Forbidden Nights with the Surgeon
Autor:in
Charlotte Hawkes
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CHAPTER ONE
HENRIK ‘RIK’ MAGNUSSON—or Henrik Jansen, as he supposed he should call himself, now that he knew that to be his real name—cast his eye around the ballroom of the opulent venue that was hosting tonight’s exclusive medical gala, and his eye caught her straight away.
The arresting stranger was standing within a small group, smiling politely, a part of it and yet somehow not. She wore a long blue-grey ball gown with a plunging neckline that nonetheless only offered brief, tantalising glimpses of what lay beyond. No more than any other woman in the room—decidedly less, in fact—and yet he couldn’t seem to stop staring.
And when she lifted her eyes and looked right at him—as though some sixth sense had compelled her to do—Rik couldn’t find a way to drag his gaze away.
But he had to.
Because he wasn’t here to be distracted. And because he hadn’t earned his hated reputation as den iskalla Munk—the stone-cold monk—for nothing.
A split second later, though he couldn’t have said how, his focus was back where it belonged—namely, in the architecturally stunning room.
The place was unequivocally magnificent, from its stone columns to the vaulted, ornately crafted stone ceiling, some twenty-five feet above their heads. Clearly no expense had been spared with the opulent décor, with flower garlands wound lovingly around the pillars, the ornate iron fretwork and over the expansive arched doorways.
Even the big band playing flawlessly on the dais couldn’t have been more perfectly selected for the occasion. The architecture of the room enhanced the acoustics spectacularly.
But it was the guest list that was even more striking.
The ballroom heaved and swelled with the monied and influential, all of whom were here because it was the place to be seen, rather than because of any deeply held charitable values. These people were only eager to part with their money if it meant they were the subject of a sharp, media-bound photograph with the gala’s keynote speaker—the eminent plastic surgeon to the stars, Magnus Jansen. Or perhaps with his rising star surgeon son, Basilius Jansen.
Whilst Rik himself remained, well...if not invisible—it was impossible to stay unnoticed given his six-foot-three, blond-haired Viking appearance attracting admiring glances wherever he went—then at least anonymous. Certainly no one here had any idea that he, too, was a Jansen.
And how would they? Indeed, for thirty-six years—up until six months ago, in fact—neither had he.
As far as the world was concerned, there were only two Jansen miracle men. The renowned Magnus Jansen, who headlined for his skill both as a surgeon and as a playboy, and his son Bas, who the media feverishly declared had come for his father’s crown on both counts.
Either way, there was no second son. No third Jansen. Bas—it was universally agreed—had broken the mould.
Rik knew that even if he got up on that stage and declared who he was to the entire ballroom, no one would believe that he was the young Lothario surgeon’s brother.
People certainly wouldn’t believe that he was Bas’s long-lost twin—and not just because they weren’t identical.
Besides, he would never do something as wild as declaring it to everyone. That kind of impulsive, spirited daring had never been him. There had only ever been room for one wild, crazy Magnusson brother—as they’d both once believed they were—with a flair for the dramatic, Rik thought with a pang of nostalgia. And that person had always been Bas.
A low punch walloped into Rik’s gut, as he weaved an efficient path around the room. It seemed that even the mere name of his beloved, long-lost brother echoed through the neural pathways of his mind much as an ethereal spirit might haunt the corridors of some medieval castle. It conjured up dusty memories of a childhood that Rik could never really have described as ‘happy’, but which—thanks to Mrs P, and Bertie, and the irrepressible Bas himself—had nonetheless offered some happier moments. Some love.
The past almost thirty years had been notably lacking in either. He’d had friends, of course, and girlfriends at uni, but that visceral loss he’d felt as a seven-year-old meant that he’d never felt truly able to let anyone in completely. He’d been trapped in some dark dungeon of his mother’s creation. Because, as far as Erin Sundberg was concerned, why should she be the only one to suffer if she could cause pain to those around her, too?
Had it not been for Bas, Rik knew he would have cut Erin out of his life. The same day that his fifteen-year-old self had finally had enough of being his stepfather’s punchbag, and had walked out of the so-called family home once and for all. The only reason he hadn’t turned his back on Erin completely had been because he’d been desperately hoping for just one scrap of information from her that might help him to finally track down the brother he’d always idolised as a kid.
