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He sighed and picked up the wine his mother had poured him, raising it to his lips. It was cold and crisp, rinsing away the strain of the day.
‘So—tell me about your new job,’ his mother began, tucking her feet under her bottom like a girl and leaning eagerly towards him. ‘What are the rest of the staff like? Are you going to be happy working there?’
He thought of Jack Lawrence, his boss—apparently casual and yet with a mind like a steel trap, decisive and efficient. Kathleen, his wife, a softly-spoken little Irishwoman with a spark in her eye and a core of iron.
And Anna.
Something unfamiliar and forgotten happened in his chest, a sort of tightening, a feeling of anticipation.
She was no oil-painting, their little staff nurse. Not that little, really, unless she was beside him, then she seemed unbelievably fragile, with her wide grey eyes and clear, almost transparent skin. Her hair was long, he guessed. It was hard to tell with it twisted up under her cap, but certainly shoulder-length at least, and a wonderful dark brown, like polished mahogany. She wasn’t really pretty, but there was a life in her, an inner beauty that transcended her slightly uneven features and made her if anything even more attractive.
She was too thin, of course. Kathleen had implied that no one took care of her. Certainly she didn’t take care of herself. The way she had fallen on those sandwiches ——
‘Well?’
He blinked. ‘Um…’
‘I asked about your colleagues, and you went into a trance.’
He grinned easily at his mother. ‘Sorry, I was thinking about the day. Yes, they’re fine. A good bunch of people. I think I’m going to enjoy working there.’
His mother sipped her wine and regarded him steadily. ‘Are you going to tell me about the woman who put that look in your eye, or are you going to keep me guessing?’
He could feel the flush on the back of his neck. ‘Woman?’ he said casually.
His mother sighed. ‘You’re going to keep me guessing. OK.’
‘Whatever makes you think there’s a woman?’ he asked with feigned amusement.
‘Patrick!’ The gently teasing reproof undid him. He never could hide anything from his mother.
He laughed awkwardly. ‘Her name’s Anna Jarvis. She’s single, about twenty-five, a staff nurse.’
‘And you like her?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I like her. She’s a good colleague.’
‘And you find her attractive.’
‘She’s all right. Nothing special.’
His mother snorted softly. ‘Patrick, you’re a lousy liar. She’s lit a fire under you, I can tell. Why don’t you let it burn, for a change?’
‘For what? Casual sex? I thought you didn’t approve.’ His voice was deliberately light, but his mother wasn’t fooled.
‘I don’t. There are other relationships ‘
‘Mother, I am not getting married again!’
Patrick smacked his glass down too hard and stood up, ramming his hands into his trouser pockets and glaring down the darkening garden.
His mother’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. ‘Patrick, I’m sorry. It just hurts me to see you so alone. You’re like a caged lion without a mate. You need a partner, someone to share things with.’
‘I had a partner.’
‘I know.’
Her hand fell away and Patrick heard her chair creak as she sat down again. ‘Tell me about the set-up in the department.’
He forced his feelings back down, the grief, the rage, the frustration, and lowered himself into the chair again.
‘Only if you’ll promise not to needle me.’
‘I promise.’
Patrick snorted. She might as well have promised not to breathe.
Anna smoothed back the tumbled curls from the little face and smiled. ‘You go to sleep now, my darling.’
‘Night-night,’ the little cherub mumbled round her thumb.
‘Sleep tight,’ Anna whispered, bending to kiss the warm, smooth skin of her daughter’s cheek. Her lashes fluttered down, the busy day catching up with her, and Anna eased away from her and stood up, stretching her aching muscles.
She had been crouched over the bed reading to Flissy for nearly an hour, she realised in astonishment. She left the room quietly and went back into the sitting-room. Her coffee was cold, so she made another and curled up in front of the television.
It couldn’t hold her attention, though. Instead her mind strayed to a tall, smiling man with gentle hands and a stubborn streak about a mile wide. She reminded herself that he was married, and then allowed herself to admit that nothing he had done could be construed as flirting. Not unless you counted feeding her until she groaned.
Anna’s mouth tipped again, remembering the lunch. It had been wonderful, a real feast. She had eaten far too much, but it was just as well. The contents of her fridge had been scant to say the least. She had given Flissy the last egg and a bit of cheese in an omelette, but there had been nothing left for her apart from a couple of slices of stale bread. She’d had toast, smeared with a little honey, and was thankful that she wasn’t hungry.
Kathleen was right; she ought to take better care of herself, and Flissy too. Their diet was woefully inadequate. She made a vow to get to the shops tomorrow on her way home.
Ouch.’
‘Hmm.’ Anna, standing beside Patrick looking at the X-rays, couldn’t understand how their patient was still in such comparatively good condition. He’d been trapped by several tons of steel across his chest and pelvis, and when they had lifted it away his leg had been lying beside his arm, bent up courtesy of his shattered pelvis.
And shattered it most certainly was. A large part of his hipbone was detached and lying oddly, and the bones which formed the bowl of the pelvis were broken on both sides at the front and on the right at the back. As a result his whole pelvis was grossly unstable.
As if that wasn’t enough, both femurs were fractured, the right in two places, and his left hip was dislocated. In short, he was a mess.
Nick Davidson was on his way down from Theatre to see the plates, and it was likely the man would go straight there for emergency surgery to fix his pelvis and femurs. In preparation for such an event they had taken blood for cross-matching already, and were running in Haemacel to replace the massive blood-loss caused by his fractures. Whether there was any other damage was unclear as yet, but he was being closely watched. It was hard to tell from the circulatory loss alone, because fractures of that order caused such massive blood-loss that abdominal injuries could easily go undetected.
Nick wandered in as they stood frowning at the X-rays, and rested a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘Hi, folks. This my customer?’
