Her Celebrity Surgeon

He couldn’t stop himself. Charlie bent his head and very gently brushed his mouth against hers. And Sophie was starting to kiss him back.

God, he wanted this so much. Wanted to feel her body close to his. Wanted her to kiss his demons away.

It couldn’t happen. He had to stop.

Except he couldn’t. Not when it felt so good, so right, to hold her and kiss her.

The beep of a car horn shocked them apart.

He dragged in a breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just…” Just couldn’t help himself. Wanted to be a real person for once, instead of Charlie, Baron Radley. Wanted Sophie’s warmth to enfold him.

“Don’t worry. I won’t be ringing Celebrity Life to give them a kiss-and-tell,” she said dryly.

He shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant. But we have to work together. I think it’s best if we ignore what just happened.”

Honorable, eligible and in demand!

Baron Rupert Charles Radley

The Hon. Sebastian Henry Radley

The Hon. Victoria Radley

Three aristocratic doctors, the very best in their field, who just can’t avoid the limelight!

In this exciting and emotional new trilogy from bestselling author Kate Hardy read how these eligible medics do their best to stay single—but find love where they least expect it.

HER CELEBRITY SURGEON

Baron Rupert Charles Radley

(aka Director of Surgery) meets his match with fiery registrar Dr. Sophie Harrison. The paparazzi have a field day!

Sebastian’s story from Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™!

Her Celebrity Surgeon

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Maggie, Sue and Sandy—with love

CONTENTS

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

HALF past eight. Sophie groaned inwardly. She’d probably missed the party for Guy’s promotion to Director of Surgery, but no way could she have left her patient in the middle of the operating table. And she never, but never, left the ward until her patients had been round from the anaesthetic for at least half an hour. You never knew with surgery: one moment, your patient was fine; the next, all hell could be let loose and you might even need to go back into Theatre.

But when she finally made it into the wine bar opposite the hospital, Guy was on his own. ‘Don’t tell me that rotten lot went off to get food and gave you the short straw of waiting till I got here, when it’s your party?’ she asked.

‘No. The party’s off.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘The job went to an external candidate.’

‘Oh, Guy. I’m so sorry.’ He was a brilliant surgeon and a nice bloke, too. It really wasn’t fair. ‘I was so sure…’

‘It means you’re stuck where you are, too, Soph.’

Because she’d been in line for promotion to Guy’s job. She waved her hand to protest at his bitter tone. ‘Hey. My promotion wasn’t a given, anyway. They couldn’t advertise the job until your promotion had been announced—and I might not even have made it to the interview stage.’ She could see in his face that he was brooding. And he’d had more than his share of hassles this year, with an acrimonious divorce. His wife had blamed her affair on Guy spending too much time on his career. Time that clearly hadn’t paid off.

‘Come on, let’s have a commiseration drink instead. I’ll shout you a curry. We can put the world to rights, and stick two fingers up at the hospital board—who clearly can’t see talent when it’s two millimetres in front of their noses.’

‘You’re good for my ego.’

Not as good as Abby would have been—Guy’s house officer, who’d admitted to Sophie in the changing rooms a few weeks ago that she had the hots for Guy—but Sophie could work on that. A few judiciously dropped hints, and maybe Guy would see what was two millimetres in front of his nose.

When they’d settled themselves comfortably in the local curry house and ordered their meal, Sophie turned the conversation back to Guy’s bad news.

‘I hate to rub salt in your wounds, Guy, but do you know anything about the new director of surgery?’

‘R. C. Radley, you mean?’

The name was familiar, but she couldn’t think why. She nodded.

‘He’s a plastic surgeon.’

‘We’re going to have a nip-and-tuck merchant in charge of surgery? Oh, great. No prizes for guessing where all the new equipment’s going to go, then.’ Damn. And she’d raised half the money for the equipment she had her eye on. It looked as if she’d have to raise the other half, too.

‘And he went to a certain well-known public school.’

Uh-oh. There was a distinct whiff of fish in the air. ‘Eton?’

Guy nodded.

Like some of the members of the board. Sophie rolled her eyes. Now she understood what had been puzzling her—why Guy had been passed over. ‘So the old-boy network strikes again, then?’

