Pregnant By The Playboy Surgeon

He’d lost his grandfather after a long, protracted battle with esophageal cancer and a friend to a climbing accident—all in the space of two months. Reeling from the double whammy, he’d accepted a temporary commission on a West African Mercy Ship, thinking the change would help him deal.

He’d immersed himself in doing what he loved: helping people—kids especially—get to live relatively normal lives with his skill as an orthopedic reconstruction surgeon. Helping those who usually didn’t have access to modern medical care.

He’d met some great people and had fallen into a casual relationship with an on-board coordinator—a relationship that had been more about propinquity and convenience than any deeper feelings, on his part at least. It didn’t say much for him but he’d thought they were friends with on-again, off-again benefits—right up until Simone had dropped her bombshell...she was pregnant.

Yeah. Big shock that, considering that they’d lately been more off than on and he’d never had unprotected sex. Ever. Still, that hadn’t been the worst of it, because although he’d been willing to face up to his responsibility—without getting married to someone he didn’t have deep feelings for—she’d had other ideas.

Ideas that had emerged one night when he’d finished surgery earlier than expected and headed over to the mess hall for dinner, inadvertently overhearing Simone and an Australian nurse discussing him—or rather his family’s money. Simone had been bragging that she’d managed to catch herself a rich Canadian doctor—her sole reason for working in such God-forsaken countries on a boat that didn’t even have a swimming pool.

As if that was important on a hospital ship.

He’d been about to reveal himself when he’d heard something even more enlightening—that the baby she was trying to pass off as his belonged to a Mercy Ship colleague. A married colleague.

To say she’d been shocked when she’d looked up and seen him standing there was an understatement. There’d been tears, pleas, threats and hysterics but in the end he had been done. He’d finished his contract and come home.

She wasn’t the first woman who’d thrown herself at him after learning that his family owned the largest shipbuilding company in the Pacific Rim and she probably wouldn’t be the last. He’d just have to be more careful, that was all. Besides, he wasn’t interested in marrying someone he couldn’t see himself growing old with.

Not that he was against marriage. He wasn’t. But he hadn’t found a woman who wanted him rather than what his family’s money could do for her. Hadn’t found a woman with whom he could build the kind of relationship his parents and grandparents had.

He sometimes wondered if he ever would.

Arriving at his Jeep, he keyed open the door and slid inside. About to shove his key into the ignition, he realized he was still holding the condom. Tossing it into his console, he chuckled at the horrified embarrassment on the woman’s face and her insistence that it wasn’t hers.

Now, there was a feisty little bundle of contradictions, he thought, picturing her huge gray eyes as she’d blurted out that she was taking a break from anything with a Y-chromosome, stirring up all kinds of mixed emotions he hadn’t been ready to feel.

Shaking his head at himself, Dylan cranked up the engine. Reversing out of the parking bay, he drove toward the exit, feeling much more cheerful than when he’d landed a few hours ago. He had a few days to catch up with his family and then he’d be back in the saddle at St. Mary’s as a consultant.

And if the thought of seeing a certain hot little doctor again made him smile with anticipation he chalked it up to the long flight, three days without much sleep and eight months of celibacy.

CHAPTER TWO

DYLAN FELL BACK into the hospital routine as if he’d only been gone for a week. His old partner, Steve Randall, had been so delighted to have him back that he’d cleared his calendar and headed for the South Pacific, leaving Dylan to handle any upcoming surgeries that couldn’t be postponed.

Although he’d have liked to say he was too busy to think about the sweet little brunette from the parking lot, it was kind of disconcerting to discover that he was as susceptible as the next guy to a pair of soft gray eyes and a sweet sassy smile.

He was thirty-five, for God’s sake. A surgeon. He’d been dating for twenty years; having sex for almost that long, and he’d never—not once—thought about a woman during surgery.

That was until he’d looked into the smoky eyes of an irresistible brunette as he’d reached for the scattered contents of her purse.

