Awakened by Her Brooding Brazilian
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Ann McIntosh
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CHAPTER ONE
IF THERE WAS one thing beyond his medical specialty of plastic surgery that Dr. Francisco Carvalho knew, it was fashion, and Dr. Krysta Simpson’s formal attire made him almost want to cry.
It was not that it was cheap looking. On the contrary, she’d probably paid a pretty penny for the gown, and the design of the dress, with soft draping at the neckline and cinched waist, was impeccable.
No. He could find no fault with the gown itself, even if it were outdated, but on Dr. Simpson it was a micron away from being an abomination.
Firstly, it was at least one size too big, and hung on her like a sack. Secondly, the celadon silk washed out her complexion—which was toasty brown with rich coppery undertones and freckles—making her look sallow.
To cap it all, her shoes would be more suitable for a woman three times her age, with fallen arches and an abiding distain for anything feminine or fashionable.
Who wore clunky flats with a formal dress?
Apparently, Dr. Simpson did.
It didn’t help that she was standing beside a beautiful woman wearing a lovely, infinitely flattering teal, one-shouldered gown. Francisco didn’t recognize her, and figured she must be another of the foreign specialists. On her other side was Dr. Flávia Maura, a well-respected researcher into the use of snake and spider venom to treat cancer and other diseases. He’d been surprised when she walked in, since she was in a gorgeous, shimmering green dress, and he’d never seen her in anything other than cargo pants, boots and a T-shirt. She looked fashionable and glamorous, especially in contrast to Krysta Simpson.
Yet, Francisco couldn’t help admiring Dr. Simpson’s aplomb. She was chatting away with all the insouciance of a woman wearing a bespoke haute-couture outfit, completely unaware of the way she stuck out in the stylishly dressed crowd.
And who could blame her for her confidence? In Francisco’s mind, she was a medical goddess of sorts. Not even thirty years old and already a leader in her combined fields of otolaryngology and facial reconstruction, Dr. Krysta Simpson had been making waves in the medical community for the last five years. More if you considered the fact that she was the youngest woman to graduate medical school with those particular specialties. When she’d been picked to work on one of the finest facial transplant teams in the world, no one who’d followed her career was surprised. Her research papers were must-reads in the plastic surgery community, if one wanted to keep current, learn about new techniques and get a feel for what was coming in the future.
After hearing her give a talk at a symposium in Lisbon three years ago, Francisco’s one wish had been to speak to her and pick her brain further. When she’d quietly slipped away from the conference and he’d missed that chance, his disappointment had been acute. So, on hearing she was traveling to São Paulo as part of Hospital Universitário Paulista’s summer lecture program, he’d hardly believed his luck.
Even more exciting was hearing she’d be performing a mandibular reconstruction on the Brazilian billionaire, Enzo Dos Santos, while there, and Francisco being pegged to assist. Being able to see her in action in theater would be the highlight of his career.
He’d been waiting for a chance to approach her since the welcoming soiree started, but was reluctant to interrupt her conversation. Instead of simply marching over there, he’d been casually circling, inching closer in the crowd. If he wasn’t careful, the cocktail portion of the evening would come to a close without him even introducing himself.
He was only about five feet away from her now. Sipping the sparkling water he’d gotten from a waiter, he considered how best to approach. It was testament to how much he’d changed over the last few years. In the past, there’d be no hesitation. That younger Francisco had been supremely sure of himself and his place in the world he inhabited, even though much of that bravado was ill deserved, and had caused more problems than anything else.
The older, wiser man was more watchful, wary. All too cognizant of the way people could misconstrue and misinterpret the most innocent or casual action. The last thing he needed was for her to think he was kissing up to her.
It may have been years since the end of his engagement to Mari, but the unfairness of how he’d been treated by the press, and by people he’d thought of as friends, still stung. It had left him isolated, and unwilling to open himself up to others, for fear of being betrayed again.
Leaving Rio had felt like making a fresh start, but unfortunately his was a face, and a name, all too recognizable. His problems had followed him to São Paulo like a phantasm that had decided to haunt him forever. Luckily, work kept him busy and gave him little time to stew on the way his life had turned out. And now, getting to work with Dr. Simpson gave him something tangible to look forward to.
Ah, there. Flávia Maura was walking away, and the woman in the teal dress put her hand on Krysta Simpson’s arm, seemingly to take her leave as well. As she stepped away in Flávia’s wake, and Francisco was about to move toward where Dr. Simpson still stood, he heard the distinctive, dismissive voice of Dr. Silvio Delgado, oncologist.
“The hospital should be more careful of their reputation. First they hire the crazy selvagem woman, then the gigolo, and to add insult to injury, they then bring some frump in to lecture. This one looks like a street person.”
Francisco’s fingers twitched as he reined in the impulse to plant his fist in the other man’s face. The situation’s only saving grace, in his estimation, was that Delgado spoke in Portuguese, the comment aimed squarely at Francisco and Flávia, rather than Dr. Simpson. The chances of the visiting doctors understanding the nasty comments were slim.
