# Awakened By Her Brooding Brazilian

Ann McIntosh

The playboy surgeon – and the shy workaholic!Dr. Krysta Simpson feels a connection with brooding Francisco Carvalho immediately. The ex-model turned surgeon is nothing like the cruel rumors would have her believe. And if she’s determined to use this temporary placement in stunning São Paulo to reset her priorities, she’s running out of time… Leaving one important question: will Francisco show her the pleasure she’s never experienced?

The playboy surgeon—

and the shy workaholic!

Dr. Krysta Simpson feels a connection with brooding Francisco Carvalho immediately. The ex-model turned surgeon is nothing like the cruel rumors would have her believe. And if she’s determined to use this temporary placement in stunning São Paulo to reset her priorities, she’s running out of time...leaving one important question: Will Francisco show her the pleasure she’s never experienced?

ANN MCINTOSH was born in the tropics, lived in the frozen north for a number of years, and now resides in sunny central Florida with her husband. She’s a proud mama to three grown children, loves tea, crafting, animals (except reptiles!), bacon and the ocean. She believes in the power of romance to heal, inspire and provide hope in our complex world.

Also by Ann McIntosh

The Nurse’s Pregnancy Miracle

The Surgeon’s One Night to Forever

Surgeon Prince, Cinderella Bride

The Nurse’s Christmas Temptation

A Summer in São Paulo collection

Awakened by Her Brooding Brazilian

Falling for the Single Dad Surgeon by Charlotte Hawkes

And look out for the next book

One Hot Night with Dr Cardoza by Tina Beckett

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Awakened by Her Brooding Brazilian

Ann McIntosh


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90241-4

AWAKENED BY HER BROODING BRAZILIAN

© 2020 Ann McIntosh

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To all the women and young girls

dedicated to STEM subjects

and the advancement of science.

Thank you for your brilliance!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

## CHAPTER ONE

IF THERE WAS one thing beyond his medical specialty of plastic surgery that Dr. Francisco Carvalho knew, it was fashion, and Dr. Krysta Simpson’s formal attire made him almost want to cry.

It was not that it was cheap looking. On the contrary, she’d probably paid a pretty penny for the gown, and the design of the dress, with soft draping at the neckline and cinched waist, was impeccable.

No. He could find no fault with the gown itself, even if it were outdated, but on Dr. Simpson it was a micron away from being an abomination.

Firstly, it was at least one size too big, and hung on her like a sack. Secondly, the celadon silk washed out her complexion—which was toasty brown with rich coppery undertones and freckles—making her look sallow.

To cap it all, her shoes would be more suitable for a woman three times her age, with fallen arches and an abiding distain for anything feminine or fashionable.

Who wore clunky flats with a formal dress?

Apparently, Dr. Simpson did.

It didn’t help that she was standing beside a beautiful woman wearing a lovely, infinitely flattering teal, one-shouldered gown. Francisco didn’t recognize her, and figured she must be another of the foreign specialists. On her other side was Dr. Flávia Maura, a well-respected researcher into the use of snake and spider venom to treat cancer and other diseases. He’d been surprised when she walked in, since she was in a gorgeous, shimmering green dress, and he’d never seen her in anything other than cargo pants, boots and a T-shirt. She looked fashionable and glamorous, especially in contrast to Krysta Simpson.

Yet, Francisco couldn’t help admiring Dr. Simpson’s aplomb. She was chatting away with all the insouciance of a woman wearing a bespoke haute-couture outfit, completely unaware of the way she stuck out in the stylishly dressed crowd.

And who could blame her for her confidence? In Francisco’s mind, she was a medical goddess of sorts. Not even thirty years old and already a leader in her combined fields of otolaryngology and facial reconstruction, Dr. Krysta Simpson had been making waves in the medical community for the last five years. More if you considered the fact that she was the youngest woman to graduate medical school with those particular specialties. When she’d been picked to work on one of the finest facial transplant teams in the world, no one who’d followed her career was surprised. Her research papers were must-reads in the plastic surgery community, if one wanted to keep current, learn about new techniques and get a feel for what was coming in the future.

After hearing her give a talk at a symposium in Lisbon three years ago, Francisco’s one wish had been to speak to her and pick her brain further. When she’d quietly slipped away from the conference and he’d missed that chance, his disappointment had been acute. So, on hearing she was traveling to São Paulo as part of Hospital Universitário Paulista’s summer lecture program, he’d hardly believed his luck.

Even more exciting was hearing she’d be performing a mandibular reconstruction on the Brazilian billionaire, Enzo Dos Santos, while there, and Francisco being pegged to assist. Being able to see her in action in theater would be the highlight of his career.

He’d been waiting for a chance to approach her since the welcoming soiree started, but was reluctant to interrupt her conversation. Instead of simply marching over there, he’d been casually circling, inching closer in the crowd. If he wasn’t careful, the cocktail portion of the evening would come to a close without him even introducing himself.

He was only about five feet away from her now. Sipping the sparkling water he’d gotten from a waiter, he considered how best to approach. It was testament to how much he’d changed over the last few years. In the past, there’d be no hesitation. That younger Francisco had been supremely sure of himself and his place in the world he inhabited, even though much of that bravado was ill deserved, and had caused more problems than anything else.

The older, wiser man was more watchful, wary. All too cognizant of the way people could misconstrue and misinterpret the most innocent or casual action. The last thing he needed was for her to think he was kissing up to her.

It may have been years since the end of his engagement to Mari, but the unfairness of how he’d been treated by the press, and by people he’d thought of as friends, still stung. It had left him isolated, and unwilling to open himself up to others, for fear of being betrayed again.

