Emergency Engagement

“Stripping is work.

“I’m not a hooker and I don’t strip bare. I’ve only done it a few times. I needed that money.” She swallowed. When was the last time she’d had something to eat or drink?

She was suddenly so tired, so sick of fighting to eke out an existence. Still, she pressed on. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be poor, would you? You wouldn’t know how hard it is to make sure your child doesn’t suffer. You wouldn’t know—” She suddenly saw two Dr. Quinton Searles. How could that be?

Both Quintons spoke. “Beth, you don’t look so good. You’re pale and—”

“I’m fine,” Beth said. She was always fine. She couldn’t afford not to be.

And then, as if fate mocked her, the world went black.

Dear Reader,

As a parent of young children, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in the emergency room. My oldest daughter once got into my purse and ate my cold medicine thinking it was candy, and my youngest daughter once fell and bit completely through her lower lip. These motherhood experiences of mine provided the backdrop for Beth Johnson and Quinton Searle’s love story.

Quinton first appeared as a minor character in my July 2002 Harlequin American Romance release, Catching the Corporate Playboy. The minute I wrote him I knew he needed his own book. I decided he’d be perfect for Beth, a woman who’s been through some pretty rough times in her life but is determined to survive. While she doesn’t need a prince in a doctor’s coat to rescue her, her life is a lot more enjoyable and fun once he does. Of course, Beth’s daughter, Carly, has a few ideas of her own about the man she wants to be her next daddy.

I hope you enjoy reading Quinton and Beth’s tale as much as I did writing it.

All the best and as always, enjoy the romance.

Michele Dunaway

Emergency Engagement

Michele Dunaway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Julie Picraux, romance reader extraordinaire; Eutana Howard, Susan Benedict, Alexandra Gantner and Joyce Adams Counts. I am honored that I can call all of you my friends.

And to Kenny Chesney, whose music and dedication to it are inspirations.

Books by Michele Dunaway

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

848—A LITTLE OFFICE ROMANCE

900—TAMING THE TABLOID HEIRESS

921—THE SIMPLY SCANDALOUS PRINCESS

931—CATCHING THE CORPORATE PLAYBOY

963—SWEEPING THE BRIDE AWAY

988—THE PLAYBOY’S PROTÉGÉE

1008—ABOUT LAST NIGHT…

1044—UNWRAPPING MR. WRIGHT

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

He wasn’t supposed to be there. It wasn’t his night; in fact, this week he wasn’t supposed to deal with any emergencies unless they occurred during normal office hours.

But because of a wedding or something like that, there’d been a shortage of pediatricians to staff the pediatric emergency floor. So when his partner Bart had asked, Quinton had agreed to take Bart’s shift. Even though it was a Friday night, Quinton had had nothing better to do.

Which, when he stopped to think about it, was pathetic. He, Dr. Quinton Searle, pediatric specialist, should have something to do. At thirty-five, he should have some woman to date, some place to be.

But the truth was that he didn’t, which is why, when the call came through, he was in the wrong place at the right time. He turned to Elaine, who at fifty-something had seen it all. He liked working with her; she was a model of efficiency, the most reliable nurse in any crisis. “What have I got?” he asked.

“Four-year-old child. Poison Control just called. The kid ate the mother’s cold medicine. Thought it was green candy.”

He frowned as he contemplated the situation. “How many?”

Elaine checked her notes. “The mother thinks it was only two tablets, but she isn’t sure. The container is empty.”

Great. Quinton hated variables. “Is she here yet?”

Elaine shook her head. “Any minute. Downstairs knows to buzz me immediately so we can bring the kid right up.”

Quinton nodded. Downstairs was slang for the main emergency room. As part of the Chicago Presbyterian Hospital’s patient care plan, a separate emergency floor had been set up especially for children. Children were triaged in the main ER, then sent to the pediatric ER. Even admittance paperwork could be done on this floor. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his white doctor’s coat. “Let me know the minute you get the buzz.”

“Will do,” Elaine replied. “I’m going to check on the patient in room twelve. The pediatric plastic surgeon should have been here twenty minutes ago.”

