Melting the Surgeon's Heart, page 1
She brushed the snow from her hood and met his eyes.
Gunnar had to admit, whatever she’d gone through with that idiot ex of hers, she was a force of nature.
The press was still relentless in their pursuit of him. There was always a story about every woman he was seen with. Hopefully, the vultures wouldn’t get to her, too. All the more reason to be very careful.
“How are you doing?” he asked her, over the whir of the helicopter blades.
“I’m good,” she said.
He nodded. It was shameful how much he’d wanted to kiss her in the hot tub the other night. He’d almost made a move. Maybe he would’ve done, if she hadn’t mentioned that she wanted a family. That had snapped him back to his senses. Not only was taking a colleague to his private retreat the kind of behavior to get everyone talking more nonsense about him, but he would never have children. She was too special a person to be fling material and too vulnerable to involve in all his family drama when she was trying to rebuild her own life.
He’d made the right decision backing off.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to one of my favorite stories yet! I always wanted to set a book in Iceland, one of my absolute favorite destinations ever. Years ago I was lucky enough to have an Icelandic boyfriend (briefly!) who took me there twice, once in summer and once in winter, and I got to see the real Iceland: the people, the culture, the love of music, the astonishing amount of homemade moonshine and the northern lights. All of it made it into this story, as experienced by our hero and heroine, although there’s a little more action and drama to endure here, thanks to their troubled pasts and their search and rescue missions in the midst of all the blizzards. How will they even warm up enough to feel that first kiss?
Make yourself a hot drink and find out! Enjoy the journey...
Becky
Melting the Surgeon’s Heart
Becky Wicks
Born in the UK, Becky Wicks has suffered interminable wanderlust from an early age. She’s lived and worked all over the world, from London to Dubai, Sydney, Bali, NYC and Amsterdam. She’s written for the likes of GQ, Hello!, Fabulous and Time Out, a host of YA romance, plus three travel memoirs—Burqalicious, Balilicious and Latinalicious (HarperCollins, Australia). Now she blends travel with romance for Harlequin and loves every minute! Tweet her @bex_wicks and subscribe at beckywicks.com.
Books by Becky Wicks
Harlequin Medical Romance
From Doctor to Daddy
Enticed by Her Island Billionaire
Falling Again for the Animal Whisperer
Fling with the Children’s Heart Doctor
White Christmas with Her Millionaire Doc
A Princess in Naples
The Vet’s Escape to Paradise
Highland Fling with Her Best Friend
South African Escape to Heal Her
Finding Forever with the Single Dad
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Dedicated to the Icelanders who always made me feel at home.
Praise for Becky Wicks
“A fast paced, beautifully set and heart warming medical romance set in the stunning Galapagos Islands. Interwoven with a conservation theme which is clearly a passion of the author.”
—Harlequin Junkie on The Vet’s Escape to Paradise
Contents
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
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM ER DOC’S LAS VEGAS REUNION BY DENISE N. WHEATLEY
CHAPTER ONE
THE SNOWSTORM SEETHED with the ferocity of a wild beast as Mahlia strode with her face down, her hair whipping violently around her face. Flakes of snow the size of boulders flew past the rim of her hood like an unrelenting army under the sinister sky and she shivered, knowing her chapped lips were probably turning a deathly shade of blue. No sign of the northern lights tonight, she thought. If they were up there somewhere, they were hiding away in fear of this storm.
Even as an experienced search and rescue paramedic, it was hard for her not to fear the unknown out here in Iceland. She was fast becoming a snowman. A snowwoman. One who could easily merge with a snowdrift and never be seen again.
Leaning into the wind, she trudged through the snow, wrapping her arms around herself, shivering. Just over a month in the country and already the New Zealand sun felt like a distant memory.
‘Almost there,’ her search team leader Erik called from ahead, where he was walking with Ásta, their search technician.
Mahlia’s breath caught in her throat as a row of buildings suddenly emerged from the snowy mist. She quickened her pace, thoughts of hot chocolate and heat and light propelling her forward. The cold had long ago permeated through her thick coat and thermal trousers, and they’d only been following the compass from the road for fifteen minutes. The chopper would be with them as soon as it was safe to fly, and then they could recommence the search.
Inside the warm hut, she drew back her hood and shook out her mass of corkscrew curls. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and frowned. Her lips were indeed an eerie shade of alien grey.
‘Drink?’ A small, hunched woman beckoned her forward to the worn wooden table and chairs.
‘Yes, please...thank you,’ she said gratefully through her chattering teeth, taking a seat by the fire.
The flames reached upwards like spindly hands from the hearth, their bright orange light spilling over the walls and across the wooden ceiling. It was snug in here, cosy, like a warm hug after all that walking. She grasped her mug, sipped her drink, and was vaguely aware of the murmurs of her crew and the kindly villagers who’d taken them into the community centre.
