Phoebe's Baby Bombshell
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JC Harroway
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PROLOGUE
DR PHOEBE MASON maintained her composed smile as her colleague, world-renowned neonatal surgeon Zachary Archer, respectfully contradicted her opinion, flashing her the mildly apologetic version of his confident smile before giving his answer to the member of the audience.
Phoebe shivered, gripping the microphone tighter, both flattered by his flirty look and niggled that he’d failed to agree with her suggested management of patent ductus arteriosus, or PDA.
Of course she could handle his professional challenge. As Head of Neonatal Surgery at Sydney Central Hospital, she was usually considered the expert at the Advances in Neonatal Surgery conference, which this year was being held in Brisbane. But with the presence of Dr Archer, a man known for his unfailing self-belief, ambition and that intuitive edge that some people deemed arrogance, the questions posed to the panel of experts on the stage had never been more vigorously debated.
‘...and while the recommended intervention for pre-term neonates of this age and weight is open heart surgery,’ Zachary Archer said, glancing pointedly at Phoebe once more so a titter of nervous laughter passed around the auditorium, ‘I have had success with cardiac catheterisation in patients weighing as little as seven hundred grams.’
Catching the spark of rivalry in his gunmetal-grey eyes, Phoebe looked away, fighting the urge to say something...provocative. While they had attended conferences together before, they’d never actually met. But there had always been something about Zach Archer that called to the woman in her, a woman who had little time and even less inclination for the demands of a personal life. Except something about the way he’d looked at her with amusement twitching his lips and interest in his eyes made her raise the microphone to address the audience once more.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘while a trans-catheter closure of PDA is minimally invasive and therefore preferable in terms of operative risk reduction and shortened recovery time for the patient, I think we can all agree that, with the exception of my esteemed colleague Dr Archer, for the more...cautious surgeon, open heart surgery is considered standard for very low birth weight patients.’
‘Next question,’ the panel facilitator stated, carrying the microphone to another audience member with their hand raised.
Aware of her heart thundering with excitement, Phoebe kept her gaze averted from Zachary and stifled her smile. Even so, she sensed his observation, felt it slither over her skin like a wisp of silk. If they were alone and not seated on a stage watched by three hundred delegates, they would definitely be flirting.
What was wrong with her? She hardly ever flirted.
Perhaps it was because today was her fortieth birthday. Perhaps because it was the final day of the conference. Tomorrow she’d return to Sydney, to her jam-packed week at work. Her friends were determined to organise a celebratory night on the town for the milestone, but coordinating everyone’s schedules was an impossible task. But it seemed her neglected femininity, not happy to be short-changed, had had enough of work and had staged a revolt, raised an army of hormones targeted at the most single man in the room. Zach Archer was also a notorious commitment-shy bachelor, married to his job, which included high-profile charity work for global neonatal charity Nurture, for which he was often in the media.
Phoebe took some long, slow breaths, dismissing the unexpectedly fierce flare of attraction. The arrival of the big four zero had never bothered her before. She was happy with her career, had all the social contact she required with her mum and her wonderful friends Ali, Harper and Ivy, fellow doctors at Sydney Central Hospital. She’d even recently taken up yoga.
Life was good.
The discussion topic switched to the treatment of Tetralogy of Fallot, and Phoebe passed the microphone to the woman seated to her left, smoothing her palm down her thigh, straightening the wrinkle in her charcoal skirt.
As the conversation once more highlighted the contrast between her surgical approach and that of Dr Archer, she couldn’t help but wonder if the sparks demonstrated in their professional differences of opinion would transfer to the bedroom...
Later that evening, at the close of conference social event in the hotel bar, Phoebe sipped her boozy cocktail, the Hanky Panky, for which the cocktail lounge was renowned. Set on the ground floor of the hotel, the dimly lit and luxuriously decorated bar was chic and sophisticated. Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors opened onto the street outside allowing in the warm sultry air and sounds of the vibrant city.