Leaving Rio had felt like making a fresh start, but unfortunately his was a face, and a name, all too recognizable. His problems had followed him to São Paulo like a phantasm that had decided to haunt him forever. Luckily, work kept him busy and gave him little time to stew on the way his life had turned out. And now, getting to work with Dr. Simpson gave him something tangible to look forward to.

Ah, there. Flávia Maura was walking away, and the woman in the teal dress put her hand on Krysta Simpson’s arm, seemingly to take her leave as well. As she stepped away in Flávia’s wake, and Francisco was about to move toward where Dr. Simpson still stood, he heard the distinctive, dismissive voice of Dr. Silvio Delgado, oncologist.

“The hospital should be more careful of their reputation. First they hire the crazy selvagem woman, then the gigolo, and to add insult to injury, they then bring some frump in to lecture. This one looks like a street person.”

Francisco’s fingers twitched as he reined in the impulse to plant his fist in the other man’s face. The situation’s only saving grace, in his estimation, was that Delgado spoke in Portuguese, the comment aimed squarely at Francisco and Flávia, rather than Dr. Simpson. The chances of the visiting doctors understanding the nasty comments were slim.

Even as he had the thought, he saw Flávia stop and look back, her brows coming together in a scowl, no doubt at being called a “jungle woman,” and Krysta Simpson turned, too, her dark eyes zeroing in on Delgado. Francisco’s heart sank momentarily, thinking Dr. Simpson actually knew what was said, but there was no hurt or anger on her face, just curiosity.

When Francisco had first starting modeling at the age of fifteen, his manager and mentor, Caro, had told him, “You must practice different looks, Cisco, so you are always ready to give the photographers exactly what they want. Remember, there are no words to tell the viewer what they should feel. The only clue is in your appearance.”

He’d heeded her, of course. The money he made with his face and body was the only way he could achieve his dream of being a doctor. It had felt silly at the time, but he’d done as she’d asked, and developed a repertoire of expressions hailed as impressive.

Now, he put that art to good use.

He turned his head and, as expected, found Delgado’s beady, malicious gaze trained on him. Looking down his nose at the shorter man, he met that stare squarely, and allowed his face to fall into an expression of such hauteur he might well have been a king.

You are a worm.

Uncouth.

Dust beneath my feet.

Unworthy of even a moment’s more consideration.

All this and worse his expression said, and he saw the exact moment Delgado read it aright. Red washed the other man’s face, his nostrils flared slightly and his lips all but disappeared as he pressed them together.

Then Francisco slowly turned his head away, knowing the gesture to be the final insulting blow to the man who felt himself above anyone not from his social circle.

The circle Mari was born into, and Francisco had walked away from, knowing it wasn’t anywhere he belonged. Or wanted to belong.

There was a muffled curse from Delgado’s direction, a titter from someone else in the vicinity, but Francisco paid neither any mind.

Instead, he walked purposefully toward Dr. Simpson, releasing his irritation along with a long, silent exhale through his nose.

Working with Dr. Simpson was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he’d allow nothing—no one—to interfere with it.


Krysta knew herself to be an overachiever, no matter what intellectual journey she embarked on, a trait her therapist had suggested, ad nauseam, she try to dial back. There’d been no reason to immerse herself in learning Portuguese over the last six months since she’d agreed to come to Brazil, but in her mind, there was also no reason not to.

It wasn’t as though she had a life outside of work—another issue her therapist encouraged her to try to change.

Now, she was glad she’d turned what one colleague had called her “diabolical focus” on learning the language. Being able to understand what was being said, especially when others didn’t know you could, was a handy thing indeed.

While she couldn’t understand all of the words, she surmised some of them were aimed at the way she was dressed. She was used to it, and whenever she got a strange look or overheard a comment, it rolled right off her.

There were many things in life she really didn’t give a fig about. While she could admire other people’s clothes sense, or even beautiful tropical decor like that of the room they were in, it was in a distant, disinterested way. She never became emotionally involved with, nor was she particularly moved by, beauty. She’d stood in the Sistine Chapel and thought more about how the painting had been achieved than about how lovely it was.

And that disinterest carried over to her wardrobe.

The dress she was wearing had been bought in London five years before, when she’d suddenly realized she had nothing to wear to a formal dinner. She’d asked the concierge at the hotel for the name of a boutique, gone there, walked in and grabbed the first dress she’d seen. That had caused considerable consternation among the staff, who’d wanted to advise her or, at the very least, force her to try it on.

Krysta had refused, pulling out her card to pay for it. The woman behind the counter had looked as though she might cry, but valiantly tried one more delaying tactic.

Would madam like a pair of shoes to go with the gown?

No, madam would not.

Not when every pair of shoes she saw scattered about the store had sky-high heels!

So, being ridiculed for her appearance meant less than nothing to her. In fact, there was benefit to looking frumpy. Others took you seriously, rather than focusing on your figure, or the fact you were female. The only area of life that mattered was her work: the research and surgeries she undertook in hopes of helping some of those who needed it.

Those things took all the emotional energy she had to expend.

On top of that, even if she were inclined to take umbrage, there was no mistaking the true target of the comments was the tall, exceedingly handsome fellow the other man had been sneering at. The same man striding across the floor toward her. She believed he’d been referred to as a gigolo...

And his reaction had been amazing.

Everyone, doctors in particular, had a look they gave those who were being especially displeasing, dense or obstructionist. Krysta’s included a deadpan stare and lifted eyebrow, which usually was effective. But she’d never, ever seen such a steely, arrogant expression of distaste on anyone’s face before.

How she wished she could pull that off, the next time someone crossed her!

Then there was no more time for rumination, since the man in question came to an abrupt halt in front of her, surprising her no end, since she’d thought he’d go straight by. She found herself looking up into a strong, almost lupine face with intent light brown eyes, and a zing of awareness fired down her spine. Even she, no expert on attractiveness, instinctively knew this man would turn every head wherever he went.

