The Best Of The Year - Medical Romance

The words brought me back to my senses like a slap across the cheek. What was I doing, undressing my boss in his office? What was wrong with me? Besides the fact he thought I was married, I wasn’t the type of girl to act so unprofessionally. I was annoyed that he was the one to bring things to a halt. In my mind it gave him the moral edge, making him far more principled than me. It made me feel as if I was the one who had no self-control, which was a whole lot nearer to the truth than I wanted it to be.

I relied on my usual cover-up tactic and gave him a disparaging look. ‘Do you really think I was going to let this go further than a kiss and a quick grope?’

His eyes were a dark blue-grey as they held mine, the pupils still widened in arousal. ‘If you change your mind you know where to find me. I’ll be home all evening.’ I drew in a scalding breath. ‘You’ll be waiting a long time before I make a house call.’

A hint of a smile lifted the edges of his mouth. ‘We’ll see.’ He went back around his desk and rolled out his chair. His eyes glinted as he added, ‘Close the door on your way out, will you?’

I huffed and puffed for a moment before I whipped round and stomped out of his office, but I didn’t close the door.

I slammed it.

CHAPTER SIX

‘GOOD GRACIOUS, BERTIE.’ Stuart McTaggart jumped about a foot in the air as the framed prints rattled on the wall as he came towards me. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

I pressed my lips together so tightly they hurt. ‘Nothing,’ I muttered.

‘Is it about your project?’ He gave a chuckle not unlike Professor Cleary’s. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh, so at least I’d achieved something, I thought wryly. ‘I thought it was brilliant, actually. Very witty.’

‘I can assure you it wasn’t meant to be,’ I said, as I walked down the corridor with him.

‘I’ve just been in to see Jason Ryder,’ Stuart said. ‘His parents mentioned you want to try some new therapy with him.’

‘That’s if Dr Bishop will allow it,’ I said through tight lips.

Stuart stopped walking to look at me. ‘But he was very supportive of you in the meeting. He was the one who brought the meeting to order when we were all having a laugh about your research title. In fact, if I didn’t know you’d just come back from your honeymoon I would’ve said you and he were an item. Did you see that love bite on his neck?’ He gave another chuckle. ‘Takes me back to my old courting days.’

I could feel my blush like a spreading fire. ‘Personally, I think love bites are dreadfully tacky.’

He gave a grunt and continued walking. ‘So, what have you got in mind for Jason?’

I explained what I planned to do and he listened—patiently, for him—before giving me the go-ahead. ‘Can’t see how it can hurt,’ he said. He waited a beat before adding, ‘I hope to God the family don’t sue.’

I glanced at his worried expression. ‘They don’t seem the type and, besides, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a recognised complication of that type of neurosurgery.’

‘Doesn’t seem to matter to litigation lawyers, does it?’ He gave me a cynical look. ‘They want their pound of flesh and don’t care who they slice it off.’

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that, Stuart,’ I said, hoping it was true. Stuart was a highly competent surgeon but his gruff and autocratic manner often put people off side. When things went wrong, which they occasionally did because that kind of surgery on the human body wasn’t an exact science, some people thought their only option was to sue for damages, but they didn’t take into account the impact on the doctor.

Medicine today was far more of a team approach than in the past. Mistakes could be made anywhere along the chain of care but it was the doctor who ended up being the fall guy. It was especially difficult if the case was reported in the press. Biased reporting could smear a doctor’s reputation, tearing down a lifetime of hard work in a sensationalised phrase or two. And then there was the well-documented expert witness dripping with hindsight bias. And coroners’ cases, in which months could be taken over dissecting decisions that doctors had to make under pressure, in real time, with incomplete information in a badly constructed system. Insurance companies battled it out with their case-hardened lawyers but the doctor, usually with no medicolegal experience, was left as the scapegoat, with often devastating psychological fallout.

At my previous hospital a dedicated obstetrician had walked away from a thirty-year career after parents of a baby who suffered oxygen deprivation at birth and subsequent brain damage sued her for damages. The sensationalised reporting in the press besmirched her reputation to such a degree she felt she could no longer practise.