Not only had she invaded his dreams but the Zen-like calm he usually adopted in the OR as well. It had to stop. Distraction was costly—especially in his profession. With Steve off in Bora Bora he didn’t have time to take a lunch break, let alone think about a woman determined to stick to her man embargo.

He wondered what had happened to leave her so wary and mistrustful of men. And if he experienced an inexplicable urge to find the guy who’d done it and pound him into the ground it was only because he had two sisters and would do the same to any guy who messed with them.

Yeah, he assured himself, he was feeling protective in an entirely fraternal way. It certainly wasn’t because his ego had taken a little beating. Besides, he knew next to nothing about her other than the fact she worked at St. Mary’s. Even if he’d wanted to prove to himself that he’d imagined the entire incident, St. Mary’s was a large hospital. She could work anywhere, and he didn’t have the time—or the inclination, he assured himself—to hunt down a woman who wasn’t interested.

It was just as well that she’d turned him down because he wasn’t looking for anything more than the occasional good time with an attractive woman who knew the score. And since she hadn’t seemed like the “occasional” type, or even a “good-time” girl, he would forget all about her and focus on cementing his professional reputation.

With back-to-back appointments and two solid days of surgery, by the Thursday evening of the following week Dylan was ready to call it a day. He grabbed his leather jacket and turned off the lights as he walked through the darkened waiting room. It was after eight and he had plans to meet up with a couple of kayaking friends at a sports bar near the marina. He hadn’t seen them since his return and was eager to get back on the water.

He dug in his pocket for his Jeep keys and was about to lock the door behind him when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID had him smiling. “Hi, Mom, what’s wrong?”

His mother’s light, familiar laugh floated through the phone. “Nothing’s wrong, darling. I’m just calling to find out how my favorite son is doing on his first week back and to invite him to dinner.”

“Mom, I’m your only son.”

“Still my favorite,” she teased. “But don’t tell your sisters.”

Dylan chuckled, because he’d heard his mother tell his sisters the same thing. “I’d love dinner, Mom but I’m on call. It’ll take too long to get back from West Vancouver if there’s an emergency.”

“That’s the beauty of my plan, darling,” said Vivian St. James smugly. “We’re having dinner at the Regis with the Hendersons. You remember Fred and Daphne, don’t you?”

For some reason his mother’s overly bright, chatty tone put Dylan’s senses on alert. He grimaced when her next words confirmed his suspicions.

“Well, their daughter Abigail is back from Europe, and we can all have a wonderful dinner tog—”

And there it was. “Mom,” he interrupted gently. “Don’t.”

There was a short pause, then a bewildered, “Don’t what, darling?”

Dylan sighed. “You’re trying to set me up again.”

“Don’t be silly!”

His mother gave a laughing snort but Dylan could tell that he’d hit the nail on the head. His mother was trying to get him a date in the hopes that it would lead to the altar. She wanted grandchildren before she died—which was ridiculous because she wasn’t yet sixty.

“Even if that’s true, young man,” she said in her “mom voice”—the one that said he was being deliberately uncooperative. “And I’m not saying it is, you need to get out and meet people. Women.”

“Mom, I meet women every day. Besides, I have met someone,” he heard himself say.

And then he wanted to slap himself upside the head for giving his mother false hope. Vivian would hound him until she met the mythical woman herself. He loved his mother fiercely but if she thought one of her brood needed a helping nudge in the right direction she wasn’t above using both hands.

“You have?”

Oh, hell. His mother sounded so delighted at the prospect that her son was dating again after his friend’s death. She thought all her children were amazing and wouldn’t be able to resist meddling.

“That’s wonderful, darling. Where did you meet and when can I meet her?”

No pressure there, St. James, he thought with amused exasperation. “Who says it’s a her?”

There was a moment’s stunned silence on the other end of the phone and Dylan could picture his mother’s expression.

Then Vivian snorted. “Dylan Thomas St. James!” She chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay but I know you’re only trying to wind me up. So, when can I meet her?”

Fortunately he was saved from replying when his phone beeped an incoming call. Talk about being saved by the beep.

