The Desert Surgeon's Secret Son

B’hag’gejaheem—by hell, what was going on here?

Her voice was the same, velvety and rich like chocolate and red wine, but he’d never imagined it could sound so… cold. And that was nothing to how those whiskey eyes swept him as if examining an uncertain specimen and finding it deplorably wanting.

“Of course it was you.” She answered her own question with a flick of an elegant hand. “I’ve been here only two hours and I already realize nobody breathes here without your say-so, let alone thinks, speaks or acts.” She let go of his gaze, as if she found nothing about him of interest, hers sweeping around for something worthy of her attention. “I assume you want me to scrub?”

The answer that almost escaped his lips was, I want you to tell me who you are, and where Viv, the old Viv, is.

Where was the woman who’d fluttered around him, inundating him with hunger and appreciation? Though it had been an act, why wasn’t she continuing it now?

From experience he knew women went to any lengths to capture or resurrect prosperous men’s interests. And as one of the richest men in the world, a royal and a celebrated surgeon to boot, he defined prosperity, was one of the most vigorously pursued.

So was this her new act? The one she’d determined would reignite his interest?

If it was, it was succeeding. Spectacularly.

And why not? He’d play it her way. He’d give her all the rope she needed to hang herself. Then, when he’d had the satisfaction of looking her in the eye and reading her admission of defeat, he’d send her out of Omraania, out of his life. This time forever.

“Your assumptions are correct,” he finally drawled, advancing on her in steps he hoped looked measured when they were, in fact, impeded by lingering upheaval. “Those concerning yourself. I assure you I don’t surround myself with automatons or thralls.”

“Sure. Thanks for sharing that.” Sarcasm? He couldn’t be sure with her face and voice expressionless. “Will you, please, send your head non-automaton non-thrall to direct me to the OR where I’m needed after I’ve scrubbed? I’ll be exactly ten minutes.”

Sarcasm. His lips twitched, not on mirth, on indecision how to react. “Adnan isn’t one of my medical personnel. His role ended when he escorted you here. I’ll take over from here.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She moved toward one of the lockers. “So, what’s on the list this morning?”

“Ten surgeries.”

She didn’t bat a lid as she removed her jacket, exposing a sleeveless beige blouse. He came to a stop, his gaze trapped by the perfection of her arms. And even in these sterile surroundings, with everything else making erotic thoughts out of bounds, lust kicked in his loins. His mouth watered.

Seemingly oblivious to his state, she strode to the nearest sink, picked up a prepackaged, presterilized brush impregnated with surgical detergent, held her hands below the tap for the infrared sensor to kick in. “Care to elaborate?”

He tamped down the urge to stride to her, take her by those arms, run stinging-for-their-softness hands all over them before branding them with his tongue and teeth, tasting their cream, biting into their vitality.

Ya Ullah, he shouldn’t have abstained from feminine pleasures for so long. Now he was starved.

But no. He hadn’t been. Not until he’d seen her. So mental aversion hadn’t even dulled the sharpness of the hunger. So he hadn’t been cured, had only been an addict forced to abstain…

“Six minimally invasive procedures.” He supplied the answer a raised eyebrow pressed for, struggling to imbue his voice with a tone as offhand as hers. “Vascular and thoracic, one lumpectomy and one simple mastectomy, and two second-stage damage-control surgeries. All up your street, I believe?”

She nodded without looking at him as she wet her forearms to the elbows, assurance itself. “Dead center, yes.”

Then she began to scrub. Just as he felt he’d disappeared from her senses’ radar, she raised her eyes. “You have someone around to help me gown, or shall I go the solo route?”

He couldn’t answer right away. Not when his mind was being swamped with all the times he’d ungowned her, so to speak, exposing her to his impatience and hunger.

When he answered, his voice sounded like raking through gravel. “I’ll gown you.”

That exquisite eyebrow rose again. Had she heard the gruffness, known its import?

But her gaze wasn’t taunting, or knowing. It was empty. “I know I’m here to share a position with you, but isn’t gowning me taking the coworker thing outside the job description?”

