The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal

Praise for Wendy S. Marcus:

‘Readers are bound to feel empathy

for both the hero and heroine. Each has a uniquely

disastrous past, and these complications help to

make the moment when Jared and Allison are able to

give their hearts to the other all the more touching.’

—RT Book Reviews on WHEN ONE NIGHT ISN’T ENOUGH, (4 stars)

Dear Reader

This is the third and final (at least for now) book in my Madrin Memorial Hospital series: Roxie’s story. If you’re unfamiliar with the first two books, please check out Book One, Allison’s story, WHEN ONE NIGHT ISN’T ENOUGH, and Book Two, Victoria’s story, ONCE A GOOD GIRL …

For me, a story builds from a few random ideas—usually jotted down on napkins, receipts, and/or scraps of paper that clutter my pocketbook and desk. After I come up with a few key scenes, and figure out the basics of what I want to happen in the beginning, middle and end, I start to flesh out my characters.

This is my favourite part of the writing process. Beyond their physical characteristics, I delve into their pasts. I create their personalities and mannerisms, their goals and motivations. And the more time I spend with them, the more real they become—to the point where they often take on a life of their own, sending my story in a direction different from the one I’d originally intended.

All three women in this series had difficult childhoods, and had to overcome many obstacles on their way to becoming strong, self-sufficient, professional young nurses. I’m happy to have helped each of them find their happily-ever-after.

As I put the final touches on Roxie’s story I realised how much I’m going to miss spending my days (and nights) with my friends at Madrin Memorial Hospital. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Allison, Victoria and Roxie’s stories as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them.

I love to hear from readers. Please visit me at www.WendySMarcus.com

Wishing you all good things.

Wendy S. Marcus

The Nurse’s

Not-So-Secret

Scandal

Wendy S. Marcus

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to my dear neighbors,

Grisel DeLoe and D. David Dick, two of my biggest

supporters, and a heck of a lot of fun to celebrate with.

(Although after my 4 star RT Book Reviews celebration I had some trouble getting started the next day!) I love you both. And if you try to sell your house I may have to resort to vandalism. You have been warned!

With special thanks to:

Grisel and her sister, Ivette Vazquez,

who answered my last-minute cries for help

with some Spanish translations. Your e-mails made me

laugh out loud. Even at three in the morning.

You are one hysterical woman. Any mistakes are my own.

My editor, Flo Nicoll, who encourages me,

puts up with me and always pushes me to do my best.

I am so lucky to have you.

My wonderful friends, old and new, who have

purchased my books, written reviews, and/or attended

my book signings. You know who you are.

And to my husband and children for loving me,

cooking for me and making me laugh. (And for

not saying one negative word when I spent a weekend

in my pajamas and didn’t shower for almost

three whole days while under deadline to finish this book.)

CHAPTER ONE

“IT’S not Roxie,” 5E head nurse Victoria Forley insisted. The tiny brunette slammed the file in her hand onto her old metal desk. “She’s one of my best nurses, and a dear friend. I trust her implicitly. This is absolutely ridiculous.”

“Calm down, honey,” her fiancé, Dr. Kyle Karlinsky, said as he wrapped his large arm around her narrow shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”

Ryan “Fig” Figelstein leaned against the door frame of Victoria’s fifth-floor office, watching the cozy scene. An observer. An outsider in his best friend’s new life.

Kyle shot over the look that more often than not got Fig into some kind of trouble and added, “And Fig will help us.”

“Ooohhh, no.” Fig held up both hands. “Come see where I work, you said, just for a few minutes.” Kyle knew how much Fig hated hospitals. The smells. The sounds. The isolation and deprivation. He staved off a shudder.

“You okay?” Kyle asked, studying him, able to read Fig better than anyone.

“Yeah.” Fig pushed off the door frame and took a step into the tiny office. “So what’s your idea?” he asked to get the focus off of him.

“You’re here another week, right?” Kyle asked.

“That’s the plan.”

“It’s perfect.” Kyle rubbed his hands together.

