The Texan's Royal M.d.

“Why?”

She could toss out a hundred reasons. Like the overwhelming sense of responsibility for patients too young or too frightened to tell her how they hurt. The aching helplessness when faced with children beyond saving. The struggle to contain her fury at parents or guardians whose carelessness or cruelty inflicted unbelievably grievous injuries.

But the real reason, the one she’d thought she could compensate for by going into pediatric medicine, rose up to haunt her. She’d never talked about it to anyone but Dom. And even he was convinced she’d put it behind her. Yet reluctantly, inexplicably, Zia found herself detailing the old pain to Mike Brennan.

“I developed a uterine cyst my first year at university,” she said, amazed that she could speak so calmly of the submucosal fibroid that had changed her life forever. “It ruptured during winter break, while I was on a ski trip in Slovenia.”

She’d thought at first that she’d started her period early but the pain had become more intense with each hour. And the blood! Dear God, the blood!

“I almost died before they got me to the hospital. At that point the situation was so desperate the surgeons decided the only way to save my life was to perform an emergency hysterectomy.”

She fell silent as the waiter materialized at their table to take their order. Mike sent him away with a quiet, “Give us some time.”

“I love children,” Zia heard herself say into the silence that followed. “I always imagined I’d have a whole brood of happy, gurgling babies. When I accepted that I would never give birth to a child of my own, I decided that at least I could help alleviate the pain and suffering of others.”

“But...”

There it was. That damned “but” that had her hanging from a limb like a bird with a broken wing.

“It’s hard giving so much of myself to others’ children,” she finished, her voice catching despite every attempt to control it. “So much harder than I ever imagined.”

Her doubt and private misery filled the silence that spun out between them. Mike broke it after a moment with a question that cut to the core of her bruising inner conflict.

“What will you do if you don’t practice medicine?”

“I’ll stay in the medical field, but work on another side of the house.”

There! She’d said it out loud for the first time. And not to her brother or Natalie or the duchess or her cousins. To a stranger, who didn’t appear shocked or disappointed that she would trade her lifelong goal of treating the sick for the sterile environment of a lab.

Like all third-year residents at Mount Sinai, she’d been required to participate in a scholarly research project in addition to seeing patients, attending conferences and teaching interns. Worried by the seeming increase in hospital-acquired infections among the premature infants in the neonatal ICU, she’d searched for clues via five years’ worth of medical records. Her extensive database included the infants’ birth weight, ethnic origin, delivery methods, the time lapse to onset of infections, methods of treatment and mortality rates.

Although she wouldn’t brief the results of her study until the much anticipated annual RRP—Residents’ Research Presentation—her preliminary findings had so intrigued the hospital’s director of research that he’d suggested an expanded effort that included more variables and a much larger sample base. He’d also asked Zia to conduct the two-year study under his direct supervision. If the grant came through within the next few months, she could start the research as her spring elective, then join Dr. Wilbanks’s team full-time after completing her residency.

“The director of pediatric research at Mount Sinai has already asked me to join his staff,” she confided to Mike.

“Is that as impressive as it sounds?”

A hint of pride snuck into her voice. “Actually, it is. Dr. Wilbanks seems to think the study I’ve been working on as a resident is worth expanding into a full-fledged team effort. He also thinks it might warrant as much as a million-dollar research grant.”

“That is impressive. What does the study involve?”

Lord, he was easy to talk to. Zia didn’t usually discuss topics such as Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, aka MRSA, with someone not wearing scrubs. Especially during a candlelit dinner.

As the incredibly scrumptious meal progressed, however, Brennan’s interest stimulated her as much as his quick grasp of the essentials of her study.

* * *

She couldn’t blame either his interest or his intellect for what happened when they left the restaurant, however. That was result of a lethal combination of factors. First, their decision to walk back along the beach. Zia had to remove her borrowed stilettos to keep from sinking in the sand, but the feel of it hard and damp beneath bare feet only added to her heightened perceptions. Then there was the three-quarter moon that traced a liquid silver path across the sea. And finally the arm Mike slid around her waist.

She turned into his kiss, fully anticipating that it would be pleasant. A satisfying end to an enjoyable evening. She didn’t expect the hunger that balled in her belly when his mouth fused with hers.

He felt the kick, too. Although his hat brim shadowed his eyes when he raised his head, his skin was stretched tight across his cheeks and there was a gruff edge to his voice when he asked if she’d like to stop by his place for coffee or a drink.

Or...?

He didn’t have to say it. Her pulse kicking, Zia knew the invitation was open-ended. “Don’t you have company? Davy and...” She searched her memory. “And Kevin and their mother?”

“Eileen took the kids back to town this afternoon. I suspect she won’t let either of them close to the water for the next five years. She wants to thank you personally, by the way. She told me to be sure and get your phone number.” Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I promised I would.”

Zia hesitated for all of three seconds before digging her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll text my family and tell them not to wait up for me.”

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