Even as he had the thought, he saw Flávia stop and look back, her brows coming together in a scowl, no doubt at being called a “jungle woman,” and Krysta Simpson turned, too, her dark eyes zeroing in on Delgado. Francisco’s heart sank momentarily, thinking Dr. Simpson actually knew what was said, but there was no hurt or anger on her face, just curiosity.
When Francisco had first starting modeling at the age of fifteen, his manager and mentor, Caro, had told him, “You must practice different looks, Cisco, so you are always ready to give the photographers exactly what they want. Remember, there are no words to tell the viewer what they should feel. The only clue is in your appearance.”
He’d heeded her, of course. The money he made with his face and body was the only way he could achieve his dream of being a doctor. It had felt silly at the time, but he’d done as she’d asked, and developed a repertoire of expressions hailed as impressive.
Now, he put that art to good use.
He turned his head and, as expected, found Delgado’s beady, malicious gaze trained on him. Looking down his nose at the shorter man, he met that stare squarely, and allowed his face to fall into an expression of such hauteur he might well have been a king.
You are a worm.
Uncouth.
Dust beneath my feet.
Unworthy of even a moment’s more consideration.
All this and worse his expression said, and he saw the exact moment Delgado read it aright. Red washed the other man’s face, his nostrils flared slightly and his lips all but disappeared as he pressed them together.
Then Francisco slowly turned his head away, knowing the gesture to be the final insulting blow to the man who felt himself above anyone not from his social circle.
The circle Mari was born into, and Francisco had walked away from, knowing it wasn’t anywhere he belonged. Or wanted to belong.
There was a muffled curse from Delgado’s direction, a titter from someone else in the vicinity, but Francisco paid neither any mind.
Instead, he walked purposefully toward Dr. Simpson, releasing his irritation along with a long, silent exhale through his nose.
Working with Dr. Simpson was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he’d allow nothing—no one—to interfere with it.
Krysta knew herself to be an overachiever, no matter what intellectual journey she embarked on, a trait her therapist had suggested, ad nauseam, she try to dial back. There’d been no reason to immerse herself in learning Portuguese over the last six months since she’d agreed to come to Brazil, but in her mind, there was also no reason not to.
It wasn’t as though she had a life outside of work—another issue her therapist encouraged her to try to change.
Now, she was glad she’d turned what one colleague had called her “diabolical focus” on learning the language. Being able to understand what was being said, especially when others didn’t know you could, was a handy thing indeed.
While she couldn’t understand all of the words, she surmised some of them were aimed at the way she was dressed. She was used to it, and whenever she got a strange look or overheard a comment, it rolled right off her.
There were many things in life she really didn’t give a fig about. While she could admire other people’s clothes sense, or even beautiful tropical decor like that of the room they were in, it was in a distant, disinterested way. She never became emotionally involved with, nor was she particularly moved by, beauty. She’d stood in the Sistine Chapel and thought more about how the painting had been achieved than about how lovely it was.
And that disinterest carried over to her wardrobe.
The dress she was wearing had been bought in London five years before, when she’d suddenly realized she had nothing to wear to a formal dinner. She’d asked the concierge at the hotel for the name of a boutique, gone there, walked in and grabbed the first dress she’d seen. That had caused considerable consternation among the staff, who’d wanted to advise her or, at the very least, force her to try it on.
Krysta had refused, pulling out her card to pay for it. The woman behind the counter had looked as though she might cry, but valiantly tried one more delaying tactic.
Would madam like a pair of shoes to go with the gown?
No, madam would not.
Not when every pair of shoes she saw scattered about the store had sky-high heels!
So, being ridiculed for her appearance meant less than nothing to her. In fact, there was benefit to looking frumpy. Others took you seriously, rather than focusing on your figure, or the fact you were female. The only area of life that mattered was her work: the research and surgeries she undertook in hopes of helping some of those who needed it.
Those things took all the emotional energy she had to expend.
On top of that, even if she were inclined to take umbrage, there was no mistaking the true target of the comments was the tall, exceedingly handsome fellow the other man had been sneering at. The same man striding across the floor toward her. She believed he’d been referred to as a gigolo...
And his reaction had been amazing.
Everyone, doctors in particular, had a look they gave those who were being especially displeasing, dense or obstructionist. Krysta’s included a deadpan stare and lifted eyebrow, which usually was effective. But she’d never, ever seen such a steely, arrogant expression of distaste on anyone’s face before.
How she wished she could pull that off, the next time someone crossed her!
Then there was no more time for rumination, since the man in question came to an abrupt halt in front of her, surprising her no end, since she’d thought he’d go straight by. She found herself looking up into a strong, almost lupine face with intent light brown eyes, and a zing of awareness fired down her spine. Even she, no expert on attractiveness, instinctively knew this man would turn every head wherever he went.
He certainly seemed able to turn hers.
“Dr. Simpson.” It wasn’t a question, so Krysta just looked up at him silently, noting the steely expression wasn’t gone from his gaze, but was merely muted. “My name is Dr. Francisco Carvalho, and it’s my great pleasure to meet you.”