Perfect would be them leaving the hospital. Now. Perfect would be an end to his mother’s constant telephone calls and ploys for his attention. Perfect would be some sense of normalcy in a life that was feeling increasingly out of his control.

“You hire on here. As the unit clerk.”

“Are you …?”

Before he could get out the word crazy Kyle added, “Just hear me out.” His voice took on that placating tone he used every time he set out to convince Fig to do something he didn’t want to do. Kyle removed his arm from Victoria and set his full attention on Fig. “You answer the phone, respond to the call bells, direct visitors.”

“It takes more than that…” Victoria started.

“And he watches Roxie and the narcotic cabinet,” Kyle added to silence her. “Each time she or someone else accesses it he’ll call you.”

“You’re brilliant,” Victoria said to Kyle with a big grin. Then she turned to Fig. “You have to take the job,” she pleaded. “Each day I have a different temp circulating through. I need a person I can trust to keep an eye on Roxie. Something’s going on. She’s been forgetful and distracted. She doesn’t have her normal spunk.”

Signs of drug abuse. Fig glanced at Kyle.

Victoria caught him. “She’s not on drugs. Please,” she said, looking up at Fig in that way women do when they have no intention of accepting no for an answer.

“I work with computers.” And he was damn good at it. In demand even. “I have a job.”

“But you can work anywhere,” Kyle pointed out, oh, so helpfully.

“I’m not a big fan of sick people,” he admitted. Some deep-seated fears were not easy to get past. “And I know nothing about being a unit clerk in a hospital.” Frankly, the thought of spending twelve captive hours in one left him cold and clammy.

“You’re not expected to have any physical contact with the patients. And I’ll train you myself,” Victoria said. “I’ll help out as much as I can and I’ll tell my nurses to pitch in, too. The narcotic cabinet is in a locked room right behind the desk where you’ll be sitting. All you need to do is report any suspicious behavior and I’ll check the Demerol count.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Fig said. “If you’re so certain Roxie had nothing to do with the missing drugs, why don’t you tell her what’s up and ask her if she knows anything?” Fig preferred the straightforward approach, hated when people danced around an issue.

“Normally I would, and as her friend I want to.” Victoria looked torn. “But my job requires I remain objective and investigate the matter fully. Which is what I’m trying to do. Please say you’ll help me.”

“We can spend more time together.” Kyle smiled. “And you’ll be earning nine dollars an hour to boot.”

Like Fig needed the money. “Seriously,” Kyle said. “This means a lot to Victoria so it means a lot to me. You’re here. You’re impartial. You have no vested interest in Roxie’s guilt or innocence.”

Now, that wasn’t entirely true. In the few hours he’d spent with her at last week’s Employee of the Month dinner to honor Kyle, Fig found Roxie to be a total hoot. He liked her. Really liked her. And would rather not participate in any activity that may turn out to be detrimental to her well-being. Not to mention after pulling a no-show for their date Friday night, Fig was not looking forward to Roxie setting eyes on his alive self. The woman had a sharp wit and, per her own admission, an even sharper temper.

But then Kyle added, “I trust you, my closest friend, to help prove Roxie’s innocence.”

And Fig was sunk. Over the past eight years—since rooming with Kyle at the physical rehab after his “accident”—Kyle had been like a brother, building Fig’s confidence and helping him through the most difficult time in his life. How could he say no to the man who’d improved his quality of life to the point it felt worth living?

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Fig conceded.

“So you’ll do it?” Victoria asked, cautiously optimistic.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call Human Resources.” She picked up the phone. “You can start tomorrow.”

Terrific. For the next week Fig was stuck in the Podunk town of Madrin Falls in upstate New York—where he couldn’t even get a decent cup of coffee—filling in for the unit clerk on a busy medical-surgical floor at Madrin Memorial Hospital. What did he know about being a clerk? Nothing. But he’d seen enough of them in action to have a pretty good idea of what he’d need to do. And honestly, he was a college-educated professional. How hard could it be?

