“Could I fire you with a kiss? Do you believe I could do it?”
He was standing above her, his body throbbing, taunted by the languorous look in her eyes.
“You’d hardly want to,” she said, and although she spoke lightly, he guessed she, too, was trapped by a sudden shift in the atmosphere in the room. “I mean, look at me—your archetypal plain Jane! I’m jeans and T-shirt, not high fashion—short and dumpy, not slim and willowy.”
“You’re a woman, and I’m a man,” he said, determined to prove his point, although somewhere deep inside he was distressed she should make light of her appearance. “Sometimes that is all it takes.”
He took her hand and drew her to her feet, not forcing her, but allowing no resistance, and then made the kiss a reality, his lips claiming hers with an arrogance that took her breath away.
‘MOZART would be good for all the babies in the NICU,’ Marty protested. ‘I’ve picked out melodies everyone knows so the parents would enjoy it too. Besides, Emmaline is used to it. It’s what I’ve played for her all along.’
Sophie Gibson touched her friend lightly on the shoulder.
‘She’s not your baby,’ she gently reminded Marty. ‘In fact, she’s not even called Emmaline.’
‘But you’ve got to admit she looks like an Emmaline, doesn’t she?’
Marty put her hand through the port of the humidicrib and touched the wild black hair poking up from beneath the stockingette cap on the head of the tiny baby. Emmaline’s cherub face was screwed up as if sleeping required the utmost concentration, her little fists tucked up against her chin, ready to take on anyone who bothered her.
Or who messed with her Mozart!
‘She looks like a baby,’ Sophie said, then turned, smiling, as she heard her husband’s voice.
‘Glad you’re both here,’ Alexander Gibson said quietly. ‘Sophie, Marty, I’d like you both to meet Dr Carlos Quintero. He’s the baby’s father.’
Gib’s eyes sought out Marty, and she hoped the sick despair that squeezed her stomach wasn’t written on her face.
Stupid to have grown attached to Emmaline—stupid, stupid, stupid!
‘Carlos, this is Sophie Gibson, second in charge of the neonatal intensive care unit, and Marty Cox, the obstetrician who took care of Natalie during the time she was in on life support in the intensive care unit.’
The dark-haired, deeply tanned stranger bowed his head towards the two women, but Marty sensed his eyes, hidden beneath hooded, jet-fringed lids, were on Emm—the baby.
Then he lifted his head and eyes as dark as his lashes—obsidian stones in his harsh-planed face—met Marty’s.
‘I will wish to speak further to you,’ he said, his deep, accented voice, though quiet, carrying easily around the room.
Presence, that’s what he has, Marty thought, although she doubted presence was the reason for a sudden fluttery feeling in her chest.
‘Of course,’ she agreed, as easily as possible given the fluttery stuff going on. ‘Any time. Well, not quite any time, but we can make a time.’
She was chattering, something she only did when she was nervous, and of course Emmaline’s father suddenly turning up would make her nervous.
Wouldn’t it?
‘Why not now?’ Sophie suggested. ‘You’ve just come off duty.’
Marty fired a ‘some friend you are’ glance towards the neonatologist, and wondered just how bad she, herself, looked. Flat hair from the cap she’d been wearing in the delivery room, a too-large scrub suit billowing around her slight frame.
And you’re worrying because? her inner voice demanded.
‘You’d probably prefer to spend time with the baby right now,’ she mumbled at the stranger, who cast a look towards the crib then turned back to Marty.
‘Not at all. Now would suit me if it is convenient for you.’