‘Yep.’

‘It sucks, Guy, it really does—but don’t let it get to you. There’ll be other chances.’ She raised her glass of beer. ‘Here’s to us. You and me, and a brilliant surgical team.’ Though she wasn’t going to drink to their new director of surgery. Not until after she’d met him and seen if he was worth drinking to.

‘Mr R. C. Radley. Why does his name ring a bell?’ she asked.

‘He’s not a Mr. He’s a lord.’

‘He’s a what?’

‘A baron,’ Guy told her.

Baron Radley? The board had appointed a baron to run the surgical team? Sophie’s mouth tightened. ‘So instead of giving the job to someone who can do it blindfolded, the board’s made a political appointment. Someone who’s got the right name and the right title.’ And the right accent. Sharp, braying, coupled with a mocking, hearty guffaw as he…She shook herself. No. That had been years ago, and she was over it now. Over it.

‘Soph, hang on. You’re being a bit—’

‘No, I’m absolutely right,’ she cut in. ‘They’ve gone for something that will bring some press coverage for the hospital, instead of thinking about what’s right for the patients. And that stinks.’ She frowned again. ‘Baron Radley…Isn’t he the one in all the gossip mags?’ The ones her mum read. Now she remembered where she’d heard the name. Celebrity Life. Baron Radley had been photographed with just about every eligible woman in London—every woman with a title or who looked like a supermodel. There was a different woman on his arm every time he went somewhere. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what does the board think they’re doing? We ought to—’

‘Leave it, Soph,’ Guy warned. ‘Like you said, there’ll be other chances. None of us can expect to get every job we go for.’

‘But it’s wrong. It’s morally wrong that they’ve picked someone with a title instead of someone who can do the job.’

‘He might be a good surgeon. And there’s nothing we can do about it anyway.’

She sighed, knowing that he was right. ‘At least, working in general surgery, we won’t have to have much to do with him,’ she said.

‘Let’s just forget about it, yeah?’ Guy asked.

She nodded as their curry arrived, but the knot of tension at the back of her neck was starting to tighten again. How old was their new director of surgery exactly? Had he been one of the gang who…?

She wasn’t going to think about them. It had been years ago. If she let the memories hold her back, they’d win. And she was damned sure they weren’t going to grind her into the dust again. The chances were, R. C. Radley hadn’t been one of them anyway. He was probably Guy’s age, in his mid-to-late thirties—he’d probably finished med school before Sophie had even finished her A-levels. She certainly couldn’t remember being at med school with anybody called Radley. And if he was older than she was, it was unlikely he’d been part of their social set either.

They kept the conversation on more neutral topics for the rest of the meal—avoiding hospital politics—but as they left the restaurant Sophie realised with dismay that Guy must have drunk several glasses of wine while he’d been waiting for her to turn up, as well as several beers during their meal. Not only was he slightly unsteady on his feet but, when Sophie steadied his arm, he put his arms round her and tried to kiss her.

Sophie turned her face away so his lips landed wetly on her cheek. ‘Come on, Guy. I’ll call a cab to get you home.’

‘Come home with me, Soph.’

‘Not a good idea. You’d regret it in the morning.’

He smiled. ‘Waking up to a gorgeous girl like you? No.’

She shook her head. ‘Guy, it’s the drink talking. I’m your mate, not your girlfriend. You used to be my boss, remember?’

‘Not since you got promoted and moved over to Andy’s team.’

Mmm, and she couldn’t use the ‘we can’t mix work and a relationship’ argument if she wanted to get him together with Abby—not when he was Abby’s boss! ‘I’m focusing on my career, Guy,’ she said gently yet firmly.

‘And because I didn’t get the job, you’re not interested?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘If I didn’t think you’re drunk and don’t really know what you’re saying, I’d slap your face for that. I don’t sleep my way up the ladder, Guy. In fact, I don’t do relationships at all, and you know that—my career comes first, last and always. We’re friends, and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Maybe I’d like more.’

The voices grated in her head again. And I’m going to take it.

