Midwives On Call: Stealing The Surgeon's Heart

‘Get back to shore.’ His arm was wet under her grip, shrugging her off.

‘I want to help.’

‘Not this way,’ she shouted. ‘They’re bringing him in. That man’s a doctor. You’re going to end up needing to be rescued yourself.’

Mercifully he didn’t take another step out, but neither was he heading back to the safety of the shore, and Harriet knew she only had a small window of time to persuade him before foolish bravado took over and he headed back out.

‘You can help him,’ Harriet shouted, ‘by going to the street and directing the ambulance.’

‘But Vince needs his mates.’

‘He needs medical help,’ Harriet said urgently. She was freezing now, struggling to keep her footing. ‘You need to wave them down and show them exactly where we are. Come on,’ she insisted, heading back to the shore and praying he would follow her lead.

After a small hesitation he saw sense, wading through the waves to his waiting friends, urging them to the street. But Harriet’s real work had barely started. Ciro was swimming back now with the other rescuer, both men attempting to guide the surfboard, but Harriet could see it was growing increasingly difficult as they neared the shore, the breaking waves making the task more difficult. She watched with her heart in her mouth, knowing from her brief foray in the water just how exhausted Ciro and the rescuer must be, but knowing that unless they hurried they weren’t going to make it back in time, that already it might be too late to save this victim.

‘Stay there, love.’

Sheer relief flooded her as she heard the welcome sound of reinforcements. Three burly men, alerted by the distressed teenagers, were rushing past her, heading out just as Ciro had done, with no thought for their own safety, willing to help a stranger in trouble. And many hands did make light work. They dragged the victim those last exhausting metres and as they lifted him out of the water, not for the first time Harriet thanked her lucky stars that these men had arrived. The victim was a thick-set, burly guy and it would have been an almost impossible feat in Ciro’s and the rescuer’s depleted state to drag him the last few metres to where Harriet was waiting. Wasting no time, Harriet set to work, sweeping his airway clear, palpating his neck for a pulse and then pinching his nostrils and extending his neck. She delivered two swift breaths into the patient before commencing cardiac massage.

‘I’m coming.’ Ciro was nearby, his hands on his knees, coughing, choking on the salty water that must surely be filling his lungs, trying to somehow summon the energy to complete the task.

‘I’m OK,’ Harriet said, pushing on the large chest, but though her words were brave she needed help. This guy was big. It took a huge physical effort to effectively massage his chest and all her breath was taken up giving him the kiss of life. She could feel the pull of her incision, knew she couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

‘Where the hell’s the ambulance?’ Harriet called, between expirations.

‘It’s coming,’ someone shouted. ‘I can hear the sirens.’

But Harriet couldn’t hear anything except the sound of her own pulse pounding in her temples, the scorching sting of every breath as she worked on. Even though he was nowhere near ready, Ciro must have recognised her desperation because he knelt down beside her and pushed her hand away, not wasting a single precious breath to tell her he was taking over, just extending his arms and pushing down hard on the man’s chest. Harriet moved up to the head, her eyes trained on Ciro’s hands, watching for the tiny pause so she could push in her exhaled air.

‘Stop.’ Feeling a shudder of resistance, Harriet pulled her face back, placed her hand on Ciro’s arm and they both leant back on their heels. Ciro’s fingers palpated Vince’s neck, concentration etched on every feature as he strained to find a pulse, but it seemed useless. Just as Harriet was sure she must somehow have imagined the tiny shift in tone she’d felt in the young man, suddenly his chest moved and he spluttered, his whole body convulsing in spasms as Harriet and Ciro swiftly rolled him onto his side, Ciro pushing on his back to force out the salty water that was choking him.

‘OK, guys, help’s here.’

Harriet didn’t know the paramedics who had arrived, but relief flooded her at the sight of the bright green uniforms, the shiny boxes they dropped silently onto the sand. She noted with a wry smile that Ciro didn’t waste time stating the obvious. He just gave a very brief handover and introduction as the paramedics set to work assessing the patient and attaching him to monitors and blood pressure equipment. Harriet silently assisted.

‘He was in full arrest by the time we got him to shore.’ Ciro gestured over to the other rescuer, still lying on the beach, his mates now surrounding him. ‘He needs to be seen at the hospital—that guy must have swallowed half the ocean.’

