Gran hadn’t told her that. There were lots of things Gran hadn’t told her, she thought grimly, a long litany of deception. In fact, Maggie’s decision to have this baby had been based partly on Gran’s deceit.

But there was no way she could yell at Gran now. In truth, she was so worried about the old lady she felt sick.

What else? She wanted to cry because her leg was throbbing. She desperately needed to check on her baby’s heartbeat.

But instead she was lying still as ordered, her leg stuck up in front of her, watching this bossy surgeon shift her crate.

If she had to have an arrogant surgeon bossing her while he organised her life, at least she’d been sent one whose body was almost enough to distract her from the pain she was feeling.

When she’d first seen him he’d looked smoothly handsome, expensive. Now his perfectly groomed, jet-black hair was wet with sweat, dark curls clinging to his forehead. A trace of five-o’clock shadow accentuated his strongly boned face, and his dark eyes were keen with the intent of strain.

He also looked gorgeous. It was an entirely inappropriate thought, she decided, but it was there, whether she willed it or not. This man was definite eye-candy.

He had all his weight against the crate now. He was grunting with effort, sweat glistening. One of his arms was bare-courtesy of the pad she was holding above her eye-and his arm was a mass of sinews. As was his chest. The more he sweated, the more his shirt became a damp and transparent nothing, exposing serious muscles.

And the more he sweated the more she was distracted from everything she should be focussed on. This was crazy. She was seven months pregnant. She was injured. She had so many worries her head was about to explode, yet here she was transfixed by the sight of a colleague attempting to move a weight far too big for one man.