200 Harley Street: The Soldier Prince

With an effort, she pulled herself back into professional mode. ‘I’m the hand specialist. It’s my job to treat him.’

‘Not if it’s going to be a problem for you.’

She liked the fact that her boss was standing up for her. Having someone in her corner felt good; it was something she’d never known, growing up. But it also wasn’t fair to lean on Ethan and let him make excuses for her. Seb—Marco—whatever he wanted to call himself—was a patient here. Given that he was royalty, no doubt he was only here because of the reputation of the Hunter Clinic. And Becca wasn’t going to let any unprofessional behaviour on her part do anything to tarnish that reputation.

‘It’s not a problem, Ethan,’ she fibbed. ‘But thank you.’

‘Sure?’ he checked.

‘Sure.’

‘So just how do you know each other?’ Ethan asked.

‘We both worked at a children’s aid camp. Years ago. I was still a student. He’d just finished university.’ If that was true. For all she knew, that could have been another lie. She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘It’s not important.’

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘OK. But if treating him does turn out to be a problem just talk to me and I’ll get someone else in to cover his case.’

‘Thank you. But it’ll be fine,’ Becca said. Prince Marco wasn’t going to break her heart again.

How could you break something that was already broken?

‘I guess I owe you an apology,’ Marco said when Becca walked back into the room.

‘Why?’ Becca asked. For being yet another man who’d used her and broken her heart? As if a European prince could give a damn about how an unimportant girl from an obscure family felt.

He grimaced. ‘You know why.’

And of course now she was expected to make it easy for him. Be gracious about it. Or maybe she’d just act cool and casual, as if their summer fling had been just as unimportant to her as it had obviously been to him. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ she said, hoping that she sounded a lot more dismissive than she felt.

‘I didn’t tell you who I was, back then.’

‘No.’ She knew it would be hypocritical of her to be mad at him for that. She’d kept her own past a total secret—from everyone else at the camp as well as him. And nobody here at the Hunter Clinic knew about that part of her life, either.

‘But I didn’t lie to you completely. My name’s Marco Sebastian Enrique Guillermo García.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Becca tried to maintain a semblance of cool. Though right at that moment she was remembering her first introduction to Seb, the guy who was to lead her team at the aid camp. She’d been nineteen and he’d been twenty-one, just graduated from university—well, unless he’d lied about his age as well. And Seb had been the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on. Tall, dark and handsome, with soulful eyes and a voice like melted chocolate, just a hint of a Southern Mediterranean accent. All the girls at the camp had been in love with him, and when he’d smiled at Becca she simply hadn’t stood a chance. She’d fallen for him almost the second she’d met him.

She’d fought the attraction at first, knowing that men couldn’t be trusted to do anything else but hurt you; but Seb had been patient with her. Gentle. He’d talked to her, skilfully drawn her out of her shell. It had amazed her that, despite the fact he could’ve had his pick of all the girls at the camp, he’d actually chosen her.

Fast forward seven years to now. There were shadows beneath those beautiful eyes—a combination of exhaustion and pain over the last few days, she’d guess—but Prince Marco was still the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. And now he was a man, not a boy. The youthfulness had gone from his face, and he’d filled out from being a tall and slightly skinny youth to having hard, perfect musculature.

And his mouth … It still promised sin. The ultimate temptation. A mouth she could remember giving her almost unbearable pleasure. It would be oh, so easy to let herself act on the old attraction.

Well, she was just going to have to resist that urge, because the likes of him were definitely not for the likes of her. And she wasn’t stupid enough to jeopardise her career for one of the few sweet memories of her past. She’d worked way too hard for that.

‘My grandfather’s called Sebastian,’ he continued. ‘I was named partly after him. So it made sense to use his name—one of my middle names.’

‘What was wrong with calling yourself Marco?’

‘It would’ve made it too easy for the press to make the link,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t want everyone thinking that I was just some bored aristocrat slumming it.’

‘Weren’t you?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I wanted to make a difference.’

She could almost believe him.

Except … ‘You left without a word.’

He sighed. ‘I was called back to the Palace. My grandfather was ill. It would’ve been too complicated to explain.’