‘How long were you giving CPR before he responded?’

‘Unfortunately I’m not wearing my watch, but five, maybe seven minutes.’ Ciro looked at Harriet for confirmation and she nodded. Happy to hand over, but still willing to participate, she unravelled the oxygen tubing and slipped the mask over the man’s face as Ciro took the paramedics’ stethoscope while one inserted an IV bung, shaking his head as he listened to the patient’s chest.

‘Poor air entry, he’s making only minimal respiratory effort.’

And there was a decision to be made—to scoop and run and take him to the hospital, which was a few minutes’ drive away at breakneck speed where skilled help and equipment was waiting, or to intubate the patient here, knowing that at any time Vince could arrest again or suffer another seizure.

‘His oxygen saturation is only eighty-five per cent,’ one of the paramedics called. ‘What do you want to do, Doc?’

‘Intubate,’ Ciro said after only the briefest of hesitations. Clearly the paramedics agreed with his decision and wasted no time in handing Ciro the necessary equipment as Harriet applied crico-thyroid pressure—pressing on the patient’s neck to allow for easier insertion of the tube.

‘His air entry is better now,’ Ciro said, listening to the chest again. ‘I think we should get him to Emergency now. Do you want me to let them know?’

‘We can do that. Are you coming for the ride, Doc?’ the paramedic asked. But another ambulance was pulling up now, more assistance arriving with each passing minute. The emergency was under control now and Ciro finally relaxed, a rueful smile appearing on his exhausted face.

‘Preferably no!’ He gestured to his drenched boxer shorts and now bare feet. ‘I’m sure you guys can take it from here.’ Standing up, he took a moment to shake the paramedics’ hands firmly. ‘You’ve done a great job. Thank you for your prompt assistance.’

‘No worries,’ one of the paramedics answered, lifting the stretcher, the wheels not exactly designed for the soft sand. ‘It’s going to be nice working with you, Doctor.’

The other team was tending to the rescuer, wrapping him in blankets, reassuring Vince’s friend as the police arrived and started to make their enquiries, taking statements from the witnesses.

‘Here you go!’ A thick blanket was being placed around Harriet’s shoulders. Still kneeling on the sand, she was too tired even to offer her thanks and shivered violently, vaguely aware of Ciro talking to police officers as a paramedic knelt down beside her. ‘Are you OK?’

Harriet nodded, her teeth chattering too violently to attempt an answer, shock and fatigue starting to set in.

‘You’ve cut yourself,’ the paramedic observed, shining his torch down her legs. Harriet vaguely recalled the sharp pain that had shot through her as she’d knelt down. She stared down at her leg as if it belonged to someone else as he carefully examined it. ‘Looks like it was glass, there’s a few broken bottles lying around. Let’s get you into the ambulance and get you to the hospital…’

‘I don’t need to go to hospital,’ Harriet managed, but something in her voice must have alerted Ciro. He swung around, forgetting the conversation he was having with the police officer and coming straight over.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Harriet coughed, wishing they would all leave her alone. ‘I’m cold, that’s all.’

‘She’s got a laceration on her leg…’

‘I’ve got a small cut on my leg,’ Harriet corrected him, but Ciro was dropping down on his own knees now, running a concerned, trained eye over her.

‘She had an appendicectomy last week,’ Ciro said to the hovering paramedic.

‘She can speak for herself,’ Harriet retorted.

‘She’s also a terribly uncooperative patient.’ Again he spoke over her, but there was a hint of humour that softened it, his eyes narrowing in concern as he eyed her more closely. ‘What is wrong, Harriet?’

And he said it so softly, so gently she felt a sting of tears in her eyes. The night’s events, the week’s events, the entire wretched last few months finally catching up with her. ‘I’m cold and I’m tired and I just want to go…’ The tears came then, tears she had held back for so long now, tears she had sworn no one would ever see. But sitting on a beach, wrapped in an ambulance blanket, at two a.m. only compounded her sudden chaotic existence, only served to enforce her desolation.

Ciro thankfully understood, realised that her tears and overwhelming lethargy were more emotional than physical, that the very last thing she needed right now was to be hauled back to hospital, to fan the flames she was so desperately trying to put out.