Share a position. A thousand images inundated him, of every position he’d shared with her, the ecstasy they’d wrung from each other’s bodies in each. Had she meant the double entendre?

No. She hadn’t. He was sure her comment had been professional. If her dismissal of his authority could be called that. But there was no sexual innuendo in anything she said or did. Or she was a more undetectable actress than he’d imagined.

Thinking a closer look might avail him of better judgment, he closed in on her. “I assure you that helping fellow surgeons gown isn’t outside my job parameters.”

She finished scrubbing, held up her hands to drip-dry before picking up a sterile towel folded over the gown/glove packs and began a flawless drying technique. “Really? So does Crown Prince and Head of Surgery have Scrub Nurse or Circulator in the fine print of expected duties? Who would have thought?”

A jolt coursed through him again. No one talked to him like that. Ever. Not even her. Especially her. Not in the past.

But why the jolts? Had he come to expect deference beyond decorum and professionalism that it shocked him she was speaking freely in his presence? Admittedly, he hadn’t been approachable in recent years, but had she been right? Had he gone beyond maintaining the distance his status demanded into imposing a form of oppression?

Not that she was affected by whatever intimidation he emitted. She hurled out her thoughts as they formed.

“Isn’t life full of surprises?” he drawled, almost to himself.

She volunteered no answer to that but reached for a gown and began unfolding it, her sterile procedure perfect.

He advanced on her then, unable to stay away a second longer. The closer he got, the worse it got. Her scent reached out to him, enveloped him. Yes. This was it. Unchanged. Sweet and fragrant and exuding sensuality.

He reached her as she placed her arms inside the sleeves, circled her in one aching sweep, careful not to come into contact with any part of her. For sterile conditions, he told himself.

He began adjusting her scrubs around her lush body, focused on regulating his breathing, his urges. She stood there all through, eyes downcast, seemingly unbreathing.

He was tightening her belt when his surgical team entered the hall en masse.

He almost groaned in disappointment. Now he’d have no excuse to demand that she return the favor. She was already moving away, snapping on gloves on her own.

Resigned that this interlude had come to an end, that this face-off had gone against his expectations and certainly in her favor, he turned to his own scrubbing and gowning, acutely conscious of her every movement, every breath.

In minutes he turned to her again, impatient to continue his study of her—and sustained another shock.

She was smiling. At anesthesiologist Hisham Sukhr and resident Aneesah Othman. She hadn’t smiled at him since she’d walked into the hall. Not even a mockery of a formality.

She’d never smiled at him like that.

And he suddenly realized what had been missing from the smiles she’d once lavished on him. This, what flowed from her smile right now. Ease. She’d always been…tense, even forced, for the lack of more appropriate words, around him.

Had it been a manifestation of the artifice she’d practiced? Looking at her now, it was impossible to believe she was capable of artifice. Which was too stupid a thing to think.

Even more stupid was the surge of anger and animosity he felt as he watched the scene unfold. Anger toward her for showing him how delightful her ease was, but that he’d never warranted it. Animosity toward Hisham, his most trusted anesthesiologist, whose eyes sparkled with the covetous thoughts any male would have about Viv…

Ya Ullah. Was he on the verge of a breakdown, as Adnan insisted he was? Was he angry at Viv for not being cordial with him? Was he jealous that another man coveted her on sight? When in either case he should expect nothing less, nothing else?

It was time to put an end to this stupidity, get on with his plans. Before he forgot what they were and why he’d hatched them.

He moved to the door connecting to the OR he’d chosen. As the door slid open, he turned and a hush fell over the buzzing room.

“Now that Dr. LaSalle has introduced herself, we’re ready to start our list.” With that, he entered the OR.

Everyone followed in a silence loud with surprise that he hadn’t given Viv the esteem of a formal introduction and welcome in front of her future team and subordinates. From her there was only opacity. She’d closed her mind to him.

Viv walked into the OR last, struggling not to wobble.