The next morning at the God-awful hour of way the hell too early, Fig set his two cups of cafeteria “coffee” on the table in the 5E nursing lounge and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the huge window. Obviously the hospital didn’t have many six-foot-four-inch unit clerks on staff, because the drab tan uniform jacket they expected him to wear fit like a bolero jacket with three-quarter sleeves.

He peeled it off and tossed it onto a chair. He jogged in place to work off some of his jitters. “You are not a patient,” he started his pep talk. “At the end of the day you get to go home.” He jumped three times and stretched out each shoulder. “You can do this.”

“Well, lookey here. All alone and talking to yourself. Psych ward’s on the fourth floor.”

He recognized the voice instantly. Roxie Morano. He turned to face her, so as not to leave his back open to attack. Purely precautionary.

“Jeez, woman.” He held his arm up to shield his eyes. “You’re an assault to early-morning vision.” While she wore the lavender scrubs that identified her as 5E nursing staff, she’d chosen a long-sleeve white turtleneck covered in small multicolored stars to go underneath her top. About a dozen colorful cartoon character pins adorned her left breast pocket—which covered an appealing, rounded breast. Red rectangular-framed glasses hung from a purple chain around her neck that tangled with the lime-green cord from which her chunky yellow pen hung. A bright red scrub jacket with bold pink, yellow and blue hearts lay draped over her arm. Farther down she had on red clogs that clashed with a few inches of exposed orange, green and yellow striped socks. Up on her head her kinky cream soda curls were pulled back in a thick, bright orange hair band.

Beyond the distraction of color, Fig took a moment to absorb the beauty of her smooth, tan skin, her warm brown eyes—that looked heavy with exhaustion rather than light with laughter like they’d been on the night they’d met—and the lusciousness of her perfect-for-him body.

“If it isn’t Ryan—my friends call me Fig—Figelstein.” She walked toward him. “I thought the deal was if you survived the week we’d head out to dinner to celebrate, Ryan.”

Okay. He got the emphasis she placed on Ryan. Point received. He’d have to work to earn back her favor. An effort well worth the anticipated payoff. Her. Naked. In his bed. Which, based on the heated attraction zipping and zapping between them last week, was where they’d been headed. If only someone else had been available to baby-sit Victoria’s son after the dinner. If only he hadn’t missed their date.

“When you didn’t come,” she continued, “I said a prayer, just like I’d promised. I even contemplated attending church on Sunday, and what a ruckus that would have caused.” She stalked toward him. “And here you are.” She looked him up and down. “Fit as a fiddle.”

Her cell phone rang. She looked at the number, let out a frustrated breath and turned away. “What?” she snapped into the device. “I told you no. My answer won’t change.” She listened. “Fine. Do what you have to do.” She slipped the phone back into her breast pocket and turned to him. “So, Ryan. I can’t begin to imagine what’s transpired to make a self-proclaimed computer genius, such as yourself, stoop to the role of hospital clerical worker.”

“Anything to get close to you,” he said. “So I could apologize for missing our date. Please, we’re friends. Call me Fig.” Only his mother called him Ryan, because she flat out refused to call him anything else. Ryan represented his old self. The child homeschooled because of his medical conditions, brainwashed to fear the world around him, the tentative, lonely teenager who lacked confidence and had no real friends. Fig—the nickname chosen by Kyle—fit his new and improved self. A man of character who chose to embrace life rather than hide from it, to experience life rather than watch others have all the fun.

With raised eyebrows and a taunting head tilt Roxie asked, “You think we’re friends, Ryan? I beg to differ.” She walked past him to a row of lockers and set to working the combination dial of the one on the end.

Fig took a step back so he could see inside, but she blocked the contents with her body.

He hated the position Victoria had put him in. While he liked watching Roxie—her butt, for example, which filled out the back of her scrub pants in all of its pleasing roundness, with not one panty line—watching her for anything other than his own personal enjoyment felt sneaky and underhanded. Two things Fig was not.

“You see, Ryan, my friends don’t lie to me or leave me waiting without so much as a telephone call to say that something came up or they’d received a better offer.”

“I didn’t …” No way she’d understand what having a mother like his was like. He didn’t want to talk about that night, just wanted to put it behind him. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, Ryan. You are. Because you missed out on a good time.”