He certainly seemed able to turn hers.

“Dr. Simpson.” It wasn’t a question, so Krysta just looked up at him silently, noting the steely expression wasn’t gone from his gaze, but was merely muted. “My name is Dr. Francisco Carvalho, and it’s my great pleasure to meet you.”

His deep, accented tones seemed to vibrate into her bones in the most surprising way, but she smiled politely as they shook hands, recognizing the name. He was one of the craniofacial surgeons she’d be working with, but he’d missed the video conference calls they’d had regarding the Dos Santos case. It would have been nice to have warning of his attractiveness before this!

“Nice to meet you, too, Dr. Carvalho.”

“I am a great fan of yours,” he said. “I saw you in Lisbon, speaking about the use of titanium in three-dimensional printing for facial reconstruction, and had hoped to speak more with you after the lecture. I also recently read, with great interest, your paper on the development of new, lighter polymers for the same purpose.”

Now there was a shocker.

“But that paper was released only a couple of days ago.”

He shrugged lightly, the tiniest of smiles tipping his lips momentarily. Krysta’s heart did a weird, crazy little dip as she noted the way his face softened, even as the wolflike appeal increased.

“Anyone in my line of work who has any sense in his or her head knows that when Dr. Krysta Simpson releases a paper, it is in our best interest to read it, as soon as possible.”

Normally, compliments and flattery mattered to her as little as clothes or interior design, but something about his tone said that his words were neither. That Dr. Carvalho was stating what was, to him, a fact, and despite herself, Krysta was pleased by it.

Yet it wasn’t in her nature to agree.

“I would think Ferguson or Charpentier would be at the top of the must-read list.”

Dr. Carvalho nodded. “Verdade. Indeed. But they are, in my opinion, old school in their presentations. You take a more progressive line, allowing us a glimpse into what might be, should research advance sufficiently.”

Krysta tilted her head briefly to the side in both acknowledgment of the statement and amusement. “I’ve been taken to task for ‘prognosticating’ a number of times.”

His expression morphed into arrogant amusement in the blink of an eye. “Yet the journals keep printing your papers, and your demand grows. The last I heard, the French team was trying to woo you away from your current position.”

“Mere rumor,” she replied, although there had been some overtures. “You shouldn’t pay attention to gossip.”

He looked anything but chastened. In fact, he smiled. “I would like it very much if we sat together at dinner.” He gestured to the empty glass in her hand. “May I get you another drink in the meantime?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m having fruit punch—mango and passion fruit, I think the bartender said.”

Taking her glass, he stepped away with a murmured, “I’ll return in a moment.”

Krysta saw the way others watched him walk across to the bar, amused at how right she’d been. Dr. Francisco Carvalho certainly attracted a lot of attention, from admiring stares to what appeared to be envious ones.

“Dr. Simpson, what pleasure it gave me to learn you would be joining us here at the hospital.” Krysta turned to see the man who’d made the nasty comment earlier standing behind her, a sly smile on his lips. “I am Dr. Silvio Delgado, oncologist.”

She didn’t smile back, but shook his outstretched hand and said, “Dr. Delgado.”

Not being pleased to make his acquaintance, she didn’t say she was.

“You may not know it, but my grandfather was one of the founding contributors to this hospital,” he started, obviously expecting her to be overcome with fascination at this information.

Blah, blah, blah...

She tuned him out, wondering if her assistant back in New York had had any luck accessing the information she’d requested. Her latest research project was due to start as soon as she got back to the States and, without the proper accumulation of data, might be pushed back.

Then she heard Dr. Carvalho’s name, and tuned back in.

“...no doubt, but I have to tell you his reputation isn’t particularly stellar. He might have been famous as a model, but the way he treated his ex-fiancée is a disgrace.”

Krysta held up her hand, cutting the man off. “But is he a good doctor?”

Delgado blinked, several times, rapidly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Does he do his job in an acceptable way? Is he a good surgeon?” she asked, making her voice slow, as though to make sure he understood.

“Well... I... I suppose so,” he replied, and she saw the way his ears reddened.

She shrugged. “That’s all I care about.”

“Your drink, Dr. Simpson.”

Speak of the devil.

“Thank you, Dr. Carvalho,” she replied, turning to take the frosty glass from his hand. Had he heard the exchange between herself and the other man? There was nothing at all in his expression or demeanor to give her any clue. This Dr. Carvalho was a master at hiding his thoughts, unless and until he wanted to share them.

“It appears dinner is about to be served,” he said, extending his arm toward her as an announcement to that effect came over the PA system. “Shall we go through?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, laying her fingers on his impressive brachioradialis and strangely having to squelch the urge to squeeze it, just to see if it were as strong as she thought. Then she gave Dr. Delgado a level, straight-faced look and continued, “You will excuse us, won’t you? I’m famished.”

She saw the exact instant Dr. Delgado realized she’d spoken in Portuguese. His eyes widened, and his face paled. It took everything she had inside not to lose her poker face at his horrified expression.

And she now knew, for a fact, how hard Dr. Carvalho’s arm muscle really was, as it tightened to rock beneath her fingers. Glancing up into his startled face, she said, “I hope my accent isn’t terrible. I’ve only been learning the language for a few months.”

He blinked, and she saw amusement flood his eyes, causing them to gleam. “Not at all,” he replied. “In fact, it is perfeita.”

## CHAPTER TWO

FRANCISCO HURRIED ACROSS the grounds toward the conference and lecture center, glancing at his watch as he went.

