The Dangers of Dating Dr. Carvalho
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Tina Beckett
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Chapter One
LUCAS CARVALHO WAS a lucky man.
At least, that was what his doctors told him. If only he could remember why.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember anything. He could. He knew his full name. That he was a plastic surgeon from California. That he’d come to Brazil for a medical conference.
But there were large swathes of empty space that he couldn’t seem to fill with information. As if there’d been important data there at one time but it had been wiped clean with a single keystroke. Things like how he’d wound up with a sling around one arm and a surgical incision across the left side of his abdomen—or why he was now lying in a hospital bed without the foggiest notion as to how he got there.
And his brother—the person who’d been standing over him as he’d awoken from surgery three days ago, the person he hadn’t seen in almost thirty years—had left the day before yesterday for the United States on important business.
Business that involved a woman.
Lucas’s lips twisted. The last time he’d chased down a woman had been... His brain clicked through several files and discarded them.
Nope. Never happened. Never would.
At least he hoped he hadn’t done anything crazy in that blank space where most of his recent memories should be.
The cute little nurse who’d come to visit him a couple of times had assured him that he was the one who’d talked his brother into going after that particular woman.
He struggled into a sitting position, wincing as pain sliced through his shoulder, the sling that secured his arm doing little to prevent his stitches from feeling like they were tearing free from his wound.
Not wound...wounds. Two, to be exact.
That’s what the police had told him...that he’d been shot. Twice. Right outside the entrance to a nearby slum. And like his doctors, the law enforcement officials insisted he was lucky to be alive.
Today he didn’t feel quite so thrilled about that fact. Actually, he didn’t feel thrilled about much of anything. The aches and pains, dulled by strong doses of medication a couple of days ago, now bit into his flesh with every movement.
He eyed the IV stand to his left and noted the wheels at its base. They’d had him up and walking soon after his surgery—he remembered the same warm-eyed nurse had hovered in the background, hands twisting as he’d taken his first painful, curse-filled steps. He didn’t think she was assigned to his case because she hadn’t helped in any way, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d wanted to say something to him.
But she hadn’t.
Shifting to the side of the bed where his IV bag hung, he let his legs dangle over the edge, hands gripping the mattress as he thought about his best course of action—the first being a much-needed trip to the john.
Which he could manage on his own.
He hoped.
His feet hit the floor, and the world spun for several nauseating seconds, causing him to clutch the pole beside him with a low curse.
Three days.
Surely he should be more ambulatory than this by now. The wave of dizziness passed and he stayed in place another minute or two to get his bearings. Then he leaned on the IV stand as he wheeled it toward the bathroom.
Doing the deed was a marvel in logistics co-ordination, but he somehow made it to the finish line without doing a face plant, and even washed and dried his uninjured hand afterwards.
There. He felt more independent already.
Right.
Judging from the pale face staring at him in the mirror, he might feel independent but he could use a big infusion of some kind of miracle drug. He jabbed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, not that it helped much.
Now that he was up, though, there was no way he was climbing back in that bed and staring at the dull white ceiling for hours on end. He’d done enough of that. So if walking would get him out of this place any faster, he would do just that. In fact, he’d jog if he had to.
All by himself.
He ignored the remote control dangling by its cord off the side of the bed and slogged his way toward the door, feeling like he was pushing through a huge vat of Jell-O. He refused to call for a nurse who would fuss over him like he vaguely remembered his brother doing when they’d been kids. At least until he and Marcos had been separated and grown up on two completely different continents.
His birth country had evidently missed him as much as he’d missed it, judging from the two slugs the doctors had dug out of him. His mouth twisted. Maybe he should have just stayed in the States.
Taking a deep breath and hoping he wouldn’t live to regret the move, he pulled the heavy metal lever on the door and stepped into the hallway.
As a testament to how utterly fantastic his last couple of days had been, the door hit him squarely on the ass as it closed, almost sending him and his IV pole spinning to the floor.
He bit back a whole string of English cuss words that could get him into trouble, even here in Brazil, and pulled himself upright.
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood...
With a heavy sigh of resignation he started down the long corridor in search of some answers. Or a good stiff drink. Whichever he came across first.
* * *
Nossa Senhora do céu!
Sophia Limeira’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
As head nurse, she should probably show a little more dignity but, Deus, she couldn’t help but stare in awe as every female head—patients and visitors alike—turned in graceful synchronization to watch Lucas Carvalho make his way down the hall.
Long legs showed off the beautiful lithe movements of someone who knew the effect he had on those around him. Even with his left arm in a sling and dragging an IV stand along with him, he could have crooked a finger at any woman in the place and she’d have rushed toward him, snarling and snapping at anyone who dared get in her way. Even eighty-seven-year-old Marta Silva, who was parked in a wheelchair against the south wall, looked like she might slither from her seat and land in a heap at his feet.
Thankfully, Sophia was firmly anchored in her office chair—behind the desk that sat directly in Lucas’s path.