She forced the memory back where it belonged. ‘Not with me, you wouldn’t. Guy, you’re a nice bloke, but I’m not interested in anything more than friendship from you. From anyone.’ She sighed. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re as shortsighted as the board.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that there are other women in our department. Women who might like you and be interested in having a relationship with you.’

‘Like who?’

‘I’m not telling you when you’re drunk! Ask me when you’re sober, and I might give you a clue.’

‘Soph, you’re a tease.’

And teases get what they ask for.

Again, she pushed the words away. ‘Guy, just shut up and get in the taxi.’ She bundled him into the back of the black cab she’d managed to hail, closed the door, gave Guy’s address to the cabbie and paid him to take Guy home. Then she walked back to her own flat, made herself a strong cup of coffee and sifted through her post. Junk mail, more junk mail, a bank statement and a postcard from Sandy in Tokyo.

Sometimes she wished she’d had the nerve to do what her friend Sandy had done and taken a year out to travel. She could have rented her flat out for a year and gone round the world with Sandy. Had adventures. But, no, she’d been too staid and sensible. Surgical jobs weren’t as easy to come by as emergency department jobs, so she’d declined Sandy’s offer.

Did that make her boring? Maybe. But she’d worked hard to get as far as she had. Taking a year out would have set her back too much. She’d done the right thing.

Her mum had also popped round, found Sophie was out and had scribbled a note on the front cover of her favourite gossip magazine. Missed you. Call me. Sophie grinned. Typical. She’d even written her duty on her mother’s kitchen calendar, so her mum would know know exactly when Sophie was likely to be at home—and Fran completely ignored it. Scatty didn’t even begin to describe her. And Sophie adored her for it.

Idly, she sipped her coffee and flicked through the magazine. She really didn’t understand what her mum saw in this kind of stuff. Who cared where celebs went or what their houses looked like?

Then a name leapt out at her.

Charlie, Baron Radley.

She stared at the photograph. He was dressed up to the nines—expensive dinner jacket, dress shirt, bow-tie. Tall, dark and handsome—and he looked as if he knew it, too. A woman in a little black dress—a dress she must have been poured into, and she was dripping in diamonds as well—was hanging off his arm. Her blonde hair was cut fashionably, her make-up was flawless and they really looked like the ultimate ‘golden couple’.

The caption beneath, gushing about his fabulous wealth and his partner’s equally fabulous modelling successes, didn’t make Sophie feel any better about it. If anything, it convinced her even more that the board had made a terrible mistake. This man—one of the jet set, who went to all the best parties, probably only ever drank champagne and, for all she knew, might join the rest of his crowd in snorting the odd line of coke—was going to be the new director of surgery at the Hampstead General.

‘This,’ she predicted grimly, ‘is going to end in tears.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘SAMMY and I can’t wait any longer,’ Sophie said. ‘We’ve got a patient prepped for Theatre and a huge list to get through.’ It was all very well R.C. Baron Radley wanting to meet the team—but, if he couldn’t even be bothered to turn up on time, why should their patients have to suffer?

‘Sophie, don’t you think you ought to give him another five minutes?’ Abby said. ‘I mean, Andy’s off duty so you’re the most senior one here from your firm. He’s probably with one of the big cheeses—you know what they’re like when they start talking. Give him five more minutes.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘My patients come first. And if that gives me a black mark in Baron Radley’s book, tough.’ She curled her lip. ‘I’m a doctor, not a serf who needs to bow down to the nobility.’

Guy whistled. ‘Wow, Soph, I never knew you were so against titles.’

‘I just don’t see why an accident of birth makes one person “better”…’ she emphasised the speech marks with two curled fingers on each hand ‘…than another. I’ll just have to catch up with His Lordship later.’

‘We’ll give your apologies to him, Soph,’ Abby said.

‘I think,’ Sophie said crisply, ‘he should be the one apologising to us—and to our patients—for wasting time. See you later. Sammy, let’s go scrub up.’ Together with her house officer, she left the staffroom and headed for Theatre.

Something didn’t look right, Charlie thought. The kid posting something through the neighbour’s letterbox didn’t have a bike with him or a bag full of newspapers. So just what was he stuffing through it?

