200 Harley Street: The Soldier Prince

Ethan seemed to relax at last. ‘Yeah.’

‘You were out there, too?’

Ethan shrugged. ‘That’s not important.’

‘When did you get hit?’

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think I was hit?’

Marco nodded at his own arm and Ethan’s leg. ‘Different limb, same kind of pain.’

They shared a glance, and Marco knew that Ethan Hunter understood the rest of it. The frustration of being stuck here when your heart was back there.

‘What have they done so far?’ Ethan asked.

‘Flushed my hand to clean it, put on a dressing. I take it you were the one who said not to suture my palm?’

‘Yes. Can you feel anything in it still?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Marco admitted. ‘The pain’s gone into a blur.’

‘Was it just glass, or is there anything else I need to know about?’

‘Glass, mainly. Maybe a bit of dirt. But Herrera cleaned me up.’

Ethan nodded. ‘Glass isn’t going to show up brilliantly in radiography. I need to give you a CT scan to make sure all the glass is out and nothing else is lurking in there, and then I’ll do the op.’

The scan seemed to take for ever. But finally Ethan Hunter was satisfied.

‘No more glass. Good. OK, what I’m going to do is open up the wound so I can find the cut ends of your tendon, and then I’m going to stitch them back together. I’ll put a splint on to protect the repair. Your skin’s a mess, so you might need plastics—we’ll see what it looks like when your hand’s healed. And you’ll need physio to get that hand working properly again.’

‘Right. So how long will I be in the clinic?’

Ethan looked thoughtful. ‘This happened nearly twelve hours ago and you’ve flown a long way. I want you in here for the next twenty-four hours so I can keep an eye on the repair. Theoretically, then you could go home. But, given who you are and the fact that you’ll have the press hounding you all the way between your place and here when you come in for treatment …’ He rolled his eyes. ‘And we can certainly do without them hanging round outside and getting in the way while they wait for a glimpse of you.’

Marco could do without that, too. ‘I don’t want the press knowing I’m in England. If the story blows, then I might not be able to resume my tour of duty. It’ll put my men at risk.’ The ones that were left. The ones that hadn’t been killed, thanks to his wrong judgement call.

Ethan nodded. ‘Then you’re better off staying here for a while. You’ll need to see the hand therapist in any case.’

Marco frowned. ‘But if I do go home after a few days, can’t the hand therapist come to me?’

Ethan gave him a look that said very clearly, Stop being a spoiled rich prince. ‘You’re not her only patient.’

‘Of course. Sorry. Patience isn’t one of my … um … virtues.’

That earned him half a grin.

‘Thank you. For sorting this out.’

Ethan shrugged. ‘You don’t need to thank me.’

Marco knew why he’d said it. ‘Because it’s your job,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what you did out there, too.’

Ethan turned away so Marco couldn’t read the expression in his eyes—which in itself told Marco a lot. He’d seen that a few times before, in other people. So he was pretty sure that something had happened out there and Ethan Hunter didn’t want to think about it.

‘I need to get you in the operating theatre,’ Ethan said. ‘I’ll do the repair under a general anaesthetic because it’s fairly complex. It should take about an hour; though it might be longer if I find more damage once I open up your hand.’

‘I’d rather not be out cold.’

Ethan rolled his eyes. ‘OK, Zorro, if you want to be a hero.’

‘Zorro?’ Marco narrowed his eyes at him.

Ethan didn’t look away or flinch; he clearly wasn’t fazed by who Marco was.

‘OK,’ Marco said, ‘I admit I learned to fence at school, and I did some training with the Sirmontane international fencing team.’ Not that he was going to boast about the gold medal he’d won. He didn’t need to score points with Hunter.

Ethan shrugged. ‘I picked the right name for you, then. Probably that’s what your men call you when they don’t think you can hear them.’

For the first time in what felt like half a lifetime, Marco heard himself laugh. ‘Yeah, probably. OK. If you need me out totally, then fine. Do what you have to. But make it quick.’

‘Is this your sword arm?’ Ethan asked.

‘No. It’s my fret hand.’

‘You play guitar, too?’ Ethan feigned a yawn. ‘You’re such a cliché, Zorro. Do you dance flamenco as well?’

‘Flamenco’s dull. I prefer tango.’ Marco waited a beat. ‘You get better sex after a tango.’