And still, she had deliberately said nothing. Raising him as a Magnusson—wilfully letting him search for Bas Magnusson for the better part of three decades—had just been the tip of her deception, not that he’d realised it at the time. And then a year ago, she’d finally died, taking her secrets to her grave—snuffing out his hopes in the cruellest act of all.
Another circuit of the ballroom completed, Rik moved up the luxuriously carpeted stairs to survey the floor beyond, shocked when his eyes instinctively sought out that tall vision in blue-grey from before.
Since when had he believed in self-sabotage? That wasn’t his style. He was more renowned for his dogged determination. Even if Bas wasn’t here—and Rik was beginning to suspect that he wasn’t—was that any reason to let himself be distracted?
This time, however, instead of snatching his focus back to the room, Rik found his eyes lingering on the figure. Allowing his gaze to track down as he took in the narrow blue velvet ribbon belt that circled a waist that his hands suddenly itched to span, before falling away to a full flowing skirt that skimmed the polished wooden floor as she moved.
More than that, those movements made her sparkle captivatingly—and Rik feared it had nothing to do with the subtle, glittery patterns, almost like fireworks, that shimmered as she moved.
Den iskalla Munk, he reproved himself tacitly—coldly—dragging his eyes away once more, ignoring the fact that this time it was even harder to do so than last time.
How could he be distracted tonight, of all nights? Being here was supposed to be about finally reconnecting with the brother he’d thought he’d never see again.
As if that could somehow kick-start the life Rik felt had been on hold, all these years.
With Bas gone, it was as if the light had been snuffed out in his little seven-year-old’s world. He had frozen over. And that thing in his chest that most people called a heart had initially petrified. Then, as the decades had marched inexorably by, it had ultimately crumbled, leaving a nothingness in its wake.
Stone-cold, indeed. Rik knew it, and in a twisted way he welcomed it.
Far better to have shut himself off, than to have the people he loved snatched from him, one by one. Mrs P. Bertie. Bas.
He had never dreamed that there could be a chance to resurrect anything from that petrified dust.
Shaking off the odd, unfamiliar feelings, Rik tried to keep his focus on the ball.
Indeed, if it hadn’t been for a chance encounter six months back, he would still have no idea of the Jansen connection, even now. No idea that Magnus Jansen was his father—not somebody Magnusson—and no idea that he should be looking for Bas Jansen.
That one nugget of information had been enough to allow Rik to finally track them down. And even though his letters to Bas hadn’t been returned, it hadn’t stopped Rik from making his way here—both to the UK, and to this monied medical ball—where the hospital grapevine had led him to believe that his now playboy brother would be guaranteed to attend.
Yet there was no sign of Bas anywhere. It seemed another circuit of the room was in order.
Dropping back down the steps, Rik moved skilfully through the crowd as it swelled and heaved, deftly avoiding the flirtatious women stepping into his path. He didn’t need the distraction, and one-night stands had never been his style.
He’d seen from the cradle just what they could do. His mother flaunting her indiscretions to get a rise out of his stepfather, which had invariably resulted in the angry drunk taking it out on him and Bas and then, once Bas had gone—just him.
It was why he’d decided long ago that he would never, never permit anyone, or anything, to get under his skin. Even as a kid, Rik had known he’d begun to turn into himself, just as Bas had begun to act out.
Now, thirty years on, Rik was beginning to learn that not a lot seemed to have changed. His brother was apparently still daring—a fun, coveted playboy—whilst he himself had his own decidedly less scandalous reputations.
Aside from the Stone Monk, he was known as den ishand kirurg—the ice-hand surgeon. Because his hand never shook, and he never made a mistake.
So why did tonight feel like a bomb inside him, waiting to explode?
Dragging himself back to the moment, Rik decided to make one more sweep of the ballroom, and if there was still no sign of Bas, then he would return to his hotel suite upstairs, and he would try to find his brother again, in the morning.
However much the idea frustrated him.
Executing a sharp about-turn, Rik ploughed a fresh path through the parting throng. From the snippets of conversation he was catching, it appeared that he wasn’t the only one to be speculating on the party-loving Bas Jansen’s unexpected absence.