‘And you couldn’t have told me that you’d been called home because of a sick family member? You were that paranoid about the connections being made?’

‘I didn’t say that all my decisions have been the best ones—or the right ones,’ he said, and looked wryly at his strapped-up hand. ‘Or I wouldn’t have this.’

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Shrapnel. Well, glass,’ he said. ‘It severed a tendon.’

Which was pretty much as she’d been briefed. Patient: male, late twenties, royal, soldier, severed flexor tendon, needs physio work to regain mobility and movement in his hand.

The last thing she’d expected was for it to be the man who’d broken her heart to the point that she’d sworn off relationships for good and focused on nothing but her career.

Which was what she should be doing right now. Professional was good: it would put some much-needed distance between them. ‘Ethan said the repair was a success. So now it’s my job to get your hand mobile and working properly again.’

‘Is it going to be a problem, Becca?’ he asked. ‘Working with me?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’

Was it her imagination, or had she seen a flicker of hurt in his eyes just then?

Well, tough. He’d hurt her. Badly. And, besides, she was pretty sure it was his ego that was hurt and nothing else. He might think of himself as Prince Charming, but she had absolutely no intention of playing Cinderella. Or fawning adoringly over him. She’d be cool and calm and professional, and treat him just as she would any other patient. With care and kindness, and just a little bit of necessary detachment.

‘You can drop the “Royal Highness” bit,’ he said.

‘What would you like to be called today?’ The snippy question was out before she could stop it.

He sighed. ‘I guess I deserve that. Call me Marco. And I hope I can still call you Becca.’

Oh, help. The way he said her name. That slight trace of a Spanish accent, so incredibly sexy. It made her knees buckle.

Resist, she reminded herself. This was a job. He was a patient, and she had to treat him with the utmost professionalism. And he was also a prince. They had no possible chance of a future together, and she wasn’t going to wreck her career for just a fling.

‘I guess. May I have a look at your hand?’ she asked.

He indicated his strapped-up arm with his free hand. ‘Help yourself.’

Gently, she removed the strapping and took the hand strap off the splint.

* * *

Seven years.

She’d changed. Back then Becca had still been a girl. Nineteen years old, a little shy. Beautiful.

Now she was all woman.

Even with her soft curves hidden beneath a sexless starched white coat, with that glorious auburn hair tamed back in a ponytail and those beautiful green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses, Becca Anderson was gorgeous.

Worse still, Marco knew what it felt like to kiss her. How her body responded to his when they made love. How her breathing changed just before she climaxed.

Ah, hell.

This was so inappropriate it was untrue.

Becca Anderson was his hand therapist, and Ethan Hunter had told him not to flirt with any of the female staff at the clinic.

Ha.

Flirting wasn’t the half of it.

What would Ethan Hunter say if he knew just how far things had gone between Marco and Becca all those years ago?

Marco had to get a grip.

Which was half the problem; right now his left hand didn’t have a grip. That was what Becca was going to fix.

And he needed to think of her as a medic. Not as a woman.

In fact, he needed not to think of her at all. Since he’d left her behind in South Africa he hadn’t let himself think about her. Well, apart from the day after the doctor had confirmed that his grandfather had come through the heart bypass operation safely and would be just fine. Marco had gone back to the children’s aid camp, then. For her.

Except she’d left, two days previously, with no forwarding address.

The one girl who’d seen him for himself instead of as a prince. Who’d made his summer feel full of magic. Who’d made him fall in love with her shy, gentle sweetness.

He’d lost her. And he hadn’t been able to track her down, even with the help of a private detective; somehow she’d managed to vanish completely.

And all sorts of things could have happened in the last seven years. He glanced swiftly at her left hand. There was no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t committed. She might not wear rings to work, given that she was a hand therapist. She could have a family, now. A child.

Besides, she’d made it very clear how she regarded him now. ‘You’re a patient, Your Royal Highness. This is my job.’

So he needed to stop thinking about her, right now, and do what he’d done for the last seven years: keep himself busy at work, and then play just as hard with a string of totally unsuitable women. Not let himself think about the girl he’d left behind.