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

She’d accepted the position because it dictated she’d meet Ghaleb possibly a couple of times initially, to set things up, then she wouldn’t see him again as she did his job when he wasn’t around. He shouldn’t be here, about to begin a ten-surgery list with her. Why wasn’t he leaving her to it?

This had to be a test. One he would have subjected anyone he’d install as his co-head to. A one-off. Yes. She could live with that. She thought. She hoped. If she survived the next hours…

Stop it. Why was she going to pieces like this?

But she knew why, didn’t she? She’d entered to scrub, had seen him standing there with his back to her, and it had been like being catapulted back to the past, to that time she’d sought him out, to sell him on choosing her for his research assistant’s position.

She’d seen him many times from afar till that moment, each time suffering a jolt of awareness at the power and charisma compounding the impact of his phenomenal looks and physique. She’d known he had the same effect on every female with a heartbeat, but had been convinced one close-up look would take care of all that.

Then he’d turned to her and her self-assurance had boiled and evaporated, then his answering awareness had turned hers into compulsion. She’d hurled herself at him, a moth fully aware of its fiery end yet hurtling deliriously toward the flame. Then he’d left her and her world had turned upside down. It had taken months to set it right. How could she let herself be taken by storm again?

Oh, she knew how. This time he’d turned to her only to show her her memories had been merciful. Or the years had been cruel, conspiring with maturity to chisel his physique to godlike perfection, hone his beauty and effect to lacerating levels.

She didn’t know how she’d looked at him, answered back. She guessed she’d launched into sarcastic mode, her automatic defense mechanism when overwhelmed. She barely remembered what she’d said, all her focus on keeping her face and tone empty so she hadn’t betrayed her upheaval to his scrutiny.

And, damn him, he’d scrutinized. His eyes, the eyes she would once have done anything to see igniting with approval, with passion, had left her face, only to travel over her, leaving burn marks wherever they landed, scorching away her hard-won stability.

While he’d been as stable as a mountain, betraying nothing at the sight of her but the certainty that he remembered her, and the same indifference with which he’d ignored her offer of her life to mess up for as long as he pleased. Then, as if he hadn’t treated her like a leper, as if they’d never even met before, her pitiful barbs breaking off his force field of assurance and superiority, he’d approached her like an inexorable storm, rattling every cell in her body with alarm and awareness. Then he’d gowned her.

He’d circled her, like a predator biding his time, giving his prey a nervous breakdown wondering if he’d pounce at once or if he was sated and was only playing, would prolong the sadistic game until he was hungry again. He’d let her feel him, quake with his nearness, had flayed her with his breath, his scent, his hands hovering over a body that was suddenly a battleground for every forbidden hunger and recollection, tugging at her with strings made of her gown’s ties, her cruel memory and his far more pitiless reality.

She didn’t know how she’d remained on her feet.

She had to stay away from him. For the time she was here, and until she reached a decision. She couldn’t let his effect tamper with her logic and self-control again. Sam. She was here for Sam.

But she couldn’t stay away right now. He was looking at her, clearly summoning her.

Rigid, grudging steps brought her opposite him, across the table he’d elected, as the well-oiled machine of his surgical team brought in the first two patients, placing one in front of them.

She cast her gaze to the patient being placed at the next station. She may be here to settle a personal issue, but she’d also signed a contract, had made a commitment to do the best job she could, as she always did. She’d better locate her misplaced composure and professionalism.

She gulped down a steadying breath, forced her eyes to seek his. The moment those obsidian infernos slammed into her she was tempted to say Let the test begin or Do your worst.

Instead, she said, “Where do you want me?”

Back in my office, spread on my desk, naked and open and begging for me.

Ghaleb gritted his teeth. These lust attacks were getting preposterous. And infuriating.

He harnessed his anger—at her for the weakness only she had ever engendered in him, at himself for letting her still wield that power—and emptied his gaze. “I want you right here.”

“You mean I’ll take this patient?”

“I mean you’ll work with me on this patient.”