“Just a sec, Mom. I’ve got a call coming in.” With a flick of his hand he accessed the call. “St. James.”

“This is Rona Sheppard from the ER,” a brisk voice said. “Are you still in the building?”

“I am,” he said, shrugging out of his leather jacket and reaching for his lab coat because any call that included the words Are you still in the building? meant he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. “What’s up?”

“A young child with a traumatic arm injury,” the supervisor said briskly. “ETA three minutes—vitals shaky.”

“I’ll be right down,” he said before disconnecting, his mind already flying ahead to the case.

He was about to shove his phone in his pocket when he remembered his mother.

“Mom,” he said, returning to his call. “I’m sorry but I won’t make dinner tonight.” He didn’t say he’d been headed to Harry’s on the marina anyway—mostly to prevent the lecture he knew would follow about the kind of women who hung out in sports bars.

“Oh, darn.” Vivian sighed. “I’ve been giddy with happiness since you got back.”

She very obviously didn’t say she was disappointed that he wouldn’t meet their friends’ daughter but Dylan could read between the lines.

“Is it something bad?”

“I don’t know yet but it’s a little kid.”

“Oh, darling, I know how much you hate these cases. Call me when you can.”

He said goodbye and disconnected, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, because traumatic injuries were always bad. That it was a child made it that much more urgent.

Dylan had spent enough time in the ER to appreciate that when children were involved emotions ran high. It was one of the worst parts of working in trauma and he held a huge respect for the people who dealt with it on a daily basis.

Even as he hit the swing doors and headed down the hallway he could hear someone rapping out orders in a soft, feminine voice that sent skitters of recognition across his skin. From the rapid-fire instructions, he knew even before he approached the trauma bay that the patient had just arrived. Even more surprising was that right in the center of the chaos, directing proceedings, was the brunette from the parking lot.

The attending physician.

He didn’t know why the sight of her so competently handling the emergency threw him but it did—enough that he paused at the entrance, his gut clenching in a combination of dread and anticipation.

The kid, probably no more than six or seven, looked so tiny and fragile on the bed that he felt his heart squeeze before he had a chance to take an emotional step back. These were the cases that ripped at him. And he’d feel it all the more deeply if his team wasn’t successful in reattaching the severed limb.

The sight of the blood-soaked compression dressing instantly sucked him back to West Africa where he’d spent the past two years replanting limbs torn off in explosions and artillery fire or lopped off by panga-wielding soldiers. The young victims had been the hardest to deal with because often there had been no limbs to reattach, or necrosis and infection had already set in by the time they got to him.

It meant a lifetime of unnecessary pain, suffering and disability—if they survived—and it made him wonder what the hell it was all for.

Lost in horrific memories, he scarcely heard the attending ask, “Who’s the ortho on duty? Has someone called?”

It was only when he heard his name that he was jolted back to reality.

“Rona said Dr. St. James is on his way.”

Momentarily rattled by the abrupt shift from memories that were still far too fresh and vivid in his mind to the bright lights of the trauma bay, Dylan watched her frown and pull the stethoscope from around her neck.

“Isn’t that the new guy everyone’s swooning over?” she asked absently, fitting the scope in her ears and sliding the metal disc over the boy’s chest. Without waiting for an answer, she addressed the second nurse. “Paula, we’re going to need more blood before we can get him into surgery. Set up another bag and make sure we have enough on standby. Let’s hope Hot New Guy’s not just a pretty face. The last thing this little guy needs is to grow up without an arm.”

Taking a deep breath, Dylan shoved the memories aside and stepped into the room as she turned to the monitor.

Removing the stethoscope, she impatiently slung it around her neck. “Dammit, where is he? Amy, call him again. We—”

“No need,” he interrupted, his eyes already assessing the boy’s condition as he reached out and pressed his fingers against the brachial artery above the boy’s severed arm. It was slow and ragged, barely there.

Hyper-aware of her just two feet away, he knew the instant she recognized him by her audible inhalation. His peripheral vision caught the way her body stilled and he looked up into eyes wide with shocked recognition.

