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The only exposed parts of the patient were the facial laceration Whitfield had already starting suturing and the thigh she would repair.
The thigh was what had her attention.
It was a mess.
“Ouch,” she whispered, and reached for the large plastic bottle of clear antibiotic wash Rita had anticipated she would want.
“Was he alone?” she heard Michelle ask.
Rita clamped a gauze pad with a hemostat, holding it ready. “You mean, was there a woman with him?”
“This suture’s too big.” Metal ticked softly against metal when the curved needle Whitfield tossed landed on a tray. “I need a one-point-three.”
Michelle was the float nurse, the one who moved about the room taking supplies and materials to and from the team members at the table. “I’m just curious,” she defended on her way to the supply cabinet a few paces away. “If he’s alone, he might appreciate a little extra TLC when he wakes up.”
“I’d give up that idea right now,” Alex’s assistant chided. “I’m sure he has someone waiting to give him all the TLC he needs. The man dates models.”
Paper crackled as Michelle peeled a small packet open and held it out. “Maybe so. But no one’s been able to get him near an altar yet. Maybe he’s tired of male-fantasy quality women and rich society types.”
The bushy-browed anesthesiologist snorted. “I doubt it.”
Whitfield held up the fine-threaded and curved suture, eyed it, and went back to work. “I don’t think he spends as much time running around as the press says he does. I read an article in Forbes that said he puts in sixteen-hour days. His latest thing is the high-tech market. And sailing,” he added, as he methodically stitched. “It’s his passion. That same article said he’s putting together a team to race in the next America’s Cup.”
Checking his patient’s vital signs on the monitors, the anesthesiologist tweaked the flow of gas keeping the man under discussion…under. “I thought it was rock climbing he was into. Didn’t he climb Mt. McKinley last year?”
“I’d heard that, too.” Reverence entered Whitfield’s voice. “The man never slows down. I don’t know which I envy more. His investment portfolio or his stamina. I hiked the Grand Canyon a few years ago, but I can’t imagine climbing a mountain.”
Michelle sighed. “I wonder what he’d planned to do next.”
“I hope it wasn’t anything he had his heart set on,” Alex murmured. “The only thing this guy’s going to be climbing for a while is the training stairs in the physical therapy department.”
Looking from the four-inch gash in his thigh, she critically eyed the X-ray on the monitor beside her to judge the position of the upper, unexposed break. The team was still talking, their voices low, but everything they said only made Chase Harrington sound more and more like a man who played as hard as he worked and who wouldn’t have anything left for a relationship even if someone did slow him down long enough to snag him.
No woman in her right mind would want to fall for a man like that. A woman needed a partner, someone to share with. Someone who cared enough to be there even when things got rough. Someone who wouldn’t walk away, leaving her to handle everything alone just when she needed him most.
She jerked her glance toward the head of the table, annoyed with herself for becoming distracted, displeased with the unwanted direction of her thoughts.
“Move that retractor higher. Perfect,” she murmured, pointedly turning her attention to debriding the open wound. “I need to cauterize these bleeders.”
Ian took his last stitch. “I’m ready to assist.”
“Would you like your music, Dr. Larson?” Rita asked her.
Alex usually liked to have music while she worked, preferably classical and mostly to keep from inadvertently humming whichever Disney tune her four-year-old son had plugged into the car stereo. But she declined the subliminal diversion tonight. As she set about the painstaking task of manipulating, drilling and pinning to stabilize the breaks, her only other thought was that Chase Harrington was going to slow down for a while, whether he liked the idea or not.
The surgery took over two hours. It took Alex another half hour to dictate nursing instructions and the surgical notes chronicling the procedure that, given the hour, she probably could have put off until morning.
She never put off anything when it came to her patients, though. It was the personal stuff she let slide—which was why her washing machine still leaked, why she hadn’t started the renovations on the potentially lovely old house she’d finally plunged in and bought last year. And why, she remembered, grimacing when she did, she was always running out of milk at home.
She’d meant to go to the grocery store after she’d picked up Tyler from child care, but they’d stopped at Hamburger Jack’s for dinner because Tyler had really, really needed the newest plastic race car that came with the kiddy meal and she’d flat forgotten about the milk.
Hoping she wouldn’t drive right past the Circle K on her way home and forget it again, she headed for the recovery room. If she hadn’t been up to her eyebrows in student loans and house and car payments, she’d have hired a personal assistant. Someone to tend to details like picking up the dry cleaning, paying bills and keeping the kitchen stocked with SpaghettiOs and Lean Cuisine.
