nurse—when she’d scolded him about not using his stick. He hated the damn stick, and the questions it inevitably aroused, and he didn’t have time in his busy schedule for the intensive physio required—but at this moment in time he was prepared to embrace both.
Not that it would help him now.
But what would help beckoned just beyond Leo’s door, and Ethan had never been so glad to get to his brother’s office. It had once belonged to his father, and he’d used to hate being summoned here by the great man himself, in a rage over some imagined slight or other, as his father had slowly spiralled downwards into alcoholic depression.
Thankfully those days were gone, but it was pleasing to know that a decanter of finest whisky could still be found within the walls of this office—even if it was rarely touched.
The last ten paces to the bookshelves behind Leo’s desk were agony, but ultimately worth it as Ethan wrapped his hand around the satisfyingly full decanter. He splashed two fingers of amber liquid into a glass tumbler that sat nearby and threw it straight back.
Searing heat hit the back of his throat and almost instantly tentacles of warmth unfurled outwards from his belly. He poured himself another one and threw that back too, enjoying how the spread of heat pushed back the relentless creep of pain.
A third glass was poured, but before Ethan drank it he picked up both it and the decanter in one hand and reached for the back of the plush leather swivel chair with the other. Leaning heavily against the solid piece of furniture, he dragged it towards him, thankful for the wheels that made it easier, throwing himself down into it, groaning as the weight came off his legs.
He shut his eyes on a deep sigh as screamingly tense muscles found release. Nursing his drink and the decanter against his chest, he flopped his head back into the cushiony leather headrest, tilted the chair backwards and swivelled gently from side to side, enjoying the rush from the twin sensations of heat and relief.
Ethan wasn’t sure how long he sat there, idly twisting from side to side, his eyes shut, his tired muscles almost jelly now they’d been given permission to relax. He just knew it felt good to be non-weight-bearing.
Bliss. Ecstasy. Paradise.
But he was here for a reason—apart from the damn good whisky. He dragged his eyes open, knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer. Finally acknowledging that was exactly what he was doing.
On Leo’s desk there was a chart. The chart of a child with a terribly disfiguring condition that Ethan could help.
He could change little Ama’s life.
He would change her life.
But Ama’s case was complicated in more ways than one. Her condition was complex and would require multiple surgeries to correct.
But that wasn’t the issue. Ethan thrived on complex.
It was the strings attached to the case that were the problem. Big, fat strings involving someone from his past and the unholy mess he’d made in his selfish, juvenile need to hurt his brother.
Olivia Fairchild.
Olivia’s charity Fair Go was sponsoring Ama and her mother and an interpreter to travel from sub-Sahara Africa to London and the Hunter Clinic, for surgery and rehabilitation.
And she would be here—tomorrow.
Olivia who’d loved him. And he’d thrown it in her face by using her to get back at Leo. Flaunting her in front of his brother, knowing how much Leo had fallen for her, taunting him with the woman he couldn’t have.
Olivia had been heartbroken when she’d realised. The look in her eyes that terrible, fateful day … He shuddered thinking about it now. The huge row he and Leo had got into, not knowing Olivia was listening to every ugly word. Him admitting that he was only interested in the sexy Aussie doc because Leo wanted her for himself.
It hadn’t been true—not really. At the beginning, maybe, but not at that point. He’d enjoyed her company and there’d been something about her that had made him forget all his stuff when he was in her arms. The darkness that had been with him from his teenage years. The anguish over his mother’s premature death. His dysfunctional relationship with his father. All had been lifted whenever she’d held him close.
But the damage had been done and his betrayal, his hurting her, had been unforgivable. Toxic. That was the word she’d used to describe his and Leo’s relationship just before she’d fled back to Australia. And she’d been right. It had been toxic. And a lot of that had been on him.
But it wasn’t any longer.
He’d been so angry and self-destructive back then. Angry at his mother for dying and the ensuing scandal over her infidelities, angry at his father for being weak and taking the easy, boozy way out after Francesca’s death, and angrier at Leo for playing protector.
Protecting James from himself instead of confronting him over the inept drunk he’d become. And protecting Ethan from his father’s wildly fluctuating mental state—from deep depression to manic rage—denying Ethan the opportunity to vent all his anger, frustration and loss.
Ethan cringed as he thought about what a bastard he’d been. He’d taken what he’d wanted with no regard for Olivia’s feelings. Just stringing her along, thumbing his nose at her love, knowing how much Leo had had to grit his teeth every time he’d seen them together.
He’d thought himself so far above love back then—that he was immune to it. What a fool! It had taken a small, fierce, passionate firecracker of a woman from a foreign war-torn land to teach him how wrong he’d been. Maybe that was his punishment for Olivia?
Learning what love really meant and having it cruelly snatched away.
Ethan took a deep swallow of his drink, beating back memories of Aaliyah. He didn’t need that guilt on top of his Olivia guilt tonight.
No whisky bottle would be safe.
Olivia …
Had she forgiven him? Did he even deserve her forgiveness?
He hoped so.
Or at least that they could put the past behind them. Because not only would he be seeing her tomorrow but he’d be working with her too. As a paediatric reconstructive surgeon, Olivia had been given clearance by Leo not only to assist in Ama’s surgeries but to scrub in on any of the Hunter Clinic’s cases during her stay in London.
The humanitarian side of the clinic, which was Ethan’s baby, worked with charities from all round the world—Olivia’s charity being just one. Consequently it had a reasonably robust operating schedule—many of the cases were kids. There would be plenty of opportunities for Olivia to keep her skills up to date while she juggled her hosting responsibilities for Ama.
And Ethan knew having another pair of hands—skilled hands—would allow them to do so much more.
But team work was critical.
He couldn’t change what had happened in the past, and he was pretty damn sure she wouldn’t want to rehash it either, but he could treat her with the respect she deserved going forward.
He took another sip of his whisky as the questions circled round and round his brain. Questions he didn’t have answers for. Questions that could drive him nuts.
That could drive him to the bottom of Leo’s decanter.
But he’d come too close to being his father, to taking the easy way out, a while back—he wasn’t going there again.
He sighed and reached for the heavy walnut desk, grabbing hold and dragging the chair closer, trying to use his legs as little as possible. And there it was, right on the edge in the middle of the desk, Ama’s chart.
Ethan placed the decanter and his glass on the table and pushed all thoughts of Olivia aside as he opened the chart and started to read.
Olivia