One More Time - Louisa George Page 0,3

Rising up the scale, Mr Maitland—maybe an eight.’ Raw need flared behind her gaze. Her lips parted a little as she ran the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip and he figured he was in dodgy territory.

Mixing business with pleasure was a definite no. Too much gossip, too much to live up to. Hell, he’d had enough of that.

And yet...there was something simmering between them. A tension building, an awareness they both acknowledged, if not with words then with those fleeting looks. Like a gathering storm, intense, alive with static.

Then the connection fractured as she frowned. ‘But I know all about men like you. Big-shot surgeon. Work too hard. No time for friends or relationships.’ She glanced at his hand. ‘No wedding band. No one to go home to—or you’d be there already. You just want something quick and hot and uncomplicated.’

And now she was stamping on a raw nerve. No woman had ever challenged him so blatantly. Pure lust fired inside him. He whispered in her ear. ‘You reckon you fit the picture?’

‘Not today. So, if you don’t mind, I need a little privacy.’ She held her glass out to Bill. ‘Another one, please.’

Max didn’t want to ask why she was so intent on getting tanked. The woman was free to do what she liked. She certainly looked as if she could handle herself. In truth, the less he knew about her the better—that way things could stay strictly professional.

But his interest was way off the scale.

He wrapped his hand over her wrist, gently pulling the glass onto the bar. His fingers were drawn to her hand. He turned it over and rubbed her palm with his thumb. Checked for wedding rings. None. Good. The static jumped and buzzed around them at his touch. ‘Don’t you think you should be slowing down?’ And why did he care? Who was he to say how much she could drink?

Her fingers shook free and the frown deepened. ‘Seriously? I’ve had four drinks. I can still walk, talk and count. No big deal. Don’t bust a gut over me. This is a once-a-year indulgence I allow myself. I’m having a ball, so don’t go spoiling my party.’

He wanted to ask why. Why once a year— what had happened? Why here? Why the hell had things aligned for him to bump into her today, when he needed something, as she’d so rightly said, hot and quick. With her it felt complicated already, not least because they were going to be colleagues. And there was that thing...that invisible tug between them. ‘Hey, I’m a transplant surgeon. Livers fail. I worry.’

‘Oh, sweetie. Don’t.’ Her mouth twitched. ‘Once a year. The rest of the time I’m a saint.’

‘Well, lucky I found you tonight, then. Your liver will be eternally grateful.’

‘Sure it will. But my brain will never forgive you.’ Gabby shook her head. The man was beyond irritating. Okay, she conceded, and not a little gorgeous with his dark messy hair, tight black jeans and startling blue eyes that drew her gaze every time she looked in his direction. They were a deep-set, mesmerising, intense blue framed by eyelashes bordering on illegally long.

Not to mention the way his white shirt clung to thick biceps and broad shoulders dragging her eyes to his body.

She tried to ignore the fire smouldering in her belly as he touched her hand.

But really? The man was rude and way too self-assured. Six feet plus of trouble.

His reputation went before him—first time she’d had an orientation that had come with a health warning—Max Maitland, legendary surgeon, serial heartbreaker.

If she hadn’t seen the softening in him at the mention of Jamie she’d have believed the hype—chalked him up as a self-centred charmer.

She had to admire him, though. He could spar as well as she could. But his ego was spilling out of that crisp cotton shirt. From previous ugly experience she’d erased over-confident and uber-charming from the list of qualities she liked in a man. Nonna had been right about one thing, men just couldn’t be trusted.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Next time I need some advice from the fun police I’ll know who to call.’

‘And I’ll make sure I’m right there in my superhero outfit.’

‘I so did not need an image of you with your undies over your trousers.’ She shrugged, stifling a laugh, trying hard not to look at the way those jeans hugged his long legs. His perfect backside. Fascinating.

‘It’s the twenty-first century. We don’t do outfits like that anymore.