“Two patients, two so-called head surgeons handling one. Anything wrong with that picture, I wonder?”

“We’ll handle every patient together. Es-Sayed Elwan in station two was brought in now because it’ll take the length of es-Sayedah Afaf’s operation to get him prepped.”

She gave him a glance that made him feel she was probing him, fathoming his motivations.

Then, without giving away her conclusions, she turned to their sedated patient, took in the field of surgery being prepped. “So, what will it be for her? Lumpectomy or simple mastectomy?”

“Lumpectomy.” He asked for their patient’s films to be clipped on the backlit screen feet away. Viv examined them.

She was back in a minute. “Localized tumor in a breast with no signs of lymph-node involvement.” She murmured her diagnosis, mirroring his. “Perfect for a breast-conserving procedure. Will she have radiation of the rest of the breast afterwards, or is the lumpectomy the limit of her treatment?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugged as she examined the woman’s breast, translating X-ray evidence into the physical one. “I ask because she must be over seventy and some schools of treatment think radiation doesn’t offer a better prognosis for her age group. I don’t know if your center subscribes to this belief or not.”

“What would be your recommendation?”

“Radiation afterwards, no question, if her general condition allows it. Even though women of her age are said not to be at risk of a hormonally induced recurrence and therefore wouldn’t benefit from radiation while risking a higher incidence of its side effects, recent research overwhelmingly proves those receiving radiation remain free of cancer longer than women who don’t.”

“And what do you think my center opts for?”

“How would I know? You may be the most advanced center in the world but I’ve seen many who run a close second who suffer from unchanging attitudes and biases toward new research. Superiority spawns prejudice, not to mention an all-knowing streak and the tendency to play God.”

And that had to be a double entendre. Making reference to the way he’d walked away from her?

He didn’t see a connection but was certain this summation wasn’t all about the pompous and misguided decisions and views many highly regarded surgeons and medical establishments made and advertised.

Unable to fathom the rebuff he felt singeing him, he drawled, “Let me assure you that at the Jobail Advanced Medical Center we embrace all substantiated research and commit a major part of our resources, human and financial, to furthering said research and to cementing its results into facts. Radiation after lumpectomy for older women is our recommendation.”

She only gave a nod, continued examining the patient.

Just like that? No comment? No more digs?

No. None. Was that what she’d become? Not given to saying a word more than necessary? Closing a subject once it had been satisfactorily resolved? What had happened to cause that reversal? Where had the gushing, hyperactive, excitable young woman gone? Where had this serene, stable and centered woman sprung from?

And was now the time to ponder such mysteries, ya ghabbi?

Exhaling his frustration, he murmured for a scalpel. Once it was in his palm, he stared at it. He’d almost forgotten his plan. Now he remembered, he no longer wanted to go through with it.

Before he gave in to another impulse, he extended the scalpel to her. “You do the honors.”

She didn’t spare him a glance as she palmed the scalpel, adjusted her position. Before he opened his mouth, she made a sure-handed incision around the areola. The approach he hadn’t had time to recommend, maximizing accessibility to the tumor.

He moved forward, tension draining by degrees as he fell into step with her, assisting her as she accessed the tumor and extracted it with a surrounding layer of healthy tissue, somehow managing to leave the breast looking untouched.

She placed the specimen in a collection vial and one of his nurses hurried with it to the adjacent lab. Viv turned her eyes to him, all he could see of her behind her mask.

“We’ll have our verdict in minutes,” he murmured. “You can move on to the next step while we wait.”

She at once made an incision in their patient’s armpit.

He tensed. “Removing the axillary lymph nodes?”

“I’m going for sentinel node biopsy.” She paused. “You have a different course of action?”

He didn’t. He gestured for her to go ahead.

She started dissecting the first node. His muscles tightened, ready to jump in. This was where surgeons of less than extensive experience messed up. But with every fluid, precise movement of her hands his tension eased. He couldn’t have done it better.

After he sent another nurse to the lab with the nodes, they spent the following minutes exchanging opinions.