As her conversation with a professor at Sydney’s University Hospital—a man with the bushiest grey eyebrows Phoebe had ever seen—came to an end, she found her gaze wandering the gathering, seeking out Zachary Archer. A little light flirtation with someone her own age, someone unmarried and, like her, uninterested in a relationship, might be just the birthday celebration she needed.
She took another gulp of the cocktail, the sinking feeling in her stomach telling her that her sexy colleague had probably already left Brisbane. He grew up in Sydney, but rarely spent any time there. Instead, he travelled the world, consulting on complex cases and performing surgeries that would make other specialists quake in their theatre shoes.
Her degree of dejection forced her to recall the last time she’d been on a date. Was it that guy Ali had set her up with? Some cousin of Ali’s cousin whose divorce had just been finalised...? Struggling to picture the man who had been so dull that, by the end of the evening, Phoebe had resented that she had shaved her legs and dressed up, she resigned herself to finishing her Hanky-Panky and heading upstairs to her hotel room to pack her weekend bag.
‘Dr Mason.’ Over her shoulder a deep voice drawled, sending thrilling little shivers down Phoebe’s spine.
She knew that voice, had struggled to erase it from her head since they’d clashed on the discussion panel that afternoon. Spinning, she faced Zachary, matching his confident smile with one of her own.
‘Dr Archer,’ she said, her voice emerging calm and unruffled while her stomach took a pleasurable tumble. He wore dark jeans and a claret-coloured slim-fit shirt that made the gold flecks in his eyes pop and outlined his broad chest and ripped physique.
‘You can call me Zach.’ He held out his hand and Phoebe took it, steeling herself against the physical contact.
‘Phoebe,’ she said, sliding her hand from his warm and firm grip.
Why was his brand of confidence, intuition and work discipline so attractive? Or was it just that as a single, self-confessed workaholic he represented the ultimate in unattainable men and therefore was a perfectly suited partner for some harmless flirtatious banter?
You don’t need a man, darling.
Her mother’s often recited mantra played in her head as she willed her pulse to calm down after that handshake. It was true, she didn’t, but she could want one every now and then, especially when they were as tempting as Zach.
‘So you disagree with my methods?’ he said in his direct way, diving straight back into their earlier debate on their surgical interventions of choice. The intense stare was back too, a hint of playfulness and a whole lot of interest.
‘Only the risky ones.’ One of the reasons Phoebe loved her job taking care of tiny, vulnerable babies was because it tapped into the protective aspects of her personality, ones that developed from a childhood of being close to her single-parent mother after being abandoned by her father.
‘Are you offended? Is your ego horribly bruised?’ Phoebe smiled up at him—even with her wearing heels, he was still taller—her eyes batting as if of their own accord, no doubt fuelled by the gin in her cocktail.
Zach’s smile widened, the white of his teeth flashing in the dim lighting. ‘It takes a lot more than a little friendly professional debate to damage my ego, I assure you.’
‘That’s good.’ Laughing, Phoebe sipped her lethally strong drink. ‘We couldn’t have your reputation tarnished by a little healthy competition, now, could we?’ Aware she’d slipped seamlessly into full-on flirting mode, Phoebe resolved to sound less breathless the next time she spoke. If he wanted her, she wasn’t going to do the grunt work for him.
‘I’m not sure which of my reputations you’re referring to,’ he said conspiratorially, dipping his head closer and dropping his deep voice, ‘but I am always open to friendly rivalry, although you should know that I always win. Ask my three siblings.’
His broad smile and cool grey eyes were full of playfulness.
Phoebe laughed again, enjoying herself. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ As if of their own accord, her feet inched her into his personal space until she was bathed in the heat radiating from his body. She rarely let her hair down, and while her professional success was ultimately fulfilling, she was still a red-blooded woman who deserved to celebrate her birthday. Sparring with him certainly beat packing her bag and an early night.
‘The fun is in being the best.’ He stepped closer, raised his glass—a high-ball full of ice and amber liquid—to hers and they clinked them together, his stare dipping to her mouth when she took another hasty swallow to conceal her body’s eager reaction.