“Good idea,” Quinton said. When he had phoned earlier, the surgeon had assured Quinton that he’d be there in ten minutes. Already half an hour had passed.

Which was not good. The three-year-old boy waiting for the surgeon had fallen completely through the skin below his lower lip. Fifteen minutes ago the parents had given up keeping the numbing cream on the injury. That, of course, meant the cream would have worn off somewhat by the time the surgeon finally arrived.

Quinton frowned. Besides coping with variables, he hated waiting on specialists. He could have stitched up the injury himself, but probably not without leaving a worse scar than the plastic surgeon would. So, since Quinton knew the kid needed both internal and external stitches, he and the family were both waiting. Not an ideal situation at all, and now his time would be further divided when the drug overdose arrived.

He could use some caffeine. Having a few spare moments, he went to the staff lounge and filled a white foam cup with hot coffee. Someone had made a fresh pot, and the aroma wafted toward his nose as he sipped. The bitter black balm failed to soothe his soul. He contemplated the real reason he’d chosen to work this weekend.

Bart and responsibilities as a member of the hospital staff aside, work had gotten him out of a family function relating to his sister’s upcoming wedding. Not that he didn’t love his parents or his only sibling, but he didn’t necessarily want to see them, or hear the question they always asked: when was he moving home for good?

Trouble was, he didn’t want to return to St. Louis. The staff lounge window overlooked parts of Chicago, a city he’d called home since attending medical school at Northwestern University, and Quinton paused a moment to study the darkened cityscape. Chicago vibrated with life, and the city had a way of neutralizing differences. In St. Louis, life was all about where you went to high school and what country club you joined after college.

In Chicago, no one in his current social circle cared. In Chicago, he wasn’t Fred Searle’s son, groomed since birth to take over his aging father’s still-thriving medical practice. His parents had it all planned: Quinton was to marry the right girl, join the right club and have his kids attend the right schools. He’d assume his rightful place in St. Louis society.

But St. Louis society stifled; it didn’t foster growth as did Chicago’s eclectic mix. In his opinion, St. Louis had no real diversity, except for perhaps racially mixed University City, a town that Quinton’s family saw as too liberal and certainly not a fitting place for their grown son.

In Chicago, he was free from all that. Free from the mistakes he’d made, the people he’d inadvertently hurt in his crueler high school days. In his new hometown he could disappear into anonymity, or he could join what he wanted. There wasn’t one museum to visit but several. And the best part of Chicago was the magnificent Lake Michigan lakeshore, that expanse of blue water that never failed to calm him. He was a Cancer, a crab; he needed water. His apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows that gave him a view of the lake from two sides. When looking out over the lake toward Indiana, Quinton almost felt as if he could fly. Better yet, during the summer he could pull his boat out of its mooring and disappear into the endless blue.

But June was still five months away.

He tossed the empty cup into the trash can, the brew having somehow disappeared during his reverie. He didn’t remember drinking the coffee.

The lounge door shot inward, and Elaine poked her head through. “They’re downstairs,” she announced. “Jena is getting them now.”

CARLY JOHNSON wanted to cry. She hated hospitals. Hated them the way she hated lima beans.

Her daddy had died in a hospital.

“Shh.” Her mommy leaned over and held her tight while carrying her through the double doors.

Carly felt somewhat safer. She had a good mommy; that she knew. Mommy’s arms were always soft, always open. Mommy really wasn’t angry with her for getting into her purse. No, Carly thought as the bright lights assaulted her face, her mommy was more worried than anything.

Carly could always tell when her mommy worried because her blond eyebrows would pucker together and her blue eyes would darken. She’d overheard her aunt Ida saying something to her mommy about working too hard for her twenty-six years. Carly knew her mommy had to be old because she herself could only count to twenty without tripping over some numbers. Her head spun a little as she blinked back the light and tried to focus on what the nurse was saying. She wore a coat covered with teddy bears. Carly liked teddy bears.

“How many did she take?”

“I think only two, but I’m not sure.”