‘Yup.’ Patrick filled him in, and Nick winced.
‘Sounds nasty.’
‘It is.’
He studied the plates quietly, then pursed his lips.
‘We can’t do it all at once. I’ll get a fixator on to hold it all a bit steady, but he’ll need plating and pinning once the bleeding has settled at the fracture sites. I’ll have to do the femurs today, though. Any abdominal damage apart from the pelvis?’
‘No evidence of any. He’s in very good shape really—in pain, of course. We’ve given him Entonox gas, because his circulation is too close to collapse to risk diamorphine, but it isn’t really anything like enough.’
‘It won’t be,’ Nick agreed. ‘We’ll soon knock him out. What about blood?’
‘He’s been cross-matched and we’re boosting his circulation as fast as we can. We’ll be able to do more when we get the whole blood.’
Nick nodded. ‘OK, I’ll have a word with him and then we’ll get him up to Theatre. Has he signed the consent form?’
‘He’s not in that good shape,’ Anna said drily. ‘His wife’s here—I’ll get her to do that.’
‘Thanks. Right, where is he?’
Anna left them with the patient and went into the office.
Nick joined her a few minutes later. ‘All done?’
She nodded. ‘His wife’s signed. She’d like to see him before he goes up to Theatre.’
‘I’ll go and find her. Give me the forms, I’ll take them with me.’
He headed off towards the waiting-room, X-rays and forms in hand, and Anna watched him go. Another gorgeous hunk, one that half the hospital were apparently in love with, including most specifically his wife Cassie, the only scrub-nurse he would tolerate and who would tolerate him, so rumour had it.
His temper in Theatre was legendary, but his results were astonishing and he was tipped for stardom. It made her laugh that Mr James had queried his competence. He was probably the most skilful and intuitive orthopaedic surgeon in the hospital, bar none.
And yet he left her cold. No, not cold, she acknowledged, just warmed with admiration and a genuine liking.
Whereas Patrick—!
How had he managed to break through her reserve and reach that part of her so carefully guarded that even she scarcely knew it existed?
But break through it he had, and now her skin shivered when he approached, her heart beat faster, and when he looked at her with those melting brown eyes her insides turned to mush.
And when he touched her …! Even an accidental brushing of his hand against hers made her heart race and her skin heat. She was like a teenager, anticipating her first kiss. Her breath caught in her throat at the image that provoked, and she rolled her eyes in self-disgust. If it hadn’t been so worrying it would have been laughable.
But she was worried. She was too vulnerable, too inexperienced to deal with a sexy, meaningless flirtation—or, worse still, a casual affair with a married man.
Her heart thumped at the thought, and her mind recalled with absolute clarity the vivid dream she had had the night before.
Her cheeks heated at the memory, and she quickly busied herself with the admission details for Nick’s patient, Clive Ronson. How she had managed such a provocative dream anyway, she didn’t know. She had no experience of any of the moves he had made, or any of the feelings she had quite definitely felt!
She cobbled up the form and tried again.
Patrick was cross with himself. He was trying to write up notes and all he could think about was the feel of Anna’s body beside his as they had worked together on Clive Ronson. She was too thin, he thought critically, but still she managed to stir him. The jut of her hip was still unmistakeably feminine, the brush of her thigh like the soft stroke of fire against his leg as she had leant across to cut away the patient’s trousers. He had been in her way, and yet a perverse part of him had refused to move.
He wanted her.
It shocked him, the realisation that she was capable of getting past the ice around his heart and setting his body on fire like this.
It was only physical, he knew that. It could never be anything more meaningful, but that didn’t diminish its power. Oh, no. Almost the reverse. Because it was just sex, just meaningless, hot, physical lust, his mind could allow it.
His body was helpless. He shifted uncomfortably, embarrassingly aware of the heavy heat that suffused him, the very present evidence of his desire.
He glanced down at the notes, at his hands lying on the desk, and saw the scar.
Deliberately, enduring the pain, he dragged his mind back. Heat, noise, clouds of choking dust clogging his pores and making it difficult to breathe, and the screams. Always the screams.
Desire drained away, as he had known it would, leaving him empty and shaken.
He stood up and went out of the office to the staff-room, pouring himself a cup of coffee with hands that were not quite steady.
‘Hi. Any left?’
The voice behind him was soft, and his breath jammed in his throat again. He let it out consciously.
‘Just about enough,’ he said, and his voice sounded harsh, scrapy.
He was conscious of her eyes on him, mellow with concern. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit preoccupied.’
It was clearly a dismissal, and he felt a kick of self-disgust as rejection flickered over her gentle face and she withdrew into herself.
He made himself smile. ‘Sorry. Clive Ronson. He was a bit of a mess. I was just writing up the notes.’
‘Nick will sort him out if anyone can.’
She sounded very confident.
He felt he ought to warn her, just in case the worst happened. Ridiculous. She was a professional. If the man died, she would take it in her stride. Even so… ‘He’s bad,’ Patrick warned. ‘It’ll be a few days before he’s out of the woods, you know.’
‘I know, but Nick’s good,’ she replied. ‘Too good for the likes of Mr James and his private ankle. Pompous idiot. I gather he’s still on the phone.’
Patrick felt the tension ease as they shared a smile. He noticed again how thin she was, how fine-drawn the skin over her delicate jawline.
‘How about lunch?’ he suggested into the ensuing silence.
‘Lunch?’ She said the word as if she had forgotten what it meant. He reminded her, and she laughed. ‘I know what lunch is, silly. I just didn’t realise it was time yet.’
He snorted softly. ‘It’s nearly one.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Shall I go and find a few sandwiches again?’
‘That really isn’t necessary—’