No doubt he had. For sure he would have much rather been with her than where he’d wound up.

“Such a pity.” After pushing her huge purple purse and a lunch sack into her locker, she pulled out a hot-pink stethoscope, popped a piece of gum into her mouth and closed the door. The next thing he knew she had her chest pressed to his and was leaning in close to his ear to whisper, “I’d put on my crotchless panties and peekaboo bra especially for you.”

He pulled her bottom half close. Could not stop himself. “I sure wish I’d been there to see them.” And enjoy them. He drew in her sensual scent. God help him he wanted her. While Kyle liked his women small, Fig liked ‘em tall and thin. Just like Roxie. He went for full body contact—skin to skin from head to toe.

At first she stood rigid, looking away from him. He slid his hands up her sides, teased the outer curve of each breast. She reacted, an infinitesimal softening, a barely noticeable exhalation, both of which he may have missed if he wasn’t so attuned to her. “You want me,” he observed.

“To move your hands,” she replied.

He did. To her upper back where he proceeded to hug her close. Her cell phone rang.

Dag-nab-it. He released her.

She took a step back—still not looking at him—set her stethoscope on the table and pulled out her phone to check the screen.

Fig forced himself to stop thinking about how good she’d felt pressed against him, how much he wanted to see her beautifully formed body in nothing but some sexy, barely there undergarments, and resumed focus on his mission—to determine if Roxie was the one responsible for 5E’s missing Demerol. While his brain made a smooth transition, his body was not so easily redirected.

Roxie returned the phone to her pocket without answering it, and, with a deep breath, she turned and headed for the door like she’d forgotten all about him. “Hey,” he called after her, holding up her stethoscope.

Seeing it, she snapped two fingers. “Right. I’ll be needing that.”

When she grabbed it he held on and waited for her to look him in the eye, making note that hers were bloodshot—damn. “I’m sorry you had to sit home on a Friday night because of me.”

She laughed. “Don’t kid yourself, Ryan. There are plenty of men who enjoy my company.” She stared him down. “Really enjoy it. And just because you weren’t up for a good time doesn’t mean I didn’t have one.” She yanked the stethoscope from his hand. Over her shoulder she said, “For the record, I never sit home on Friday or Saturday nights. Ever.”

Her phone buzzed.

She retrieved it and looked at the screen. “I hate men.” She glared at him. “I’m done with the lot of you. Every single one. So tell your kind to stay the hell away from me if they value their man-parts.” Then she slammed out the door.

Fig waited, wanting a little distance between Roxie and his man-parts. At least for now. He smiled, taking her words as more of a challenge than a warning.

Roxie burst out of the lounge, her heart pounding, rage coursing through her system. She looked at the text message, again: “It’s done.” “¡Coño!” And the colossal jerk had sent her the link. She eyed the darkened hallway of even-numbered rooms, wondering if she had the strength to hurl the phone hard enough to break through the reinforced glass window at the far end. The way she felt? Probably. But what would that solve?

The video was out there for anyone with a computer to see. Her friends. Her coworkers. Her family. Of course Roxie would shrug it off, make like she didn’t care. But she did. What went on in private between two consenting adults was supposed to be just that. Private. The thought of people watching, knowing, sat like a pregnant hippo on her chest.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“The Lord doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” Roxie whispered her mantra of the past ten years and leaned her back against the wall, wishing He didn’t have so much confidence in her.

Each time she thought things couldn’t get worse something inevitably happened to prove her wrong. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her scrub coat and wrapped her fingers around the three cartridges of injectable Demerol. At least that she could fix before anyone found out.

Or so she’d thought until she reached the nurses’ station at the center of the H-shaped unit and froze. What was Victoria doing at work so early? And why was she verifying the narcotic count with the night shift? The hippo gave birth to twins that landed heavily on her gut and set off a tumultuous, acidic churn. There’d be no hiding her stupidity now. Victoria was going to be livid.

“You okay?” Fig stopped beside her, standing way too close. She took the opportunity to draw on his calm and confidence to rejuvenate her dwindling supply.

