The Greek Billionaires Love-Child

PROLOGUE

IT WAS a bad time to realise that she was in love.

The atmosphere in the resuscitation room was strained and tense—the child’s injuries so severe that no one was holding out much hope of a good outcome.

No one, that was, except Dr Nikos Mariakos, the Greek consultant who had a reputation for making miracles happen.

Ella adjusted the oxygen flow with shaking hands and sneaked a glance at the man working across from her. Her heart tumbled, dipped and soared.

Why now? And why this man?

She’d broken both her rules.

Don’t trust.

Don’t love.

At the age of eight she’d learned that men were bad news and she’d locked away her emotions and thrown away the key.

But this man had not only found the key, he’d used it. And what had started as a scorching affair, a physical release from the constant stress of working in the paediatric emergency department, had turned into something deeper.

Ella felt a moment of pure panic, but the child’s condition didn’t allow time for reflection.

‘Suction—more light.’ He gave his orders in a calm, detached tone, apparently undaunted by the enormous task that faced him. It was almost as if he relished the challenge. His hands didn’t shake, his brow didn’t sweat and there was no trace of emotion on his cold, handsome face as he worked to stabilise the critically injured child.

I really do love him, Ella thought helplessly, watching every movement of his swift, skilled fingers with something close to desperation. Only hours earlier they’d been in bed. Those same fingers had created a very different kind of magic and the sensual spell he’d woven had somehow unravelled the protective web she’d spun over years of suspicion and caution.

A feeling of dread seeped into her bones as she realised how vulnerable she was.

Love had punched holes through her defensive shield.

Love now made her open to the same agonising hurt she’d suffered as a child.

‘Do you want to give him another unit of blood?’ It was one of the more junior doctors who spoke, his face almost as pale as that of their small patient.

‘No. I want to control the haemorrhage.’ The consultant’s coldly analytical approach to the critically injured child was in direct contrast to the less experienced doctor’s agitation. ‘Raise the temperature in here. I want overhead heaters and warming blankets.’

Ella quietly did as he instructed, remembering the day Nikos had started in the department. His reputation had caused such a stir that for days before his arrival no one had talked about anything but his technical brilliance and the fact that he was the youngest consultant ever appointed in the hospital.

And then he’d strode through the doors and the talk from the females in the department had shifted from his clinical skills to the fact that he was sexy enough to start a riot in a nunnery.

Even Ella, with her natural suspicion of very handsome men, had been blinded. Not just by his startling good looks, but by his bold, determined approach to every case that came through the doors of the emergency department.

Dismissive of bureaucracy, Nikos Mariakos was fearless in his pursuit of clinical excellence. His willingness to challenge conventional thinking and push boundaries meant that he frequently clashed swords with the hospital management who were terrified by his indifference to protocol and policy.

Nikos didn’t care.

When it came to his work, he cared about one thing alone.

His young patients.

It was as if he was on a one-man crusade to save every injured child.

And that included the little boy on the trolley.

‘He’s arrested. Get me a thoracotomy pack. I’m going to open his chest.’

A stunned silence greeted his statement and Phil, the anaesthetist, shook his head in disbelief. ‘In the emergency department? You can’t be serious, Nikos. Do you know the mortality rate for performing that procedure outside the operating room?’

Nikos was resuscitating the child. ‘I’m sure you’re about to remind me.’

The anaesthetist proceeded to do exactly that, but Nikos didn’t pause in his efforts.

‘Get that pack open, Ella,’ he ordered. ‘You should take a job with a medico legal company, Phil. They’d love you. Has someone called the cardiothoracic surgeons?’

‘What the hell is the matter with you, Nikos? Were you dropped on your head as a child?’ His colleague was perspiring under the heat of the lights, his concern for the patient eclipsed by concern for himself and the potential consequences of what the Greek consultant was proposing. ‘Don’t you ever follow protocol?’