Phoebe rolled her eyes at his arrogance. He didn’t need any encouragement. His drive and determination reigned supreme. He knew what he wanted and made it happen.
Did he want her?
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Zach,’ she said, her breathing tight. ‘You might convince me that you’re overcompensating.’
As if answering her unvoiced question, he shot her a look of pure, unadulterated heat, bending forward to breathe his reply close to her ear. ‘Trust me, I’m the best in all areas of my life.’
The tickle of his breath down her neck made Phoebe’s head spin with longing.
He straightened, held her gaze, stared through the suspenseful few seconds that passed and then took a lazy sip from his glass.
Left in no doubt of his interest, Phoebe swallowed hard. ‘Well, cheers to that,’ she said, her voice a little croaky.
‘Can I get you another drink?’ he asked, seeing that she was almost done with her cocktail.
‘Perhaps.’ Although she was tipsy after one. ‘It is my birthday today, the big four zero.’
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Well, then, happy birthday, Phoebe.’ He spoke her name in his low and seductive voice, his stare tracing her features and landing back on her mouth.
It was highly distracting. All she could think about was what it would feel like to kiss him. Was she seriously contemplating taking this to the next level?
As they gazed at each other, non-verbal communication passing between them, the rest of the bar’s patrons seemed to disappear. ‘So, are you leaving Brisbane tomorrow?’
That wasn’t too obvious a question. And unless she sensed that, like her, Zach was only interested in commitment-free sex—a one-off, no strings—she would back off.
He nodded. ‘I’m off to the UK tomorrow. I have a three-month visiting-surgeon post at London Children’s Hospital.’ To stop her being jostled by a man carrying four drinks through the throng, Zach took her elbow and guided her closer.
He smelled divine, his expensive-smelling aftershave tickling her nose. Trying not to swoon, Phoebe widened her eyes at his news, impressed. The fact that he was leaving Australia tomorrow solidified her thoughts. Their respective departures in the morning provided a neat end to what could be a perfect night. A gift to herself.
‘Well,’ she said, draining the last of her drink, her stare drawn to the open neck of his shirt and the tantalising peek of his chest, ‘I’ll decline that offer of a drink, thanks. These cocktails are lethal and you should probably get some sleep before your early flight. That long haul to London is punishing.’
Reading her subtext, he dipped his excited gaze to her mouth, where she licked the last of the sweet cocktail from her lips. ‘I probably should.’
She held out her hand, holding his eye contact as her pulse tripped wildly. ‘I’m glad we finally had the opportunity to meet. The debate was...stimulating.’
‘I’m glad I could oblige and look forward to our next discussion.’ Zach took her hand, this time lingering, his warm grip electrifying the nerves of her arm.
To an observer, they would appear as professional colleagues, shaking hands, the delicious tendrils of sexual chemistry ensnaring them invisible.
‘Although, sometimes,’ she said, practically whispering now, so turned on by the white-hot smoulder in his stare, she needed to get away from him before the entire bar noticed, ‘actions speak louder than words.’ Reluctantly releasing his hand, she took one of her hotel-room key cards from her pocket and discreetly pressed it into his hand, her intention loud and clear.
His pupils dilated, his jaw muscles bunching as if he was as desperate to conceal his desires as Phoebe as their fingers brushed. He gripped the card, gripped her hand, holding her captive for a few suspended seconds.
‘You’re sure?’ he asked, his voice low in the crowded and noisy bar.
She nodded, excitement bubbling up in her chest. This thing between them had been brewing all day. They clearly wanted the same thing. ‘Absolutely. Room six-three-nine. One night.’
‘I can work with that,’ he agreed.
They might differ in their professional approaches, her independence and his competitive streak meant they would likely disagree on most things, but when it came to pleasure, they obviously spoke the same language.
Slipping her hand from his, Phoebe left the bar on shaky legs and headed towards the hotel lifts, certain that, after a discreet amount of time, he would follow.
She entered the lift and smiled at her reflection in the mirrored interior whispering ‘Happy birthday...’ under her breath.