She’d bet Chase Harrington had one.
She’d bet he had a whole bloody staff.
His long, lean body lay utterly still on one of the wheeled gurneys in the curtainless, utilitarian room. Tubes and monitor lines ran every which way, his body’s functions converted to spiking lines and digital numbers on screens and illuminated displays. The surgical drapes that had helped make him more of an anonymous procedure than a person were gone, replaced with a white thermal blanket that covered everything but one arm and his bandaged and braced leg.
Nodding to the nurse in green scrubs who’d just administered the painkiller she’d ordered, Alex stopped beside the gurney. A white gauze bandage covered his upper left cheekbone and a bruise had began to form beneath his left eye. Even battered, broken and with parts of him turning the color of a bing cherry, he was an undeniably attractive man. His features were chiseled, his nose narrow, his mouth sculpted and sensual. Dark eyebrows slashed above curves of spiky, soot-colored lashes. His hair was more brown than black, cut short and barbered with the sort of precision she supposed someone with his wealth might demand of those he paid to tend him.
“Mr. Harrington,” she said quietly, knowing he couldn’t yet focus but that he could hear her well enough. “Chase,” she expanded, offering him the comfort of hearing his name, “you came through surgery just fine. You’re in recovery. You’ll be here for a while before they take you to a room. Everything went really well.” She knew many patients emerged from anesthesia unaware that the procedure was already over. Some returned to consciousness worrying about the outcome. Either way, she never hesitated to relieve whatever anxiety she could as soon as possible. “Are you with me?”
His eyes blinked open, but she’d barely caught a glimpse of breathtaking blue before they drifted closed again.
“What time is it?”
His voice was deep, a low, smoky rasp made thick by drugs and raw from the airway that had been in his throat.
“After eleven.”
Once more he opened his eyes. Once more they drifted closed.
“Morning or night?”
“Night. You’ve just come from surgery,” she repeated, thinking he was trying to orient himself. “You were brought up here from Emergency. Do you remember what happened?”
His brow furrowed. “I was in an accident,” he murmured, trying to lift his broad hand to his forehead. An IV was taped into place in a vein above his wrist. From beneath the open edge of his blue-dotted hospital gown, EKG leads trailed over the corded muscles of his wide shoulders. “I need a…phone.”
Too drugged to master the effort, his hand fell. “I missed a meeting. It was…where was it?” he asked, sounding as if he were trying to remember where he was supposed to have been. “Why can’t I think?”
“Because the anesthetic is still in your system,” she told him, rather surprised he sounded as coherent as he did. It took a while for such heavy anesthesia to loosen its grip. Normally, all a patient wanted to do was sleep. Yet, he refused to give up and let the drugs carry him off again. “That’s perfectly normal. Just forget about the phone for now.”
“Can’t. It was important,” he stressed thickly.
“Nothing’s as important right now for you as rest.”
His hand lifted once more, this time to stop her. “Don’t go. Please.” The word came out as little more than a whisper. “Don’t.”
The metal siderails were up on the gurney. Catching his arm to keep him from pulling on a lead or bumping the IV, she lowered it to his side.
His hand caught hers. “I need to let them know.”
“Let them know what?” she asked, as surprised by the strength in his grip as by the urgency behind his rasped words. Given the sedation he’d had, that urgency totally confused her. It was the same sort of frantic undertone she’d encountered when accident victims came out of surgery worried about someone who’d been in the accident with them, an overwhelming need that reached beyond any immediate concern for themselves.
But he’d been alone. And he was talking about a meeting.
“They need to know I didn’t…stand them up.”
The soft click and beep of monitors melded with the quiet shuffle of the nurse moving around Alex as she stood with her hand in his, studying the compelling lines of his face. She couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of deal he had going that was so important to him that he’d fight through the fog of drugs to keep from jeopardizing it. It was none of her business anyway.
He was her business though. And she definitely recognized signs of an iron will when she saw one. Right now, that will was definitely working against him.
Shelving an odd hint of dread at the thought of encountering that will when he was conscious, she curved her free hand over his shoulder. She wanted him calm. Better yet, she wanted him sleeping. “What time was your meeting?”
Over the blip of the heart monitor, he whispered, “Seven-thirty.”
“As late as it is, I’m sure your party has already figured out that you’re not showing up tonight. You can talk to your secretary in the morning and straighten out everything.” Practicality joined assurance. “You wouldn’t be able to carry on a phone conversation anyway. Your voice is barely audible.”
His brow furrowed at that.