Carly frowned at her mommy’s answer. Her mommy didn’t sound quite right.

“Well, let’s get her right upstairs. We have a room already waiting for her. We’ll photocopy your insurance card up there.”

With that Carly felt her mommy’s arms tighten. Life hadn’t been too easy with Daddy gone. Her mommy worked long hours at Luie’s, baking all sorts of things. Carly got a lot of leftover cookies, but because money was tight, she really didn’t have lots of toys and extras. Not like Sarah, their new neighbor in the third-floor condo. Sarah had everything: toys, cookies and candy.

That was why Carly had eaten the pretty green pills when she’d found them in Mommy’s purse. She’d actually been after lipstick for a dress-up game, but it seemed so long since she’d had any candy. The last time had been Christmas; and Easter, when mommy always gave her a big chocolate bunny, was nowhere in sight.

“Mommy?” Carly asked suddenly. Being four, she could ask big girl questions.

“Yes, darling?”

Mommy appeared close to tears. Carly wished Mommy didn’t have to worry so much.

“Mommy? Am I going to heaven like Daddy?”

FIFTY DOLLARS. Beth Johnson knew her medical insurance’s emergency room co-pay by heart, and unfortunately, while she had the heart to pay for her daughter’s treatment, Beth didn’t have fifty dollars. Every bit of her meager resources from her twelve-dollar-an-hour job was allocated to bills, food and more bills. But for her daughter’s sake—for Carly certainly didn’t need to see how worried her mother was—Beth had to keep a reassuring smile plastered on her face. Just once, though, Beth wished someone would reassure her—tell her that everything would be okay and that in twelve days they’d have somewhere besides a homeless shelter to live.

“Here we are,” the nurse said as the elevator doors opened. “You’ll be in room three, Carly. We call it the Butterfly Room because it has pictures of butterflies painted on the walls.”

“Really?” Carly asked. She wiggled her way out of Beth’s arms.

“Really,” the nurse said. She pointed to a doorway. “Here, come see for yourself.”

Beth watched as Carly bounded into the room. Anyone looking at her daughter wouldn’t think she’d done anything wrong. In fact, Beth hadn’t thought so, either, until she’d seen the thin, telltale green circle around Carly’s mouth. Carly had denied everything, but a quick check of her tongue had confirmed Beth’s worst fears—that Carly had eaten the green cold medicine. The push-through plastic had been empty, and for the life of her, Beth couldn’t remember how many pills had been left.

At least the pediatric ER rooms weren’t like those downstairs. Beth had seen enough of those cold, sterile rooms to last her a lifetime. Here, at least, the rooms had colorful murals on the walls. Carly was currently counting green butterflies and the nurse had put a Disney princess movie in before she’d left.

“Hello, Carly, I’m Nurse Elaine.” A new nurse stepped into the room. Unlike her younger counterpart’s, Elaine’s scrubs were bright pink. “Let me take a look at you. Can you put this thermometer under your tongue for me?” Elaine held out a wand attached to a spiral cord, which was then connected to a rectangular device the nurse held in her other hand. Carly opened her mouth. “See, I knew you could.You are such a big girl.”

The thermometer beeped and Elaine withdrew it. “No fever. That’s a great sign.”

Relief filled Beth.

“Now, Carly, your doctor is named Dr. Searle. It’s like girl only with an S.”

“Searle,” Carly said dutifully.

“Very good,” Elaine said. “He’s going to be right in. You enjoy your movie. I like this one.”

“Me, too,” Carly said. She began to clap and sing as the characters performed a musical number.

Elaine stepped toward Beth. “Have you recalled how many she took?”

Beth shook her head. “No.”

“Well, Dr. Searle will be in shortly. We have an injury requiring stitching and he’s consulting with the plastic surgeon. If your daughter’s condition changes in any way, push this call button.”

“Okay.” Beth focused her attention first on the call button and, after Elaine left, to the movie. Not even two minutes went by before she noticed a movement outside the doorway.

And when Carly’s doctor stepped in, Beth decided that it really was one of the worst days of her life.