Ethan grinned. ‘Probably just as well you won’t be playing guitar for a while.’ Then he sobered. ‘Don’t flirt with my female staff, Zorro. Any of them.’

‘As if I would,’ Marco said, enjoying himself now. He had a feeling that he and Ethan Hunter could be friends. Scratchy friends, maybe. But still friends. Because they each understood where the other was coming from.

Another busy day ahead, Becca thought as she walked up the steps to 200 Harley Street. And that was just how she liked it.

Or maybe not, she thought, as she walked into the reception area to find the clinic’s Head of PR in a smooch with her new husband.

‘Put the surgeon down, Lexi,’ she said with a smile.

‘Very funny.’ Lexi gave Iain a last kiss and waved him off to his consulting room. ‘Actually, Becca, you’re just the woman I wanted to see.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Becca asked carefully. Usually this meant that Lexi was planning a PR campaign and wanted to talk the staff into doing something crazy. If Lexi had been anyone else, Becca would have made a polite murmur and avoided her, but Lexi was one of the few people she’d grown close to. Not quite close enough to confide in her about the past, but she was the nearest Becca had to a friend.

‘I wanted to give you the heads-up on our new patient. Well, he’s going to be yours. He’s in Theatre with Ethan right now.’ Lexi shepherded Becca towards her office. ‘He’s a bit high-profile—’

‘So we need to keep everything under wraps.’ Becca rolled her eyes. She was familiar with the drill. ‘Got it.’

‘I know you’re the soul of discretion—but I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t dot all the Is and cross all the Ts,’ Lexi pointed out gently.

‘I know.’ Becca smiled at her. ‘Sorry. I guess I got out of the wrong side of bed this morning. So tell me about my patient.’

‘A prince, no less.’

Becca wasn’t that impressed, knowing that the clinic had an A-list clientele. ‘What’s he in for?’

‘Flexor tendon. He was injured on a tour of duty, so that’s another reason we want it kept under the media’s radar.’

‘A soldier prince?’ Despite herself, Becca was intrigued.

‘Young, tall, dark and handsome,’ Lexi intoned. ‘Prince Charming.’

A heartbreaker, then. Becca had met the type before. And been stupid enough to get her own heart broken by one, at a time when she’d still been dragging her life back out of the gutter.

Most of the women at the children’s aid camp in South Africa had fallen under Seb’s spell; but, knowing that men couldn’t be trusted not to hurt you, Becca had avoided Seb like the plague. She’d been so determined to stay in the safety of her shell. But Seb had been patient. He’d made her feel special, had spent time talking to her about everything under the sun. And finally she’d relaxed with him and let him bring her out of herself. In the process, she’d fallen deeply in love with him. Enough to give herself to him. She’d even let herself dream of a future with him …

And then he’d left. Without even saying goodbye. He’d abandoned her. And the lesson had been branded on her heart: the only person she could ever really rely on was herself. Which was why she’d kept people at arm’s length and dedicated herself to her career ever since.

Lexi frowned. ‘Are you all right, Becca?’

Wild horses wouldn’t drag the truth from her. ‘Sure.’ She faked a smile.

Luckily it was convincing enough, because Lexi continued, ‘Even covered in mud, and looking as if he hasn’t slept for days, our prince is sex on a stick.’

Becca groaned. ‘And here’s you married for about five seconds. Shouldn’t you still be in the disgustingly loved-up stage, too busy to notice other men?’

‘I’m married, not blind.’ Lexi grinned. ‘And don’t tell Iain I said that.’

Becca just laughed. ‘Right. I have patients to see. Catch you later.’

After the operation, Marco woke in the recovery room. It was warm and comfortable and he wanted to go back to sleep.

Except then he threw up. Violently.

‘OK. We’ve got you.’ Gentle hands wiped his face clean and helped him sit up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the nurse.

‘Don’t worry. It happens all the time.’

Right at that moment, Marco was really grateful for her kindness.

‘You’re round, then?’ Ethan asked, coming over to him.

‘Uh-huh.’ And his mouth felt disgusting. ‘Did it work?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘My arm feels numb and floppy.’ Which was enough in itself to make him panic. And it was at that point that he noticed it was propped up on pillows. ‘Does this mean I can’t use it?’

‘It’s completely normal for your arm to feel numb and floppy after an op. And the pillows are there to support your arm and keep it elevated—that controls any potential swelling. I want your arm up at shoulder level and your hand above your heart, and you need to use pillows to support your hand when you sleep,’ Ethan said.