Stuart let out a tired-sounding sigh. ‘Well, I’d better get a move on. I’ve got a clinic and then a tutorial with the students and I’m on call for the second time this week. It’s a wonder my wife doesn’t call a divorce lawyer.’ He gave me a sideways glance. ‘How does your husband cope with the demands of your job?’

‘Erm …’

‘Should’ve married a doctor, Bertie.’

I gave him one of my strained smiles. ‘There’s a thought.’

For the next week I changed my roster to night shifts. I know it was cowardly but I really wasn’t ready to face Matt Bishop until I got my willpower under some semblance of control. Besides, there’s nothing more lust deadening than lack of sleep. One good side of working the night shift was that I could walk Freddy in daylight … I use the word loosely because the sort of daylight we get in London in January is pretty insipid.

The other benefit of being on night duty was that I could spend a bit more time with patients without the hustle and bustle of ward rounds and relatives visiting. ICU was quiet all but for the hiss and groan of ventilators or beeping of heart monitors and heart-lung machines.

I sat by Jason Ryder’s bed in the end room and watched as his chest rose and fell with the action of the ventilator. It was coming up to two weeks since his surgery and he was still in a deep coma, and every time we had tried to bring him out of it his brain pressures had skyrocketed. It wasn’t looking good but I refused to give up hope. I couldn’t get his wife, Megan, out of my mind. I could imagine how devastating it was for her to be expecting a baby at a time like this. The stress she was under wasn’t good for her or the baby. Studies indicated that high cortisol levels in expectant mothers could cause epigenetic changes in the foetus, leaving them at higher risk of heart disease or some types of cancers in later life.

And then there were Jason’s parents. I could imagine how my parents would feel if either Jem or I were in a coma. They would be frantic with worry, desperate for some thread of hope. No parent wanted to outlive his or her child. It wasn’t the natural order of things. Every time I looked at Jason’s parents I felt a pressing ache inside my chest, like a stack of bricks pressing down on my heart. I so wanted a good outcome for them and for Jason, who’d had such a bright future ahead of him.

I picked up the children’s book Jason’s parents had left earlier. It was one of my own favourites, The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks. Apparently Jason had loved it when he’d been about nine or ten years old. I, too, remembered being captivated by the idea of a toy coming to life. I picked up where Jason’s mother had left off before they’d left for the night and read a few pages.

I looked up after a few minutes to see Matt Bishop standing in the doorway, watching me. I had no idea how long he’d been there. I hadn’t seen his name on the night-shift roster but, then, he might have been called in for a patient. I knew he worked ridiculously long hours. It had taken me quite an effort to avoid running into him. I even darted into the broom cupboard next to the doctors’ room a couple of evenings ago when I heard him speaking with a colleague around the corner.

I can tell you I got a bit worried when he stopped right outside it and talked to Brian Kenton from Radiology. I had a sneaking suspicion he might have known I was in there. He took an inordinately long time to discuss a patient before moving on. I felt a fool, sneaking out of there a few minutes later, but what else could I have done?

I put the book down on the bedside table and rose to my feet. ‘Did you want me—I mean something?’ I asked, mentally cursing the fact I was blushing.

‘How’s he doing?’

‘Much the same,’ I said. ‘His IC pressures spike every time I try to wean him off the ventilator. Stuart wants to keep them low to maximise perfusion of what might be marginally viable brain around the tumour bed. But before we ramp up sedation each time, there’s no sign of consciousness. He’s having another CT tomorrow to look at perfusion. And an EEG is planned after that.’

I handed him the notes, which he read through with a frown of concentration pulling at his brow. He drew in a deep breath, closed the notes and put them back on the end of the bed. He picked up the children’s book and turned over a few pages. ‘I remember reading this when I was about eight or nine.’

‘I read it too,’ I said. ‘I can tell you I never looked at a toy the same way again.’

His mouth curved upwards in a half-smile as he tapped the book against his hand. ‘So, this is part of your childhood awakening therapy?’