It was then she noticed he wasn’t making the slightest effort to hold his hospital gown closed at the back.
Maybe that was why all the women were ogling him.
It wasn’t entirely his fault, as both his hands were occupied with other things but, still, she was really, really glad he was facing her.
Although that was ridiculous. She was a nurse, for heaven’s sake. She’d seen plenty of bare masculine butts over the last ten years.
But none of their owners had looked like Lucas.
She touched the flesh above the right side of her lip with her index finger, self-conscious all of a sudden, although she knew she didn’t need to be. The scar was barely visible—the lip margins perfectly aligned. A dot of concealer on a sponge and the flaw almost blended away into nothingness.
Almost.
But Lucas was a plastic surgeon. His knowing eye could cut right through the thin layer of make-up and see the scar for what it was. A remnant from her childhood. She wondered if he ran across many cases like hers in his practice.
Probably not. He was from California, the land of beautiful bouncing breasts and perfect spray-on tans.
She gulped as his eyes met hers, then narrowed slightly, as if trying to place her.
He didn’t remember her. Even when she’d slid into his room that first day and introduced herself, there’d been no hint of recognition. Even when she’d stood nearby as he’d taken his first steps.
Marcos had once said no one could forget her.
Ha! Well, someone could. And someone had.
Not that it mattered. It had been ages since she’d seen Lucas. And they’d both been children at the time.
And he’d been so very sad that first week at the orphanage. Within a month, however, they’d become inseparable—the dynamic trio, the workers had dubbed them.
Only Lucas had been one of the lucky ones who’d been adopted, leaving Marcos and her behind for ever.
Deus! He was still headed her way. And the bony hollows of the boy she’d once known were now filled in with muscle and sinew that rippled with every step he took.
Fully man. Fully dangerous.
She knew she should be on her feet, scolding him for getting out of bed and walking unassisted, but she couldn’t seem to make her body obey the normal commands. Casting a quick glance around her, she saw there wasn’t another nurse in sight. Just her. And Lucas’s eagle-eyed gaze was fastened directly on her.
Needing to be the first one to speak for some crazy reason, she arched a brow when he reached the desk. “You do know you’re putting on quite a show for the folks behind you, don’t you?”
He frowned for a second then gave her a slow smile as if realizing what she meant. “Don’t worry. I eventually have to go back the way I came.”
Yes, he did.
Holding tight to her impassive “nurse” demeanor when all she wanted to do was keep staring, she forced a shrug. “Don’t worry,” she parroted. “I’m immune.”
“Ah, yes, a sad byproduct of the nursing profession.”
“The same can be said of plastic surgeons,” she lobbed back.
See? She could be just as suave and sophisticated as he could.
“Ah, but I could never grow immune to the wonders of the female body.”
Scratch that last thought. She might be able to put on a pretty good act but she could never be as sophisticated as he was. Inside, there were still remnants of the shy little orphan she’d once been. One who’d latched onto Marcos’s hand the day he’d arrived at the orphanage, while shooting his cute little brother surreptitious peeks from beneath childish lashes. She’d been bowled over by Lucas then, and as aggravating as it might be, it appeared she was still flustered by him now.
Tall, at six feet two—at least, according to his chart—with dark wavy hair that hung low on his forehead and even darker eyes, he was mesmerizingly beautiful. Kind of apt for someone in his line of work, but Sophia could swear his good looks owed nothing to plastic surgery. There were faint crinkles radiating from the corners of his eyes and a long line bracketed his left cheek, evidence of a slightly lopsided smile that she could remember even from his childhood.
The times he’d smiled, that was.
Both brothers had seemed strangely grown up, even as young children. Which made sense, considering they’d lived in one of the notorious favelas that dotted the landscape.
And although Lucas still spoke flawless Portuguese, an American accent threaded its way through each and every word, sending shivers over her each time he opened his mouth.
Or she could just be catching the flu.
Realizing she hadn’t responded to his outrageous comment, she climbed to her feet, hoping the added height would snap her back to normal.
Mistake. Because her eyes only came up to his neck, where a pulse beat a steady tattoo against his skin.
Time to send him on his way. “Now that you’ve had your fun, do you need help getting back to your room?”
As nonchalant as he might appear, she couldn’t forget he was less than a week out of major surgery to repair damage to his liver. And when she glanced higher, she spied a tell-tale glimmer of moisture across his upper lip, but he held her gaze with a steadiness that surprised her.
He shook his head, his eyes trailing down her face then pausing to retrace their path, a slight pucker appearing between his dark brows. She forced herself to remain still when he reached across the desk, his thumb brushing the area just below her right nostril and sliding to the bottom of her lip. Her heart rate shot through the roof, stomach quivering at the unexpected contact. She should be furious at his audacity, angry at how quickly he’d noticed what she’d done her best to hide, but the warmth of his skin somehow blotted out everything...except the sensation of flesh sliding against flesh.
She swallowed then answered his unspoken question. “I was born with a cleft lip. It was repaired when I was one.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...” For the first time he looked uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable with what? The image of how she must have looked before her reconstructive surgery?