They all knew about the search. There were places like this set up for the volunteers all over the Thingvellir National Park now. But the raging snowstorm outside only served to heighten her discomfort and sense of dread. It was nearly two days since the Cessna plane carrying a male pilot in his mid-forties and two Swedish tourists in their thirties had gone missing. Over three hundred search and rescue volunteers had taken part in the search yesterday and over a hundred more had got on the case this morning. Everywhere they searched, all they seemed to find was silence.
Hopefully it didn’t show on their faces, but everyone here shared the same unspoken worry—what if this mission ended in failure? With each hour that passed, the chances of finding the missing people alive were getting slimmer and slimmer. It was almost impossible to believe that anyone could survive in freezing conditions like these for so long. Iceland’s weather was brutal, unpredictable, and in the middle of storms like this one it felt like the kind of savage cold she imagined her mother must have felt consumed by during the darkest patches of her depression. Thank goodness she was better now, Mahlia thought; well enough to survive the thought of her only daughter being all the way out here.
Mahlia was still deep in thought when the sound of the helicopter’s thrumming blades burst through every crack in the hut like a torrent of falling water. The storm had subsided, and Sven had finally been able to land. She ran to the door ahead of the others, flinging it open.
Sven, their pilot, whom she’d been working with for three weeks already, was stepping from the cockpit, the blades above him spinning their way to a standstill. He squeezed her shoulder on his way past, motioning that they both had to get inside. The kind old lady was already waiting with more hot drinks. But there was another pair of feet on the ground now—someone else who’d just jumped from the helicopter and slammed the door behind him. Mahlia stared at the new winchman and felt herself draw a long, deep breath from some place inside her she hadn’t known was there.
Was this Gunnar? He’d come to join their crew after Elias, Ásta’s husband, had fallen awkwardly and broken his left femur yesterday. The poor guy was still in hospital in Reykjavik. Ásta had stayed on the search, at his insistence.
Mahlia realised she’d been holding her breath almost too long. What? She kept her eyes on him, pulling her jacket more tightly around herself. The man was striding straight towards her now. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a determined jawline. Ruggedly handsome, she found herself thinking. Mid to late thirties, like her. Maybe even early forties, but he wore his skin and features well, not like some of the other Icelanders around, who seemed more weathered than the mountains.
He was blocking the snowdrifts now, stepping up to her in bulky snow pants and a heavy jacket, his hair shaggy and unruly, sticking out in all directions from under his woollen hat. He stopped in front of her, not too close, but close enough that she could feel the intensity radiating off him.
‘I’m Gunnar,’ he said, pulling off his gloves. ‘You must be Mahlia.’ He studied her face for a moment in silence, sizing her up. ‘You look just like they described you.’
Mahlia was amused, even as his eyes bored into her, unsettling something deep in her belly. How had they described her? A
‘That’s right,’ she said, picturing the first time Javid had looked at her like this. If only she’d known back then to run a mile. ‘I’m a rescue paramedic. I’ve been here a month already. Good of you to join us.’
He huffed a laugh. ‘I go where I’m needed.’ His hand was big and strong and heat emanated straight from his palm right into her own. ‘It sounds like you must have something special,’ he said, cutting through the snow with her to the hut and opening the door for her.
His words made Maliah smile; she wasn’t used to such compliments. Then he spoilt it.
‘But you look tired,’ he added. ‘When was the last time you slept?’
She bristled. If there was one thing that annoyed her most it was people thinking she wasn’t up to the job for any reason. ‘We’re all tired. But we go where we’re needed,’ she said, mimicking his earlier words. He bit back a smile, which seemed to settle something between them and send her heart flapping at the same time.
He pulled the creaking door shut behind them, shutting out the snow-covered mountains as well as her reply, then walked to the table, shaking off his jacket to a chorus of, ‘Gunnar Johansson!’ and ‘Gunnar, my man!’
Everyone seemed to know him. Some jumped up from their seats, enthusiastically shaking his hand, and he reached out to them with a nod here, a friendly smile there. Some were old friends, no doubt. The women all threw their arms around him. Several seemed to hold on just a little longer than necessary. There were a couple of guys, though, in the far corner, who were frowning now, throwing each other knowing looks, nodding his way and huddling in to talk about him.
Her instincts were primed. They didn’t like Gunnar. Why?
She watched him and Erik hunch over the map he’d pulled out, their fingers tracing circles. The outermost ring followed natural boundaries—a river, a mountain ridge, a coffee-coloured lake. They’d been methodically erasing possible scenarios from the list all day. Gunnar caught her eye again across the table and Maliah’s heart lodged tight in her throat. Something about him made her feel simultaneously excited and cautious at the same time.
Someone had said earlier that he was a big deal, or his family were a big deal in Iceland—not that she’d been listening, really, and she hadn’t the time to look him up. He was a trained renal specialist and surgeon. And he was taking some time off, like he did every year, to volunteer on the search and rescue teams.