Holding her gaze, he kept his voice low and soothing. “What kind of injury do we have, Dr...? Uh... Stevens, is it?”

“I... I...” she stuttered.

Dylan didn’t know whether to feel pleased or insulted that she appeared so rattled. The blond nurse must have also noticed her reaction because her gaze narrowed, bouncing between them as though she sensed the abrupt tension in the room.

“Dani?” the nurse said, not pausing in bagging the intubated child. “You okay?”

The words clearly jolted her and she abruptly blinked, going from in control to flustered in the blink of an eye. “He’s...uh...he...um—” She frowned and firmed her soft mouth as she visibly pulled herself together. “He lost his arm an inch above the left epicondyle.”

The nurses looked at her in surprise before sharing a significant look.

“I can see that,” he said quietly, ignoring the silent exchange. “Did the EMTs say how it happened?”

A flush stained her cheeks and she grimaced before sucking in a steadying breath. In the blink of an eye she was once again the cool, collected physician. “Apparently a plate glass window fell on him,” she reported briskly, with only the barest hint of a tremor.

“Is it a crush injury?”

“No,” she clipped out. “Fairly clean. I...uh... I had to clamp the brachial artery to raise his pressure but I’m not sure how much longer he can wait for surgery.”

She’d made the right call. He nodded to the cooler on a nearby trolley. “What’s the condition of the arm?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look but the EMT said it’s intact.”

He lifted the blood-soaked compression bandage and noticed that a clamp had been applied to the end of the artery. After a quick assessment of the splintered edges of the bone, he gave a short nod as he turned to head for the door.

“Take X-rays of both sections and bring him up as soon as he’s ready. We’ll be waiting.”

On his way up to surgery, he punched in a number on his phone.

“Kate,” he said, when the doctor answered on the third ring. “It’s Dylan—how soon can you get to OR?”

“About twenty minutes to a half-hour, why?”

“I need your needlepoint skills for a replantation.”

The older doctor gave a low laugh. “I’m not on call, Dylan.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But when a kid loses his arm you’re my go-to vascular. I need you on my team.”

He heard her suck in a sharp breath. “A kid? Please don’t tell me it’s a crush injury.”

He pressed the button to call for the elevator. “It’s not a crush injury. A sheet of plate glass lopped off his arm an inch above the elbow. There’s some damage, obviously but it should be straightforward.”

He heard her sigh. “All right—start without me. I’m on my way.”

While he waited for the elevator, he paged the on-call vascular surgeon, as well as a plastic surgeon. Once the elevator arrived he stepped inside, his mind already on the procedure ahead rather than the woman he’d left in the ER.

There would be time enough later to think about his reaction to seeing her again—that one-two punch he’d taken to the chest when those startled gray eyes had locked with his. She’d looked stunned and flustered, as though she hadn’t expected to see him again. And a bit dismayed—which she hadn’t been quick enough to conceal.

He’d felt kind of stunned himself and it wasn’t because one glance into those smoky eyes had dropped the bottom out of his gut. What the hell had that been about?

No, he assured himself, he’d just been surprised. Surprised at finding her directing proceedings without any trace of the charming clumsiness she’d displayed at their first meeting. Yep—just surprise at finding her without even trying, he told himself.

It couldn’t possibly be that when he’d seen her something deep inside him had stilled and said, There you are.

Because that would be crazy when there wasn’t a hint of insanity in his family tree.

* * *

When the elevator doors opened, Dani and the RN pushed the gurney out and rushed it down the hallway to Surgery. She’d left Amy behind in the ER, taking care of their little patient’s distraught mother, who’d arrived just as they were getting into the elevator.

Seeing her baby lying almost lifeless on the large, adult-sized bed had been almost too much for pregnant Christine Nolan. Dani had told Amy to give her something to calm her down before they had two patients on their hands.

The instant they pushed the gurney through the swing doors an OR nurse grabbed the cooler. “Room Four,” she rapped out briskly. “They’re waiting.”