Dr. Quinton Searle—for that was what was stitched on his white coat—was gazing right through her, his concentration on her child.

“Hi, Carly,” Dr. Searle said. “Hi, Carly’s mom.”

“Hi, Dr. Searle!” Carly said.

“Did you read my name?” He pointed to the blue stitching above his heart.

“No! Elaine taught it to me.”

“You’re smart and honest,” he said. He went over to her. “I like smart and honest. You’re pretty, too.”

Carly giggled and her cheeks reddened. Even she wasn’t immune to Dr. Searle’s charm.

“So you ate some green medicine.”

“It was a bad thing to do,” Carly said with a solemn nod.

“Very bad,” Dr. Searle agreed.

Carly blinked once at his serious tone. “Am I going to die?”

His hand stilled from taking a tongue depressor out of a clear plastic dispenser and he frowned slightly. “No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Because my daddy died in a hospital. He had cancer.”

He shook his head. “Of course not. You won’t die. You swallowed some medicine that you shouldn’t have, but your mommy brought you in here and I’m going to make you as good as new. To do that, though, I have to do some tests. Can you stick out your tongue for me?”

Beth remained standing as the doctor performed a series of tests. Carly’s response to him pained her. She’d known that her four-year-old daughter missed her father, but she hadn’t realized until now how much Carly missed simple male attention.

Beth missed it, too, but she was all grown up and understood that the world wasn’t fair.

Carly didn’t.

“Well, Carly, I think I have a solution to your problem. I’ll definitely be able to fix you all up,” said Quinton.

Carly gave him a hopeful smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Dr. Quinton Searle said returning Carly’s grin.

Then his expression grew serious. “But it won’t be pleasant. In fact, you’ll need to drink something that tastes pretty bad.”

“I can do it!” Carly’s blond pigtail bobbed as she nodded.

“I bet you will. I’ll have Elaine get the special drink. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” Carly watched as he left. Her blue eyes remained wide as she turned to her mother. “He’s as handsome as Prince Eric, don’t you think, Mommy? They have the same dark hair.”

“I think Princess Ariel is a very lucky lady,” Beth said, sidestepping the question. She didn’t have to look too long at Dr. Quinton Searle to see he fit “tall, dark and handsome” to a tee. She estimated his height at six foot three, and under the white coat she could tell he had broad shoulders that tapered to a slim waist. Even Randy at his peak hadn’t been so physically fit.

“Princess Ariel is lucky,” Carly agreed.

Beth reached out and brushed her daughter’s bangs away from her forehead. “You’re lucky, too, if all you have to do is drink some special liquid.”

Carly nodded. “I know. I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“I love you,” Beth said.

“Me, too! Oh, look, here’s where Prince Eric saves Ariel from the Sea Witch!”

Beth smiled slightly, glad that Carly’s attention was diverted. Too bad there weren’t real princes who came in to save princesses. Not that Beth thought of herself as a princess. Princesses didn’t have dull dishwater-blond hair, tired blue eyes, and five extra pounds on their hips. And her prince had died before fully saving her, if he had ever been going to save her at all.

She had to get over her melancholy. She couldn’t fault Randy for her daily struggle; she could only fault herself. She’d been the one to insist they get married when she discovered she was pregnant. Would their marriage have survived had he lived? She didn’t know, and worrying about it now was pointless.

“Here’s your special drink.” Elaine was back with a big white foam cup. A colorful straw extended past the plastic lid.

Carly clapped her hands. “The straw bends!” Carly said. “We never get bendy straws at our house.”

“Well, this one does, and you may bend it,” Elaine said.

“Is my drink chocolate?”

“No, but it is dark,” Elaine answered. “And I’m going to stay here while you drink all of it.” She handed Carly the cup. “Carly, Dr. Searle needs to see your mommy for a moment. She’s going to meet him in a room down the hall.”

“Okay,” Carly said. She took a drink and grimaced.

Beth realized that her daughter was putting on a brave front when Carly said, “This isn’t too bad.”

