Greek Doctor, Cinderella Bride. Amy Andrews
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purple whip-like scars that criss-crossed her abdomen were as mean-looking as ever. They’d faded a little over the years, but essentially each tentacle had left its savage mark, causing a permanent welt and marring the once sought-after bikini body that had graced many a magazine cover.
Isobella trembled with the effort it took not to look away in disgust. It had been a cruel twist of fate to have her career end on such a note, instead of on the high she’d imagined. At nineteen, being selected as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model had been a major coup, and the perfect ending to a stellar career. And then it had all gone to hell.
Isobella secured the towel around her, unable to look any longer. She collapsed back on her sister’s bed, staring at the ceiling, allowing herself to wallow in self-pity for a moment or two. It had been a long time since she’d let herself be pulled back into the awful quagmire of grief. A tear squeezed out from behind her lids and she let it trek down across her temple.
Damn Alexander Zaphirides. She hated this. It was his presence that had unsettled her so much. Here she was feeling sorry for herself when in reality she’d been exceedingly lucky. For one, she’d survived, and from what she’d been told, things had been touch and go for quite a few weeks.
And for another, her decision to leave modelling had already been announced, and she’d been happy and excited about embarking on a new career. She’d already made the mental shift away, preparing herself for a new chapter in her life. Had she been counting on continuing modelling when she finally awoke from her drug-induced coma she would have been very disappointed. The phones had stopped ringing. A disfigured model was no good to anyone.
Over the years she’d managed to develop a philosophical outlook to the incident. An acceptance, even, that there had been a grand plan for her—a destiny, a fate bigger than hers, beyond her control.
That was why she believed so much in the research that Alex was conducting. Helping to find a topical treatment for the dermonecrotic lesions caused by Chironex Fleckeri before they scarred its victims permanently. To date there had been no agent identified to reduce the long-term scarring, and she was at the forefront of the research.
It had been almost a calling from a divine force when she’d seen the advertisement just over two years ago. She’d been working in burns scarring research, but had known instantly the dermonecrosis study was her destiny. It was too late for her—but for future victims? It had been a challenge, a calling she hadn’t been able to deny.
And nothing had swayed her from that path for two years. Nothing. Not thoughts of her past or of the unfairness of life or the vile flu. She’d had her face glued to a microscope, obsessively stalked the world wide web, and stayed back way too many nights leaving no stone unturned.
But now, tonight, with the prospect of having to socialise with a man who was sexier than a hundred Greek gods, she wanted to be beautiful again. To be Izzy again. If even just for a night.
Damn it. Damn her vanity to hell!
‘Hey, babe? Are we having a slumber party?’
Carla? Her plane wasn’t due back until later tonight. Was it? Isobella dashed away the moisture beneath her lids. She gave a shaky laugh, not bothering to rise from the bed. ‘Sure, if you like.’
She looked up as Carla came into her line of vision. She looked as professional as she always did in her stewardess uniform. Her sister frowned down at her as she pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her skirt.
‘Move over,’ she ordered, and flopped back onto the mattress like a felled tree next to her.
‘Exhausted?’ Isobella asked as she watched Carla shut her eyes and give a deep contented sigh.
‘No.’ Carla shook her head. ‘What year is it?’
Isobella laughed, and could have hugged Carla for arriving home at the precise moment she needed a pick-me-up. ‘Poor Carla. Flying around the world, staying in gorgeous hotels, waiting on rock stars and screen gods. Italy is so hard to take this time of year.’
Carla laughed too. ‘I’m afraid I pulled the economy section this time. Crying babies and a group of soccer hooligans who tried to set a new record for the most beer consumed on a transatlantic flight.’
Isobella laughed again, and they both lay looking at the ceiling for a while.
‘So?’ Carla said. ‘What’s up?’
Isobella exhaled a pent up breath. ‘Dr Alexander Zaphirides, that’s what.’
‘Good grief!’ Carla’s head turned and she looked at her sister. ‘That’s right. Sorry—I’d forgotten McHusky was in town.’
Isobella smiled. Carla was the only person she’d ever confided in about her infatuation with her boss’s voice. And her sister had nicknamed him very aptly.
‘Is he as gorgeous as his voice suggests?’
Isobella nodded miserably. ‘I think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.’ And she had seen some very beautiful men.
Carla raised herself up on an elbow and looked down at her sister. ‘Hah! Told you,’ she crowed.
‘I’m having dinner with him tonight.’
Carla sat up and stared at her sister incredulously. ‘You are?’
Isobella shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘He insisted.’
‘Well, I like him already.’
‘Don’t get too carried away. The whole team will be there.’
‘But still,’ Carla grinned. ‘You and McHusky.’
‘Carla, be sensible,’ she chided, absently rubbing her finger over the small scar in the centre of her neck. ‘Nothing good can come of this.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. He’s finally getting you out of this house. Pulling you out of your comfort zone. For that I think the man deserves a medal.’ Carla jumped up. ‘Come on, let’s get you ready. What are you going to wear?’
‘I haven’t got anything to wear,’ Isobella murmured, feeling so depressed she just wanted to crawl into her bed and pull the covers over her head. ‘I think I’ll just plead a headache and stay home.’
Carla regarded her sister seriously. ‘Izzy. What harm can it do?’ she asked softly.
Isobella looked at her sister, flinching slightly at the childhood endearment—the name that had been on every designer’s lips back in her heyday.
Was Carla mad? What if she wanted more?
She’d trained herself to not want more. Of anything. She didn’t want to open the lid on a whole bunch of cravings she’d kept tightly locked away.
Carla lay back down on the bed. ‘Not all men are like Anthony, babe. You have a great figure. Stop hiding it.’
Isobella snorted. ‘I had. Past tense.’
‘Your figure is as divine now as it was when you were storming those Paris catwalks.’
Isobella heard the slight trace of envy in Carla’s voice. The sisters were chalk and cheese in the looks department. Carla was shorter and curvier, and although her figure was trim she always struggled to keep weight off. Isobella could, and did, eat like a horse, with no negative side effects whatsoever.
‘You know what I mean,’ Isobella replied.
‘Babe. Any man worth his salt won’t care about what you look like with your clothes off,’ Carla said gently.
Isobella shook her head incredulously at Carla, knowing full well that the male of the species usually judged women exactly on what they looked like under their clothes. ‘I look hideous!’
Carla shook her head. ‘God. Once a model always a model. You have such a screwed-up body