missed her wide hazel eyes and her interesting face. How much he’d taken her presence for granted when they’d worked in the same hospital, when she’d been there for him during his ops. How much he’d come to depend on seeing her, even though he’d pushed her away at every turn.
He’d been able to ignore all of that five hundred kilometres away from her—out of sight out of mind. But it was impossible to ignore now. She made him want things he didn’t know how to articulate.
And he wanted her gone.
So he could go back to ignoring her and all the stuff that bubbled to the surface whenever she was around all over again.
‘Why are you here?’ he demanded.
Evie swallowed at his sullen enquiry. His gaze was becoming chilly again and she shivered. ‘Prince Khalid bin Aziz.’
Finn frowned at the name from his past. Several years ago he’d revived a man who had collapsed in front of him on the street a couple of blocks from the hospital. He’d had no way of knowing at the time that the man was a Saudi oil prince. There’d been no robes, no staff, no security. He’d just been another heart to start and Finn’s medical training had taken over.
But it had certainly worked out well for the hospital, which had benefited from a huge donation.
‘What does he want?’
‘He wants you.’ Not as badly as she did, however. ‘He needs a quadruple bypass and he wants you and only you to perform it.’
Finn gripped his beer bottle harder as Evie opened a door he’d shut firmly behind him and a surge of adrenaline hit him like a bolt from the blue. He could almost smell the chemical cleanliness of the operating room, hear the dull slap as an instrument hit his gloved hand, feel the heat of the overhead lights on the back of his neck.
He shook his head, quashing the powerful surge of anticipation. ‘I’m not ready to come back.’
Evie’s looked down at him as he absently clenched and unclenched his right hand. Her heart banged loudly in her chest. What on earth was he talking about? Finn was a surgeon. The best cardiothoracic surgeon there was. He had to come back. And not just for the amir.
For him. For his sanity. For his dignity. The Finn she knew needed to work.
‘You look physically capable,’ she said, keeping her voice neutral.
Finn pushed up out of the chair as the decision he’d been circling around for five months crystallised. He walked to the railing, keeping a distance between them, his gaze locking on the horizon. ‘I don’t know if I’m going to come back.’
Evie stared at his profile. ‘To the Harbour?’
Finn shook his head as he tested the words out loud. ‘To surgery.’
Evie blinked, her brain temporarily shutting down at the enormity of his admission. Quit being a surgeon?
That was sacrilege.
She turned around slowly so she too was facing the horizon. Her hand gripped the railing as the line between the earth and the sky seemed to tilt. ‘My father will not be pleased,’ she joked, attempting to lighten the moment while her thoughts and emotions jumbled themselves into an almighty tangle.
‘Ah, yes, how is the great Richard Lockheart?’
Evie would have to have been deaf not to hear the contempt in Finn’s voice. It was fair to say that Finn was not on Team Richard. But, then, neither was she.
‘Already counting the pennies from the big fat donation Prince Khalid has promised the hospital.’
Evie wondered if Finn remembered that it was through Prince Khalid’s misfortune that she’d first met him. At the gala dinner that the prince had thrown in Finn’s honour the first time he’d donated one million dollars to the Sydney Harbour Hospital’s cardiothoracic department.
Finn had been as unimpressed as she to be there.
He snorted. ‘Of course. I should have known there would be money involved.’
Evie had never heard such coldness in Finn’s voice before. Not where his work was concerned, and it frightened her. She was used to it regarding her and anything of a remotely personal nature. But not his job.
She’d never thought she’d have to convince him to come back to work. She’d just assumed he’d jump back in as soon as he possibly could.
Just how long had his hand been recovered for?
‘So don’t do it for him,’ she said battling to keep the rise of desperation out of her voice. ‘Or for the money. Do it for the prince.’
‘There are any number of very good cardiac surgeons