Ora bolas! Krysta Simpson’s first lecture was supposed to start in less than a minute, and he was only now getting through the door into the building. It had been a busy morning, one that started at 4:00 a.m. with a call from the hospital concerning a victim of a robbery gone wrong; he’d had severe zygomatic and maxillary fractures. They’d taken him straight into surgery, and the delicate procedure of rebuilding his orbital structure hadn’t ended until almost nine. Luckily, there didn’t appear to be damage to his eye, but ophthalmology had been alerted and a specialist would be along to examine the patient once the swelling had abated.

Francisco had already told his head of department that, whenever time permitted, he wanted to attend as many of Dr. Simpson’s lectures as possible, and Dr. Emanuel had readily agreed. Getting her to Paulista’s was a coup for the hospital, since it was well-known she rarely lectured, preferring to devote her time to research and major, cutting-edge operations. Having her agree to perform the surgery on Dos Santos, who’d suffered oral cancer, was an added bonus. The patient had had a segment of his mandible removed, along with his tumor, in London, and specifically wanted her to do the reconstruction.

All the team members were familiar with the technique she would be using, where a piece of the patient’s fibula, along with blood vessels and a flap of skin, would be used to reconstruct the piece of mandible removed by the oncologist. Francisco had done several, even a couple where the inferior alveolar nerve running through the jaw to the chin and lower lip had been repaired as well. What Krysta Simpson brought to the table was a newer way of approaching the operation itself, and techniques not used everywhere yet.

Beyond all that, though, Francisco found her even more fascinating than he expected. Before meeting her, his sole focus had been on her work, the advances she’d been a part of in the world of facial reconstruction and the research she spearheaded.

That was before he’d heard her cut Delgado off when the other man was trying to poison her against him. And when she’d spoken in almost-perfect Portuguese... If he were still capable of doing so, he would have fallen for her right there and then. It had been magnífica. Just the expression on Delgado’s face had been enough to elevate the evening into one of the best Francisco had had in years.

They’d sat at the same table at dinner, and spoke almost exclusively to each other during the meal. He’d found himself avidly watching her face as she spoke, all but drowning in the twinkling brown eyes. It was only after he went home that it struck him why he’d enjoyed the night so much.

Communicating with Krysta Simpson had been easy, without any kind of undertones, or nosy questions. He’d been at ease with her, and found the wall of reticence he’d built up over the years rather thinner around her than it usually was. Perhaps it was because of her direct way of speaking, and how obvious it was she didn’t care about his storied past. It had been a long time since he’d felt so comfortable with anyone outside of his family, and had been a very pleasant experience.

Although he could certainly do without the thrill of attraction he felt toward her.

Now, finally getting to the lecture hall, he glanced in through the glass at the top of the door and found everyone already seated, with a few people even standing at the sides and back of the room. Most were students and residents, but there were a few established surgeons seated at the front. Not wanting to cause a disturbance when he expected Dr. Simpson to step out onto the stage at any moment, Francisco turned and headed for the door leading to the room adjacent to the hall. It was where lecturers waited for their audience to assemble, but it also led directly to the wings, via a corridor. His plan was to quietly make his way to the edge of the stage, and listen to her from there.

It would cause much less fuss than walking into the crowded room and perhaps even have one of his residents get up to offer him a seat, which was not outside the realm of possibility. All the young doctors he supervised were ambitious, and keen to make a good impression on the more experienced staff members, in hopes of it giving them a leg up on the competition.

The L-shaped waiting area beside the lecture hall was much like any of the green rooms Francisco had been in during his modeling days. There were a few upholstered chairs, a couch, coffee table, refreshment area and, set into a secluded alcove at the back, a desk. At first, when he entered, he thought it empty, then he heard what sounded like low mumbling coming from the desk area. Curiosity took him the steps necessary to peer around the corner, and he was taken aback to find Dr. Simpson standing beside the desk.

Her back was to him, her face to the wall, her hands pressed flat against the surface in front of her, the knuckles almost white with the pressure she was exerting on her fingers.

His first instinct was to leave her alone, but something in the stiffness of her posture, the cadence of her voice as she recited something to herself, kept him there.

“Dr. Simpson...”

She turned a pale, sweat-sheened face to him, snapping, “I asked for just a few more minutes.” Then she shook her head, as though trying to bring herself back from whatever unhappy place she’d just been.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly, annoyed with himself for disturbing her. “I thought perhaps you were unwell.”

“Sick,” she mumbled. Then her voice rose. “God, I hate public speaking.”

She seemed so confident generally it was startling to see her this way, and he said, “But you do it so well. No one would ever believe your aversion.”

Krysta gave him a wan look as she reached into the pocket of her oversize jacket and pulled out a handful of tissues. Dabbing her forehead, she replied, “Do you know why you couldn’t find me to speak to me in Lisbon after my presentation? Because I was in the bathroom throwing up. At least this time I threw up first.”

When he’d mentioned he’d looked for her then, she hadn’t commented. Now he understood why.

“If you hate it so much, why do it?” he asked, honestly perplexed. It wasn’t as though she needed to raise her profile in the medical world. And if she did, Brazil probably wouldn’t be first on the list of places to do so.

“I’d promised myself not to do it again, but over the last couple of years I’ve been trying to work through some...issues, and my therapist told me I need to face my fears. And she also told me I needed to get out more, experience more of life, since I spend all my time working. Brazil seemed like a good place to kill two birds with one stone.”

Francisco was unsure of what to say to that but, before he could reply, the noise level in the lecture hall seemed to rise to a grumbling murmur. Krysta obviously heard it, too, as she straightened, giving her forehead one last pat down with the tissues. To his amazement, all signs of distress and trepidation fell away from her face, and although he saw her swallow hard once, she appeared perfectly collected, if still a little pale.

“Okay,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “I’m ready now.”

She walked past him with long confident strides, and then paused to glance back at him. “Are you staying for the lecture?”