So much for tonight’s reconciliation. It was time to cut his losses and leave.
‘Excuse me,’ he muttered automatically as someone stepped into his path.
Another woman wearing the familiar expression that inevitably meant she was keen to introduce herself to him. Rik smiled and returned the greeting, before expertly disengaging himself, but as he moved her aside and continued his striding to the exit, he might have known that flash of blue-grey would, once again, seize his attention.
Before he could stop himself, he had turned. Looked. And this time, there was no fighting the attraction that had been arcing between them from that first shared glance.
It shot through him like a thousand volts. Only somehow thrilling, rather than deadly.
A plethora of thoughts crowded his usually logical brain, but the one that pounded in his mind loudest of all was that he’d been right. That shimmering, dazzling, breathtaking light wasn’t coming from her sparkling dress—it was a brilliance that was all hers. A lustre. She was the real draw. The reason he couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away. The reason he didn’t want to.
Without even knowing what he was doing, Rik plunged back into the crowd, and it didn’t matter that he lost sight of her for a moment because his body suddenly seemed to have an inbuilt compass, and it was heading directly to her.
It was almost a relief when the stranger disappeared into the swell of guests, Grace Henley told herself, as she fought to remember how to breathe again.
It was an unsettling experience. Hadn’t she made herself immune to any man years ago? Near enough a decade and a half ago, to be a little more precise.
And yet the impact of this particular man’s gaze had landed on her like a net around a butterfly, trapping her without even having to touch her. Just as it had that first time. And the second. Not that she was much of a butterfly, more like a wallflower.
Even so, each time he’d emerged from the crowd—each time his eyes had seemed to find hers—she hadn’t been able to move, or breathe, or even blink.
And then he’d disappeared, and the net cage around her had simply...evaporated.
Grace glanced surreptitiously at her watch for the hundredth time already that night and gave herself a half-grin, half-grimace.
It was finally time that she could make her excuses and leave—not that anyone was likely to be bothered. She wouldn’t have even been at the ball had Bas—the closest thing she’d ever had to a best friend—not demanded it of her. Some cryptic request to look out for ‘anything unusual’.
But there was nothing unusual about this gala. It was as predictably magnificent and depressing as ever. She would far rather be in the operating room saving mums and babies than networking with a bunch of people who thought money and the latest designer accessories were matters of life and death.
It was only Bas who had made these things fun for her. Even if it was just her amusement at watching him fend off the advances of a multitude of women throwing themselves—sometimes quite literally—at one half of the eminent Jansen duo.
Look up playboy surgeon on any Internet search, and a picture of Bas or Magnus, or even both of them, would surely appear.
But there was another side to Bas, her friend. A side that was raw, and sad, but fiercely loyal. And she’d thought it was perhaps that friendship that she’d miss the most when she finally left Thorncroft Royal Infirmary.
She’d planned to share her plan tonight. To explain that she’d recently begun to feel restless. Unsettled. That her reason for coming here—coming back here, if she was going to be strictly accurate—had begun to fade, and that there was a part of her—a guilty, secretive slither inside her—that had begun to think it was time to move somewhere other than Thorncroft.
Though she couldn’t tell Bas why. She’d never been able to share that long-buried secret with anyone. Perhaps it was the sheer, crushing pressure of it that had finally convinced her that it was time to go.
So, tonight was supposed to have been the night she’d been going to broach it with him. She’d rehearsed her speech so many times. And then he’d called with the most startling news she thought she’d ever heard. That he was about to become a father.
The irony of it hadn’t been lost on Grace.
But there’d been no time to dwell. Worse than that—far worse—had been the fact that she’d been the one to have to tell the accidental couple that there was something wrong with their baby. No parent wanted to hear that their baby was going to need complex surgery within days of its birth.
God, it had just been a horrific night, all around. The sooner she got home, to a hot shower, a light movie, and her cat, the better. And she didn’t care what that made her sound like.
Taking her leave from the cluster of guests around her—who had only really stopped to talk to her because they’d wanted to know where the ‘incredible Bas’ was—Grace turned with relief, ducked her head and hurried away.
Straight into some unyielding, muscled wall of a man.
‘Oof.’ Her breath was knocked out of her, even as a pair of strong hands reached out to steady her.