Surely not. But this was a man who sold beauty for a living...who knew perfection—or imperfection—the second he saw it.
Very few people ever spotted her scar. And she’d had enough attention from the male population to know that her curves tended to be the first thing a man noticed about her. Maybe that was a blessing.
But she couldn’t count the number of times she’d wished a man would look into her eyes rather than stare down the front of her shirt.
Yeah? Well, here was one who had, and look what he zeroed in on.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure in your line of work...” She let the words hang in mid-air.
His brows went up. “Why do I get the feeling the last part of that comment would have been less than flattering.”
“Not unflattering, just realistic. I’m sure your training lends itself to searching for flaws and then fixing them.”
“Ah, yes. Well, if that were the case, I have two pretty big flaws right now, don’t I?”
She blinked in surprise. “Really? And what would those be?” Because she couldn’t see the slightest hint of any defect in the man standing in front of her. In fact, she was kind of looking forward to the moment when he’d turn around and walk away, just so she could get a peek at what all the other people in the wing could still see.
He lifted his bandaged arm. “Bullet holes tend to announce their presence in no uncertain terms.”
Yes, they did. And that was her cue to get this man back to bed where he belonged.
Deus! That last thought carried a few more Freudian connotations than she cared to admit.
A laugh bubbled up her throat before she could stop it, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. We just need to get you back in...in your room before you collapse.”
His glance tracked to her chest, where her nametag hung, and then back up to her face. “Sophia, right? You were in the hospital after my surgery.”
The laughter dried up in a flash. “Yes.”
“And when I took my first steps after the surgery.”
She nodded. “I work here.”
The words sounded ridiculous, even to her, but she did not want to explain that they’d met before. Or ask if he remembered her from when he’d been four years old. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d had a brand-new life in a brand-new country. Even his last name was different now than it had been when he’d been at the orphanage.
The weird thing was that seeing him again dredged up that infantile crush she’d had on him way back when—her very first memory from her childhood days. She’d seen that beautiful face and stared at him in awe...right before she’d grabbed hold of Marcos’s hand instead—too afraid to say anything to the boy standing next to him. She’d warmed up to him later but it had been a very different warmth from what she was feeling right now.
Those brown eyes touched on her scar once more and then brushed across her lips. Could he sense her thoughts? Deus, she hoped not. With a rough indrawn breath his gaze left her and moved to his uninjured hand, which was still hanging onto the IV pole, knuckles white as his grip tightened further. “I think you’re right. I’ve had about all I can stand for one day. Would you mind giving me a hand?”
Sophia steadied her emotions and drew on years of training. “Sure.”
Moving around the desk, she commandeered the IV stand and tucked her shoulder beneath his arm. “You ready?”
Even as he gritted out an affirmative, and they started to make their way back down the corridor, she was very aware of the warmth of his body against hers and the fact that her arm was resting across naked skin where his robe parted. Her heart shivered a couple of times then leaped into space, landing at the bottom of her abdominal cavity with a thud. It didn’t quite shatter, but there was definitely a crack or two lining its tough protective surface.
Get real, Sophia. He’s just one more patient in a long list of patients. He’ll be gone in a matter of days or at the most a few weeks.
Maybe it was better if he never remembered her. If she never mentioned their time together at the orphanage.
She attempted small talk as they shuffled back down the hallway. “It’s really bacana that you and your brother found each other after all these years.”
“Bacana?” Lucas stopped for a second to look down at her.
She searched around for an English word that would get across the meaning. “It’s um...cool. Good.”
“Yes. Very cool.” The way his muscles stiffened at her words made her wonder if he really did think it was. But why wouldn’t he? Marcos was a great guy. Besides, now he could get to know his home country. Get to know someone he’d once been close to.
Unlike her, who had no one. Whose parents, although still alive, had left her at an orphanage when she’d been a baby because they hadn’t had the money to deal with her defect—an unfortunate reality in her country.
They’d reached out to her once, when she’d moved into her teenage years, when her government-funded surgery had been but a distant memory, but things had been strained and neither her parents nor her had particularly wanted to pick up the pieces. They’d moved to another part of Brazil by the time she’d reached adulthood, and although she still had their address, she’d never bothered to get back in touch with them. And they’d never contacted her again.
Her downed heart rolled around, reminding her of its presence. Hmm...maybe those cracks in it weren’t so new after all. Maybe, like her lip, they’d healed with barely a trace. Until a hard knock—or the gentle brush of a thumb—had brought back all the reasons she needed to be on guard.
Especially with a man who’d spied what lay beneath her make-up within the space of a heartbeat but hadn’t been able to see beyond it. Lucas had touched her scar back then as well—when it had been fresher and more noticeable. Before she’d learned how to cover it up with the quick flick of her make-up brush.
Surely she’d be able to do the same with her heart. By the time she was done, no one—not even the plastic surgeon by her side—would be able to see through the carefully applied layers.
And that was just the way she wanted it.