He gestured to the corridor she was about to walk down. “I’ll be watching from the wings.”

The smile she gave him made something warm and pleasant bloom in his chest.

“Good. Great.”

“And perhaps we can lunch together afterward?” he asked before she disappeared. “Before I do my rounds?” They were getting together that afternoon for a preliminary team meeting regarding the upcoming surgery, but the urge to spend more time with her was unmistakable.

“Sure,” was the nonchalant answer.

Then she was gone, and as he followed and saw her step out onto the stage, the applause began.


There were many divides between Krysta and her father, but as she explained to Dr. Carvalho over lunch, she owed her ability to deal with whatever was happening directly to him.

“He’s an auto mechanic,” she said as she arranged the food on her plate to her specifications: meat at five o’clock, rice at seven and vegetables taking up the rest of the space. No restaurant, or cafeteria like the one here at the hospital, ever got it quite right. “He proudly calls himself a grease monkey, and never really understood why I wanted to go into medicine, yet everything important I know about getting through life I learned from him.”

The conversation had started when Francisco had asked how she’d gone from a shaking mess to composed so quickly. Usually, she’d have brushed it off, embarrassed to be seen that way by anyone, but, somehow, she’d minded neither his intrusion nor the question. She felt remarkably comfortable with Francisco Carvalho, once she subdued the rush of awareness she experienced whenever their eyes met.

Seeing the quizzical expression being sent her way, Krysta elaborated. “He always told us, ‘Fear and doubt are contagious. If you let others see you’re feeling them, they’ll catch it, and mirror it back to you tenfold.’ In my head, I equate it to when a family gets the flu, and keep passing it back and forth. When you get it the second time, it’s usually much worse.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I see. So you trained yourself to go through the fear and get the job done.”

“You have to sometimes,” she agreed, while putting together the perfect forkful of food. “I’ve gotten out of the habit of pushing myself, outside of my usual work life, but I’m thankful to know that ability to compartmentalize in uncomfortable situations hasn’t deserted me.”

“I enjoyed your lecture, as I knew I would.” He had a direct, unruffled way of speaking she really liked. “The information you’re imparting to our staff should prove highly valuable.”

She finished chewing and swallowed before she replied. “It’s available elsewhere. I just have it put all together in one presentation, because of my research and specialties.”

The lecture, the first of three parts, dealt with the ever-widening and exciting world of biomaterials for medical applications. It was a topic she was fascinated by, since new discoveries opened up advanced and improved ways of disease diagnosis, delivery of medications, even tissue generation. In later lectures she’d go into greater detail regarding specific applications, particularly when used for facial reconstruction.

He shook his head, giving her one of his abbreviated smiles.

“The information you have is not available to everyone. You must have gotten fifty different permissions just to do this lecture series.”

She tried not to smirk, but probably failed. “More like sixty, including being able to talk about and show some of the work that went into the facial transplant I assisted with.”

Francisco’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured around another mouthful of food, unreasonably glad to have truly impressed him with that pronouncement. She wasn’t sure who at Paulista’s pulled the strings, but someone at the hospital had a great deal of clout.

He took a moment to have another bite of his feijoada, which reminded her a little of Jamaican stewed peas, although it was made with black beans instead of red kidney beans and had sausage in it, rather than just salted meat. She’d opted for churrasco and wasn’t disappointed as the tender barbecued beef melted in her mouth, releasing its delicious flavor. Francisco swallowed, and seemed about to say something, when Flávia Maura stopped by their table, tray in hand, and Krysta looked up to smile at the other woman.

“Hi,” Flávia said, speaking directly to Krysta after acknowledging Francisco with a terse nod. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over to the sanctuary for a tour sometime while you’re here. I can show you the live specimens, and some of the research data I’ve collected.”

An involuntary shiver rustled up Krysta’s back.

“I’m really interested in your findings, because I think the possible applications are fascinating, but unfortunately I don’t do snakes. Just the thought of being around a lot of them gives me the chills.”

“You’re not afraid of them, are you?” Flávia seemed both bemused and disappointed. “As a scientist, surely you understand their importance, ecologically and medicinally?” She shook her head, then ran her fingers through her hair. “The amount of time I spend trying to explain that to people...”

“Oh, I understand,” Krysta said, not at all offended at being taken to task. She completely related to Flávia’s drive and passion. Although their fields were very different, the other woman’s intensity mirrored her own. “I’ve just never been comfortable with reptiles or amphibians, although I don’t mind arachnids.”

Flávia’s gaze swung toward the door and lingered there for a moment. As a hint of color touched the other woman’s face, Krysta glanced that way in time to see the British oncologist Jake Cooper heading for the buffet line. When she looked back at Flávia, it was to see the other woman rubbing one cheek, as though to erase the warmth accumulating there. Then her hand dropped away, and she shook her head slightly, her gaze returning to meet Krysta’s.

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know. The invitation is always open.” Flávia glanced at Francisco, and added, “You can come, too, if you like.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you for the invitation but, unlike Krysta, I’m leery of spiders, ever since I was bitten by a brown widow as a child.”

Flávia made a little sound best described as a snort. “Latrodectus geometricus. Did you not check your shoes before putting them on?”

Francisco shook his head, but there was a wry set to his mouth. “More like stuck my hand into somewhere it didn’t belong.”

Flávia nodded, and gave him a little smile in return. “I’ve been known to do that myself, from time to time.”

Why did Krysta feel there was more to both those stories than met the eye? Her curiosity was definitely piqued. Just as it had been when she noticed how coolly distant Francisco was with everyone. Well, except her.

Then Flávia was taking her leave, striding off to sit at one of the other tables before Krysta even thought to invite her to sit with them.

Francisco gave her one of his noncommittal looks, and said, “I thought you were on a campaign to overcome your fears. Wouldn’t this be a good opportunity?”