They quickly maneuvered down the passage to where a scrub nurse was holding the doors open, and even as she released the gurney Dani found her gaze drawn, despite herself, to the team gathered around the wall screen, studying the X-rays she’d taken ten minutes earlier.

Or rather her gaze was drawn inexorably toward one team member in particular.

As though sensing her presence, he turned, his gaze locking unerringly on to her. She ignored the way her pulse leapt at the sight of him, standing head and shoulders above everyone else in the room. Already dressed in his surgical scrubs, gowned and bandanna-ed, Dr. Hot-and-Hunky looked as if he owned his universe.

And was ready to rock hers.

Her face burned with mortification at the memory of their last two encounters and she hoped she could keep from humiliating herself a third time. What must he be thinking? she wondered. First, that she was clumsy and blurted out whatever came into her head; and second that she’d heard that deep bedroom voice of his and everything in her had come to a screeching halt.

She’d looked up into moss-green eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes and her mind had gone blank as a slate. And then he’d asked her about the wound and she’d replied with something so inane even a second-year med student would have blinked.

She just hoped no one had noticed and cringed because she knew everyone had. Especially him. Oh God, she thought as a fresh wave of embarrassment crawled up the back of her neck. She’d stood there frozen as if she was a teenager again and had found herself face to face with the hottest bad boy in school.

Realizing she was still standing there, Dani spun away to make a quick escape. She was almost through the doors when his voice—deep and dark and sinful—reached her.

“Dr. Stevens?”

Tempted to ignore him, she shoved aside the primitive urge to run and turned slowly, giving herself time to school her expression. She was a thirty-year-old professional, she reminded herself. She sucked in a steadying breath, hoping he couldn’t see her inner chaos and terrified because she’d never been any good at hiding her emotions.

She just hoped she could keep her mouth from blurting out embarrassing inanities. “Yes?”

His gaze swept over her face to linger on her mouth and for one horrifying instant she thought he would mention their first meeting or...or even worse...ask about her unprofessional behavior in the ER.

Actually, no. Worse would be that he somehow knew that her first impulse had been to check her hair and straighten her posture. Fortunately she’d done neither. Unfortunately she’d embarrassed herself and surprised her colleagues by staring at him as though he’d popped through a tear in the space time continuum dressed like a Roman centurion.

Heck, even that wouldn’t have shocked her as much.

He lifted a hand and, startled, she jerked back a couple of steps until her back hit the wall, her eyes wide. Embarrassment crawled up the back of her neck when she realized he was just scratching his jaw.

Way to totally overreact there, Dani.

She hastily glanced around to see if anyone had seen that clumsy panicked retreat and nearly sagged with relief when she saw that no one was paying them any attention.

Get a damn grip, Dani.

Concern darkened his gaze. “You okay?”

“Of course,” she managed coolly. “Just in a hurry to...uh...” She gestured behind her. “Get back to the ER.”

After a short pause he nodded, his eyes dropping briefly to the pulse tapping out frantic Morse code in her throat. She had to battle an overwhelming urge to cover that revealing little sign of agitation.

“Anything I should know about the boy?”

His deep voice, pouring over her like a benediction, should have relaxed her but instead it ratcheted her tension up a hundred notches.

“Allergies, medical conditions, any medication that he’s on?”

“Uh...no,” she said, clearing her throat. “His name is Timothy Nolan and he’s seven years old. His mother says he’s a normal, active little boy who loves ice hockey and dinosaurs. He’s a Canucks supporter.”

A smile lit his ruggedly handsome features, stealing her breath and sending her pulse lurching around like a drunken sailor on shore leave. When her knees gave an alarming wobble, she snapped her spine straight.

Stop looking at his smile, she snarled silently. Handsome guys who flash million-dollar smiles can’t be trusted. So walk away, nice and calm.

“Well, we’ll have to see that he gets to play hockey someday.”

Relief that he wasn’t going to mention her recent lapses almost had her knees buckling again.

That’s good, Dani. Focus on your patient and not on your queasy stomach and wobbly knees.

“You can replant?” It could simply be the adrenaline let-down that was making her shaky and hyper-aware.