‘Got it.’ Marco still felt groggy. ‘Though you might have to remind me again tomorrow. I’m not sure how much of what you’re saying now is going to stay in my head.’

‘Sure.’ Ethan paused. ‘When the anaesthetic wears off, it will be painful. So don’t be a martyr, Zorro. Take the painkillers my team offers you.’

Marco had the distinct feeling that Ethan was talking from experience. What had happened to him in Afghanistan? Had he lost someone—a member of his team, or someone he loved? Did he blame himself for it, the way Marco blamed himself for losing some good men? Had he not taken painkillers as a way of punishing himself?

‘So when can I use my arm?’ Marco asked.

‘The short answer is, you can’t. If you try to use that hand before your tendons have healed fully, the tendons will split apart. And, apart from the fact that I don’t like having to repeat work, a second repair won’t be as effective as the first.’

Marco absorbed this. ‘How long do the tendons take to heal?’

‘A couple of months.’

Marco stared at him in disbelief. ‘No way. You’re kidding.’

‘And that’s only for using your hand for light activities. You drive a motorbike?’

‘Car,’ Marco said.

‘Good. That’ll probably be OK in a couple of months. A motorbike would take a bit longer.’

‘Mountain bike?’

Ethan shook his head. ‘Sports you can do a month after that. And then maybe you can start to do heavy activities, as long as you haven’t had any problems with scar tissue.’

Marco stared at him, horrified. He couldn’t possibly be serious? But Ethan wasn’t smiling. ‘So basically you’re saying I take at least three months off and be a pen-pusher?’ Do a safe job while his men faced all the danger. Be a spoiled prince, leading safely from well behind the lines. That so wasn’t who he was. He sighed. ‘That really doesn’t sit well with me.’

‘Tough. It takes as long as it takes.’ Ethan shrugged. ‘Don’t get that splint wet. You’ll need to bag it completely and tape the bag to your arm if you want a shower or bath. Swimming’s definitely out—and you don’t take that splint off until I tell you or your physiotherapist tells you. Which is probably a month from now, minimum.’

The more Marco heard, the less he liked. ‘No exercise. That’s not good. I’m going to lose muscle mass.’ And fitness. Which would delay his return to the army even longer.

‘No push-ups, no pull-ups, no burpees, no weight training,’ Ethan said.

Oh, great. That was pretty much his workout routine out of the window. And it definitely confirmed that Ethan Hunter had trained in the army.

‘Running? Any form of cardio?’ he asked, trying not to let the desperation show in his voice.

Ethan shook his head. ‘You need to use your arm muscles to hold your arm across your chest with your hand to the opposite shoulder. So you’ll be off balance for running or using an elliptical.’ He shrugged. ‘No fencing, either, Zorro.’

Because with one arm strapped up he wouldn’t be able to balance himself properly. ‘So that’s a no.’ Marco rolled his eyes. ‘I’m going to go insane.’

‘Very probably, Zorro,’ Ethan agreed. ‘No horse-riding, no guitar-playing, no.…’

‘No sex?’

Ethan grinned. ‘Not if you insist on being on top, no.’

‘I think I hate you,’ Marco said.

‘No, you don’t. I fixed your hand. And I’m good at my job.’

‘You’d better be, Clavo,’ Marco said through gritted teeth.

Ethan raised an eyebrow. ‘Clavo?’

‘It’s Spanish for Spike.’ Marco gestured with his free hand. ‘Face. Attitude. The thing you use to cut people open.’

‘Technically, that would be a lancet.’

Marco shrugged. ‘Clavo will do. You’re sure my hand’s fixed?’

‘Yes. Unless you do something stupid, like try to use your hand too early.’

Marco groaned. ‘You’re telling me that I’m going to be stuck here for a whole month?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said you’ll wear the splint for a month. You’ll have physio every single day. Several sessions. I want to make sure there aren’t any contractures to your palm, so you need to do stretches and gentle work. You do what the hand therapist says, when she says it, and nothing else. Got it?’

‘Because, if I don’t, then my hand’s gone for good.’

‘That’s about it.’

So he had no choice. ‘OK. I’ll do what you say. And the hand therapist,’ he added with a grimace.

‘Good. Think yourself lucky it wasn’t a severed thumb, Zorro. I would’ve had to replace it maybe with your big toe, and stick leeches all over you.’

