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Praise for Tina Beckett:
‘… a tension-filled emotional story with just the right amount of drama. The author’s vivid description of the Brazilian jungle and its people make this story something special.’
—RT Book Reviews on DOCTOR’S GUIDE TO DATING IN THE JUNGLE
‘Medical Romance™ lovers will definitely like
NYC ANGELS: FLIRTING WITH DANGER
by Tina Beckett—for who doesn’t like a good forbidden romance?’ —HarlequinJunkie.com
The Dangers of Dating Dr Carvalho
Tina Beckett
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 wasn’t that he couldn’t remember anything. He could. He knew his full name. That he was a plastic surgeon from California. That he’d come to Brazil for a medical conference.
But there were large swathes of empty space that he couldn’t seem to fill with information. As if there’d been important data there at one time but it had been wiped clean with a single keystroke. Things like how he’d wound up with a sling around one arm and a surgical incision across the left side of his abdomen—or why he was now lying in a hospital bed without the foggiest notion as to how he got there.
And his brother—the person who’d been standing over him as he’d awoken from surgery three days ago, the person he hadn’t seen in almost thirty years—had left the day before yesterday for the United States on important business.
Business that involved a woman.
Lucas’s lips twisted. The last time he’d 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 hadn’t done anything crazy in that blank space where most of his recent memories should be.
The cute little nurse who’d come to visit him a couple of times had assured him that he was the one who’d 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.
That’s what the police had told him...that he’d 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 didn’t feel quite so thrilled about that fact. Actually, he didn’t 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. They’d had him up and walking soon after his surgery—he remembered the same warm-eyed nurse had hovered in the background, hands twisting as he’d taken his first painful, curse-filled steps. He didn’t think she was assigned to his case because she hadn’t helped in any way, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d wanted to say something to him.
But she hadn’t.
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 action—the 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. He’d done enough of that. So if walking would get him out of this place any faster, he would do just that. In fact, he’d 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.