“Well, there’s a lot of it to drink,” Elaine said.

“I can do it!” Carly said. She took another pull on the straw.

Elaine turned her attention back to Beth. “The small lounge, three doors down on the left.”

“Thank you. Carly, I’ll be right back.”

Carly, her mouth full of drink, just nodded.

When Beth arrived at the small lounge, Dr. Searle wasn’t present. She studied the beige, nondescript room. Here the touches done for children vanished; in their place was the austere environment so characteristic of hospitals.

“Mrs. Johnson?”

She faced him. “Yes.”

As the doctor stepped into the room, Beth’s hand automatically touched her hair. Not that she should worry about how she appeared. But suddenly she knew exactly how pathetic she must appear—how horribly inadequate as a mother, how totally unfeminine. Over a year had passed since she’d had a professional haircut, and her long hair was held back from her face with a plain black headband. She hated disarray, which was literally her life of late.

And this man was a physician, with years of college, whereas she’d had none. Worse, he was one of those attractive, self-assured men who exuded presence. She braced herself. Even though she probably had nothing to fear, her gut tightened anyway.

“I wanted to speak with you about Carly’s treatment where she couldn’t overhear us.”

“That’s fine.”

“Can I get you some coffee or something? Water?”

He poured himself a cup, and for a moment Beth was tempted. But coffee was a luxury, and it was better to avoid what she couldn’t have again. “Water, please,” she said.

He set down his cup and poured her some water. He held the cup out for her, and their fingers connected as he transferred it to her hand. A gorgeous-man’s touch. Beth shivered slightly. His eyes narrowed and she could now see how gray they were.

“Cold?” he asked.

“Just worried,” Beth said.

“Don’t be. Carly is currently drinking what amounts, in layman’s terms, to liquid charcoal. The charcoal will act as a sponge and absorb the medicine. From there it will travel quickly through her system and be expelled as fecal matter.”

She must have frowned, for he said, “It’ll hit her hard and she’ll have several loose bowel movements. After she’s had the first, we’ll release her. Unless you notice any behavior—such as sluggishness or hyperactivity—that is out of the ordinary, we won’t need to see her again. However, you should consult with her pediatrician tomorrow morning, as well, just in case he wants you to follow up with a visit.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it.” He turned to leave.

An odd panic consumed Beth. Maybe his impersonal demeanor had gotten to her, or maybe it was just her overwhelming guilt—that she should have put her purse out of reach, that somehow she should have been more careful, more vigilant. She had to make him understand.

“I didn’t leave my purse out. I didn’t even know she had it, or that she was into it.”

He gave her an accepting smile, as if he heard such excuses all the time. If Beth wanted sympathy, she didn’t get it. Empathy came, instead.

“She’s a child. Children do things like this. She’ll probably be stronger for it after learning from her mistake. You can remind her of it when she’s a teenager.”

Beth followed him from the room. He quickly outdistanced her and she soon learned why. From down the hall she could hear Carly complaining, “I don’t want to drink any more. It’s yucky. I’m full.”

The doctor stepped inside her daughter’s room. “I hear you’re full.”

His voice rumbled over Beth and she heard the easy manner with which he handled Carly.

“Uh-huh. I’m full,” Carly repeated.

As Beth reached the doorway, Quinton took the cup from Elaine’s hand. He lifted the lid and checked the amount. He shook his head. “Carly, Carly. And you told me you’d drink it all.”

His voice was teasing, and pain filled Beth. With his sickness, Randy had been unable to reach Carly on her level. Yet Dr. Searle succeeded with masterful ease. Why couldn’t Beth have found a man like that?

“It’s yucky,” Carly said. “My belly hurts.”

He peered into the cup again. “How about a deal? You drink half of what’s left and I’ll throw the rest away.”

“Half?” Carly’s face had the hopefulness and skepticism of a child debating whether to eat liver.

“Half.” Dr. Searle took a pen from his pocket and drew a black line around the outside of the cup. “Right here. A few good sips should do it. In fact, I’ll wait. Do you think you can give me three good sips?”