I searched his features for any sign of mockery but he was either keeping it under wraps or was genuinely giving me a fair and unbiased hearing. Or maybe he’d looked up some of the fledgling research online and was prepared to keep an open mind. ‘Reading familiar stories, playing favourite music, relating family memories of holidays or whatever to the patient can sometimes trigger an emotional response,’ I said. ‘There’ve been a few cases reported now where patients have woken from comas when exposed to something particularly emotive from their childhood.’

‘One assumes it would be beneficial to have a happy childhood in order to expect that sort of response.’

I frowned. ‘You didn’t have a happy childhood?’ I asked it as a question, but it could easily have been a statement of observation, given the way his features were set.

‘Not particularly.’ He put the book back on the bedside table before he gave me a little quirk of a smile. ‘What about you?’

‘Mostly.’ I gave him a rueful look and then added, ‘My parents are a little out there, if you know what I mean.’

‘I would never have guessed.’

I couldn’t help a short laugh escaping. ‘I’m ultraconservative compared to them. At least I turn up at work fully clothed.’

His eyes darkened as they meshed with mine. ‘What time’s your break?’

I glanced at my watch. ‘Ten minutes ago.’

He took my elbow with a firm but surprisingly gentle hand. ‘Come on. Boss’s orders. Caffeine and sugar.’

We took our coffee and a packet of chocolate biscuits to his office. I got the feeling this was his way of calling a truce. He pulled out his office chair for me to sit on. ‘Here, you play the boss for a while. Tell me how you would do things around here if you were me.’

I sat on his chair but I’m so short my feet didn’t reach the floor. I tucked my ankles beneath its centre stand and hoped he wouldn’t notice. I took a sip of coffee and looked at him over the rim of my cup. He was sitting in the chair I’d used the last time, his features showing the signs of the stresses of his job.

It looked like he hadn’t shaved in over eighteen hours, his eyes had damson-coloured shadows beneath them, his hair was ruffled, as if he’d recently combed it with his fingers, and there were two lines down each side of his mouth I hadn’t noticed before. I knew for a fact he wasn’t on that evening because I’d checked. After the broom cupboard hideout I wasn’t taking any chances. He had worked day shifts for the last week, presumably so he could keep in closer touch with the hospital management staff while he ironed out the problems he’d inherited.

It made me wonder if he had anything outside work to distract him. A hobby or interest that gave him some respite from the human tragedy he dealt with day in, day out.

He was a dedicated workaholic. The type A personality who found it hard to be anything but task-oriented. Emotions were not to be trusted. It was facts and data and completing the job that motivated him. I knew from my study how important it was to search for balance. I’m not sure I had found it, given the way things had turned out between Andy and me, but at least I understood the dynamic.

I was starting to realise why Matt had taken such a stand with me on that first day. For a man who valued facts over feelings I must have come across as a complete nut job. He wanted the unit to be one of the best in the country, if not the world.

No wonder he had taken the line he had with me. I was like a loaded cannon to him. Someone who was unpredictable, perhaps even—in his opinion—unstable. I had some ground to make up to make him see me as the dedicated professional I was. Sure, I wore wacky clothes and did interesting things with my hair, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t a competent and committed anaesthetist. I took my responsibility with patients seriously. I literally had their lives in my hands. I would never do anything to compromise their safety. I just had to convince Matt Bishop I wasn’t the airy-fairy flake he thought I was.

I put my coffee cup down. God knows I sure didn’t need the caffeine. My heart was already pounding as if I’d had a dozen espressos with an energy drink chaser. Matt had that sort of effect on me. ‘I’m sorry about the other day in your office,’ I said.

‘No apology necessary.’ He sat watching me with his steady, measuring gaze, his coffee cup cradled in his right hand, one ankle crossed over his knee.

I glanced longingly at the chocolate biscuits on the desk but I knew if I started on them I might not stop till the whole packet was gone. My parents banning sugar had had the unfortunate effect of making me a sugar binger. I could eat a box of chocolates in one sitting, especially if I was feeling down about myself. I just hoped my liver wasn’t going to hate me for it some time in the future.

Matt leaned forward and pushed the packet of biscuits closer. ‘Go on. One won’t hurt.’

I gave him a twisted smile as I took a biscuit out of the packet. ‘My mum does that.’