“Try to let go of it for now,” she urged. “Get some rest.”
The muscles beneath her hand felt as hard as stone, but she could feel him relaxing beneath her touch. He said nothing else as she stood there watching the furrows ease from his brow and listening to his breathing grow slow and even.
Letting her hand slip from his, Alex stepped back, her glance cutting to the nurse hanging a fresh bag of saline for his IV. She didn’t believe for a moment that he’d accepted her logic or her suggestion. The painkiller he’d been given had just kicked in. With the sedatives still in his system, he couldn’t have stayed awake no matter how hard he’d tried.
She glanced at the institutional black-and-white clock high on the wall.
Her day had started nearly twenty hours ago and she was tired. Not exhausted the way she’d so often been during her residency. “Exhausted” came after forty hours with no sleep. But those days of honing her skills in the competitive battlefield of a teaching hospital were over. She had a normal life now. As normal as any practicing surgeon and single mom had, anyway. This kind of tired was a piece of cake.
“I don’t imagine any of his family is here yet. Did they want me to call?”
“His family wasn’t notified,” the soft-spoken nurse replied. “His chart says the only person he wanted contacted was his lawyer.”
“His lawyer?”
The nurse shrugged. “That’s what he told them in Emergency. Some guy in Seattle. The only other thing he wanted was to make a phone call about a meeting. The one he was talking about just now, I guess. They told him they’d call anyone he wanted for him, but he apparently insisted that he had to make the call himself.
“He was in no shape to use a phone,” she continued, checking the monitors and noting the readings. “From the notes in his chart, the paramedics already had him full of morphine and all anyone downstairs cared about was getting his bleeding under control and getting him into CT and surgery.”
Alex slipped off her cap, threading her fingers through her short dark hair as she cast one last glance at the still and sedated man on the gurney. Even with the morphine, if he’d been conscious, he’d been in pain. Even then, in pain and bleeding, that meeting had haunted him.
Unless he was negotiating world peace or working on a deal to cure some disease, she still had no idea what would have been that important to him. But Honeygrove was hardly the Hague, there were no big medical research facilities that she knew of in town, and she was shooting in the dark. Her concerns tended to remain very close to home. It was people she cared about. Her family. Her friends. Her patients. There was no way to know what really mattered to a man like Chase Harrington.
She couldn’t relate at all to him. Yet, as Alex told the nurse to call her at home if there was any change and headed for the locker room, she actually felt bad for the guy. For all his wealth and notoriety, when he’d been hurt and in pain, when he’d just come through what had to be a horrific accident, there hadn’t been anyone he cared to call except the person he paid to look out for his interests. No wife. No girlfriend. No parent. No friend. Just his lawyer.
She found that incredibly sad.
It wasn’t long, however, before it became apparent that she was the only one inclined to feel compassion toward him. It had literally taken general anesthesia and a walloping dose of narcotic to end his insistence about needing to make his call. And while use of a phone no longer seemed to be a problem, Alex had the distinct impression when she left another emergency surgery the next morning that at least one member of the hospital administration and part of its staff would love to have him re-anesthetized.
Or, maybe, it was euthanized.
Chapter Two
“I’d appreciate it enormously if you’d see him and get back to me as soon as you can, Doctor. He’s not cooperating with me and I’ve been getting calls all morning from reporters and wire services wanting to know his condition and what he’s doing in Honeygrove. I simply can’t release the statement he gave me,” Mary Driscoll, the dedicated assistant to the hospital’s administrator, implored Alex over the top of her silver-rimmed half glasses.
Dressed in a dove-gray business suit with slashes of black that somehow managed to match her bobbed hair, Mary looked perfectly coordinated, as always, and enormously capable of handling the myriad crises she intercepted for her boss. Alex knew the administrator, Ryan Malone, personally. The dashing and diplomatic man who’d gone out of his way to make her feel welcome at Memorial had just married one of her friends. And she knew he trusted Mary’s judgment implicitly.
If Mary was finding Chase Harrington difficult, Alex thought uneasily, then he was definitely presenting a challenge.
“What did he tell you to say?” she asked, her voice low so it wouldn’t carry beyond the corner of the hallway Mary had cornered her in.
“He told me to say nothing about him other than that he’s in excellent condition following a minor accident.”
“Excellent?” Alex repeated, stifling the urge to laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“My point exactly.”
“I wouldn’t call it a minor accident, either.”