Was he being serious, snide or teasing? Krysta narrowed her eyes in an attempt to figure it out. Then she noticed the twinkle in his eyes, and decided it was the latter. To date, she’d seen nothing snide in his manner, which was probably why they got along so well. After so many years of, in different situations, being the youngest, or only female, or just plain different, she was adept at spotting even a hint of condescension.

Looking down at her plate, she set about arranging another forkful, and replied, “Perhaps I’ll go...if you do.”

There. When she glanced up, the twinkle in his eyes had definitely deepened, and his lips quirked in amusement. “Hmm, I wouldn’t wait around for that if I were you. I have no problem admitting I avoid spiders whenever I can, and tend to swat the ones I can’t elude.”

Krysta gave an exaggerated look over her shoulder. “You better not let Flávia hear you say that. You’ve already moved down a few notches in her estimation, and that would send you straight to Hades, without even a pause in purgatory.”

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle, but a full-on deep laugh.

It was such a departure from the contained and controlled Dr. Carvalho, Krysta found herself transfixed by the sight.

The way his face lit up. The low, somehow sexy rumble of his merriment. The crinkling of the skin at the corners of his eyes, and slashes, like long dimples, in his cheeks.

Heat washed through her veins, out into every crevice and corner of her body, the sensation unlike any she’d experienced before. Instinctively, she looked down, not wanting him to catch her staring, and tried to catch her suddenly nonexistent breath.

The sensation was akin to how she felt before lecturing: scared, a little shaky. Completely sure something unknown and horrible was coming her way.

Frazzled, she shoved the fork into her mouth, even though half the salad had fallen off.

She’d have to try to work it out later, although she had the distinct feeling there was some important data she lacked.

His laughter subsided, but there was still a touch of amusement in his voice as he said, “Would you like to do rounds with me, before the meeting with the surgical team?”

No.

Yes.

No.

Indecision wasn’t something Krysta tolerated in others, and despised in herself, yet her brain ping-ponged back and forth in a most annoying manner at his simple question. Then common sense reasserted itself.

“Do you have any patients I could be of particular help to? If not, I need to contact my research assistant and make sure everything is under control before he goes on holiday next week.”

The smile stayed on his lips, but she thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes as he replied, “No, not really. But I’m sure the residents would have questions they’d love to ask.”

Ah, he was thinking about the residents. That made sense. She shrugged, and concentrated on her plate.

“I’ll be available for the next few months. There’ll be plenty of time for them.”

“Indeed,” he replied, but something in his voice made her glance up at him, and now it was she who was disappointed when he wasn’t looking at her, so she couldn’t see his eyes. “Perhaps, if you’re not too busy, we could lunch again tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, trying to remain noncommittal, even as she knew she’d be there.

## CHAPTER THREE

LATER THAT EVENING, Krysta made her way down to the indoor pool at the apartment building where she was staying. She’d tried to settle in for the evening, but her whirring brain made her restless, and swimming laps was one surefire way to work off some of her excess energy.

All in all, it had been a constructive day, but the stress of lecturing, coupled with the preoperation group meeting, rendered her unable to relax.

Getting to the pool, she was happy to find it deserted. After she’d shed her robe and slippers, she made her way to the deep end, putting on her goggles as she went.

Then she dove in, automatically counting the strokes it took to get to the opposite end, and then keeping count of the laps. But even so occupied, her brain still had more than enough space left over to go through the day once more.

Yet, surprisingly, considering how stressful it had been, it wasn’t the lecture or the upcoming operation she found herself contemplating.

It was Francisco Carvalho, and her completely untoward reactions whenever he was around. Those moments of hesitation—procrastination—when he’d invited her to accompany him on rounds was bad enough but, to make it worse, she’d found herself distracted by him during the meeting with the surgical team.

She’d brought one of the three-dimensional replicas of Mr. Dos Santos’s skull with her, showing how it had been prior to the segmental mandibulectomy, along with a 3-D model of his mandible, and recent scans.

“The oncological team used fluorescent contrast preop to locate the cancer cells, and luckily, because of that, we have decent margins to work with. As you know, we’ll be performing a vascularized fibula flap transfer, with simultaneous dental-implant placement. We will be using titanium plates specifically crafted for Mr. Dos Santos to hold the transferred bone in place, along with cutting templates to shape the fibula into the exact shape needed.”

Francisco leaned closer to get a better look at the 3-D skull, bringing his shoulder into close proximity to hers. Warmth flooded her arm, making her wonder if the heat emanated from him or if her body was spontaneously creating it.

Flummoxed, she was forced to strain to concentrate when one of the residents raised his hand and said, “If I may ask, why wasn’t the reconstruction done immediately following the mandibulectomy? Isn’t that the standard of care?”

Krysta dragged her mind back to the meeting, but it was Jake Cooper who answered.

“Dr. Simpson wasn’t available to perform the operation when I had the mandibulectomy scheduled,” he replied. “And Mr. Dos Santos insisted she be the one to head the team.”

“Dr. Simpson was in France, assisting with a facial transplant,” Francisco interjected. “And some of what the French were able to achieve, she will be sharing with us in her lectures.”

That brought another little murmur from the assembled group, which Krysta ignored. Just as she outwardly ignored Francisco’s interruption, even as she felt a silly little glow of pride.

Instead of acknowledging his words, she continued. “While it is common practice, none of the data show any difference in outcome if the reconstruction is secondary. And since it affords us an opportunity to make full use of the new technology, we can ensure a shorter, more efficient operation, along with superior function and aesthetic results, long-term. In consultation with both Dr. Cooper and the patient, it was decided the benefits of waiting outweighed the detriments.”

Francisco asked, “Could you expound on that a little, Dr. Simpson? I’m interested in how that decision was made.”