‘What?’

‘Reads minds.’

He smiled back. It relaxed his tired and drawn features and made me realise all over again how incredibly attractive he was. I looked at the biscuit in my hand rather than look at his mouth, as I was so tempted to do. All I could think of was how his mouth felt as it moved against mine, how his hands had felt, touching my body. How I wanted him to touch me again. How I wanted to feel his body inside mine, making me come apart with ecstasy.

I was shocked at my behaviour. Shocked and bewildered. If my life had gone according to plan I would now be married and trying for a baby. Instead, I was single and feverishly attracted to a man I had only met a matter of two weeks ago. It was like my body had hijacked my mind. It was acting on its own initiative, responding and sending subtle and some not-so-subtle signals to him that I was attracted to him and available. No wonder he had offered me an affair. I would have to try harder to disguise my reaction to him. Definitely no more getting close to him. And absolutely no touching. I would have to limit my time alone with him, keeping things on a professional basis at all times.

I took a small nibble of my biscuit and chewed and swallowed it, acutely conscious of his steady gaze resting on me.

‘You mentioned your parents are alternative,’ he said. ‘How alternative?’

‘They’re hippies,’ I said. ‘They both come from families with money, but for as long as I can remember they’ve moved from place to place around the country, following whatever lifestyle guru takes their fancy, or their money, or both.’

‘Not an easy way to spend your childhood.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Tell me about it. There’s only so much teasing or tofu a kid can take. But don’t get me wrong. My parents are really cool people. I love them dearly and I totally understand their desire to live an alternative lifestyle. They’re not the sort of people who could ever do the nine-to-five suburban thing. It’s just not the way I want to live my life.’

‘How did you cope, growing up?’

I gave him one of my sheepish looks. ‘I rebelled now and again.’

‘How?’

‘I became a closet carnivore.’

He laughed. ‘Wicked girl.’

I smiled back. He had such a nice laugh. Deep and rich and full-bodied, like a top-shelf wine. Seriously, I could get drunk on hearing it. ‘I can still taste my first steak,’ I said. ‘What an awesome moment that was. Jem and I used to sneak out at night, not to sleep with boys or drink alcohol, like normal girls did. We’d find a restaurant and indulge ourselves in a feast of mediumrare steak.’

He put his coffee cup on the desk, a smile still curving his lips. ‘Did your parents ever find out?’

‘Not so far.’ I licked the chocolate off my fingers. ‘I’m good at keeping secrets.’

‘Handy talent to have.’ There was a glint in his eye that made something in my stomach quiver like an unset jelly.

I looked away and buried my nose in my coffee cup. I couldn’t envisage how I was ever going to confess my folly. The only way I could think to wriggle out of it would be to put in my resignation and start over in a new hospital. It was the only way to save face. But the thought of resigning and reapplying somewhere else was daunting. I loved working at St Iggy’s. It was the first place I’d felt as if I belonged. I was part of a team that brought top-quality health care to the public, and the fact that I had—so far—been allowed to trial some alternative therapies was an added bonus.

I put my coffee cup down with a little clatter. ‘I’d better get back to work. Thanks for the coffee.’

‘You’re welcome.’

I walked to the door but before I could put my hand on the doorknob to open it his hand got there first. My hand brushed against his and I pulled it back as if I’d been zapped. His right arm was stretched out against the back of my right shoulder. I could smell the grace notes of his aftershave as well as his own warm male smell, which was even more intoxicating.

I made the mistake of looking up at him. Our eyes met in a timeless moment that swirled and throbbed with sensual undertones I could feel reverberating in my body.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. ‘You have chocolate on your lip.’

‘I do?’ I swept my tongue over my lips. ‘Gone?’

He brought the pad of his thumb to my lower lip and gently blotted it. ‘Got it.’

Our eyes met again. Held. Burned. Tempted.

I drew in a shaky breath and pulled out of his magnetic field.