His deep, accented tones seemed to vibrate into her bones in the most surprising way, but she smiled politely as they shook hands, recognizing the name. He was one of the craniofacial surgeons she’d be working with, but he’d missed the video conference calls they’d had regarding the Dos Santos case. It would have been nice to have warning of his attractiveness before this!
“Nice to meet you, too, Dr. Carvalho.”
“I am a great fan of yours,” he said. “I saw you in Lisbon, speaking about the use of titanium in three-dimensional printing for facial reconstruction, and had hoped to speak more with you after the lecture. I also recently read, with great interest, your paper on the development of new, lighter polymers for the same purpose.”
Now there was a shocker.
“But that paper was released only a couple of days ago.”
He shrugged lightly, the tiniest of smiles tipping his lips momentarily. Krysta’s heart did a weird, crazy little dip as she noted the way his face softened, even as the wolflike appeal increased.
“Anyone in my line of work who has any sense in his or her head knows that when Dr. Krysta Simpson releases a paper, it is in our best interest to read it, as soon as possible.”
Normally, compliments and flattery mattered to her as little as clothes or interior design, but something about his tone said that his words were neither. That Dr. Carvalho was stating what was, to him, a fact, and despite herself, Krysta was pleased by it.
Yet it wasn’t in her nature to agree.
“I would think Ferguson or Charpentier would be at the top of the must-read list.”
Dr. Carvalho nodded. “Verdade. Indeed. But they are, in my opinion, old school in their presentations. You take a more progressive line, allowing us a glimpse into what might be, should research advance sufficiently.”
Krysta tilted her head briefly to the side in both acknowledgment of the statement and amusement. “I’ve been taken to task for ‘prognosticating’ a number of times.”
His expression morphed into arrogant amusement in the blink of an eye. “Yet the journals keep printing your papers, and your demand grows. The last I heard, the French team was trying to woo you away from your current position.”
“Mere rumor,” she replied, although there had been some overtures. “You shouldn’t pay attention to gossip.”
He looked anything but chastened. In fact, he smiled. “I would like it very much if we sat together at dinner.” He gestured to the empty glass in her hand. “May I get you another drink in the meantime?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m having fruit punch—mango and passion fruit, I think the bartender said.”
Taking her glass, he stepped away with a murmured, “I’ll return in a moment.”
Krysta saw the way others watched him walk across to the bar, amused at how right she’d been. Dr. Francisco Carvalho certainly attracted a lot of attention, from admiring stares to what appeared to be envious ones.
“Dr. Simpson, what pleasure it gave me to learn you would be joining us here at the hospital.” Krysta turned to see the man who’d made the nasty comment earlier standing behind her, a sly smile on his lips. “I am Dr. Silvio Delgado, oncologist.”
She didn’t smile back, but shook his outstretched hand and said, “Dr. Delgado.”
Not being pleased to make his acquaintance, she didn’t say she was.
“You may not know it, but my grandfather was one of the founding contributors to this hospital,” he started, obviously expecting her to be overcome with fascination at this information.
Blah, blah, blah...
She tuned him out, wondering if her assistant back in New York had had any luck accessing the information she’d requested. Her latest research project was due to start as soon as she got back to the States and, without the proper accumulation of data, might be pushed back.
Then she heard Dr. Carvalho’s name, and tuned back in.
“...no doubt, but I have to tell you his reputation isn’t particularly stellar. He might have been famous as a model, but the way he treated his ex-fiancée is a disgrace.”
Krysta held up her hand, cutting the man off. “But is he a good doctor?”
Delgado blinked, several times, rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Does he do his job in an acceptable way? Is he a good surgeon?” she asked, making her voice slow, as though to make sure he understood.
“Well... I... I suppose so,” he replied, and she saw the way his ears reddened.
She shrugged. “That’s all I care about.”
“Your drink, Dr. Simpson.”
Speak of the devil.
“Thank you, Dr. Carvalho,” she replied, turning to take the frosty glass from his hand. Had he heard the exchange between herself and the other man? There was nothing at all in his expression or demeanor to give her any clue. This Dr. Carvalho was a master at hiding his thoughts, unless and until he wanted to share them.
“It appears dinner is about to be served,” he said, extending his arm toward her as an announcement to that effect came over the PA system. “Shall we go through?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, laying her fingers on his impressive brachioradialis and strangely having to squelch the urge to squeeze it, just to see if it were as strong as she thought. Then she gave Dr. Delgado a level, straight-faced look and continued, “You will excuse us, won’t you? I’m famished.”
She saw the exact instant Dr. Delgado realized she’d spoken in Portuguese. His eyes widened, and his face paled. It took everything she had inside not to lose her poker face at his horrified expression.
And she now knew, for a fact, how hard Dr. Carvalho’s arm muscle really was, as it tightened to rock beneath her fingers. Glancing up into his startled face, she said, “I hope my accent isn’t terrible. I’ve only been learning the language for a few months.”
He blinked, and she saw amusement flood his eyes, causing them to gleam. “Not at all,” he replied. “In fact, it is perfeita.”