‘Let’s get you home.’ He said the last word very deliberately. His strong hand gently guided her up and he pulled her into his chest, he held her closely as he addressed the police officer.

‘I have told you all I can. If you need anything more from me you can contact me at the hospital.’

‘If you can just tell us when you first became aware—?’ the young officer started, but Ciro wasn’t listening.

One strong arm around Harriet, he guided her slowly along the beach towards the apartments and called over his shoulder, ‘This can all wait until tomorrow.’

They took the lift in silence, Ciro’s arm still wrapped around her, still holding her tightly against him. Somewhere between the second and third floors he wasn’t just someone to lean on, somewhere around the fourth the heart pounding in her ears was Ciro’s, not hers. As he held her to his chest, she could feel the quiet masculine strength of him, the smooth velvet of his chest against her cheek, the slight scratch of hair as he pulled her even closer, and she knew without looking that they were bypassing her floor, that they were going back to Ciro’s apartment.

‘I’m going to run you a warm bath and then take a look at you.’ Leading her over to the sofa, he unwrapped her from the blanket.

Harriet gingerly sat down, casting a shy eye around the room.

His apartment was the image of hers, exactly the same floor plan, the furniture almost identical, yet it was an entirely different dwelling. Somehow he had masculinised it, the tangy citrus of aftershave hanging in the air, a mountain of newspapers on the coffee-table, his tie and jacket tossed messily over the chair and endless coffee-cups filling the sink.

‘Your bath is ready.’ He was back, smiling that familiar professional smile, and Harriet almost physically ached for earlier, not the earlier downstairs in her own apartment but back in the lift, when he had held her in his arms, when he had dragged her into his personal space, his touch the only comfort that would suffice. But it would be dangerous to let him see that, dangerous to head down that path in a weak and vulnerable moment. It was far easier to paint on a smile, far easier to reassure him that she was fine.

‘I really am OK.’ She was feeling more like her old self now. The exquisite loneliness that had assailed her on the beach had abated and Harriet felt almost foolish for lowering her guard, guilty even that she had worried him. ‘I was just in such a deep sleep when you knocked, I didn’t have time to process it…’

‘You’ve had a shock,’ Ciro explained, the voice of reason, but Harriet shook her head.

‘I work in Emergency, Ciro. It’s hardly the first time I’ve given CPR.’

‘There’s a big difference between a well-stocked emergency room with doctors and nurses on tap and a beach in the middle of the night.’

Almost reluctantly she nodded.

‘You’ve just recovered from surgery,’ Ciro continued. ‘You’re supposed to be resting.’

‘Hey, you were the one who knocked!’

‘And I’d do it again tomorrow,’ Ciro answered, ‘but that doesn’t mean—’ The ringing of the telephone halted his little lecture, but from the expletive that escaped his lips Harriet guessed he wasn’t particularly impressed at the intrusion.

‘Aren’t you going to get it?’ Harriet asked, frowning as Ciro shook his head. ‘It might be the hospital.’

‘The hospital rings me on my mobile…’ Finally he answered the call and Harriet feigned disinterest, looked anywhere but at Ciro as he spoke curtly into the telephone, letting the poor unfortunate on the other end know exactly what he thought of their early morning greeting.

‘My sister!’ Replacing the phone in its cradle, Ciro turned his palms skywards. ‘She still hasn’t worked out the time difference between Spain and Australia. Now, where were we?’

‘I was about to have a bath,’ Harriet answered, more brightly than she felt. Something about the telephone call had unsettled her, yet she couldn’t quite place what. But there wasn’t time to dwell on it as Ciro halted her progress as she attempted to stand.

‘Not so fast. I need to have a look at you first. Is your stomach still hurting?’

‘A bit,’ Harriet admitted. ‘But I don’t think it’s anything serious. I could feel my incision pulling when I was running and while I was doing the massage. I’m sure I just did too much.’

‘What about your knee?’ he asked, gently probing the bruised, cut flesh as Harriet frowned down at him.

‘Why do you talk to your sister in English?’ She watched as his fingers stilled momentarily, an almost imperceptible pause before he carried on examining her, his answer when it came vague and dismissive.

‘I forget where I am sometimes.’

His touch on her skin was almost more than she could bear and it had nothing to do with her injuries and everything to do with his utter tenderness. In an attempt at self-preservation, she jerked her knee away.