The nurses came back with a favorable verdict and the rest of his tension dissipated. It ratcheted up again at Viv’s tremulous exhalation. He studied her, gauged her reaction.

Yes. There it was. Unmistakable. What echoed inside him.

She validated his analysis when she murmured, “Now I can hope this procedure will be the last es-Sayedah Afaf will suffer on account of that tumor.”

He muttered his corroboration. And as if to show him that was of no consequence to her, she removed the drain he’d inserted, murmured for suturing materials, then proceeded to give es-Sayedah Afaf one of the most undetectable suture jobs he’d ever seen.

They finally pulled back from the table, leaving the others to wrap up, and Viv slipped from the chair she’d asked for in mid-surgery and stretched her back. His eyes clung to her movements, each accessing memories of nights when he’d massaged that resilient back, luxuriating in her feel, in her pleasure, before he’d mounted her, given her what by then she’d been whimpering for…

He remained seated. He’d remain seated until she’d long left the OR, otherwise he’d have a scandal on his hands.

He realized she was looking at him when his face began to burn. He swung his eyes back to her, found her gaze on him, steady, neutral. Then she only said, “Next.”

And for the next ten hours, even forgoing a lunch break, they went through the varied, demanding list. By the time their last patient was wheeled to Resuscitation, there was no doubt in his mind anymore.

Doubts had started to crumble with that first incision she’d made. From then on, as she’d passed every test he’d thrown at her with ease and confidence, they’d disintegrated faster. They now lay pulverized at his feet. He had the verdict of his own eyes.

The only thing she’d been guilty of had probably been to understate her skills. As a diagnostician she was uncanny; as a surgeon she was unparalleled.

And he couldn’t believe how much that upset him.

It meant she really could just be here for the job.

Everything validated this theory. Her every nuance said she’d become the opposite of her old accommodating, approval-seeking self. Her antagonism had been superbly leashed in front of those she believed she’d oversee, but it had been unmistakable to him. And it was no act to whet his interest. His approval was the last thing she coveted. And it outraged him.

It was contrary of him when he had every reason not to wish for any personal reaction or interaction with her.

But now she was withholding it he wanted it, had to have it.

He would have it.

He would also find out how she’d become the woman who’d stood up to him, who’d surprised him at every turn, the woman he’d depended on through some of the most demanding surgeries possible.

And when he did so, he’d find out what her game was this time. He was certain there was far more than met the eye to Dr. Vivienne LaSalle.

But her secrets would be surrendered. He wouldn’t think of a next step until he was in possession of every last one.

Viv staggered into the—thankfully deserted—ladies’ room, groped for the support of the nearest solid surface.

Her hand slipped off the quartz vanity top. She barely steadied herself then met her reflection in the mirror—and gasped.

It was like looking at the worst days of her life.

She looked nothing like the scrawny, sunburned, crackling-with-need woman Ghaleb had used and discarded. It was her expression—the vulnerability, the despondency she’d become resigned to after Ghaleb had left and throughout her pregnancy.

Bile rose, mortification splashing through her system, melting the grip of resurrected insecurity and misery.

She was damned if she’d let herself sink back into those. She was double-damned if she let him affect her this way, or at all.

But, damn it all, he did affect her. Worse than before. He got to her so badly she’d had to ask for a chair during surgery for the first time ever, murmuring something stupid about jet lag.

It seemed absolute power and endless privileges agreed more and more with Ghaleb the longer he had them. And he knew his effect, used it.

One thing made it all bearable. She’d passed his test. And then some. She’d almost had a nervous breakdown holding up under his pressure, but she had. She let reaction rack her now.

In hindsight, she would have preferred it if he’d forgotten her name, had hired her unaware it was her then been enraged at seeing her and sent her out of Omraania on the spot. The more she thought of it, the more she didn’t understand why he had hired her for such a position when he’d once thought her beneath the position she’d begged him for, that of a mistress he would frequent on his infrequent visits to the U.S. Was he really that detached and professional?

What was going on in that convoluted mind of his?