‘You’ve made a real mess of this,’ she said, examining his palm. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Hunter didn’t tell you?’

‘Soldier, severed tendon.’ She shrugged. ‘So I’d guess it happened in action?’

‘My windscreen was blown out. I put up my hand to protect my eyes.’

‘No wonder you severed a tendon. You’re lucky it didn’t sever an artery and you bled out on the field. Or it could’ve severed your whole hand.’

‘I know.’

Not that it made him feel any better. He’d been over and over what had happened the last two days and nights. Thinking about what he could have done differently. What he should have done differently. But it didn’t change what had happened. Or do anything to lessen the guilt. He’d phoned every single wife, every single mother, and apologised for not taking better care of their loved ones while they were under his leadership. They’d all been grateful that he’d phoned, amazed that a prince would bother to share his memories of their husbands and sons. They’d cried. They’d even thanked him.

And it hadn’t made a scrap of difference. He still hated himself for making those mistakes. For not bringing all his men safely home.

‘Others weren’t so lucky.’ He sighed. ‘Those who were injured have the best possible care. Those who …’ There was a lump in his throat and he couldn’t say the rest of it.

‘Marco, you were in a war zone. People get injured. They die. You can’t blame yourself for that.’

‘They were acting under my orders.’

She shrugged. ‘I take it other people were injured, or killed, following the orders of someone else?’

‘Well—yes,’ he admitted.

‘And do you blame the officers for those deaths?’

He sighed. ‘I guess not.’

‘Then don’t blame yourself. If it hadn’t been your orders, it would’ve been someone else’s. I think you’re suffering enough without adding guilt to it. You just did your job, Marco.’

How had she become so wise? he wondered.

To his relief, she changed the subject back to his injury. ‘The first few days of physio, you’re just going to do some gentle exercises. These will help to prevent your tendons becoming stuck in your scar tissue.’

‘Stuck?’

‘Then Ethan would have to operate again. And the outcome might not be so good second time round.’

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘I’m under orders to do what you tell me.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘And a prince takes orders from ordinary people?’

Score one to her. ‘The rule is, medical orders outrank military orders.’

‘What about royal orders?’

He shrugged. ‘As far as I know, royal orders from Sirmontane only work inside my country. And right now I’m in your country, not mine.’

‘Touché.’ She sighed. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to snipe at you.’

‘But I lied to you about who I was. I can understand you being angry about that.’

‘It’s not so much that you didn’t tell me who you were, it’s the fact that you left without a word.’

‘So did you,’ he pointed out.

She blinked. ‘I did not. You were the one who left, not me.’

‘But you left the camp without a forwarding address.’

She frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I came back for you when my grandfather pulled through his operation,’ he said.

Her cheeks went pink. ‘I didn’t know that. And, anyway, what happened between us was obviously just the equivalent of a holiday fling. It was over years ago, and we’re both very different people now.’

He caught her gaze and held it. Was it over? The attraction was still there, for him. And the way her pupils grew slightly larger when she looked at him made him think that maybe, just maybe, it was the same for her. ‘Are we?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes.’ She looked away. ‘I worked hard to get this job. I’m not going to let anything put that in jeopardy. You’re in London for a few days—maybe a few weeks, until your tendon is healed enough—and then you’ll be back to doing whatever it is princes do.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Which is?’

‘How should I know?’

She sounded ever so slightly flustered.

Interesting.

Was it seeing him again? Had it brought back memories? Did she remember what it felt like to kiss him? Was she, like him, tempted to find out if it was still the same between them?

‘And it’s none of my business what you do,’ she said.

‘I was in Afghanistan,’ he said softly. ‘There’s a media blanket in place to keep my regiment safe. They don’t report anything about me, so my team isn’t targeted. Nobody knows I was hurt out there, and nobody knows I’m here. Well, apart from my team back at the base, my family, and the clinic staff here.’

‘And you want to keep it that way.’

He nodded. ‘To keep my team safe. I guess the media will find out eventually that I’m here.’

‘Not from me or anyone else at the clinic, if that’s what you’re asking. There is such a thing as patient confidentiality. And we’re very strict about that, I can assure you,’ she said crisply.