She’d found herself reluctant to look directly at him, so she let her gaze roam the rest of the people in the room.

“Every patient is different,” she began, gathering her thoughts carefully. “In situations such as the one Mr. Dos Santos found himself in, each person has their own concerns and fears. Some just want the cancer removed, no matter what that entails, not thinking past surviving. Others fear the surgery almost as much, if not more, than the disease. In this particular case, on speaking to the patient, I realized he wasn’t particularly worried about his prognosis. He truly believed his strength of will would make his recovery all but inevitable. But there was one thing he was deeply worried about, and that was his postoperative appearance and facial functionality.”

There was a murmur through the room, and Krysta held up her hand to silence it.

“Mr. Dos Santos isn’t just a wealthy businessman, but the face of his company, and of his futebol team, Chutegol. Much of his success has come from being ‘Senhor Chutegol,’ recognized by everyone, parlaying that recognition into bigger and better successes.”

At the mention of the well-known soccer team, which was in the prestigious Brasileirão league, the assembled team nodded, and Krysta could see understanding dawning in most of their expressions.

“Once I realized how important the aesthetic result was to him, I then spoke to him about timelines. I explained that if I were to do the reconstruction secondary to the mandibulectomy, I’d want to wait until he’d also finished his radiation treatments, and his recovery time would be extended. He didn’t care about that. As most of you know, he’d announced his diagnosis to the media, and was willing to take as long as necessary to recover, as long as he looked almost the same when he finally reemerged. That was when I suggested the CT mapping, and 3-D printing approach.

“And there was one final deciding factor,” she continued. “I explained to him that I was committed to coming here for three months, and so would have just a short window prior to my visit to do the surgery. That was when he requested, if possible, that the surgery be done here, in his home country, and be used as a training opportunity.”

Once more, murmurs broke out around the room, but there was a decidedly appreciative cadence to them.

“While you all are familiar with the standard fibular free-flap reconstruction, introducing you to some of the newer techniques in presurgical planning, along with the 3-D planned plates and templates, will serve you well in the years to come. It’s an exciting and fast-evolving technique in our line of work.”

They’d gone on to discuss the operation in detail, but through it all Krysta was supremely aware of Francisco next to her, whether he was contributing to the conversation or not.

Now, as she finished her twenty-fourth lap, she had to admit to herself the patently obvious truth.

She was attracted to him.

That in itself was unusual enough to throw her off her stride. Not that it was the first time she’d found a man attractive, but unlike the other times, there was a stronger pull, a growing need for his company she didn’t understand.

Worse was this sense of wanting to do something about it, take it further to see where it might lead. That was very different from the times before, when she’d been content to look and do nothing about her feelings.

Not that she’d know how to go about getting from point A to point B with a man like Francisco Carvalho.

She’d succumbed to curiosity and looked him up on the internet. Francisco Carvalho had lived an exciting life as a model prior to becoming a surgeon. Back then, he was known as Cisco, and there were myriad pictures of him in ads and on catwalks around the world. He’d even been the face of a cologne produced by a designer whose name even Krysta recognized.

And then there were the shots of him at parties and galas, and in many of them he had a gorgeous blonde woman on his arm, described in some of the captions as Mariella Guzman, his fiancée. That wide-eyed beauty had seemed the perfect complement to Francisco’s dark, brooding handsomeness. Recalling Dr. Delgado’s comments on the night of the reception, she’d been tempted to see if there were any articles saying what happened, but decided against it. She’d seen enough to tell her everything she needed to know.

Francisco Carvalho may be her contemporary in the medical world, but in every other way, he was light-years beyond her.

All her life she’d been an outsider, far younger than any of her classmates or work contemporaries. When her mental contemporaries had been experimenting with love and sex, she’d been focused on her studies or career. And before she’d gotten to the point where perhaps she’d have been open to exploring her own sexuality, she’d been traumatized by an assault.

That wasn’t something she’d thought or talked about in years, pushing it away and minimizing it in her head. After all, she told herself, it wasn’t as though she’d been raped. There were other young girls who’d been hurt far more severely than she had.

It wasn’t until she’d started seeing Dr. Hellman that she’d begun to see the ramifications. At fourteen, Krysta had learned to repress her sexuality and minimize any outward signs of femininity. Then, safe in the bastion of her denial, she’d decided relationships, even casual ones, weren’t in the cards.

Yet, for all the talking and analyzing, she wasn’t ready to let go of her disguise, or venture out of the safety zone. Her work still was her be-all and end-all, and she couldn’t afford distractions.

Case in point, she thought as she got to the wall in the deep end and hung on, instead of doing a racing turn and continuing. Thinking about Francisco Carvalho had made her lose count of her laps, when usually she could keep track of them effortlessly, even while thinking about other things. If he could so easily shut down a function of her brain, one she considered automatic, what could he do to the rest of it, if she let him?

Yet, she knew he wouldn’t be as easy to dismiss from her mind as the other men she’d been attracted to. There was definitely something different about Francisco, something compelling. It wasn’t his looks, although she thought him handsome. Looks alone would never be enough to pique her interest.

Treading water, she considered exactly what it was about him that gave her goose bumps, and made her heart race, but couldn’t pinpoint any one thing.

That, in itself, was additionally frustrating. Krysta was used to being able to work though almost any puzzle and find a logical solution.

Perhaps you’re looking for the answer to the wrong question.

Her therapist’s voice sounded in her head, making her wrinkle her nose. It was one of Dr. Hellman’s more annoying sayings, especially when she never seemed willing to let on what the right question was. The only statement more annoying was, “You need to step out of your comfort zone.”