Looking vindicated, Mary murmured, “Thank you, Doctor. I tried to tell him that it’s hospital policy to issue the truth about a patient’s condition, even if it’s just a statement like ‘guarded’ or ‘stable.’ Or we could go with ‘no comment.’ His response was that rules are bent all the time. That was when I offered to let him discuss the matter with Mr. Malone,” she continued, as Alex’s eyebrows arched, “but he informed me that he’d already given me his statement, and that the hospital administrator was the last person he wanted to see. He doesn’t want anyone in his room other than necessary medical staff.”
The murmur of voices drifted toward them when the wide doors of the surgical department swung open. Stepping back so the gowned attendants could bring out a patient on a gurney, Alex could practically feel the weight Ryan’s assistant carried shift to her own shoulders. It was something in the woman’s eyes. The encroaching relief, probably.
“If that’s what he wants, we’ll do our best to maintain his privacy,” Mary said confidently. “I just need something I can give the press. You’ll call me after you’ve seen him to give me his official condition?”
Alex had been on her way to the med-surg floor to do her rounds when Mary had intercepted her. Mentioning that, she then assured her she’d call as soon as she could and started down the beige-walled hall.
She hadn’t made it a dozen steps when Mary paused at the stairwell door.
“I almost forgot,” she began, looking apologetic now. “He asked for a fax machine. A plain-paper one. Not the kind with thermal paper. He said he doesn’t like fighting the curling sheets. Anyway,” she continued, having dispensed with the details, “I told him I’d have to defer to you on whether or not he could have one. Since we have no specific policy regarding office equipment in patients’ rooms, I believe that decision would be entirely up to the physician.”
Alex thought the woman looked entirely too cheerful as she opened the door and disappeared. But then, she’d just unburdened herself of any further dealings with the man Alex was now on her way to see.
The med-surg unit was on the opposite side of the floor from the surgical suites. Working her way through the labyrinth of halls with her lab coat thrown on over her scrubs, Alex could hear the whine of a saw grow louder the closer she came to her destination.
A small crew was framing a doorway near the third-floor elevators, presumably to lead to the roof garden on the new wing presently under construction. The noise was awful but unavoidable, and undoubtedly contributed to the agitation of the nurse who bore down on her the moment she stepped through the unit’s doors.
Everyone knew Kay Applewhite. And everyone knew the irascible nurse hated disruption. When she was on duty, she ran the floor as tightly as any sea captain ever ran a ship, and she didn’t tolerate anything that upset hospital routine or her patients. Despite her grandmotherly appearance, she was a stickler for schedules, did everything by the book and had little compassion for whiners, slackers or malcontents. With her family grown and gone, her work was her life and she didn’t hesitate to let everyone know that forty years of nursing had taught her that those who helped themselves, providing they were capable, healed far faster than those who were coddled.
The nurses called her General Sherman behind her back.
She took it as a compliment.
Figuring she was about to get a reminder to shut out the noise, Alex leaned against the heavy door to get it to close faster while Kay, her gunmetal-gray curls permed too tightly to move and elbows pumping, kept coming down the wide, door-lined hall. Below the cuffs of her white scrub pants, her orthopedic shoes squeaked like a pack of chattering mice.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Dr. Larson.” Lowering her voice when she reached Alex, she turned with a squeak to accompany her to the nurses’ station. “I need to talk to you about the compound femur that came through Emergency last night,” she muttered, referring to the patient by injury the way staff often did. “But before I forget, Mr. Malone’s assistant has been looking for you. She needs to talk to you about him, too. That woman’s the epitome of patience and tact,” Kay said, speaking of Mary Driscoll, “but when she came out of his room, I could tell he even has her exasperated.”
“We’ve already spoken.” Looking as unruffled as she sounded, Alex stopped at the nurses’ station with its computers and banks of files. “What kind of trouble is he giving you?” she asked, watching the short, stout woman slip behind the long white counter and hand over a chart.
“Beside the fact that he’s demanding and uncooperative,” the woman said, her tone as flat as the metal cover of the chart Alex had just opened, “he’s now refusing his pain medication. He was due for it over an hour ago.”
Alex’s head came up.
“He says he doesn’t want anything but aspirin,” Kay continued, seeming gratified by Alex’s swift frown. “We tried to explain that he needs something stronger, and that even if we wanted, we can’t give him anything his doctor hasn’t ordered.” Her expression pruned. “He also wants some financial newpaper I’ve never heard of and a fax machine for his room.”
Ah, yes, Alex thought, the fax machine. “I heard about that,” she murmured, not sure which feeling was stronger, displeasure or dread. “What room is he in?”