Her radio flickered to life. Someone with a drone had just spotted an orange item of clothing, out by one of the lakes.
‘We should get going,’ she heard herself saying, just as Erik said the same thing in unison.
Her crew were already on their feet.
* * *
Maliah saw it first. The orange crumpled heap of something that looked a lot like a jacket tangled in the branches that swept the ground. ‘Someone’s here!’
‘I see it,’ Sven said, steering them back towards it.
The lake was iced over, a sheet of white, thanks to the fresh snow from the storm. From up here in the helicopter, the fjords held the look of giant serrated teeth around the perimeter. The iced-over craggy tops of the mountains on the horizon told her just how stranded they’d be without each other. Helpless. Like the people they were looking for.
Having flown in from New Zealand, she was only in her third week of the four-month contract she’d taken with this SAR team, but already Erik, Ásta and Sven were her family by proxy—the ones she had to rely on, day in, day out. As for Gunnar, she thought, shooting him a glance. Time would tell.
‘I think I can land here,’ Sven called back now.
His words were barely audible over the din of the helicopter’s engines and rotors, but Gunnar was beside her in a second, his face pressed to the window, assessing the situation. Erik and Ásta checked the terrain through the opposite windows.
The trees below were sparse, a few broken stumps poking up through the snow. It was impossible to tell if it was a person’s jacket from here or not, now that she thought about it.
‘Hang in there,’ she said under her breath to the people who were lost out here somewhere. One of the Swedish tourists had been wearing an orange jacket—they all knew it.
‘Sven’s a pro, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Gunnar said, sensing her concern. ‘I’ve known him since school—he wouldn’t put anyone in danger.’
‘It’s not his flying I’m worried about,’ she replied, but her cheeks grew hot at the way he was looking at her, closer than close. He smiled as the chopper lowered to the ground. His teeth were slightly jagged at the edges, milky white, still baby-like in their perfection.
‘You’re a tough one, aren’t you?’ he observed in his thick Icelandic accent.
‘Is that a compliment?’ she shot back, and one thick blond eyebrow shot up to his hat.
He sounded slightly American, despite his accent. She was about to ask him where exactly he was from when Sven slid the chopper almost to a stop and Gunnar sprang into action, opening the door before they were even completely stationary.
Her eyes traced his movements as he skidded down a bank and onto the frozen lake, motioning at them all to stay where they were for now. She watched from the open door with her heart in her mouth as he picked his way carefully across the ice. He crouched where the fuzzy fir trees began and started to carefully remove snow from around the object with one hand, clutching a branch with the other.
‘It’s a coat,’ he called back to them, and her heart skidded at the confirmation.
In seconds she was on the ground, crunching over the heavy snow in her boots towards the base of the bushy tree.
‘There’s no one here,’ he said grimly.
‘Are you sure? I’ll help you dig.’ This was her job—to make absolutely certain there was no one here who needed their help before turning back.
She slipped, and Gunnar lunged forward with gloved hands outstretched.
‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, swerving his grip.
He didn’t look too sure. But when he saw she wouldn’t relent, a determined fire lit his ice-blue eyes and he reached out, wrapping his gloved hands around her elbows. He drew her close to him on the ice, till their faces were only inches apart.
‘Careful. One wrong movement out here, one slip-up. is all it takes...’
‘I know,’ she interjected, taking in the severity etched in his ice-blue gaze. ‘You don’t have to tell me that! I’ve done this before in New Zealand, remember?’
His face softened and he nodded at her, amusement flickering on his mouth for just a second. ‘OK, then. Sorry.’
His voice was deep and strong, his speech measured and in control, but there was a hint of gravel in there, like a trapped cough, as if he’d been screaming and had only just stopped. What was his deal? she wondered. He seemed pretty protective of her, and he barely knew her. She knew nothing about him at all, but suddenly she wanted to.
Together, they continued to remove the snow from around the coat but, just as he’d said, there was no one with it. Gunnar stood up and took off his hat, running a hand through his hair. Mahlia watched him silently from her haunches, feeling the disappointment settle in her own chest. Maybe they’d just been too late.
‘We’re running out of time,’ she heard herself mutter. Exhaustion was seeping through her bones now.
He fixed her with an understanding gaze. ‘We won’t give up. We’ll keep searching, no matter how long it takes. We won’t abandon them.’
His voice resounded with utter conviction and it threw her, then sent her heart into a spin. Erik and Ásta were on the edge of the ice now, zipping up thick, padded parkas.
‘We’ll split up,’ Gunnar said firmly. ‘Mahlia, you and I will take that ridge over there. Erik and Ásta will take this one here.’ He gestured to an icy slope. ‘That way we can cover more ground, faster.’
Mahlia turned to the sky. It was difficult for an outsider to understand how swiftly the weather in Iceland could take a turn for the worse, but she’d grown pretty used to it over the last few weeks.