Then there was a loud bang, and Charlie realised exactly what the boy had posted. A firework. It looked as if he had just taken another from his pocket. Hadn’t anybody told him why it was stupid to play with fireworks? It was an explosive; it could go off in his face. And the one he’d shoved through the door could have done a lot of damage, too, if someone had been close to it when it had gone off. And you never, but never, lit fireworks with an ordinary match.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled.

The boy looked up, curled his lip, flicked a V-sign at Charlie and lit another match.

‘Put that match out, you idiot! You’ll get h—’

But before Charlie could finish, there was a loud bang and the firework in the boy’s hand exploded.

Charlie forgot the fact that he was on his way to work—his first day in his new role as Director of Surgery, when he really shouldn’t be late—and years of training took over. He grabbed his mobile phone and punched in the number for the emergency services as he ran towards the boy. ‘Ambulance, please.’ He gave them the location. ‘We have a firework injury involving a child. Major burns.’ Burns to the hand or feet were always classified as major. ‘Better call the fire brigade, too—he was stuffing fireworks through a letterbox.’

The boy was screaming, and he’d dropped the match. Luckily the ground was still wet, so the flame would have been extinguished—if any loose powder from the fireworks was lit, the boy could end up with flash burns to his legs as well as the damage to his hand.

Charlie pushed through the open gate just as the door to the neighbouring house opened.

‘What’s going on?’ the elderly man demanded.

‘Firework went off in his hand,’ Charlie said swiftly. ‘I’ve called the emergency services. I’m a doctor. Will you let me take a look?’ he asked the boy.

Shaking, the boy held out his hands. ‘It hurts!’ he wailed.

‘What’s your name?’ Charlie asked.

‘L-Liam,’ he choked.

‘Bloody little hooligan! He’s always causing trouble round here,’ the neighbour said in disgust. ‘We should just hand him over to the police.’

‘Right now, my priority’s to stop him losing blood. Have you got a first-aid kit?’ Charlie asked.

‘Only plasters and headache tablets.’ The neighbour shrugged. ‘The wife might have a bandage in there.’

Probably one that wasn’t sterile, Charlie guessed. ‘Do you have a clean, dry cloth—a teatowel or something? Please?’

The man nodded and went back inside his house. Meanwhile Charlie quickly assessed Liam’s hand. Normally, in cases of thermal burns, you needed to cool the burn down fast with lukewarm water. But this wasn’t a normal thermal burn—it had been caused by a firework. Fireworks often contained phosphorus, a chemical that reacted with water and caused more burning, so running water over the child’s skin could do more damage.

From what he could see under the blood, the burn appeared to be full thickness, across the whole surface area of Liam’s hand, and two of his fingertips were missing. Gunpowder residue was tattooed into the skin. They’d need to debride the wound—cut away the damaged parts—and do a skin graft. Probably more than one.

‘OK, Liam. I know it’s scary, but I’m going to look after you until the ambulance gets here.’ He needed to keep the boy calm and stem the blood flow. ‘Can you tell me your favourite football team?’

‘M-Manchester United,’ the boy stammered.

The knot at the back of Charlie’s neck started to unravel. Great. If he could get Liam talking, it would take the child’s mind off the injury. If Liam started panicking, there was more chance he’d go into shock. Plus Charlie needed to know who or what was behind that front door. The small pane of glass in the centre of the door was opaque, so trying to look through it wouldn’t help. Had the firework set light to the carpet? Was someone lying inside, hurt?

‘Tell me about the players,’ Charlie said.

The neighbour returned with a pile of dry teatowels. ‘Will these do? More than he deserves, mind. He’s been persecuting Mrs Ward for months.’

‘She’s an old cow. She—’ Liam began, his face screwed up in a mixture of scowling and pain.

‘Later,’ Charlie cut in. ‘I need to clean any chemicals from your hands, Liam. This might hurt, but I’ll try to be quick.’ He looked at the neighbour. ‘Do you know if Mrs Ward is in?’

‘Doesn’t go out much. Dicky ticker.’

So the fright of a firework coming through her letterbox could upset her enough to bring on her heart condition. ‘Can you try and get her to answer the door while I clean Liam’s hand?’