‘It’s a tiny cut, Ciro, nothing to make a fuss about!’

‘OK.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘You really are a terrible patient, you know.’

‘Because I hate being one,’ Harriet mumbled. ‘Can I just have my bath, please?’

‘When I’ve seen your stomach.’ Ciro was insistent. ‘If you’ve torn anything, the last thing you need is to step into a hot bath.’

It made sense, enough sense for Harriet to lie back on the sofa, enough sense to let him lift her legs up. She wriggled her body straight, tried to keep her breathing even as for the second time Ciro’s hands probed her stomach. Only this time she wasn’t concentrating on holding her stomach in, she’d have settled for keeping her breathing even. His hands probed her tender flesh as she stared fixedly at the ceiling.

‘Your shorts.’ Ciro’s voice was even, his fingers fiddling with the tiny silver catch, but Harriet pushed them away, dealing with the fastening herself and wiggling her hips as best she could, moving the damp, unyielding garment down an inch so he could see her wound.

‘Harriet, I need to examine your stomach properly.’

She had known it wasn’t enough, had known that he needed her shorts to be properly loosened to adequately examine her scar, and she held her breath as his fingers moved the zipper down an inch, that tiny distance enough to allow for a proper examination of her abdomen. If Ciro had thought about it, he’d probably have realised that she wouldn’t be wearing knickers. If he’d actually stopped to think, Ciro would have realised that when he’d knocked on her door an hour or so earlier and told her a kid was drowning, rummaging through her drawers for a pair of undies would have been the last thing on her mind. But clearly, from his reaction, from the loaded, charged atmosphere, he hadn’t thought. Harriet felt it as if it was physical—the tiny beat of hesitation as the zipper opened, as his eyes took in that first glimpse of her golden curls, and the mood that was highly charged suddenly shifted to electric. If he’d been a doctor before, he wasn’t now.

Her eyes dragged the length of his naked torso, taking in the same body she’d worked alongside for the last hour, but it was as if she was seeing it for the first time. The smattering of dark hair fanning his chest, so exquisitely masculine, snaking down his flat, toned stomach, down, ever down to the dark silky boxers, the hemline straining against his muscular thighs, tiny coils of hairs on his legs that she ached to reach out and feel, dizzy now, not with exhaustion or expended emotion but with sheer unadulterated lust.

And Ciro felt the shift, too, she knew that, knew that from the slight tremor in his hand, the tension in his throat as he swallowed.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Here?’ His voice was thick with lust but at least he could speak.

The answer strangled in her throat. Instead, she shook her head against the cushion, not staring up at the ceiling as she had the last time he’d examined her but staring brazenly into his eyes, not willing this moment over but shamefully wishing it would never end. She could see the lust blazing in his eyes, feel the heat of his palm on her stomach, the coolness as he took it away.

‘Harriet?’

She heard the question in his voice, knew that even at this late stage he was somehow trying to protect her from herself. He took her hand and led her to the bathroom and she knew that he wouldn’t be leaving her alone. It had always been excruciating, undressing in front of a man, but Ciro dealt with that, undressing her himself with such utter reverence, his eyes adoring her as he slipped her shorts over her bottom, sliding them down her legs. She lifted her arms as docile as a sleepy child as he tugged off her T-shirt, the approval in his eyes as the temporary darkness lifted making her feel truly beautiful.

‘It will feel hot.’ Guiding her into the bath, he spoke softly to her. ‘But that is just because you are cold. The water is just warm…’

‘You’re cold, too,’ Harriet whispered, wincing when the biting water flamed her frozen flesh as she lowered her body into the stinging yet inviting heat. ‘Why don’t you—?’

‘Let me look after you, Harriet.’

Dipping a sponge into the water, he squeezed it around her neck, rivers of warmth running down her spine. He moved the sponge along her frozen arms in slow, ever-decreasing circles of warmth, even massaging her hands, taking each finger in turn, instilling warmth where there had been none.