Well, she had, hadn’t she? Agreeing to come to Brazil and lecture. Dr. Hellman had seemed pleased when Krysta had told her about the trip. Of course, she’d also told her to take the opportunity to stretch herself even more. There were, according to the psychologist, so many things Krysta had missed out on growing up. Not because her parents had pushed her, but because Krysta had pushed herself.

Realizing she’d done it not just because she wanted to succeed, but because it was a great way to isolate herself socially and feel safe, had been revelatory.

Shoving back from the wall, she floated into the middle of the pool, looking up at the ceiling, drifting lazily in the water, rather than cleaving through the way she usually did.

She’d thought she was fine the way she was, but she’d had to reevaluate that supposition. After all, no one had forced her to make that first appointment with Dr. Hellman. It clearly had been something inside her telling her it was time to get things right in her head. Perhaps telling her a full, successful career wasn’t all there was in life. Warning that if she didn’t make some changes soon, she may be leaving it too late.

“You’re a forward-thinking innovator at work,” Dr. Hellman had said, her eyes glinting behind her glasses. “Someone who develops new techniques and isn’t afraid to move forward boldly into the future. Why not do that in the rest of your life? Isolating yourself, thinking only about work, isn’t healthy.”

Hearing those words at first made Krysta feel powerful, in control of whatever might happen. But later, alone at home, they’d come back to mind and scared her almost silly. Why they filled her with such trepidation, she hadn’t wanted to contemplate.

Perhaps it was because to go down that road would be to have to acknowledge exactly how much she had missed out on.

The friendships, like those she’d seen her brothers develop with others, and her parents had nurtured, even when distance divided them from those closest to them.

The family ties, which she’d neglected so badly in the pursuit of excellence, using work as an excuse to avoid the functions and get-togethers others took for granted.

Meaningful relationships, such as the one her parents shared with each other.

Just now, though, it was the putting aside of her sexuality that felt most important.

Apparently, her body thought giving it free rein was long overdue. Just being around Francisco Carvalho brought all her senses to life, arousing sensations she’d never experienced before.

What she was going to do about any of it, she had no idea. But even if she did get brave enough to try to act on these feelings, it would have to wait until after Enzo Dos Santos’s surgery.

She wouldn’t allow anything, neither Francisco Carvalho nor her own carnal urges, to interfere with her concentration.


Francisco stood under the shower, trying to get the streams of warm water to unravel his knotted muscles. It wasn’t that the day had been terribly stressful. Yes, he’d been called out early in the morning, and had another emergency come into the hospital just as he was getting ready to leave, but he was used to that.

What he wasn’t used to was Krysta Simpson.

There was an ineffable aura about her that fascinated him intensely. The more time he spent with her, the more captivated he became—with her confidence, precision, razor-sharp mind and the easy way she spoke to everyone, even while maintaining a certain mysterious distance.

Yet, although all those things would be more than enough, Francisco knew himself to be attracted to her physically as well.

More than once, when she was lecturing and in the presurgery meeting, he’d lost track of what she was saying. Not because he wasn’t interested, or enthralled by the subject matter, but because he’d caught himself staring at her lips as she spoke, or at the movement of her hands.

Those hands were both capable and surprisingly graceful, and he’d drifted off into a fantasy of what they would feel like on his skin.

Even now, as he was reiterating to himself just how bad that was, his body reacted to the memory, tightening and hardening against his will.

And it truly wasn’t at all a good idea to even entertain any fantasies about Dr. Krysta Simpson, for a number of reasons.

Trying to ignore his burgeoning erection, he silently listed them again.

Krysta Simpson had not, by look or word, expressed the slightest interest in him. She was friendly and professional and, in his estimation, they had a great rapport. But beyond that, he saw nothing to indicate she had any other feelings toward him, and he certainly wasn’t the type to push.

Besides, having a months-long affair with someone, who would then quickly disappear, did not appeal to him.

Or certainly shouldn’t.

Then there was the fact she was a visitor to his country, here to do a job. A colleague whose reputation was stellar, and far above his own. Krysta was a star, world renowned, while Francisco was simply a competent plastic and reconstructive surgeon, good at his job but nothing special. To even spend too much time with her was to court disaster, in the same way being engaged to Mari had caused him untold pain and embarrassment.

All too well could he imagine the whispers, not to mention those, like Delgado, who would say aloud for everyone to hear that he was, once again, trying to sleep his way to success. Using looks and charm to advance into a world where he didn’t belong.

He knew the gossip that swirled around him in the hospital, and it made him leery of doing anything to stir the pot. Getting too close to Krysta Simpson definitely would do that.

The thought chilled him, and thankfully his ardor waned. Turning off the water, he stepped out of the shower to grab a towel.

He’d been burned by others’ cruelty and lies before, and had no intention of doing anything to precipitate that again.

Instead, he needed to remind himself of how far he’d come, how hard he’d worked to get to where he was. Others could say modeling was easy, or believe the lies told about him—that he’d used his association with Mari to further himself—but he knew the truth. It had been a long, backbreaking and often lonely road he’d taken, and there’d been times he’d wanted to quit, to go home to his family and childhood friends. Only his dream of becoming a doctor had kept him there, working and studying in equal measure.

When he’d met Mari and fallen for her, he’d thought life could get no better. By then he was almost finished medical school, and hadn’t cared that she came from a wealthy family. Foolishly, he’d thought it didn’t matter. He knew he’d be able to support them, between what he’d had saved and what he would earn as a surgeon. What he hadn’t taken into consideration was the different rules by which the privileged lived, where they would steamroll over anyone to get what they wanted, or to get out of trouble.

But he’d learned it the hard way, and discovered it was best not to give yourself too freely, because it opened you up to having what you’d said, done or felt used against you. He’d paid dearly for allowing Mari into his heart, and it wasn’t an experience he wanted to go through again.