practically sparkled around her.
He was still single. He could do this. Right now he would cross burning coals to see what would happen next.
He leaned even closer. ‘I came here to get some peace and quiet. I came here to get some head space.’ He gave her a little smile and lowered his voice. ‘But, all of a sudden, there’s no space in my head at all.’
He took a chance. ‘How about I stop searching for some peace and quiet, and you forget all about your bad day?’
She ran her fingers up the stem of her wine glass. He could tell she was thinking. She looked up from beneath heavy eyelids. ‘You mean, like a distraction. An interlude?’
The warm glow in his body started to rapidly rise. He nodded. ‘A distraction.’
She licked her lips again and he almost groaned out loud. ‘I think a distraction might be just what I need,’ she said carefully.
He tried to quieten the cheerleader squad currently yelling in his head.
‘I’ve always wanted to meet a Scots girl. Will you teach me how to wear a kilt?’ He waved to the barman. ‘There are some killer cocktails in here. You look like a Lavender Fizz kind of girl.’
‘I’ll do better than that.’ There was a hint of mischief in her voice. ‘I’ll teach you how to take it off.’
* * *
This wasn’t her life. It couldn’t be. Things like this didn’t happen to Sienna McDonald. But it seemed that in the blink of an eye her miserable, lousy day had just got a whole lot better.
It was the worst kind of day. The kind of day she should have got used to in this line of work.
But a doctor who got used to a baby dying was in the wrong profession.
It had been little Marco’s third op. He’d been failing all the time, born into the world too early with undeveloped lungs and a malformed heart; she’d known the odds were stacked against him.
Some people thought it was wrong to operate on premature babies unless there was a guarantee of a good outcome. But Sienna had seen babies who had next to no chance come through an operation, fight like a seasoned soldier and go on to thrive. One of her greatest successes was coming up on his fourth birthday and she couldn’t be prouder.
Today had been draining. Telling the parents had been soul-destroying. She didn’t usually drown her sorrows in alcohol, but tonight, in a strange country with only herself for company, it was the only thing that would do. She’d already made short work of the accompanying chocolate she’d bought to go with the wine. The empty wrappers were littered around her.
She sensed him as soon as he sat down next to her. There was a gentle waft of masculine cologne. Her eyes were lowered. It was easy to see the muscled thigh through the probably designer trousers. If he was staying in this hotel—he was probably a millionaire. She was just lucky the royal family were footing her bill.
When he spoke, his lilting Mediterranean accent washed over her. Thank goodness she was sitting down. There was something about the accent of the men of Montanari. It crossed between the Italian, French and Spanish of its surrounding neighbours. It was unmistakeable. Unique. And something she’d never forget.
She glanced sideways and once more sucked in her cheeks.
Nope. The guy who looked as if he’d just walked off some film set was still there. Any second now she’d have to pinch herself. This might actually be real.
Dark hair, killer green eyes with a little sparkle and perfect white teeth. She might not have X-ray vision but his lean and athletic build was clear beneath the perfectly tailored suit. If she were back in Scotland she’d tell him he might as well have sex on legs tattooed on his forehead. Too bad she was in a posh kingdom where she had to be a whole lot more polite than that.
He hadn’t responded to her cheeky comment. For a millisecond he looked a little stunned, and then his shoulders relaxed a little and he nodded slowly. He was getting comfortable. Did he think the game was over?
She was just settling in for the ride. She didn’t do this. She didn’t ever do this. Pick up a man in a bar? Her friends would think she’d gone crazy. But the palms of her hands were tingling. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She wanted to know exactly what those lips tasted like.
He was like every erotic dream she’d ever had just handed to her on a plate.
She leaned her head on one hand and turned to face him. ‘Who says I’m a cocktail kind of girl?’
He blinked. Her accent did that to people. It took their ears a few seconds to adjust to the Scottish twang. He was no different from every other man she’d ever met. The edges of his mouth turned upwards at the sound of her voice. People just seemed to love the Scottish accent—even if they couldn’t understand a word she said.
‘It’s written all over you,’ he shot back. He mirrored her stance, leaning his head on one hand and staring at her.
There was no mistaking the tingling of her skin. Part of her stomach turned over. There was a tiny wash of guilt.
Today wasn’t meant to be a happy day. Today was a day to drown her sorrows and contemplate if she could have done anything different to save that little baby. But the truth was she’d already done that. Even if she went back in time she wouldn’t do anything different. Clinically, her actions had been everything they should have been. Little Marco’s body had just been too weak, too underdeveloped to fight any more.
The late evening sun was streaming in the windows behind him, bathing them both in a luminescence of peaches and purples. Distraction. That was what this was. And right now she could do with a distraction.
Something to help her forget. Something to help her think about something other than work. She was due to go home in a few days. She’d taught the surgeons at Montanari Royal General everything she could.
She let her shoulders relax a little. The first two glasses of wine were starting to kick in.
‘I don’t know that I’m a Lavender Fizz kind of girl.’
‘Well, let’s see what kind of girl you are.’ The words hung in the air between them, with a hundred alternative meanings circulating in her mind. This guy was good. He was very good.
She half wished she’d changed after work. Or at least pulled a brush through her hair and applied some fresh make-up. This guy was impeccable, which made her wish she were too. He picked up the cocktail menu, pretending to peruse it, while giving her sideways glances. ‘No,’ he said decidedly. ‘Not gin.’ He paused a second. ‘Hmm, raspberries, maybe. Wait, no, here it is. A peach melba cocktail.’
She couldn’t help but smile as she raised her eyebrows. ‘And what’s in that one?’
He signalled the barman. ‘Let’s find out.’
Her smile remained fixed on her face. His confidence was tantalising. She sipped at her wine as she waited for the barman to mix the drinks.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked as they waited. He held out his hand towards her. ‘I’m Seb.’
Seb. A suitable billionaire-type name. Most of the men in this hotel had a whole host of aristocratic names. Louis. Alexander. Hugo. Augustus.
She reached out to take his hand. ‘Sienna.’
His hand enveloped hers. What should have been a firm handshake was something else entirely. It was gentle. Almost like a caress. But there was a purpose to it. He didn’t let go. He kept holding, letting the warmth of his hand permeate through her chilled skin. His voice was husky. ‘You’ve been holding on to that wine glass too long.’ Before she could reply he continued. ‘Sienna. It doesn’t seem a particularly Scottish name.’
A furrow appeared on his brow. As if he were trying to connect something. After a second, he shook his head and concentrated