a broad choice in reading material which is both age-appropriate while giving them the opportunity in which to extend their reading range.’

I sounded like I was reading it from the school information booklet—which is not surprising since I was the one who rewrote the latest edition.

‘Jem.’

I get called by my name, or at least the shortened version of it, all the time. There was no reason why my legs should suddenly feel as if the bones had been taken out. Or for my heart to beat extra quickly and my chest to feel tight, as if something rapidly expanding had taken up all the space in there. But something about the way Alessandro said my name made the base of my spine tingle.

I took a slow deep breath and turned to face him with my Key Stage One teacher face on. My sister Bertie calls it my Miss Prim and Proper face. Apparently I’ve been doing it since I was a little kid, which is kind of ironic since nothing about our childhood was anywhere close to being prim and proper.

‘Miss Clark,’ I said, with a tight smile that didn’t reveal my teeth. ‘We at Emily Sudgrove believe in teaching our girls proper forms of address, so as to equip them with the necessary tools to—’

‘Why did you run away the other week in London?’

I tried to keep my expression composed. I hadn’t realised he’d seen me that day. It made me cringe to think he’d witnessed my panicked bolt via the kitchen of the restaurant Bertie and I had been lunching in. But I hated seeing him with his lovers, either in the press or in the flesh. He was in and out of relationships like a cab driver in and out of his cab. I swear to God he should have a revolving door in his bedroom. Or a ticketing machine—like the ones in the deli to keep people from jumping the queue.

‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘You must have mistaken someone else for me.’

The corner of his mouth tipped up in a knowing smile. It was only a slight hitch of his lips but it was enough to set my pulse racing.

‘I could never mistake you for anyone else, cara mio.’

This time I didn’t bother with the composed expression. I frowned. I glared. I bristled. ‘Do not call me that. It’s Miss Clark.’

The hitch of his lips went higher, as if he found my stand-off amusing. ‘How long have you been teaching here?’ he asked.

I made an effort to relax my shoulders. Keep it cool and professional. I could do this as long as I forgot about our history. ‘Five years.’

His brows moved together over his dark eyes. ‘Since Paris, then?’

Paris. The city of love.

Yeah, right. The city of bitter disappointment, if you ask me. I hate Paris now. I can’t even bring myself to look at a baguette without wanting to throw up or hit someone over the head with it. Or both.

I brought up my chin. ‘I was ready for a change.’

His frown had melted away as if it had never been, but I got the feeling he was thinking about our time together. Shuffling through the memories like someone searching for something in a long neglected drawer. I could see the distant look in his gaze. I got the same look in mine if I allowed myself to think of that whirlwind month in Paris.

But then he blinked and rearranged his features into a cool mask. ‘I chose this school because it’s close to where I live.’

My heart gave a lurch. ‘You live nearby?’

‘I’ve bought a property in the countryside, just outside of Bath,’ he said.

‘Then why are you boarding your niece?’

‘It’s being renovated at present,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s a safe place for a young child.’

‘So what will you do once it is?’ I asked. ‘Take her to live with you? Or will you be too busy travelling back and forth to London?’ And sleeping with anyone with a pulse, I wanted to add but didn’t.

He’d selected a book from the bookshelves and was turning it over in his hands. It was a Beatrix Potter book. My mother had a thing about Beatrix Potter. Hence Bertie’s name—Beatrix, but don’t call her that unless you want her to hate you—and my name. Had he chosen the book deliberately? Reminding me of the connection we’d once had?

I hadn’t told him everything about my childhood but I’d told him a lot. Well, maybe not a lot—more like a bit. There was stuff I hadn’t even told Bertie, close as we were. There were some things it was best not to talk about. Best not to even think about. I’m good at avoidance. Avoidance is my middle name … Well, it’s not—but it could be.

Bertie and I don’t have middle names. Our parents didn’t believe in them. I suspect it’s because they have about four or five apiece and can never remember them. My parents both come from aristocratic backgrounds. I figure it’s a whole lot easier being a hippie when someone else is paying the bills. But don’t get me started …

I watched as Alessandro slid the book back into place on the shelf. As his index fingertip slowly slid down the slim spine I felt a traitorous quake of lust roll through me. I squeezed my thighs together to stop the thrumming sensation. Like that was ever going to work. Just being in the same room as him was enough to make me come. That voice. Those eyes. Those hands. That delicious body …

I drank in the sight of him. The broad shoulders, the strong back and lean hips, the long legs and taut buttocks. I had run my hands and lips and tongue over every inch of that body. I had learned how to give and receive pleasure instead of being frozen with fear. A fear I hadn’t told him about. Well, not the truth, anyway.

I told him my first time had been ‘a bit unpleasant’. I didn’t go into the details of exactly how unpleasant. I refuse to see myself as a victim. I don’t even see myself as a survivor. I’m a fighter. I’m strong and tough and I take no crap from anyone.

Alessandro turned and his gaze locked with mine. ‘You look good, Jem.’

That’s another thing I hate. Compliments. I never believe them.

I’ve never considered myself beautiful. Even though I’m blonde and blue-eyed and slim, with a decent set of boobs—who I am to talk about clichés?—I have hang-ups about my looks. I’ve got my father’s nose and my mother’s cheekbones. I’ve got my maternal grandmother’s hair and my paternal grandfather’s chin. I don’t know whose eyes I’ve got, but I sure hope they can see without them! Seriously, it’s like all the bad bits of everyone in my family were cobbled together to make me. Thanks a bunch, God, or whoever it is in charge of genetics.