The neighbour nodded. He banged on the door and called through the letterbox, ‘Mary, it’s Bill—can you open the door?’ Charlie quickly cleaned Liam’s hand with one of the teatowels, then covered the wound with the other cloth. He pressed on it to stem the bleeding.

‘No answer,’ Bill said.

‘OK.’ It could be another ten minutes before the ambulance arrived. If Mary Ward had had a heart attack, Charlie needed to act now. ‘I’ll break in. Liam, can you press on that, hard?’ he asked.

‘It hurts,’ Liam whimpered.

‘I know, but we need to stop you losing blood. It’s important—and I need to break this door down in case Mrs Ward’s very ill.’

Liam hung his head. ‘Is she going to die?’

‘I hope not, for your sake. I’ll tell the pol—’ Bill began.

Charlie shook his head very slightly. They didn’t have time to discuss that now. ‘I really need to see if she’s all right. Now, Liam, you keep pressing on that cloth. And keep telling me about Manchester United—it’s really interesting.’

‘Really?’ Liam looked stunned, as if he wasn’t used to anyone paying him proper attention.

Been there, done that, kid, Charlie thought. Though he’d never resorted to playing with fireworks to get the attention he’d needed. He’d just learned to become self-reliant.

‘Keep talking,’ he said, giving the boy an encouraging smile. If Liam kept talking, his voice would give Charlie warning signals if the boy was going into shock: the first signs would be if Liam started to sound ‘spaced out’ or his breathing became shallow.

‘There are a couple of fingertips missing,’ he said, sotto voce, to Bill. ‘Could you try and find them for me and put them in a bag?’ He could tell by the look on Bill’s face that the elderly man thought it served the kid right. ‘He’s only a child,’ Charlie said softly.

‘He’s a wrong ’un.’

‘And he needs help. Please.’

Bill’s mouth thinned, but he started to look through the weeds on the path.

Charlie crouched down to the letterbox. ‘Mrs Ward? My name’s Charlie and I’m a doctor. I’m coming to help you, but if you can’t open the door for me I’ll need to force it open.’

No reply. But at least he couldn’t smell smoke either, so it seemed that the firework hadn’t started a blaze. And he hadn’t seen any orange flickers through the opaque glass or with the limited vision he’d had through the letterbox.

‘I’m going to break the pane of glass and reach through to open the door,’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t be frightened. Bill’s with me.’

He took off one shoe, shattered the pane with it, then wrapped his hand in one of the teatowels to protect him from the broken glass and reached through to open the lock from the inside.

‘Found them,’ Bill said, at the precise moment Charlie pushed the door open to reveal a couple of burned-out bangers and scorch marks on the carpet.

‘Let’s go in and see to your neighbour.’ Charlie shepherded Liam in before him. ‘She’ll probably have a plastic bag of some sort in her kitchen.’ He hoped. And from the colour of the teatowel Liam was losing blood, which meant there was a good chance he’d go into shock. Charlie needed to get the boy lying flat, with his legs raised, as soon as possible: it would help to prevent shock from blood loss.

He found Mrs Ward slumped in the kitchen, her face white and her hand clutched to her chest.

‘Mrs Ward, can you hear me?’ he asked.

To his relief, Mrs Ward nodded.

‘Mary! Oh, God, is she all right?’ Bill asked.

‘Bill, the best thing you can do to help is find a plastic bag and some ice for those fingertips. And can you get Liam to lie flat on his back with his legs raised? Try and keep pressure on that pad on his hand for me. I don’t want him to lose consciousness.’

‘But…’ Bill gestured helplessly towards Mary.

‘I’ll look after her,’ Charlie said quietly. ‘I can’t see to them both at the time same. I need you to help Liam. Please.’

Bill nodded and followed Charlie’s directions. Meanwhile, Charlie checked Mary’s pulse.

‘Can you talk?’ he asked Mary.

‘Can’t…breathe…’ the old lady wheezed.

Breathless, pale and with obvious chest pain. Bill had mentioned his neighbour’s ‘dicky ticker’. Angina? ‘Have you had pain like this before?’ Charlie asked.