‘Ursåkta mig. Excuse me.’
By the way her blood pressure was affected, she didn’t need to lift her head to guess who the man was.
‘Sorry...that was... I wasn’t looking where I was going,’ she blurted out awkwardly.
‘Don’t be sorry.’
But his voice was muffled somehow. Distant. It took her a moment to process that it might have something to do with the fact that she was still held against a solid, hot, unmistakeably male chest.
Sinfully defined.
Grace felt her palms begin to actually itch with the effort of not reaching out to touch it. She lifted her head slowly, so slowly, and half wished she hadn’t. And it was impossible to say what affected her most. The electricity that arced through her at his touch, the exquisitely low rumble of his sensual male voice, or the breath-stealing masculine beauty of what had to be one of the most stunning men she’d ever seen in her life.
Seeing him from a distance had been one thing, but up close was a whole different experience. And she didn’t feel like a wallflower any longer—not with this stunning man staring down at her.
The man who had been causing a series of rumblings through much of the female contingency of tonight’s illustrious guest list. No wonder a dozen or so pairs of baleful, heavily fake-lashed eyes were launching sharp, invisible daggers into her from all sides.
And still, Grace couldn’t seem to move her body. To escape. So, instead, she allowed herself to indulge for a moment.
The man was six-foot-three, at a guess, and incredibly well-built, with broad shoulders and a strong neck, not too thick. He looked like some kind of model and, in a way, she hoped he was.
The last thing Thorncroft Royal Infirmary needed, she decided, with some inexplicable degree of maniacal amusement, was another wild Lothario like Bas. The man might be the closest thing she’d ever had to a best friend, but she wasn’t oblivious to the trail of broken hearts in his wake.
Two heartbreakers would be more than the hospital—than the entire county—could possibly cope with.
And still, she couldn’t seem to drag her eyes from his. She felt pinned to the spot, barely able to breathe let alone move—though the rest of the ballroom seemed to have faded into nothingness.
Her pulse hammered hectically in her neck, at her wrists, and somewhere else—somewhere lower, however much she tried to deny it—and whatever she might try, Grace knew there was no calming it. As long as this man’s gaze was on her, its chaotic pace was beyond her control.
Like something she might have read about in one of those thrilling magazine stories she’d sneakily read as a kid—before her academic of a mother had thrown them out, loftily reminding her that she had a whole library of far more intellectually stimulating journals and classical masterpieces to choose from. As if it had been the Great Library of Alexandria, rather than the book collection right there in the front room of their bland, suburban, three-bedroom family house.
But, right in this instant, Grace couldn’t think of a single one of those dusty tomes that could possibly have been more stimulating than whatever it was that she was pretending she wasn’t feeling just now.
This scraping, shimmering thrill that made her body feel as though it was more awake than it had ever been in her life before. And then, he spoke.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
Inexplicably, the corners of her mouth tugged upwards despite her suddenly jangling nerves.
‘It’s an open bar.’
Why had she said that?
Grace frowned—though whether at her own gaucheness or at her uncharacteristic reaction to the stranger, she couldn’t quite be sure. She should have just accepted. Now she looked as though she wasn’t interested.
Which, of course, she wasn’t.
So why was she still standing in front of him? Waiting?
Everything about the man screamed wealth and power, which meant that he was most likely a wealthy guest. A man accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. The kind of man with whom she definitely didn’t want to share her future.
Grace blinked abruptly.
Since when had she started to think of sharing her life with someone again?
That was a dream that she’d let go of when she was sixteen—in that one year that had changed everything. The year she never talked about. The year she was never allowed to talk about.
Was this all part of the way everything had been shifting inside her recently? Could it be that her decision to leave Thorncroft meant that she was finally ready to let go of the past, and move on with her life?
Obviously not with this stranger. But, after years of being the wallflower and watching other people have fun, maybe this was her place to start. A flirt and drink, at a party, with a handsome man, didn’t seem a bad place to begin.
It certainly accounted for why she was still standing in the same spot, still staring at the beautiful stranger as she waited for the world to stop spinning and willing herself to say something. Anything. Though preferably something at least slightly witty.
‘Do you work at Thorncroft Royal Infirmary?’
So, not witty at all, then. Embarrassing.