‘Your knee.’ He squeezed the sponge again and she gave a tiny wince at the sting of the soapy water, but the pain was short-lived. Ciro guided the sponge length-ways now, his hand disappearing beneath the surface of the water and massaging her aching calves. And there was no rush, none at all, each feather-light stroke relaxing her more, yet moving her further into giddy submission. Sponge forgotten, he soaped his hands, his eyes adoring her. Strong fingers massaged the knots of tension from her shoulders, but as his hands moved lower everything changed. To that point it had been tender, blissfully sensual perhaps but loosely within the bounds of decency, but as he took the weight of her heavy, soapy breasts, she felt her throat constrict with desire, closed her eyes to the ecstasy of skilful fingers as they finally crossed that delicious line, his lips moving downwards in deep, throaty kisses along her neck, stealthily moving downwards with such slow, teasing precision Harriet could feed a needy moan welling in her throat, wanting, needing, desperate to feel his mouth around her nipples.

He obliged, taking the ripe, swollen delicacy in his mouth, his teeth gently nibbling her areola, the fizz of arousal coursing through her breasts. She wanted so badly to focus on the bliss but his hand was working up her legs. Tiny gasps of approval escaped her lips but her body was saying otherwise. Her thighs closed around the hand that was slowly inching upwards, stalling his decadent progress. Her hand captured his strong forearm in a vague attempt to push him away, scared almost to give in, unable to comprehend that this could be enough for him, that surely she must reciprocate, but a low throaty murmur dictated his pleasure, his mouth still working her breast but his hand hovering, stroking, softly stroking her thigh, patiently awaiting her total consent. Harriet gave in to him then, gave herself in a way she never had before, stopped trying to fight for control and willingly let him have it.

Completely.

Her legs wilfully parted, giving in to the delicious sensations he so skilfully inflicted, her neck arching, this slow delicious torture almost more than she could bear. Yet she didn’t want it to ever end, could feel his finger probing, parting the tender, engorged flesh of her hood, locating her precious jewel, applying little beats of pressure that made her want to weep, while his tongue still circled her nipple, drawing it to its delicious, tender length then pausing, holding her quivering mound in his loving hand, adoring her with his eyes.

‘I want to take you to bed…’ His low drawl was as erotic as his touch. ‘Since the moment I saw you, Harriet, it is all I have wanted to do.’

She understood, because she’d felt it, too, more than she’d even wanted to admit at the time, more than she’d dared acknowledge, but that stinging, brutal awareness she had felt had been undeniable. That it was culminating in this was inevitable almost.

He effortlessly scooped her up and carried her the short distance to the bedroom and she buried her face in his chest, tasting the salt of the ocean, revelling in the delicious scent of arousal. And Harriet knew she should have felt shy, should have felt naked and exposed as he laid her on the bed, but he imbued wanton confidence in her, the desire blazing in his eyes telling her she was doing OK. The pleasure was as much his as hers. Her needy hands tugged at his boxers, and she saw Ciro in full arousal. The sheer glorious naked strength of him gave her a shudder of nervous apprehension, and he sensed it.

‘I won’t hurt you, Harriet.’ Kneeling on the bed, he cupped the peach of her buttocks in his hand and, leaning over, kissed his way down the length of her writhing body. Achingly slowly he explored her with his tongue and at the scratch of his face on her stomach, the feel of his thighs parting hers, Harriet’s hands coiled in his jet hair. Her head thrashed on the pillow as he took her so close to the edge it was almost indecent, the fuse he had lit in the bathroom so damn close to detonation now that the knot of anxiety about accommodating him was replaced with sheer naked need, a need to have him inside her, to have him fill her. His name was a sob on her parted lips as she begged him to enter her, but even his skilful foreplay, her greedy anticipation of the moment didn’t come close to the power of him inside her, that first delicious stab the trigger, her whole body toppling, a physical chain reaction so severe there was nothing she could do except go with it—moving with him, her calves around his waist, the sheen of his skin against her, her fingers pushing into his taut buttocks, greedy, desperate lips tasting his flesh as he bucked inside her. A frenzied convulsion engulfed her, a hot searing flush rushing along her spinal column, his buttocks tightening in the same rigid tune she moved to as he swelled further within her, spilled inside her. She’d never cried before while making love, but it was the only thing she could do now. The amassing of emotion, the sheer and utter release, followed by the tranquil post-coital bliss, culminating in quiet, cleansing tears. And through it all Ciro held her.

Held Harriet as if he’d never let her go.