The Surgeon's Baby Surprise. Charlotte Hawkes
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strength.
‘Evie.’ His other hand laced through her silky hair to draw her to him; he inhaled her gentle scent, so painfully familiar. The feel of her hands gripping his shoulders then running down his upper arms, the way her breasts brushed against his chest, heating him even through the material that separated them both.
And then his mouth was on hers and Max couldn’t be sure which one of them had closed the gap first. He didn’t really care. With one hand still threaded through her hair, he trailed the other hand down her cheek, her neck, her chest, feeling her arch her back to push her breast into his palm.
He heard his low growl of anticipation as the hard nipple grazed his palm through the layers of thin cotton, dropping his hand so that he could flick his thumb across it. He dropped down to perch on the corner of the table as she moved over him and his thigh wedged between her legs, which pressed against him so that he could feel the heat at their apex. He dropped his other hand down her back to cup her wonderfully rounded backside, smaller than he recalled. And then she kissed him intensely and it was just the two of them as everything else fell away.
‘God, I want you,’ he groaned.
‘How much?’ she whispered.
‘You must know the answer to that,’ he rasped out, her uncertainty surprising him. The woman he’d known last year hadn’t needed validation or reassurance, she’d been sexily confident in her own skin. Still, if she wanted him to show her then he was more than willing to oblige.
But before he could act, Evie had tugged his shirt out, the buttons opening easily beneath those nimble fingers of hers. Dipping her head, she nipped and kissed his body that was leaner and tighter than ever. It ought to be—he’d been hitting his home gym hard ever since his return from Gaza, the only way he could burn off excess energy since he hadn’t wanted to sleep with any other woman since Evie.
As she made her way back up to his lips Max pulled her back into him, his hands sliding under the fitted blouse that followed the curves of her pert breasts, revelling in the way her breath caught in her throat.
Suddenly he froze. Her once slender form felt thin. Too thin. He could actually count her ribs. He drew back shaking his head; nothing was as clear or sharp as usual. Was he missing something?
‘Evie, stop...’
And then Max felt her slump slightly, as though the sudden flame of energy she’d had had just been stamped out without warning.
He was a first-class jerk. Evie was worried about her sister-in-law and he was only interested in rekindling the connection between them.
‘I’m sorry, that should never have happened.’
Evie shook her head, and as she pulled away from him he clenched his fists by his sides just so that he didn’t pull her back.
‘No, it was my fault, Max.’ She sounded distraught. ‘I shouldn’t have come back here.’
For the first time, Max wondered if he’d made a mistake. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to. He could read charts, he could read patients, he could read histories. He’d never been bothered to learn to read relationship signals before.
Dammit. Had he got it all wrong?
‘Evie, is there something else going on here?’
‘Leave it, Max. Please.’ She stepped back so abruptly that she almost fell, but it was the pleading in her eyes that stayed his arms from catching her.
Max watched some inner battle war across her features, then, apparently unable to trust herself to say another word, she straightened up and forced her legs to move. He knew it wasn’t the moment to stop her. He had some investigating to do before he charged in there.
He forced himself to stay still as she stumbled out of the room, the slamming door reverberating with raw finality.
IT WAS TIME for answers.
Max pulled up outside the unfamiliar house and turned the purring engine off with satisfaction. His sleek, expensive supercar—one of his very few real indulgences to himself—was incongruous against the older family cars and the backdrop of the suburban street. He checked the address he’d hastily scribbled down on the back of a hospital memo.
It was definitely the right place. But the nondescript, nineteen-fifties semi-detached house on a prepossessing street, almost ninety minutes from Silvertrees, was the last place he would have expected to find Evie—it all seemed so far removed from the contemporary flat that he was aware had come as part of her package working at the Youth Care Residential Centre.
But then, what did he know about the real Evie Parker?
And for that matter, what was he even doing here?
Instinct.
Because decades as a surgeon had taught him to follow his gut. And right now, as far as Evie was concerned, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something fundamental he was missing. Sliding out of the car, he crossed the street, his long stride easily covering the ranging pathway from the pavement to the porch. He knocked loudly on the timber door, hearing the bustle on the other side almost immediately, before it was hauled open.
‘Max.’
‘Evangeline.’ He gave a curt nod in the face of her utter shock, wishing he didn’t immediately notice how beautiful she was.
And how exhausted she looked. He’d seen the dark rings circling her eyes yesterday, along with the slightly sallow skin, so unlike the fresh-faced Evie he’d known a year ago. Just like how thin she’d become, all clear indicators of the toll her illness was taking on her body. He could scarcely believe his surgeon’s mind had allowed her to fob it off on being concerned for the health of her sister-in-law. But as soon as she’d gone and his gut had kicked back in, it hadn’t taken much digging to discover that it was Evie who was unwell, not Annie. That it was Evie who needed the transplant, not Annie.
He felt a kick of empathy. And something else he didn’t care to identify. He shoved it aside; he was here to satisfy himself there really wasn’t something he was missing, and to be a medical shoulder to cry on. Nothing more than that.
Evie stepped onto the porch, pulling the door to behind her, clearly not about to invite him in.
‘What are you even doing here?’
Ironic that he had asked her the same question less than twenty-four hours earlier.
‘Why did you tell me Annie was the one who needed the transplant?’ He was surprised at how difficult it was to keep his tone even and level with her, when at work his professional voice was second nature.
Evie’s face fell. He didn’t miss the way her knuckles went white as she gripped the solid-wood door tighter.
‘I didn’t.’ She tilted her chin defiantly.
‘You implied it, then. It’s semantics, Evie.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I was concerned. Things didn’t seem to add up.’
To her credit, she straightened her shoulders and met his glare with a defiant one of her own. That was the Evie he knew.
‘You’ve been checking up on me? Reading my file?’
‘You left me with little choice.’ He shrugged, not about to apologise. ‘And don’t talk to me about ethics—for the first time in my career I don’t care. You should have been the one to tell me, Evie.’
‘Well, you should be sorry,’ she challenged, although he didn’t miss the way her eyes darted nervously about. ‘You were the one who always used to be such a stickler about doctor-patient confidentiality.’
‘Is this really the conversation