CHAPTER TWO

      “AND NOW FOR one of my favorite places...”

      Harriet smiled broadly but widened the gap between them as they made their way to a glass-fronted ward. She definitely liked to keep him at arm’s length. He dipped for a surreptitious sniff of his shirt. He was certain he’d showered this morning...

      He covered the move with a smile and an earnest nod. “It’s nice to see changes implemented that don’t necessarily require huge injections of cash.

      “The whole world is slashing budgets and we’re no different. But it’s the staffing changes that make the biggest impact and those are completely free. Makes work seem less like...work.”

      “It seems to me you do a lot more than work here.” And that was putting it mildly. There were staffers and then there were people whose work was their passion—their calling. Harriet knew every patient, staffer, nook and cranny of St. Nick’s. Not many people were like that. He felt that way. From the day his sister had died he’d known where to pour his energies. His rage. But Harriet seemed fueled by other fires. She was pure compassion.

      “Ta-da!” She twirled around, swirling her hands into a presentation pose as his heart sank. A row of little cots filled with pink and blue bundles spread out before him. The infants’ ward. He’d been so busy focusing on Harriet’s take on pediatric staffing he hadn’t even noticed where they were heading.

      “Want to go in for a snuggle? I always come here when I’m feeling a bit down. Baby therapy!” Her eyes sparkled in anticipation of his affirmative answer. ‘You know, a whole new world...little tiny fingers, little tiny toes. Endless possibilities!”

      Wrong customer. Wrong question. He flicked his eyes towards the large wall clock.

      “I think we should probably press on.” He knew his smile was tight, but at least he’d managed one of those. “How about we work our way back to your office and I can get out of your hair.”

      She threw him a questioning look, but didn’t press him.

      He didn’t do cuddling, cooing or coddling. He helped young women through often complicated births, took care of the casita’s orphans if they required medical attention—but getting attached to any of them? Not his bag. Caring only led to heartbreak and he’d had more than his fair share of that nonsense.

      “Not everyone has the stomach for this kind of work.” He tried to cover the awkward silence settling between them. “And yet you choose to be with children most people prefer to ignore. A ward full of dying orphans—”

      “Children,” she firmly corrected.

      “Orphaned children,” he couldn’t stop himself from riposting. “I’m surprised you, of all people, would wrap everything up in politically correct language to make things softer and fluffier for them. Life is tough and will continue to be so—especially for children like these. Orphans.”

      From the flash of ire in her eyes it looked like he’d hit a nerve.

      “They’re children first and foremost, Dr. Torres—and that’s how I see them. How we see them. Not a single one of them is harboring an illusion that the world is solely made up of happy families and that they’re on a little spa break, thank you very much. The children in my ward have all most likely come here to die, and they know that. So having things a bit ‘fluffy bunny’ is exactly what we’re after.”

      Harriet only just stopped herself from harrumphing. She prided herself on choosing her language at St. Nick’s very carefully and patronizing her about it didn’t go down well, no matter how nice a package it came in.

      “‘Fluffy bunny’?” He arched an eyebrow.

      Hmm...that may not have had the gravitas she had been aiming for.

      “It’s interesting you should ask, Dr. Torres. Terminology is one of the things I was going to talk about tonight in my speech. Something that can make a real difference for the children here. And very possibly at Casita Verde. I wouldn’t like to judge before I set foot in the place.”

      Ha! Take that, you—you aspersion-caster, you!

      “So you will be giving the speech tonight, then?”

      Another amused eyebrow shifted upwards.

      Oh. Wait a minute.

      “I...” She scanned the ward for an invisible Dr. Bailey. “I think my esteemed boss hasn’t really given me much of a choice.”

      “There is a rather nice carrot dangling at the end of the stick if it goes well, no?”

      Her eyes caught his. A ridiculous image of Matteo beckoning to her with a single crooked finger as he lay bare chested on a satin-sheeted bed blinded her for a moment. He wasn’t talking about himself, was he?

      Was he?

      She sought answers in his eyes—almost verdant they were so green. So dreamy green... This wouldn’t do. She turned course abruptly in an attempt to swish away down the corridor, only narrowly avoiding tripping over a six-year-old playing airplane. Grace, it seemed, was continuing to elude her.

      “Don’t you want to show me around your part of St Nicholas’s?” Matteo appeared at her side in a couple of long-legged strides. He, apparently, had children dodging down to a fine art.

      She didn’t answer. There were a whole host of things she’d like to do with him, but show him the place that mattered to her most? Open herself up to more disparaging comments? Not particularly.

      * * *

      “I bet you could have done anything you set your mind to,” Matteo pressed, enjoying watching Harriet veer across the corridor to give herself more distance from him. Was she shy, or just repulsed? Not the usual effect he had on a woman, but he was open to firsts. “Were you ever tempted to become a doctor?”

      “Ha! Good one. Not for a second. Nursing is exactly where I belong. It suits me perfectly.”

      Her words sounded positive, but from the expression on her face Matteo could see Harriet’s laugh-it-off demeanor was a defense mechanism.

      “What’s wrong with aiming higher?”

      “What’s wrong with life in the trenches?” Her expression dared him to come up with an answer.

      “Good point.” And he meant it. He fixed his gaze to hers—clear and blue, imbued with a healthy dose of trust. Innocent—but not naive. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least to discover that what you saw was what you got with Harriet Monticello. What did surprise him was that he wanted to know more. Another first. He switched course.

      “Would I be correct in presuming your father was Italian with a surname like Monticello?”

      “I thought we weren’t going to talk about me.” She waved off his question.

      “I never said any such thing. You did.”

      “Was.” She nodded, her mood taking a visible dip. “He and my mother—who was Irish...” she pointed at her blonde hair “...died quite a few years back. Gosh...ten years ago. When I was just starting my nursing training here.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that.” And he meant it. Family was precious. He wished he was better at fostering what little relationship he had with his parents. After the fog had cleared in the wake of his sister’s death they had all but gone their separate ways. Acknowledging the work he