Marco gave Ethan a reluctant smile. ‘Remind me, which century is this again?’

Ethan laughed. ‘I’ll have you know leech saliva is the best anticoagulant ever—it’s a hundred times more effective than heparin.’

‘So I’ve got nothing to do except pace this room?’ And, for the umpteenth time, wish to hell he’d out-thought the enemy. Wish his men hadn’t died. Wish he’d managed to get them all to safety.

‘Like a caged tiger,’ Ethan agreed. He paused. ‘There’s a gym in the basement. It’s really for the staff, but patients can use it.’

‘I thought you just said I couldn’t run or do weights?’

‘You can’t. The treadmill and elliptical are both out of bounds, ditto all the free weights and the machines.’

‘Right.’ Everything he was most likely to use. ‘Which leaves me what, precisely?’

‘The static bike,’ Ethan said. ‘And don’t use your arms.’

That was Marco’s idea of tedious. A proper bike in the mountains, yes, with steep inclines and rough terrain to challenge him; a static bike, even if it had programmes to change the resistance, wouldn’t challenge him at all. ‘Great,’ he said, curling his lip.

‘You can do walking lunges,’ Ethan said. ‘But that’s bodyweight only. Just to be clear, that means not having a bar across your traps, and no using dumb bells, even with your good hand. Got it?’

‘Got it.’ Marco rolled his eyes again. ‘Marvellous.’

‘And you can do squats—again, bodyweight only, with a stability ball against your back.’

‘What? Like a total novice?’ Marco asked in disgust.

‘No, like someone who’s going to have one arm strapped up so his balance is going to be out and he’s not going to be stupid enough to risk damaging his tendons again before they heal. You cross your other arm across your chest like this—’ Ethan demonstrated ‘—and at least this way you can keep your core strong.’

Which was something, Marco supposed. Bodyweight exercises. ‘Floorwork?’ he asked.

‘No. But you can do sit-ups on the stability ball.’

Marco couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

‘It’s better than nothing at all,’ Ethan said, and there was a brief flare of sympathy in his eyes.

‘I guess.’ But Marco was pretty sure that this next month was going to be the longest of his life.

Becca pulled herself out of the pool and squeezed the water from her shoulder-length hair before padding through to the showers. One of the things she loved about working at the Hunter Clinic was the pool in the basement; a swim after work always got the knots out of her muscles and her head in the right place before she headed for her stint at the rehab clinic.

On her way out of the building, she glanced through the glass doors of the gym. There was a man doing lunge walks down the length of the gym; his back was to her, but given the evidence she could see of a strapped-up arm he was clearly one of the patients.

Dark hair, tall, just like Seb …

Her heart skipped a beat.

Stupid.

It had been years since she’d last seen Seb. Years. It was about time she put him out of her head and stopped thinking about him every time she saw a tall, dark-haired man. Particularly as he’d made it very clear that he hadn’t returned her feelings. He’d left the children’s aid camp in South Africa without so much as a word to her. Dump and run.

‘Get over it, Becca,’ she told herself sharply. ‘You’ve got a new life now. And you don’t need a man to make it complete.’ Besides, she had work to do. Somewhere she was needed.

Shaking herself, she walked up the stairs to the reception area and out into Harley Street.

Over the next couple of days, Marco was thoroughly bored. He tried to be charming to the nurses who came to check on him, but he hated all of this. Being fussed over. Smothered. Suffocated.

Even the gym wasn’t a respite. Yes, it meant he could still work out. Of sorts. But he would have been much happier using the top-of-the-range free weights available, lifting until he’d reached his maximum one rep and then pushing himself just that little bit more. Doing a novice type programme just wasn’t satisfying. The only reason he’d been able to keep himself in check was the fear of rupturing the repair work on his tendons and being permanently without the use of his left hand. Three months would be tough enough. For the rest of his life would be unbearable.

‘You hate this, don’t you, Zorro?’ Ethan asked when he dropped in to see Marco at the end of the day.

‘Sitting here, being useless, when I know I’m needed elsewhere?’ Marco scowled. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘It’s not the easiest thing to deal with,’ Ethan agreed. ‘You just have to learn to be patient.’

‘Is that what you did, Clavo?’ Marco asked.

‘Just do as I say,’ was the level response.

‘So you didn’t.’

Ethan shrugged. ‘This isn’t about me; it’s about you.’

