The Dangers Of Dating Dr Carvalho
When Lucas Carvalho arrives in hospital with gunshot wounds Sophia recognises him instantly. Lucas is now a drop-dead gorgeous plastic surgeon, but he still has the same dark, soulful eyes she remembers from their childhood orphanage.Sophia’s determined to keep her distance – Lucas is dangerous for any woman! But can she resist the lure of this bad-boy surgeon…?
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Praise for Tina Beckett:
â⦠a tension-filled emotional story with just the right amount of drama. The authorâs vivid description of the Brazilian jungle and its people make this story something special.â
âRT Book Reviews on DOCTORâS GUIDE TO DATING IN THE JUNGLE
âMedical Romance⢠lovers will definitely like
NYC ANGELS: FLIRTING WITH DANGER by Tina Beckettâfor who doesnât like a good forbidden romance?â âHarlequinJunkie.com
To those who keep their promises.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
LUCAS CARVALHO WAS a lucky man.
At least, that was what his doctors told him. If only he could remember why.
It wasnât that he couldnât remember anything. He could. He knew his full name. That he was a plastic surgeon from California. That heâd come to Brazil for a medical conference.
But there were large swathes of empty space that he couldnât seem to fill with information. As if thereâd been important data there at one time but it had been wiped clean with a single keystroke. Things like how heâd wound up with a sling around one arm and a surgical incision across the left side of his abdomenâor why he was now lying in a hospital bed without the foggiest notion as to how he got there.
And his brotherâthe person whoâd been standing over him as heâd awoken from surgery three days ago, the person he hadnât seen in almost thirty yearsâhad left the day before yesterday for the United States on important business.
Business that involved a woman.
Lucasâs lips twisted. The last time heâd chased down a woman had been... His brain clicked through several files and discarded them.
Nope. Never happened. Never would.
At least he hoped he hadnât done anything crazy in that blank space where most of his recent memories should be.
The cute little nurse whoâd come to visit him a couple of times had assured him that he was the one whoâd talked his brother into going after that particular woman.
He struggled into a sitting position, wincing as pain sliced through his shoulder, the sling that secured his arm doing little to prevent his stitches from feeling like they were tearing free from his wound.
Not wound...wounds. Two, to be exact.
Thatâs what the police had told him...that heâd been shot. Twice. Right outside the entrance to a nearby slum. And like his doctors, the law enforcement officials insisted he was lucky to be alive.
Today he didnât feel quite so thrilled about that fact. Actually, he didnât feel thrilled about much of anything. The aches and pains, dulled by strong doses of medication a couple of days ago, now bit into his flesh with every movement.
He eyed the IV stand to his left and noted the wheels at its base. Theyâd had him up and walking soon after his surgeryâhe remembered the same warm-eyed nurse had hovered in the background, hands twisting as heâd taken his first painful, curse-filled steps. He didnât think she was assigned to his case because she hadnât helped in any way, but he couldnât shake the feeling that sheâd wanted to say something to him.
But she hadnât.
Shifting to the side of the bed where his IV bag hung, he let his legs dangle over the edge, hands gripping the mattress as he thought about his best course of actionâthe first being a much-needed trip to the john.
Which he could manage on his own.
He hoped.
His feet hit the floor, and the world spun for several nauseating seconds, causing him to clutch the pole beside him with a low curse.
Three days.
Surely he should be more ambulatory than this by now. The wave of dizziness passed and he stayed in place another minute or two to get his bearings. Then he leaned on the IV stand as he wheeled it toward the bathroom.
Doing the deed was a marvel in logistics co-ordination, but he somehow made it to the finish line without doing a face plant, and even washed and dried his uninjured hand afterwards.
There. He felt more independent already.
Right.
Judging from the pale face staring at him in the mirror, he might feel independent but he could use a big infusion of some kind of miracle drug. He jabbed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead, not that it helped much.
Now that he was up, though, there was no way he was climbing back in that bed and staring at the dull white ceiling for hours on end. Heâd done enough of that. So if walking would get him out of this place any faster, he would do just that. In fact, heâd jog if he had to.
All by himself.
He ignored the remote control dangling by its cord off the side of the bed and slogged his way toward the door, feeling like he was pushing through a huge vat of Jell-O. He refused to call for a nurse who would fuss over him like he vaguely remembered his brother doing when theyâd been kids. At least until he and Marcos had been separated and grown up on two completely different continents.