“Just fine.” Always fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Roxie hoped if she said it enough it would turn out to be true.

“You’re looking pale.”

“We Latinos don’t pale,” she snapped. Not like him. Did the man ever get out in the sun? She looked up at the strong features of his handsome face and the rounded smoothness of his enticingly bald head. Actually had to look up. How often did that happen? At just under six feet, Roxie was usually the tallest person in the room. Aside from the fact she’d had a terrible day with her mom and had been really looking forward to their night out, his height played a small part in why she’d been so angry about being stood up. In search of the perfect shoes to wear on their date, actual heels, Roxie had torn through dozens of stores, had spent hours looking. Did he have any idea how difficult it’d been to find a pair of hot-pink glossy patent-leather peep-toe platform pumps? In a size thirteen? When would she ever have another opportunity to wear them?

“Hey, Rox,” one of the night nurses called out from room 504. “Would you help me out? I need to get home on time today.”

“Sure thing.” Roxie glanced at the schedule board across from the nurses’ station to confirm her assignment. District one. As usual. Even-numbered rooms 502–508. Eight beds. Two empty, awaiting new admission post-ops. One pre-op due in the operating room at 7:30 a.m. She glanced at the clock, 6:45, then turned to Fig. “When Victoria’s done would you tell her I need to speak with her? It’s important.”

“My first official unit-clerk task.” He lifted his pad and pen and wrote something down. “I’m on it.”

Then Roxie got to work, assisted her colleague, took a quick report and sent her pre-op patient off to the O.R. On her morning round each of her patients had a problem. Pain. High blood pressure. Low blood pressure. Hypoglycemia. Constipation. Fever. An infiltrated IV. And two saturated dressings.

Finally, by 11:00 a.m. she had everyone settled and could take a quick break for some much-needed sustenance. Only, on her way to the nurses’ lounge she met up with a recovery room nurse pushing a sleeping patient in her direction. “You’re supposed to call first,” Roxie said.

“I did,” the plump nurse at the head of the stretcher said. “The guy who answered said to come on up.”

Roxie glared at Fig. “The floor nurse gives approval to accept patients from the recovery room. Not you,” she told him.

“Oops. Duly noted,” Fig answered, making a note on his stupid pad. “It won’t happen again.”

She eyed the girth of her new patient and looked back over to Fig. “Make yourself useful. Come help us transfer this patient to her bed.” May as well see if those muscles worked as good as they looked.

Fig stood, something strangely uncertain in his expression.

“No,” Victoria said from behind him. “He’s here as a unit clerk. The only contact he’s to have with patients is from behind this desk.”

What the …?

Roxie’s stomach growled. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. “All available hands to 502A,” she called out. “Chop-chop, ladies. My blood sugar is starting to drop.” That was sure to get their attention. No one wanted a cranky Roxie around.

With the recovery room nurse’s help Roxie lined the stretcher up next to the bed and locked the wheels on both. “Welcome to 5E, Mrs. Flynn,” she said to her new patient. “My name is Roxie Morano and I’ll be your nurse until seven o’clock this evening.” She raised the bed so it was the same height as the stretcher, transferred the bag of IV fluid to the bed pole and placed the catheter drainage bag by the patient’s feet so it didn’t pull during transfer. As the recovery room nurse gave report, Roxie checked the patient’s right-sided chest dressing, which was covered by a surgical bra, and inspected the drains and tubing.

“Fifty-nine-year-old, morbidly obese female. Status post right-sided modified radical mastectomy.”

Roxie noted the drainage in each of the two bulbs, labeled R1 and R2, to establish a baseline and pulled her report sheet—which contained pertinent information on each of her patients—from her pocket. She unfolded the paper and set it on the over-the-bed table. In the blank box reserved for room 502A she wrote in the patient’s name and diagnosis, last set of vitals and time of last dose of pain medication. Then she jotted down her observations. Patient arousable to verbal stimuli. Catheter draining clear yellow urine. Dressing clean, dry and intact. Drains to self-suction with scant red drainage in each. IV infusing to left forearm.