I turned and walked down the corridor, but it wasn’t until I turned the corner that I heard his door click shut.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AFTER ANOTHER WEEK I was completely over doing night shifts. My circadian rhythms were so out of whack I was practically brain dead. My eyes were so darkly shadowed I looked like I’d walked off the set of a zombie movie. I had a couple of days off, which I spent painting my sitting room, something I’d had to put on hold while I’d had Freddy staying. Margery was back from her sister’s now so I could stop worrying about muddy paws and mad yapping, not to mention obsessive chewing.

I’d given Freddy a big marrowbone to chew instead of my shoes and electronic appliance cords, but he’d buried it in the back garden and then brought it in covered in mud and slush and left it on my pillow. Nice.

The time off had also given me some space to work on the hospital ball. I’d gone back to the hotel and talked to the catering manager and I’d ordered the decorations and got posters printed and had them hung around the hospital. The ticket sales had been slow until I had taken over, which was rather gratifying. It seemed everyone was delighted with the idea of a fancy-dress ball and were madly ordering costumes online or in stores.

When I got back to work after my days off I was pleased to hear Jason Ryder had been gradually weaned off the sedation, but while his brain pressures hadn’t soared and he was breathing on his own, he was still not responding to verbal commands. I encouraged his family to continue with the therapies I’d suggested and hoped they would see some improvement over the next week or so.

The EEG had encouragingly shown brain activity. There was something going on in Jason’s head, but it wasn’t getting out, a possible case of ‘locked-in syndrome’. But what was locked in was still an unknown. Just how much loss of brain function had resulted from the surgery was anyone’s guess at this stage.

Matt Bishop was alone in the central ICU office when I came in from checking on Jason. All the nurses, including Gracie, were occupied with patients. Jill was on an errand to another ward and the registrars were with one of the other consultants with a patient in Bay Five.

‘Good news so far on Jason,’ I said, by way of greeting. I was going to stick to my plan of keeping things professional and distant.

Matt was less optimistic. ‘He’s not responding to any stimuli.’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But his CT shows reasonable blood flow in most of the brain, and his EEG shows activity.’

He put the file he was holding down on the counter desk and momentarily leaned forward and rested his hands on top of it. There was a deep frown line between his eyes, his olive-toned skin looked even paler than usual and he had a pinched looked about his features.

If a zombie movie director had been looking for walk-on extras, I thought Matt and I would make a great pair.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

He drew in a breath and straightened, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. ‘Fine.’

‘You don’t look fine.’

‘Thanks.’

I peered at him up close. ‘Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been on the turps?’

He gave me a look. ‘No. I was up all night. And, no, I wasn’t on night shift.’

‘At least on night shift you get paid to feel like crap.’

He managed a quarter-smile and then it faded as he dragged his hand down his face this time, wincing as if the movement caused him pain. ‘You have no idea of the mess this place is in. Jeff Hooper might win a popularity contest over me any day but he had no idea how to balance a budget. We’re four months from the end of the financial year and the budget is blown. The CEO says there is no more money. How the hell can we pay staff and provide a service with an empty bank account? I’ve been told to come up with a solution.’

I stepped back and folded my arms across my chest before I was tempted to smooth that canyon-deep furrow off his brow. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

He looked at me then. Really looked at me. His eyes went to mine, holding them in a lock that contained the sensual heat of everything we had experienced together in private—the kisses, the touches, the mutual arousal of primal desire. It went back and forth between our gazes like a fizzing current of electricity. I swear it was almost audible.

Lust unfolded deep inside my body like a lithe cat stretching its limbs. I could feel my body heating and beating with want, the little tingle of nerves, the flutter of my belly, the rush of my blood and the pounding of my heartbeat.

His gaze went to my mouth, stayed there for a pulsing moment, as if he was wondering if he could steal a kiss and get away with it. The thought thrilled me. The illicitness of it spoke to the wild woman in me I tried so desperately to keep contained.

I found myself stepping up on tippy-toes, leaning towards him, my mouth slightly parted in anticipation of the press of my lips to his.

‘Oh, um, er, sorry,’ Gracie said from the door.

I sprang back from Matt as if someone had fired a cannonball between us. Gracie was looking at me as if she had never seen me before. But then her eyes took on a wounded look, her pretty freckled face drooping in disappointment.