‘Thank you.’ He took her hand with his good hand, and squeezed it lightly before letting her go again.

Mistake.

Because his body remembered the feel of her skin against his. Intimately. And it reacted instantly.

Oh, hell.

Just as well she wasn’t looking at anything other than his busted hand. He took a deep breath, willing his body to calm down. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be following her instructions, not lusting after her.

‘Now, you need to do these exercises every hour,’ she said.

All businesslike and bossy. And Marco rather liked this new side of Becca. She was professionally confident, rather than the shy teenager she’d been.

‘You need to keep the splint on, but you can take the hand strap off while you’re doing the exercises. You start with three reps of this one.’

‘Three reps?’ He smiled. ‘You sound like a gym instructor.’

She frowned. ‘Stay out of the gym. Any pressure on this hand while it’s healing and you’ll be looking at permanent disability.’

‘I’ve already had that talk from Ethan. Though he says I’m allowed in the gym to do sit-ups and squats with a stability ball, provided I keep my body balanced and don’t use my left hand.’

‘That figures,’ she said. ‘Bodyweight exercises only.’

‘And walking lunges.’

She went pink again. ‘So was that you in the gym, the other day?’

She’d recognised him without seeing his face clearly? That was even more interesting. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘I wasn’t there. Just passing the glass door on my way out of the pool. And I assume Ethan told you to stay out of the pool?’

‘And put a bag over my arm when I have a bath or shower so I don’t get the splint wet. Yup.’ He looked at her. ‘But I could spectate at the pool. Do you swim a lot?’

‘It’s in my schedule.’

So she wasn’t going to let him push her into telling him anything about herself. Interesting.

‘It’s a cliché, you know,’ he said, enjoying himself.

‘What is?’

‘Having a temper to go with your hair colour.’

‘I don’t have a temper.’

‘Don’t you, Becca?’ he asked softly. ‘Or are you just gentle with your husband and children?’

‘My marital status is my business,’ she said coolly.

Maybe, but at least now he knew what it was. If she’d actually been married she would’ve told him, to put him in his place. Or she would’ve turned into a proud mamá like his sister Arabella, ready to show off photographs of her children at the least excuse.

‘Your first exercise, Your Royal Highness,’ she said crisply. ‘Use your right hand to curl each finger of your left hand down to the top of your palm.’ She demonstrated with her own hand.

He couldn’t help flinching as pain lanced through his hand.

‘Did that hurt?’ She didn’t sound like a vengeful harpy. She sounded concerned. Caring. But in a professional capacity.

‘A bit,’ he admitted.

‘Did you feel anything pull?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘I need to massage your hand first, to warm up the muscles.’ She frowned. ‘I’d better warn you now that it might hurt a bit.’

‘If it gets my hand working again and it means I can go back to work, then I don’t care if it hurts,’ he said. ‘Do whatever you need to. I’m in your hands.’

She went very, very pink.

Yeah.

He could feel the heat rising in his body, too.

‘Lie back with your palm upwards.’ She sounded slightly flustered and she was clearly making an effort to be professional.

OK. He’d behave. Even though what he really wanted to do right now was slide his good hand round the nape of her neck, draw her to him, and spend a very long time kissing her.

She pulled a chair round to the side of the bed. ‘Tell me if anything hurts.’

Wild horses wouldn’t drag that particular admission from him.

He closed his eyes as she massaged his hand. Yes, it did hurt; but at the same time it made his hand feel better. And he liked the feel of her skin against his. Warm. Gentle, yet firm at the same time. Soft. She was near enough for him to smell the light floral scent she wore. She’d always smelled of flowers in South Africa, he remembered. Roses.

With his eyes closed, and mercifully silent, Marco was a lot easier to deal with.

Maybe she ought to tell Ethan that she couldn’t cope with her new patient. But then her boss might think less of her—and she’d worked damn hard for her job here. After South Africa she’d thrown all her energies into her studies, graduating with top marks and quickly gaining promotion at the hospital where she’d worked. She hadn’t let any relationship get in her way.

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