‘I hate this,’ Marco admitted. ‘I’m used to doing things. Not just sitting here. And your gym is pure torture. All the things I want to use and can’t.’

‘Patience,’ Ethan counselled.

Marco just scowled at him.

‘Let’s have a look at your hand.’ Ethan inspected it, then smiled. ‘Good news, Zorro. You get to meet your physio tomorrow morning.’

‘So I can start exercising my hand?’

‘You do,’ Ethan said, ‘everything she tells you. And no more than that.’

‘Or I’m risking permanent damage. Yeah, yeah. You’ve already told me.’ Marco took a deep breath. Damn. He was being rude again, and the doctor meant well. ‘Sorry.’

‘Frustration. It gets all of us at some point. Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow, Zorro.’

‘Hasta luego, Clavo.’ Marco sketched a salute with his right hand, and both men laughed wryly.

Becca was still thinking about what Lexi had told her about her new patient. Prince Charming. Ha. She’d met men like him before. The last time she’d made the mistake of falling for charm she’d learned the lesson well. In a way, she supposed that Seb had done her a favour. He’d left her at a crossroads. One way had led back to addiction, trying to wash away the pain with vodka—making her mother’s mistakes all over again. The other way led to working hard and making the best future she could—for herself, because Becca knew that she was the only one she could really rely on.

She’d made the right choice, and she wasn’t going back.

Ethan had said that the Prince was bored. So no doubt he’d be super-charming to her, wanting a distraction from his situation. Fine. He could be as charming as he liked. She’d be sweet and charming back, for the sake of the clinic. But she’d also make very sure that there was a professional distance between them, because she had no intention of being the Prince’s personal distraction.

The next morning couldn’t come fast enough for Marco’s liking. Even though he knew that ‘morning’ could mean technically anything from one second after midnight until one second to noon.

At last Ethan strolled in to Marco’s room followed by a woman in a white coat.

‘Zorro, I’ve got someone you’re dying to meet.’ He smiled. ‘Becca, I’d like you to meet—’

The woman in the white coat stepped to the side and stared at Marco. ‘Seb,’ she cut in, her voice a hoarse whisper, and all the colour drained from her face.

CHAPTER TWO

‘NO, THIS IS Marco—Prince Marco of Sirmontane,’ Ethan said.

Prince? What? The man definitely hadn’t been a prince when Becca had known him in South Africa at the children’s aid camp. He’d called himself Seb. Nothing more. No surname, no nothing. And she hadn’t asked for any more details because she’d had her own secrets to hide and hadn’t wanted to trade them.

At least he looked as shocked as she felt. That was one thing.

‘Becca. I didn’t know you were a hand therapist,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know you were a prince,’ she said, a little more tartly than she’d intended. Bad move. She didn’t want him to know that it bothered her.

‘You know each other?’ Ethan asked, looking surprised.

Oh, yes. In the Biblical sense, too. ‘You could say that.’ Though it turned out she hadn’t really known Seb—Marco—at all.

No wonder he’d left without a word. He was a prince, not an ordinary guy, and obviously he’d just been slumming it at the aid camp—something to do between finishing university and starting whatever it was that princes were supposed to do. Which made her relationship with him worth even less than she’d thought.

And how the press would dine out on that if they knew. A girl from the wrong side of the tracks, a girl who’d been hooked on vodka and E, a girl who’d almost ended up in the gutter … and she’d had a fling with a prince.

‘Becca—a quick word?’ Ethan said, gesturing to the door of Prince Marco’s—she couldn’t think of him as just Seb any more—room.

She went outside into the corridor with her boss.

‘Clearly there’s history here. Would you prefer someone else to treat Prince Marco?’ Ethan asked gently.

Yes, she would. She didn’t want to treat the boy she’d fallen in love with one dreamy summer. The boy who’d played guitar to her under the stars and sung songs of love in a language she didn’t know. But she’d seen the emotion in his face and known exactly what the words meant. The boy who’d made her feel so special—and then left without a single word, letting her dreams crash down round her.

But that was an emotional response. And Becca didn’t do emotional any more. She’d promised never to let herself get in a vulnerable state again. Yet, two seconds after seeing Seb for the first time in seven years, she was a mess. In shock that the past had come back to haunt her. Trying to process just how many lies she’d fallen for. Trying to get her head round the fact that Seb—the man she’d thought had been an ordinary boy—had actually been a prince in disguise.